by Davis, Dee
"I hurt her?" He hated that he had to ask the question, but he wanted to know.
"I dinna know for certain. Marjory does no' confide in me. But Aimil says it's so."
"Fingal's sister."
"Aye. She's a bitter woman, that one. She hates all things Cameron, especially Torcall, and because of that she's no' friend o' yers."
Cameron mentally added yet another enemy to his list. A noise from the surrounding brush pulled his thoughts back to the present, and he whipped around, searching out its source. A young boy broke from the cover of the trees, running to the edge of the lake.
"Mistress Marjory sent me," he gasped, his cheeks bright from exertion. "The Camerons are here, and they're asking fer ye."
"Help Grania," he barked, as he sprinted for the tower, his mind trying to assimilate all that he knew about his supposed father. With or without memories, it was time to face the old man, and hopefully convince him that all was right with the world.
Except of course that he wasn't Torcall's son.
And nothing, it seemed, was anything close to all right.
*****
"I've told you, I dinna know where the man is. I'm no' his keeper." Marjory stood with her back to the fire. Hands on hips, she stood as tall as her small frame would allow. Her palms were sweating, but she'd be damned to hell before she let Torcall Cameron know he was scaring her.
"I want to see my son."
Torcall and his henchman, Dougall, stood across from her. She watched as he fingered the hilt of his claymore. Why hadn't she thought to arm herself? It was happening all over again. She was alone, facing Torcall, with nothing but her sgian dubh. She felt her breath quicken as she met Torcall's eyes. They were golden like Ewen's, only Torcall's were flat, devoid of any emotion. She wondered briefly if it was a mask, or if, in fact, part of the man was dead inside.
"Do you think, Torcall Cameron, that I can produce him with a wave o' my hand?" She glared back, hoping that she looked half as fierce as he did.
"I dinna know what to think. First I've word that Ewen is dead." A shadow crossed his face, a flicker of pain, but just as quickly it was gone. "And then I'm told that he lives, but is no' himself. And now," he frowned, his expression turning fierce, "it seems my son has disappeared."
"Perhaps she's killed him, Father." Allen stood by the dais, casually sipping ale from a wooden cup.
"Wouldn't that be a daft thing for me to do?" Marjory shot him a murderous look. "After all, you yourself saw your brother only yesterday. I'd hardly expect to get away with murdering him at this late date, now would I?"
"Allen, stop with your nonsense. The girl isna stupid." Torcall eyed her speculatively. "But I wouldna put it past her to have sequestered him away from us."
"I've done no such thing. You act is if the man hasna a will of his own."
Torcall searched her face. "Allen tells me the accident was no' what it seemed."
"Allen lies." She stood toe to toe with him, lifting her face to meet his gaze. He towered over her, but she held her ground, determined not to let a Cameron get the better of her.
There was a grumble from the dais, but neither of Torcall nor Marjory broke their stance to look.
"And why, may I ask, should I believe you over my son?" Torcall's eyes narrowed, his hand still on his claymore.
"Because your son lives. Had I ordered his death, you can be certain I would no' have failed." She'd had this conversation before, with Ewen. Like father like son.
Suddenly Torcall Cameron threw back his head and laughed. "Ye've spirit in ye, lass, I'll give ye that. 'Tis possible yer grandfather was not so daft as he seemed. Ye'll give Ewen strong sons." He sobered. "Assuming he's still capable of performing the act."
This time there was laughter from the dais. "If he's no', I'll be more than happy to oblige."
Torcall turned toward his younger son, his eyes full of warning. "I'll no' have ye taking what belongs to yer brother."
Despite herself, Marjory shot Allen a triumphant look, surprised to see resentment coloring his expression. It seemed there was a favored son. "I'll thank ye to stay away from me, Allen Cameron."
Torcall reached out to grasp her chin, moving faster than she'd have imagined from so big a man. "Ye'll do what yer told, girl. Make no mistake about it. Ye belong to the Camerons as surely as if ye'd been bought and paid fer." His fingers dug into the tender skin of her neck, and she felt a shiver of fear run down her spine. "Understand this. I canna abide ye or yer kin. The only reason yer breathing at all is to give Ewen an heir. Once that's accomplished, we'll see who it is that has an accident."
She tried to break free, but his hold was too strong. She fumbled to draw her sgian dubh.
"Nay," Torcall snarled, his other hand closing on her wrist. "I'll no' fall for that again."
"Unhand her." Fingal entered the great hall, his claymore drawn, shaking his head in answer to her unasked question.
Dougall, who had so far not uttered a word, seemed to spring to life at the sight of Crannag Mhor's captain. Sliding his own claymore from its sheath, he pivoted to face Fingal, his eyes narrowing to slits.
Three more Camerons materialized from the doorway, their swords drawn as well. All eyes were on Torcall, waiting for a command. Marjory hadn't the voice to cry out. And she knew even if help did arrive it would be too late.
The events of fifteen years ago were unfolding again, and once more she was powerless to stop them.
"Where is my son?" Torcall hissed.
"I told ye, I dinna know."
Dougall moved into a fighting stance, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
"Perhaps if yer man dies, 'twill loosen yer tongue." Torcall inclined his head toward Fingal.
Almost immediately, a ringing noise sounded through the room as Dougall thrust forward, his sword glancing off Fingal's.
"Perhaps it is your man who will die." The words were out before she had time to think better of them, anger overriding all practical thoughts.
Fingal circled to Dougall's left, successfully moving the fight away from Marjory, his face a tight mask of concentration. "Come on, Cameron," he urged. "Let's have a taste o' yer blood."
Dougall moved a step closer, brandishing his claymore. "It'll take more than the likes o' ye, Macgillivray," Dougall growled and lunged forward. Fingal countered, metal hitting metal with a deafening clang.
"Stop." Marjory screamed above the din, anger superseding everything else. Jerking free of Torcall, she moved forward a step, hands held out beseechingly. "I willna have it. No' in this house. No' again."
The two men stopped for an instant, stunned, but just as quickly, they turned back to each other, intent on their fight. They moved apart and then together, thrusting and parrying, two dancers in a death dance.
Dougall drew first blood. Fingal cried out in anger, his next thrust going wide of the mark. Dougall turned and caught the edge of Fingal's sword, pushing it backward until her captain was forced to drop it. With another deft twist, the point of Dougall's claymore rested against Fingal's neck.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Silence descended. All eyes went to the man coming through the archway. Marjory exhaled slowly as Ewen walked into the great hall, his eyes locked on Dougall. The big man shot a questioning look at Torcall, but Torcall had eyes only for his son.
"Ewen?" Torcall frowned as if he wasn't sure it was in fact his son.
Fingal used the opportunity to move away from Dougall, and Marjory rushed to his side.
"Hello, Father," Ewen said, his eyes locked on the older man.
Marjory's heart nearly stopped. He'd remembered. Holy Mary, mother of God, he'd remembered who he was.
CHAPTER 9
Cameron stood in the doorway, trying desperately to sort out the players. He knew Allen of course, and the man with the tangle of graying hair was clearly Torcall Cameron. But the man who'd almost skewered Fingal was a stranger. As were the other giants standing watch over the old man.
Marjory had rushed to Fingal, her face, blanched of all color, making her eyes seem unusually large. Fingal was brushing her aside, his claymore still drawn, the blood on his arm apparently only a scratch.
Tension in the room was tight enough to sever an artery without a scalpel, and Cameron felt as if he was the unintentional vortex of the whole thing. Or Ewen Cameron was. He wished desperately that the door—or whatever the hell it had been that had transported him here—would open and send him home, leaving these people and their feud behind.
Except that he didn't like the idea of anyone hurting Marjory.
"Ye know me?" Torcall asked, his words pulling Cameron from his rambling thoughts. "They said ye dinna remember anything. But ye know me." The old man smiled, and despite everything Cameron had heard, he smiled back. Whatever Torcall Cameron's faults, he clearly loved his son. Unfortunately, his son was most likely dead. It was only his body that lived on with someone else in it.
"I don't remember." Cameron shook his head regretfully. "It's just that there's a resemblance. And I assumed you were…my father." He'd been about to say Ewen's father, but corrected himself just in time.
Disappointment washed across Torcall's face, the emotion making him look suddenly older. Cameron immediately wished he could have said something different. Something that wouldn't have taken the light from the old man's eyes.
In contrast, Marjory seemed to be breathing easier, the color returning to her cheeks. He shot her a questioning glance, but she ducked his gaze, fussing instead over Fingal. The other men had relaxed slightly. It seemed his arrival had averted the killing, at least for now.
"Come, let me have a look at ye." Torcall moved closer, his head tilted as he studied what he believed was his son. "Ye shaved yer beard."
Cameron nodded, allowing the older man to trace the side of his cheek with a finger. It was a father's touch, and despite the fact that it wasn't his father, he relished the contact. He'd felt so isolated here.
"I thought she'd killed ye, boy." Torcall's voice turned gruff, and he pulled Cameron into a bear hug.
Across the old man's shoulder, Cameron's eyes locked with Marjory's, her glare indication that she'd heard Torcall's comment. He shook his head slightly, indicating she should keep quiet, but the action only seemed to infuriate her more.
"I did naught to endanger your son, Torcall. If you dinna believe me, ask him yourself." She marched forward, blue eyes shooting sparks.
Torcall released Cameron, stepping back so that he could see them both, his brows raised in question.
Cameron knew this was a test of some sort. A moment when he had to commit to one side or the other. Cameron or Macpherson. The warmth of his reunion with his father evaporated. He had no father. He had nothing. This was all a charade, none of it real. At least not for him. Still, he held back, both Marjory and Torcall waiting for his answer.
"I dinna think he can say anything for certain, Father," Allen interjected, his eyes knowing, judgmental, as if he'd read Cameron's thoughts. "He doesna remember falling, and he seems to have forgotten who his enemies are as well." He shot a pointed look at Marjory, and then returned his knowing gaze to Cameron. And for the first time, Cameron found himself wondering where Allen's loyalties lay.
"I remember everything that has happened since then, Allen." If his brother could play rough, so could he. Even without knowing Torcall Cameron, he was fairly certain he'd side with Ewen over Allen, and the events in the wood the previous day could certainly be played to advantage.
Allen obviously recognized his plan, because he dropped his gaze, reaching instead for a cup of ale.
Cameron turned to face Torcall. "I've been treated well here, Father. As if I were one of the household." It was a bit of an exaggeration. The lady of the house hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms, but there had been moments. He smiled in Marjory's direction, satisfied to see her flinch. A little guilt wouldn't hurt her a bit.
"I'm glad to hear it." Torcall seemed to have missed all the undercurrents running through the room, or perhaps he simply chose to ignore them. Wrapping his arm around his son, he drew him close again. "And there's no worries now that I'm here. I'll make certain," his solemn gaze met first Fingal's then Marjory's, his eyes flashing a warning, "that no harm comes to ye."
He should have been comforted, but he wasn't. Truth was, he had no idea who to trust. Common sense favored his father, but his instincts told him that he could trust Marjory. Or maybe he just wanted it to be so. Maybe none of them were to be trusted.
Then again, perhaps they shouldn't be trusting him either. After all he was lying too. His head ached with the enormity of everything that was happening.
"You're no' well." Marjory was instantly by his side, her arm slipping around him, the touch soothing and exciting him all at the same time.
He smiled down at her, grateful for the support.
Torcall frowned at the two of them. "I dinna ken ye'd grown to tolerate each other."
"I'll no' let a man fall, just because he's my enemy's son." Marjory tightened her hold on Cameron in defiance.
"I told ye there's more going on here than we were told." Allen moved closer, his eyes on his father.
"Nay." Torcall waved him away. "I dinna think helping a mon, means anything more than just that. Besides, 'twill be far easier to get the wench with child, if she's no' fighting every inch o' the way."
Marjory released Cameron so suddenly he stumbled. "I'll no' be a brood mare for a Cameron."
"Ye'll do what yer told, girl." Torcall shook a finger in Marjory's direction, and Fingal moved to stand between them, tensions rising again to battle proportion.
"Leave her be." Fingal growled.
"I'm no' afeared of ye, Fingal Macgillivray. Ye know as well as I do that powers higher than either of us demand an heir. 'Tis no' my order, but the Lairds of Clans Cameron and Chattan."
Fingal nodded, accepting the inevitable. Marjory's face had turned red. "I'll have a say in my own life, thank you very much, and I tell you now, I willna spread my legs just because you say so."
Cameron reached out to soothe her, but she shook his arm away, her temper holding sway.
"Dinna threaten me, girl," Torcall barked, "or I'll see that he beds ye tonight, injury or no'."
Marjory clenched her fists and took a menacing step forward. Cameron wanted to hold her back, to try and talk some sense into her, but he knew she'd just push him away. So instead, he shot an imploring look at Fingal, whose pulse was now beating visibly at his temple, his face turned an angry red.
Fingal took a step toward Marjory, intent on intercepting her, but before he could reach her side, a blond woman burst into the room, eyes wide with joy. "Ewen, mo chridhe, 'tis true, yer really alive."
She rushed to his side, her long hair flying. At first Cameron thought it was the woman from his dream, his heart stopping at the thought, but as she drew nearer he realized the likeness was only superficial. Still, she was a beautiful woman, and it was more than obvious she cared about Ewen. Her green eyes sparked as she approached.
Unfortunately, he had no idea who the hell she was.
He shot a quick look at Marjory, hoping for guidance. Instead, he found her narrow-eyed, practically spitting nails. No help from that corner. He wracked his brain for some clue to the woman's identity.
"Aida, was heartbroken to think ye gone, Ewen." Torcall said.
Aida. This was the mistress then. The one Allen had talked about. No wonder Marjory was frowning. With a whirl of petticoats, the girl closed the distance between them, her arms encircling his waist, the scent of lilac clinging to her hair. It was intoxicating. Hell, she was intoxicating.
"I missed ye so much, Ewen." Tears filled her lovely eyes. "And when they said ye were dead, I wished I could follow ye to the grave." Aida smothered his face with tiny kisses, her breath wet and warm on his cheek.
Cameron pulled out of her embrace, more than a little overwhelmed. Given the circumstances, he couldn't exactly blam
e Ewen for sleeping with the woman. She was a hell of a package. But judging from the look on Marjory's face he also knew how much it had hurt her.
Maybe not because she cared about Ewen. She quite obviously didn't. But because it was an insult of the highest order. A rejection at a soul deep level, that would tear at a person's pride. He hated the idea of infidelity. No matter the reasons. And for a moment, he felt nothing but disgust for the man he was supposed to be. He knew the pain of broken promises only too well.
A memory flitted through his brain, tantalizing him with truth, but it dissipated before he could understand its true meaning. With a grimace, he disentangled himself from the blonde, suddenly feeling smothered by her fragrance and her presence. Oddly enough, he found that he preferred Marjory's smell, crisp and clean. Hell, he even preferred her acerbic comments to this fluff of a girl, no matter how pretty she was.
He turned to find her. She was standing alone by the window, her face even paler than usual, her eyes riveted on him and the blonde, who was now clutching at his arm, trying to regain his attention. Without a word, she pivoted and ran from the room.
Cameron fought an urge to follow. He wasn't yet ready to choose sides. He told himself the decision was as much for Marjory as for himself, but he knew it was the coward's way out.
Not that he owed anything to Marjory or to anyone here. But still, a part of him yearned for something more. A commitment, a sense of belonging. The idea was as frightening as it was foreign and he swallowed the thought whole, turning instead to the girl on his arm.
*****
"Fingal, we just have to tolerate them until they're gone." Marjory sat on the edge of a rickety chair by the kitchen fire, her fingers laced so tightly together she could feel the blood pounding through them.
Fingal was pacing in front of her. "I dinna like the way things are going. First the fight with Dougall, then Torcall's threats, and now Ewen thicker than thieves with them in there."
Marjory glanced in the direction of the great hall. Both clans had settled for dinner, sitting on decidedly opposite sides of the room. Two armed camps within the confines of Crannag Mhór. And Ewen was sitting with the enemy, his mistress draped over him like a simpering cat. "Ewen is a Cameron. Even if he canna remember them."