by Davis, Dee
Cameron knew something about hatred. Something important. Only as quickly as he realized the fact, the reasoning behind it slipped away, taunting him from the dark recesses of his mind.
Hatred killed. Of that he was certain. And somehow the lesson pertained not just to Marjory, but to himself as well.
With a sigh, he turned to follow her. There were wolves in the woods, and just for moment, he relished the safety of Crannag Mhór. An oxymoron probably. But for the moment he'd simply have to live with the illusion.
*****.
Marjory paced the confines of her chamber replaying the events of the afternoon in her head. She couldn't believe she'd opened her heart to Ewen. No matter how addled, he was still a Cameron, and her tale would no doubt become fodder for many an entertaining evening back at Tyndrum once Ewen shared the story with his father.
If he shared it, a little voice whispered.
She stopped, staring out at the moonlit courtyard. He seemed so different. Changed somehow, as if he were a new man. Which of course was a ridiculous notion. No one could change like that.
Still, there was something between them, some link or connection that had surely never existed before. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs, fight against her confusion. There was just so much to comprehend.
It had been so simple before Ewen's accident. Each day much like the other, filled with plans to keep the Camerons out of Crannag Mhór without breaking her grandfather's hard won peace. There were days when it seemed unfair. As if she were nothing more than chattel to be bargained away, but thoughts like those she kept sequestered in a dark corner of her heart.
She simply couldn't function if she allowed her emotions to hold sway. Which made her reaction to Ewen all the more confusing. She pressed her hand against the window pane, wishing for someone to confide in. Someone who loved her.
She knew that Aimil would listen, Fingal, too, for that matter. But they'd not understand. Their world was as narrowly defined as hers, with no room in it for more than day to day existence—and the fight against the Camerons. For the first time in a long time, Marjory wondered if there was something more out there.
Something better.
But as quickly as the thought came, she quashed it.
Life was what it was, nothing more, nothing less. And to fritter away time on foolish flights of fancy was for other women. Women without responsibility. This was her home. These were her people. They depended on her. And she would not let them down.
And not even the tingling warmth of Ewen's hand against hers could be allowed to distract her. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to go to bed, a noise from the other side of the door between her room and Ewen's bringing her up short.
He was awake.
She'd heard him before at night. Pacing, restless. As if the demons that drove her, were torturing him as well. Sometimes he even cried out.
As if to echo her thoughts, his anguished voice split the night. He was caught in a dream. She took a step forward, then stopped. It was not her battle. And despite his words, he was not her friend. There was nothing she could do.
Turning her back, she moved toward her bed, trying to ignore the sounds from the next room. He did not need her help. He did not. And saying the mantra over and over, she settled into bed, leaving her candle burning against the demons of the night.
*****
It was the dream again. Cameron tried to tell himself it wasn't real, but he could feel the rain sliding down his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. He fumbled with the lock, finally getting the key in and the door open. His hands were shaking and he felt emotions battling inside him. Sliding into the dark of the car, he turned the key and reached to turn on the headlights, already knowing what came next.
The lights flashed on, illuminating the blonde. He wanted to get out of the car, to go to her, but his movements were already choreographed and his hand reached mechanically to the stick shift, sliding the powerful car into gear. He watched with alarm as the woman in front of him raised her hands, reaching for him, pleading with him, her mouth forming the word 'no'.
A silent scream.
He tried to make himself shift again, but he couldn't and he sat, helpless, as his foot pressed down on the gas pedal.
Cameron jerked upright in the bed, his heart racing. He gulped air, trying to calm himself. Each time, the dream seemed a little more detailed, almost like his memory was taunting him, dancing maliciously just out of reach.
Clutching the bedcovers, he tried to reconstruct the dream in his mind, but already reality was crowding in and the dream was fading away, slipping back into the dark recesses of his subconscious. He groaned in frustration.
He wanted to remember. To help the blonde. To help himself. He'd remembered other things, vague memories of childhood, but nothing concrete, nothing that could clarify his identity. Or his relationship to the blonde.
Long term memory came first, the small voice in his brain whispered. What he needed was stimuli, something to jog it all back, but that certainly wasn't going to happen here in the fifteenth century. He had to find a way back to his own time, to his own body.
His best chance was the landslide. He had no idea what to expect, but there had to be a door there. Wasn't there always a door in the movies, or Star Trek or something? He sighed, running a hand through his hair. One thing was for sure, the only way to find out was to return.
But with Torcall's imminent arrival it could be hard to get away. Ewen would be in much demand, and if his father's hatred ran anywhere near as deep as Marjory's, he'd want his son away from Crannag Mhór at all costs. Especially once Allen started spouting his theories about the landslide.
Cameron shot a look at the door that separated him from Marjory. He didn't believe the woman was a killer. Still, it was possible that someone had rigged the fall. And whoever it was might indeed try again. Cameron rubbed his head, confusion making it ache. The tangle of lives at Crannag Mhór was almost epic in proportion. The hatred the two clans shared bound them together in some sort of insane intrinsic dance, tragedy repeating and repeating in the name of revenge.
But it wasn't his tragedy.
Yet, even as he had the thought, he knew it wasn't true. Whether he liked it or not, he was now a part of the pattern, and as much as he wanted to get home, he knew he also had to play his part, to try to avert further deterioration.
A seemingly impossible task. One he'd just as soon ignore. Again he looked at the door to Marjory's room, thinking of the woman behind it. It seemed he was uniquely equipped to protect Marjory Macpherson. Not that she'd actually appreciate anything he did on her behalf. The woman was really hard to figure out, one minute spilling her guts and the next retreating behind that icy façade of hers. It was enough to drive a man in any century crazy.
He sighed, knowing he had made up his mind. He would stay and watch over Marjory, but as soon as the Camerons made their exit, he was out of here. The decision acknowledged, he felt better. He was, after all, an honorable man. At least, he assumed so.
A picture of the blonde screaming 'no', popped into his mind. He again felt his foot pushing down on the accelerator, and he broke out in a cold sweat, his mind scrambling to erase the vision.
He forced himself to concentrate instead on the imminent arrival of the Camerons. He'd have to try and convince Torcall that he was Ewen, and, more importantly, he had to convince him that Ewen was fine and not interested in returning to Tyndrum. How he was going to accomplish this feat he had no idea, but he knew that both Marjory's safety and his freedom depended on it.
CHAPTER 8
"They've arrived."
Marjory jerked her head up from the plaid she was mending. "Where are they?"
Fingal strode into the chamber, a frown creasing his brow. "Downstairs in the great hall."
Cold beads of sweat break out across her forehead. Torcall was here. The moment had come. "How many are there?"
"Four in the hall and about fifteen
or so in the yard. I have the lads seeing to their horses."
"Added to Allen's men it's more than enough to pose a threat. But hopefully, with Ewen well, Torcall will hold his men at abeyance. Tell me who's in the great hall."
"His man, Dougall." Fingal paused, his eyes searching her face.
Marjory raised a hand to her cheek, seeking a physical cause for his scrutiny. "Who else is there Fingal? 'Tis best I know the worst of it."
"Ach, I suppose yer right. Allen's there, of course." Marjory forced an impassive expression, but Fingal saw right through it. "I wish ye'd let me deal with the bastard."
She'd told him about the attack, and Ewen's rescue. Although she still wasn't certain Ewen could be trusted, she'd felt it important to tell Fingal all of it. "What's done is done. And no harm befell me. 'Tis best we forget it."
Her captain nodded, but it didn't look as if he'd forgotten a thing.
"Who is else is down there?" She forced her mind back to the looming confrontation.
"They've brought Aida with them."
Marjory felt her chest tighten. Ewen's whore, here. He had never hidden the fact that he had a mistress, but since their wedding night, he hadn't seen fit to bring her back to Crannag Mhór. Marjory flushed with the memory.
It hadn't been bad enough that their wedding night had been harsh and painful. No, Ewen had added insult to injury by taunting her with the fact that he much preferred the skilled arms of his lady love. So much so that he had left her alone after taking her and returned to his lover's embrace. She shuddered at the memory of lying alone in her shame, listening to the sounds of their passion from the adjoining chamber.
"They're asking for ye, lass."
Marjory put her sewing down and rose slowly, trying to steady herself on shaking legs. "Well, I suppose I'd best get it over with then."
Fingal moved forward, taking her arm, giving her needed support. "Have ye seen Ewen about?"
"Nay, I've no' seen him all morning." And not because she hadn't tried. She'd looked for him everywhere, but to no avail. She prayed that he hadn't picked today to go wandering in the woods. All she needed was to have to inform Torcall Cameron that his addled son had disappeared.
Fingal interrupted her thoughts. "Marjory, we've got to send someone to find him. If we canna produce him—"
"I know. But, unfortunately, producing him may have exactly the same effect. There's no telling how Torcall will react once he learns his son's mind is no' what it once was."
"There's nothing wrong with the lad's thinking, Marjory. 'Tis only that his memories are gone."
Marjory felt her eyebrows raise in surprise. Fingal's hatred for the Camerons was only surpassed by her own. "You almost sound as if you're defending the man."
Fingal looked uncomfortable. "I'll no' pretend I understand him, but I dinna think in his present state he would purposely put us in a dangerous position."
"That's no' enough and well you know it." It wasn't Ewen she was afraid of. "When Torcall finds out that his boy isna quit right, he'll no' take it peacefully. And if Allen goes on about how the accident was no' as it seemed, I guarantee Torcall will act."
"Then we'll just have to convince him otherwise."
"And how, pray, do you imagine we'll do that?"
"I've no notion." Fingal shrugged. "But two days ago I'd have never thought that Ewen would protect you from his brother. Strange things are afoot, Marjory, and mayhap the tide is finally turning in our favor."
"You're placing a lot of faith in Ewen's change."
"Aye, that I am. But I trust my instincts, and right now for whatever reason, Ewen appears to be willing to play his part in helping to keep the peace. And if that's so then all he has to do is convince his father he's well. That done, perhaps the old man will head back to Tyndrum and leave us in peace."
"A noble thought. But not one I'd want to stake my life on. Besides you're forgetting one important fact."
Fingal lifted bushy eyebrows in question.
"Ewen may yet get his memories back. And seeing Torcall might just be the key."
*****
"Tell me everything you know about Ewen's family." Cameron stood at the edge of the lake, idly skipping stones across its glassy surface. He had already safely positioned Grania on a nearby log.
"There's no' much to tell, really." She paused. "The truth is I dinna know much about the Camerons, save that they're enemies of the Macphersons. It began long before I came to Crannag Mhór."
Cameron stopped in mid-throw. "I thought you were born in this valley?"
"I was," Grania said, "but my home was always on the far side of the loch. So I dinna interact much in the affairs of those that lived in the tower."
"Until, they took you in." Cameron swung around to look at Grania sitting calmly on her perch.
"Aye, when my husband died."
"So, what do you know about the Camerons?"
"Well, I do know that Torcall was imprisoned for a number of years. At Cluny, another Macpherson stronghold."
"I know that already. Marjory told me."
"She did?" Grania's voice rose slightly.
Cameron fought the urge to explain further. Marjory had spoken to him in confidence, the least he could do was honor her trust in him, fleeting though it may have been. "Yes, she did, but she didn't know why. Allen said something about his mother being killed. Is that it?"
"Could be. 'Tis an awful tale. The story goes that he was out riding with his wife Cait, yer mother, and they came across a party of reivers. Macphersons they were. Anyway, they tried to outrun the invaders, but couldna, and in the process Torcall was captured."
"What happened to Cait? Was she captured, too?"
"Nay, she was killed in the struggle."
"Manus Macpherson did it." Allen's words made sense now.
"I never knew how. No one here ever talked of it. But I do know she was dead, with two sons left behind. You and Allen."
"Who took care of the boys when Torcall was gone?" He watched as a stone he hurled bounced one, two, three, four times. It was a pity Grania couldn't see.
"I've no notion. I canna imagine it was a pleasant time for the lads, though. What with their own sweet mother fresh in the grave and their father imprisoned at Cluny."
"So after Torcall was released, he came back to Tyndrum?"
"Aye, and soon after that, he attacked Crannag Mhór."
"What do you remember about the battle?"
"Nothing much. I wasna there. As I said, I'd gone to live across the loch. I only came back afterward. There was a need for my healing touch."
"I'd imagine so." Cameron sucked in a deep breath, trying to banish the sudden image of Marjory's butchered family from his head. "And when you got there, Torcall and his men were already gone?"
"Aye, they were gone. Leaving, behind nothing but the dead and the injured, and most of them dying. 'Twas an awful sight. I willna easily forget it."
"You could see then?"
"Aye, I dinna lose my sight fer many more years."
"What happened to Marjory after the battle?"
"She was traumatized. I couldna even get her to speak at first, but slowly she returned to us. And then her cousins arrived to take her away to the safety of Moy."
"Moy?"
"Aye, 'tis the seat of the Mackintoshes. Her grandfather is the head of Clan Chattan. Everyone agreed she would be safe from Torcall if she remained there."
"I see. So when was the marriage arranged?"
"Well I dinna recollect precisely, but it wasna long after Marjory left. It was a repayment, of sorts, for all that Torcall had taken from her."
He nodded. "Marjory told me some of it, but I still don't understand how her being forced to marry her father's murderer's son is any kind of justice." Or for that matter the reverse, as it must have been for Ewen.
"I understand yer confusion, but 'tis the way of the Highlands. Malcolm," she paused, then offered clarification, "Marjory's grandfather, no doubt wished to avo
id further feuding with the Camerons. Mackintoshes and Camerons have always been enemies. There would have been desire on both sides not to escalate the feud further. Anyway, Torcall had taken her father away from her. In the Highlands, 'tis the father who protects his wee daughters, then in turn hands them over to a husband for continued protection."
"I'd say that things are much the same in all cultures, Grania." He flipped a stone, but it sank without a single bounce.
"Aye, but here, 'tis the only thing that stands between a wee lassie and the cold cruel world. Scotland is still a verra wild place." She shook her head as if lost in a personal memory. "Anyway, in effect, Torcall took away Marjory's protection. By marrying her off to Torcall's son, Malcolm assured that the protection was restored, and at the same time, he ended the need for retaliation. Marjory regained all that she lost."
"You've got to be kidding. An unwanted husband is supposed to make up for the loss of her family?"
Grania sighed. "Ye canna remember the way of it then?"
He shook his head, cursing his loose tongue. He had sounded too much the foreigner just now. And even though he trusted Grania, now wasn't the time to reveal his secret.
She sat patiently, waiting for his response, her face turned toward the pale rays of sunlight trying to peek through the dark clouds.
"I guess the concept is there somewhere, but when you put it in a personal context, it seems barbaric." His words sounded lame, but she seemed to accept them, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had to be more careful. It was so easy to say or do the wrong thing. Something that would brand him as more than just a little off center.
"What about me? Was I happy with the decision?"
Grania shook her head. "I dinna know ye then. But 'twas easy to see ye were an angry lad. Angry about yer mother. Angry about the marriage. Ye did no' tolerate the union well."