Page 3 of Wild Highland Rose
The word came unbidden.
Cameron.
He smiled. It wasn't much. For all he knew it wasn't even his name. But for now it would do. It was a tether to reality. A way to move forward.
Opening his eyes, he took a tottering step forward, the sound of a stream forcing its way front and center. Obediently his mind filled with a picture of cool shimmering blue, the idea beyond enticing.
Cocking his head to one side, he concentrated on the musical sound, forcing his feet to move toward it, one slow step after another. Coming around a little stand of birch trees, he saw the creek. It wasn't big, but a couple of rocks had blocked the water's progression making a small pool.
Moving gingerly, he managed to skirt the rocks and kneel by the stream's edge. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing more than his parched throat.
Below him the water sparkled in the dappled light, something at the bottom of the stream catching his eye. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached in and pulled it out, balancing the tiny knife in the palm of his hand.
The handle was ivory in color and striated with gray and black. Animal horn, the still functioning part of his brainwhispered. The blade itself was brass or some similar metal. It was flat on one side and intricately carved on the other, sort of loopy curls and circles.
He looked around for its owner, but the clearing remained empty. Upon closer examination, he realized the knife had been in its watery home for more than a few days, its edges worn smooth by the rushing water, mineral deposits beginning to mar its intricate design. He started to throw it back, then hesitated.
Perhaps it would come in useful.
Not certain what to do with it, he searched his body, rejecting the belt in favor of what appeared to be a purse. There was no doubt a more masculine term, but his brain either didn't know it, or had buried it along with other pertinent information, like what the hell he was doing here in the first place.
Lifting the flap, he eyed the contents dubiously, discarding what looked to be a hunk of petrified oatmeal. He hated oatmeal.
Dropping the little knife in the now empty pouch, he flipped it closed, feeling as if the effort had cost him the last of his strength. The drummers, abated momentarily by the water, had returned in full force, and fighting nausea, he dropped down on a large rock, closing his eyes, the enormity of the situation suddenly overwhelming him.
An eagle screamed in the distance. And he marveled at the fact that he knew it was an eagle. Certain parts of his mind seemed to be working quite well. Which meant the injury to his brain was localized. Specific to only his memory.
Forcing his eyes open, he checked the discovery by naming the items around him. Birch trees, river rocks— granite and sandstone. Across the stream he recognized wild roses mixed with the purple of thistles, as well as the waxy green leaves of a rhododendron.
He knew that the material of this kilt was wool, and that he'd suffered hematomas. Obviously, the blows to his headhad caused some sort of trauma. Hopefully temporary trauma. Although the little voice in his head whispered that there was no such thing. Lying back against the lichen covered rock, he ignored the voice, preferring, for the moment, the sanctuary of ignorance.
Eventually, he'd have to get up and face the music. Try and figure out what had happened to him and why, but right now the rock was warm and, if he held very still, the drums were only a faint staccato.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.
What he needed was a little shut-eye. Just a few minutes and then he'd be on his way.
Marjory walkedthrough the gorse damning Ewen Cameron. The man had been the devil himself or at least the spawn of the same, and if she'd had her way she'd not be trekking through the mountains trying to find his body.
The sky threatened rain, the clouds so close to the ground now she could almost touch them. The weather in the mountains was always fluid, calm one moment, stormy the next, without so much as a by-your-leave in between. Pulling her plaid close around her, she stopped for a moment on an outcropping of rock, letting her eyes drink in the valley.
The lands of Crannag Mhór stretched below. The tower itself, situated on its islet in the loch, glistened white against the blue-black of the lake, the turrets already disappearing into the gathering mist. She breathed deeply, letting the cool mountain air fill her lungs.
This was her home, and she'd not let a Cameron take it away from her. Living in hell had always been a small price to pay for preserving her heritage.
Fingal stopped beside her, his large hand heavy on her shoulder. "We'll find a way, Marjory. We always do."
She nodded, comfortable with the fact that he could read her mind. Since her father's death it was Fingal to whom she turned. Fingal in whom she confided. At least about most things.
She forced a smile, looking up, comforted by the fierceness in his eyes. Fingal would protect her with his life, and she'd return the favor without pause. But, even so, there were things she could not share with him. Things she kept locked away tight in a dark corner of her heart.
"It's no' far now." He moved back, his gruffness meant to hide his emotion, but she knew him too well. "Just 'round the bend."
As if to underscore the point, Allen appeared from behind a jutting spray of rocks, his face twisted in anger. "He's no' there."
Fingal frowned, his hand automatically reaching back for his claymore. Marjory laid a hand on his arm, leaving it there until she felt him relax. "Maybe this is no' the place." They moved forward, flanked by two more Macpherson men. "Sometimes the mountain plays tricks." Crannag Mhór was an isolated place, many of its crannies and crags inaccessible to those who didn't know it well.
Fingal shook his head as they came to the foot of the cliff, rocks and debris clearly indicating a recent landslide. "This is where he fell."
