Page 12 of Wild Highland Rose
"I am not crazy," he roared, for the first time sounding more like himself. "I just don't remember anything. Obviously the trauma of my head injuries has brought about some form of retrograde amnesia." He collapsed against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Marjory ran a hand across his brow. No fever. But still he was speaking gibberish. He gently captured her hand with his and opened his eyes, the amber turning dark, intense.
"I am not losing my mind. I swear it," he said softly. The vulnerability was back, tugging at her heart, making her want to help him. A trick her mind urged. Cameron skullduggery. This man was not to be trusted.
"Well you canna prove it by me. First you're dead, and now you're touched. I dinna ken how all of this came to be, but I can promise you once your father arrives there'll be hell for someone to pay, and that someone will no doubt be me."
His brows drew together in a frown. "You?"
"Aye." Marjory stood up, crossing her arms as if to create a barrier between them. "There's no love lost between your father and I."
"And you hate me as well." Again it was a statement not a question, but this time it was clear that he was certain of the fact.
"I thought you couldna remember anything?" She'd been right. This was nothing more than a trick. "I should know better than to believe a Cameron. If my grandfather wasn't away serving the king, I'd have him here to dismember the lot of you. As it is, I should have left you to die on the mountain."
"What king?" The color drained from his face, leaving only his eyes dark and burning.
"King James, of course. Surely you can't be so addled you've forgotten your king."
His eyes widened, and then he slowly released a breath, as if something more was draining out of him, something defeating. "Tell me what year this is." The words were no more than a whisper.
She frowned at him, trying to understand what could possibly have caused his pain. "'Tis the spring of fourteen hundred and sixty-eight."
It was as though she'd struck him with a claymore or stabbed him with her dirk. What little color remained was gone in an instant, and she feared his very life was draining away. Without thinking of the consequences she rushed to his side, her warm hand clasping his cold one. "You're no' well."
"1468?" The question was pitched so low, she had to lean close to hear him. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." She spoke slowly, enunciating each word.
His eyes locked with hers, the naked anguish there tearing at her heart. "It's seems, then, that I was right. I'm a long way from home."
4
1468.
Cameron closed his eyes and then opened them again, taking in the stone room, the chamber pot peeking out from under the bed, the open window with its wooden shutters and the woman standing by the bed.
1468.
His head swirled, reality twisting in on itself, the truth slamming home with a finality that left him breathless. He wasn't just inexplicably in Scotland. He was inexplicably infifteenth centuryScotland. And this woman thought he was her husband.
Terror flooded through him, his mind desperately wanting to reject the facts, but categorically unable to dismiss them. He wasn't just a man without identity. He was a man with the wrong identity. A stranger in body and time. Or perhaps Marjory was right. Maybe he was just crazy.
In some ways the latter was more comforting. At least it was quantifiable. Scientifically possible. But he knew it wasn't the truth. He was sane. It was the world around him that was certifiable, a madhouse worse than anything Lewis Carroll could have possibly imagined.
Another horrifying thought occurred to him, and he closed his eyes again, trying to envision his likeness. A picture popped automatically into his head, and he was flooded with relief, but only for a moment. If he was right, then the face existed only in his mind.
"I need a mirror." The words came out on a croak, and he swallowed, his eyes meeting Marjory's. She stared back at him, his own horror reflected in her eyes.
Obviously, she thought him unbalanced, or maybe possessed. Which unfortunately was all too close to the truth. "I've no notion of what it is you want." She, too, whispered, as if their discussion needed to remain private.
He scrambled for another word, something that would explain to her what he required. "A looking glass." Her face was still blank. "Something that will reflect my face. Marjory, I need to see myself."
She raised an eyebrow in question, but nodded, turning to a chest in the corner. Opening it, she pulled out a flat piece of metal polished to a high shine. A shield of some sort. Still silent, she handed it to him.
He held the improvised mirror out from his face and, heart pounding, took a look. The man in the mirror was sun-bronzed and heavily muscled. His hair was long, somewhere between blonde and brown. His face was hard, his skin toughened by life in the outdoors. The face was young and old at the same time. There weren't any wrinkles, but there also were no laugh lines.
The faint white pucker of a scar ran across one cheek, tracing a thin line from his ear to his chin. Even with the imperfection of the reflection, he could see that his eyes were the same color as his hair. A lion, the man in the mirror was a lion—and a perfect stranger.
