Page 10 of Wild Highland Rose
He walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge. Clean and shaven, he definitely felt more human, but the fact did nothing to lessen his increasing sense of unease.
The morning sunlight hadn't done anything to relieve the gothic gloom of the room. And with the cold harsh light of day there was no denying that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Something about the world he was currently inhabiting didn't jive with his sense of self. Or maybe more relevantly his sense of century.
The pieces of the puzzle simply didn't add up to a logical whole. And the illogical options were a bit more than his beleaguered mind was willing to consider. Maybe there was an explanation. Something involving the relative normalcy of cults or historical reenactment. Anything that didn't involve a journey through theTwilight Zone.
The theme song echoed menacingly through his head, and with a sigh he walked over to the bed, dropping onto the mattress, trying to ignore the fear clawing at his gut.
"I've let ye overdo it." Grania clucked, her voice if not exactly comforting, at least a known quantity. Cameron lay back, closing his eyes, the drummers in his head returning with a vengeance.
"What ye need now is a wee bit 'o sleep"
"What I need now are answers," he snapped, immediately regretting the anger that colored his voice. Opening his eyes, he struggled to sit up, ignoring Grania's attempt to help. The woman meant well, of that he had no doubt, but rest was the last thing he needed. It was tempting to voice his thoughts, to share his fears with her, but some inner sense of preservation urged caution.
"There's no' much I can tell you." She sat unerringly in the chair by the bed, her expression inscrutable.
Ignoring her obvious reticence, Cameron pushed for more. "Well for starters you can tell me about Ewen Cameron."
The woman paused, then sighed. "Yer no' among friends here."
It was a cryptic answer at best, but it was a start. "Something to do with the woman who called me husband." A vivid memory of the blue-eyed beauty filled his mind, his body reacting as if she were present in the room.
"Aye," Grania conceded with a nod. "There's no love lost between the two of ye."
"And the man with her, Fingal. Is he an enemy as well?"
"He's loyal to your wife, and would see you in hell before he'd allow her to be hurt."
"And he believes I want to hurt her?"
"'Twould not be impossible." Again she seemed purposefully vague. As if she too had secrets to keep.
"Why? What has this Ewen done to deserve such distrust?"
If she noticed his use of third person, she made no comment. "'Tis no' my story to tell. When you're strong enough you can talk with Marjory, herself."
"Something tells me that won't be as easy as you're making it sound."
"It's no easy to gain her trust, I'll grant ye that." The old woman smiled. "She's kind of like the highland rose. Beautiful and prickly on the outside, but if ye can get to the flower itself, 'tis sweeter than any other."
As analogies went it was kind of sappy, but Cameron had the feeling it was accurate. Marjory Macpherson was indeed easy on the eyes, and he'd already seen evidence of her thorns. Still, if breaching the thorns was his ticket to understanding what the hell was going on, he was more than game. "I'm not sure she'll talk to me, but I'll make nice with Marjory if it means getting answers."
"I've the feeling yer more than capable of cajoling a body 'round to yer way of thinking, once ye put yer mind to it." There was a hint of mischief in Grania's face, as if she was orchestrating some grand scheme or another.
Despite himself, he smiled. "I've the feeling it's you who gets her way more often than not. This whole thing would be a hell of a lot simpler if you'd just tell me what I need to know."
"I told ye, it's no' my story to tell." Her smile was serene and final.
Whatever the truth, he wasn't going to get it from Grania Macpherson.
Marjory pulledopen the chamber door ready to do battle, but stopped dead in her tracks. Ewen was sitting in the bed, his head turned toward the window, the morning sun streaming through the opening, illuminating his features, highlighting the golden perfection of his chest.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she tried unsuccessfully to swallow. She'd never seen him like this before. And despite her hatred, she couldn't deny the masculine beauty of his body. It was almost as if it had been sculpted, a living breathing statue. Her fingers tightened reflexively as she imagined the velvety feel of his skin, the sinewy strength of his arms wrapped around her.
The thought should have been unthinkable.
But it wasn't.
It was almost as if she were looking at a stranger. A man she'd never met before. His face, now devoid of hair, was softer somehow, and breathtakingly handsome. Her heart responded to the visage by threatening to break from her chest.
