Wild Highland Rose (Time Travel Trilogy, Book 2)

by Davis, Dee

  "Did you find anything else at the site?"

  "Nay, 'twas just as I suspected." The older man took another swig of ale. "The ledge collapsed. It could have been the recent rain, or maybe just the result of time and wind. There's no way to be certain of the cause, but I think we can safely say that it was an accident."

  Marjory nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. "Thank you for taking a look. I'll rest easier knowing that I can defend myself against any accusations Torcall might level."

  Fingal left the chair, moving to warm himself by the fire. "Aye, best we're ready for anything. Torcall Cameron is a mistrustful bastard to say the least."

  "'Tis more than that, and well you know it." Much more. Marjory sighed, knowing that she'd probably never truly understand the depth of Torcall's hatred or the reasons for it. But she understood her own. In an instant, a vision of her parents filled her mind. She felt tears threaten as she saw them lying on the chamber floor soaked in their own blood.

  With the fierce determination that had protected her over the years, she pushed the memory deep within her, shutting it out, keeping it locked away, and rose to join Fingal by the fire. "Torcall hates Crannag Mhór and everyone who lives here. He's made it quite clear that he'd sooner see his son married to a witch than to a Macpherson, particularly if that Macpherson is me. So, he'll no' easily be pacified. He's been looking for an excuse to break the agreement as desperately as I. And he's no' interested in peaceful solutions."

  Fingal studied her face carefully. Marjory avoided his gaze, afraid of what might be revealed if he looked too long or too deep. The warrior shrugged. "Well, then I guess we've reason to be glad Ewen lives."

  "I've brought ye a wee bite to eat," a voice interrupted. "Quit yer blathering blethering and come to the table." Aimil Macgillivray placed a large wooden platter on the dais table and looked at the two of them expectantly. Her brother was the first to move, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the meal.

  "Ach, sister, my belly was beginning to think ye'd forgotten us." Fingal threw a leg over a bench, straddling it as he reached for the platter.

  "Stop that this instant, Fingal Macgillivray, this isna a stable. Ye'll eat like a proper gentleman or ye'll no' eat at all." She took the platter and firmly removed it from his grasp. Fingal, like most of Marjory's clansmen, wouldn't recognize genteel behavior if it leapt up and bit him on the behind.

  Aimil turned to look pointedly at Marjory, still standing by the fire. "Come child, ye've been through much these past few days. A husband dead and then no' dead," she said, adding what sounded like a mumbled slur on Ewen's heritage.

  Marjory considered the notion that Aimil had blasphemed and quickly discarded it. Aimil had watched over Marjory since her parents' death and at no time in all those years had she ever heard Aimil raise her voice, let alone curse. It must have been her imagination, or more likely, an echo of her own thoughts.

  "Come on, girl, the food's getting cold and ye know Aimil willna let me eat until yer seated." Fingal stared longingly at the joint on the platter.

  "Well, I obviously can't leave you to starve." She sat at the table, her back turned to the Camerons. A brave move to say the least, but also a way to put them, at least momentarily, from her mind.

  Automatically, she reached for her sgian dubh only to realize she'd left the wee knife upstairs in the solar. Not that it mattered, the little knife was of no consequence. It could never replace the one her mother had given her.

  The one Allen Cameron had taken.

  Aimil put a hand on hers. "What's wrong, child? Ye look as if you've lost yer best friend."

  Marjory flushed. "'Tis nothing, Aimil. Only my sgian dubh." She held out her empty hand, working to hide her feelings. There was nothing to be gained in reliving the past.

  "There, there, lamb," Aimil clucked, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "I know ye miss your mother. But what's done is done."

  "You can use mine, lass." Fingal said, his mouth full of meat, completely oblivious to Marjory's thoughts. "I'll use my dirk." He handed his sgian dubh to Marjory, a large chunk of rabbit still skewered on it. The gravy left a greasy brown trail across the table. Aimil cast her brother a reproving look, but held her tongue.

  Marjory sighed, nibbling at the meat on Fingal's knife, her mind still on her problems. Ewen was alive which apparently was both a blessing and curse. But at least it was a way to pacify his father. For the moment.

  However, it reopened an issue she'd just as soon not face.

  Producing an heir.

  Torcall had made no secret of his desire to control Crannag Mhór. The only thing that kept him from physically taking control was the fact that she'd always been a favorite of her grandfather's, and at least while he lived, Crannag Mhór was safe.

  Which meant that there was only one way for Torcall to assure his eventual control. Ewen must get her with child. She shuddered at the thought, stabbing Fingal's knife into the meat so hard it wedged in the wooden trencher beneath. Aimil had saved her once, but they couldn't possibly drug Ewen every night.

  At least Ewen's accident had bought her time. She was astute enough to realize that once Torcall had his heir, her life was worth little. And the only way to assure her safety was to remove her household to her grandfather's holding at Moy. But in doing so, she would be surrendering Crannag Mhór.

  Which simply wasn't an option.

  *****

  Cameron struggled to consciousness, aware that the pounding in his head had lessened considerably. He lay for a moment letting the sounds of the room swell around him. From outside he could hear the call of a bird, the sound lonely, plaintive. It was accompanied by a syncopated popping, along with a soft shushing, the latter regular, almost white noise.

  Curious, he opened his eyes, only to be greeted by shadows. Although the drummers were still present, their constant rhythm was more irritating now than painful, as if they'd withdrawn to some deeper recess within his brain.

  There was weak sunlight streaming in through an open window, and he recognized the pink rays of sunset. They gave the room an otherworldly feel. From his vantage point he could clearly see one wall and a corner, both made of stone. The rest of the room was obscured by what appeared to be bed curtains, the brownish material heavy and ornate, reminding him for some reason of Ebenezer Scrooge.

  All he had to do now was wait for the ghost of Christmas past.

  He shivered, the thought not at all comforting.

  The shushing grew in tempo and pitch, the identity of the noise suddenly clear. Snoring. Someone was snoring. Probably not the ghost of Christmas past. But remembering the size of the swords the men he'd encountered earlier brandished, he couldn't be certain if it was the snore of a friend or foe.

  Sitting up slowly, ignoring the accompanying dizzy feeling, he searched the bedclothes for a weapon of some sort. Not surprisingly the most lethal thing he encountered was a pillow. As a weapon, feathers lacked a great deal, but surely it was better than nothing. Holding it in front of him, shield-like, he peered out into the room, trying to locate the source of the noise. The bed curtain to his right moved inward with an unseen breeze. It seemed he had found his quarry.

  Moving as silently as possible, he reached for the curtain, drawing the pleated material aside. Surprise accompanied a wave of relief. An elderly woman nestled quite comfortably in a chair by the bed. As she audibly breathed, a strand of white hair moved up and down against her cheek.

  Releasing the pillow, he leaned back, his relief quickly turning to exhaustion. Whatever was happening to him, his injuries were real, and he was grateful for the bed, and, at the moment, the woman.

  Her cheeks were a ruddy red that made him think of overripe apples. She was wrinkled with age, but the lines were soft and only added character to what was still a beautiful face. Her skin was thin, almost translucent, blue veins apparent along her throat and hands.

  Whoever she was, she'd once been a beauty.

  The woman opened her eyes
. They were an odd crystalline blue, the color one imagined an iceberg. They sparkled in the light. She seemed unaware of him, her movements the calculated stretches of aging, bones and muscles missing the elasticity of youth.

  With a soft sigh, she turned toward him, drawing back suddenly when he shifted, obviously surprised. "I'm sorry, I'd no idea ye were awake."

  He struggled for something to say, the myriad of questions circling through his head each fighting to become words. "Where am I?" It seemed the most relevant question. One that hopefully would clear everything up. Maybe even help him remember.

  "Yer safe in yer bed at Crannag Mhór."

  Or maybe not.

  Crannag Mhór was definitely not a name—hell not even words—he'd heard before. It was more like gibberish. He struggled for recognition, and found none. Truth was, he'd never heard of the place. Which in and of itself would have been all right, except for the small fact that she'd said he was safe in his bed.

  "It's not my bed." As statements went it probably wasn't the strongest. But it went straight to the point, and just at the moment that seemed to be the best he could do.

  The woman gently pushed Cameron back down into the pillows. "There now, of course it is. Yer just a wee bit addled. 'Twas quite a blow on the head ye had, and ye need yer rest still."

  Cameron eyed her suspiciously. She still hadn't met his gaze. "I don't want to rest." He sounded like a petulant child, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. "Tell me who you are."

  "I'm Grania Macpherson." Her smile was slow, comforting in an odd sort of way. "I'm here to take care of ye."

  "Grania." He tried out the sound of her name. It was unusual and sounded foreign on his tongue, but that seemed the order of the day. "Shouldn't I be in a hospital, or at least see a doctor?"

  Grania paused, tilting her head as if pondering his question. "I wouldna condemn ye to a physician even if there were one nearby."

  Cameron felt a tingle of worry at her words. Surely an archaic attitude? An ugly thought pushed itself front and center, combining with his observations on the mountainside, leaving a startling realization, one he simply wasn't able or willing to process at the moment.

  "Tell me how yer feeling," the woman said, her concern apparently genuine.

  "Like the Kodo Drummers are rehearsing in my head."

  Again she tilted her head. This time her brows knitted in concentration. Something pulled at Cameron's brain. He tried to pull it to the forefront, something about the woman. The thought slipped away.

  She reached across him and automatically adjusted the bedcovers. Then she trailed her hand up his shoulder to his face, coming to rest on his brow. Her touch was light and soothing. "Yer no' as hot as ye were. 'Tis a good sign."

  She withdrew her hand, settling it in her lap. Her head never moved. He frowned. The nagging feeling was back again. There was something here he should notice. But what?

  "How long have I been here?" Cameron asked more abruptly than he had meant, but Grania seemed to take no notice.

  "Only a few hours. They brought ye in just after noontime. It's close to nightfall now." She leaned forward offering Cameron an earthenware cup. "Try and drink some of this."

  He reached for it, his hand closing around the smooth surface, grateful for the warmth it provided. Sniffing cautiously, he recognized broth of some sort and as he slowly began to sip it, his mind clicked and he realized what was wrong with the picture.

  "You can't see, can you?"

  The woman smiled, unerringly patting his arm. "Nay, no' for many years. But what God takes from us, he repays with other things."

  Curious, Cameron couldn't help his next question. "Like what?"

  "Bits and pieces." Again she favored him with a smile. "I've a bit o' the healing touch and I've a way about me that allows me to see things that sighted people canna."

  Cameron stayed silent for a moment, absorbing her words. "Do you know me?"

  She turned slightly at the sound of his voice. "They say yer Ewen Cameron."

  He turned the name over in his mind. Part of it certainly seemed right. Still there was something unfamiliar about it. Maybe he was addled. He frowned at the woman, realizing she hadn't actually answered his question. "That's not what I asked." He shook his head for emphasis, realizing almost immediately that the gesture was pointless. "I want to know if you know me?"

  It was her turn to pause. The room was silent. Then she shrugged. "I canna say for sure. Ye feel a bit like Ewen Cameron, but ye dinna sound like him and ye certainly dinna smell like him." The last was said with a smile, a small dimple appearing in her cheek.

  Cameron let out his breath. It wasn't exactly what he was looking for. But somehow under the circumstances, ambiguity seemed to fit. "My name is Cameron," he groaned. "But I'm afraid that's all I'm certain of."

  "Dinna fash yerself, lad. 'Twill come to ye when the time is right. What's important now is that you rest." She took the cup and helped him settle back into the warmth of the bed. For a blind person she was amazingly adept. He closed his eyes and let the darkness surround him.

  Whoosh beep-beep.

  The sound swelled out of the darkness. Panicked, he wrenched open his eyes. The room swam in front of him. Grania's face appeared and came into focus.

  "'Tis all right now. I'm here. Hold on to my hand." He grasped it as if holding a lifeline. "There now, yer fine. I'll stay with ye. Sleep. Nothing can harm ye as long as Grania is here."

  Cameron closed his eyes again. The dark was blessedly quiet. And, with a sigh, he let himself slip into sleep.

  *****

  Marjory stood at the open window, watching the last of the sun drop behind the mountains. Sunsets had been different when she had lived at her grandfather's. There they had lingered, caressing the landscape as the sun slowly sank into the velvety hills, leaving behind fingers of red and orange that spread through the sky, fading to a wash of pale pink. Here, at Crannag Mhór, the sun simply disappeared. One minute it was light and the next dark. The rugged mountains that ringed the little valley seemed to swallow the sun with one great gulp.

  She closed her eyes, thinking of her valley. A narrow pass lined with birch trees gave access to Crannag Mhór. Only those who knew the way could find it. It was supposed to have been a sanctuary, a place set apart from the turbulence that surrounded it, a place for love to flourish. Marjory shook her head, sweeping away her foolish thoughts. It hadn't been a place of peace for long. The Camerons had found it and destroyed it.

  Marjory stared at the first star as it twinkled high in the night sky. Her mother used to tell her that the stars were the lights of angels. She bit her lip, momentarily mesmerized by the tiny point of glowing light. When she was little she'd wished upon the stars for true love. The kind her mother and father had had. A ray of hope flashed deep within her.

  With a deep breath, she hardened her heart. Her mother and father were dead. There were no angels. And there were no happy endings. There was nothing but Crannag Mhór and her driving need to preserve it at all costs.

  *****

  It was raining cats and dogs. The driveway was slick with water. Cameron tried to hold his suit coat over his head to protect himself from the deluge, but even so, he arrived at his car soaking wet. He fumbled for the key and managed, with shaking hands, to open the car door. Sliding into the leather seat, he automatically brushed at the droplets of water that accumulated there. He leaned on the steering wheel, trying to get his emotions under control. With an angry groan, he slid the key into the ignition and turned it. The powerful engine sparked to life and he flicked on the headlights.

  Like the click of a camera, the picture changed. He watched through the windshield as the headlights revealed a beautiful blonde woman, her hair plastered to her head by the rain. Her hands were stretched out in front of her as though she were pleading with him. Her face was washed with fear and pain. Her eyes seemed to be begging him for something.

  "No." She mouthed the word. He couldn't hear h
er, but somehow he knew she had screamed.

  Cameron jerked awake, sweat momentarily blinding his eyes. Panic knifed through him. It was dark. Oh God, he was back in the darkness. He strained for the noise, the rhythmic beeping, but it was quiet and cold. He moved a hand and wiped away the sweat. The darkness lightened and he recognized the fabric of the bed curtains.

  A dream. It had been a dream. He reached out, with a shaking hand, to move the curtain back. He needed the reassurance of light. His hand encountered another hand, and still partially locked in the terror of his nightmare, he jerked back, gasping audibly.

  "Be still, 'tis only me." The curtain pulled back, revealing moonlight and Grania.

  "'Twas naught but a dream. Try to go back to sleep now." Her age worn hand clasped his, the warmth of her touch sending comfort pulsing through his body. He closed his eyes, surprised at how good it felt to know that someone was watching over him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Marjory brushed Alainn's coat with a fury that had nothing to do with the horse. Alainn shifted uncomfortably under the attack and Marjory stopped, soothing the mare with a touch of her hand.

  "'Tis sorry I am if hurt you. I wasna thinking of you, my sweet, but of that whoreson of a Cameron lying upstairs with the whole of the household waiting on him hand and foot."

  "Talking to horses now, are ye?"

  Marjory turned at the sound of Fingal's voice, giving her captain a wry smile and the horse a last brush. "Guilty as charged, I'm, afraid. I find it quite nice to have a conversation with the beast. You see, she never argues with me."

  "I think 'tis best to let that comment pass as I assume some of it, at least, was aimed at me."

  Marjory shot him a look and then bent to examine her horse's fetlock. "Could be."

  Fingal leaned back against the railing of a stall, resting his arms on the wooden bar. "Come now, lass, there's no need to take yer frustrations out on me. 'Twould be better fer ye to spend some time with the claymore, I'm thinking."