by Davis, Dee
"True enough. But I thought perhaps he'd changed."
Aimil looked up from the dish she was washing with a knowing snort. "That'd be the day."
"'Tis true, Aimil," Marjory defended. "He saved me from Allen."
"No doubt because it suited him." Aimil looked to her brother for support. "Ye know that's the way of it."
Fingal shook his head, his expression pensive. "I'm no' so sure, sister. There's also the fact that he caught her in the courtyard when she fell."
"An instinctive act, nothing more." Aimil shrugged.
"No. 'Twas more than that." Marjory felt heat washing across her face at the memory of his strong arms around her, his scent enveloping her, teasing her senses.
"'Ye see only what ye want to see." Aimil put down the rag she'd been using to clean the tabletop. "Mayhap it's a trick to get ye to breed with him."
The thought had occurred to her, but she couldn't believe Ewen, this Ewen would do such a thing. He'd been so gentle in the clearing when she'd told him about her parents. So understanding. Never mind that it hadn't lasted long, the fact that it had been there at all meant something, surely?
Fingal growled deep in his throat. "If bedding was all he wanted, he'd no' have to go to all this trouble."
Marjory shivered, and Aimil shot her brother an angry look. "Yer as bad as the lot of them. Thinking a man can just have his way with a lass whenever he desires."
Fingal held out a hand. "I dinna mean that and well you know it. I was merely saying that Ewen's done more for Marjory since he fell than the entire time he was with her before."
"He stopped the fighting today as well. And defended me to his father. The old Ewen wouldna have done that."
"Yer both as addled as he is," Aimil snapped, scorn coloring her voice. "A clean-shaven face is no' a rebirth. And just because he's chosen to help ye on occasion, it doesna mean that he's a new man. Only that there's something in it for him."
"I'm telling ye, I see something different in the lad. He's no' the same." Fingal stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"I see it, too."
"Ach," Aimil threw her hands in the air. "Ewen this, Ewen that. To hear ye both talk, ye'd think he was a bloody saint."
Marjory stared in open mouthed wonder. She'd never seen Aimil angry.
"I tell ye, ye'd both do well to remember that only a few nights ago he was Ewen Cameron and you counted him as an enemy. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. No one changes that much." With a thump, she set a full jug of ale on the table. "Now get back out there and replenish the jug. Enemies or no', I willna have it said that I'm no' hospitable to guests."
Marjory watched as Fingal picked up the jug and marched out of the kitchen without another word.
Aimil turned to her, shaking a finger. "Ye mark my words, girl, you watch yer back tonight. 'Tis a bedding Torcall Cameron wants, and Ewen has always complied with his father's wishes."
"If I have to bed him to hold on to Crannag Mhór, then so be it." The words were out before Marjory could think about them, and she realized with dismay that a part of her actually wanted to share a bed with Ewen—the new Ewen. She felt heat rushing to her cheeks.
"Dinna be daft, girl. Once ye produce a bairn, yer life isna worth a dram o' whiskey."
"You dinna know that. Perhaps he'd protect me."
"Yer a fool if ye think a Cameron is capable of anything but deceit. Believe me when I tell ye that." Two bright spots of color marked the centers of Aimil's cheeks, and Marjory knew they were no longer talking about Ewen. "I love ye like ye were my own, Marjory Macpherson, and I'll no' let the likes o' Ewen Cameron make a fool o' ye."
"He's no' going to do that, Aimil." She couldn't for the life of her imagine why she was defending the man. But here she was doing it just the same. And the truth was, she believed it. Believed that she could trust him. Just like that, her heart had made the decision without even consulting her brain.
"'Tis too late, then," Aimil mumbled under her breath, scrubbing furiously at an iron pot.
"What did you say?"
Aimil looked up defiantly. "I said yer more of a fool than I thought. And I predict this night will mark the end of Crannag Mhór."
*****
Cameron shifted, trying to edge away from Aida's grasp. The woman was leechlike. She hadn't left his side all day, which meant he hadn't been able to find time alone with Marjory.
Torcall, too, had become a permanent fixture. Cameron had to admit Ewen's family loved him. But it was a smothering love. As if he couldn't be trusted to breathe on his own.
To add to the confusion, Allen had become downright surly. When Ewen was present, as far as Torcall was concerned, his youngest didn't exist. At least it explained the hints of anger and the veiled hostility. Allen had no love for his brother, but thankfully, he was too afraid of his father to do anything about it.
Dysfunctional at best, still it was a family. Something Cameron had never known. Again his memories threatened to reveal themselves, only to pull away again like the tide from the shore.
Cameron looked up as Marjory stepped through a small door near the fireplace. Accompanied by Aimil, she walked to the dais and sat down, reaching for a platter of meat. Despite the tension running through the room, she seemed calm, smiling at something Fingal said, the dimples in her cheeks making her seem softer. It occurred to him that Marjory didn't laugh enough, and unfortunately he was sitting with the people who were the cause of it.
Following his gaze, Torcall glanced at the dais. "She's comely enough fer a Macpherson. At least yer job will no' be as odious as if she were ugly."
Cameron frowned. "It's not a job, I relish for any reason."
Torcall shook his head. "Yer talking daft, boy. 'Tis no' about what ye want, 'tis about what's best fer the Camerons. That and avenging yer mother." His eyes narrowed in remembered hatred.
"My mother." He said the words without any emotion accompanying them. No picture, no memory at all. Whoever his mother had been, she was lost in the black chasm of neurons and gray matter, no longer a part of his conscious mind.
"Ye canna remember." Torcall's eyes were sad.
Cameron shook his head.
"Ye look just like her. Yer hair, yer eyes. She was the most beautiful woman that ever lived. And I loved her with every breath in my body."
"But she died." Cameron whispered, afraid to break the spell. Torcall was different somehow when he spoke of Cait, as if time had rolled backward and taken away the pain etched in the lines of his face.
"Aye. At the hand of Manus Macpherson." He nodded toward the dais, his expression darkening again.
"Allen told me some of it. But not how it happened."
Torcall pulled his attention back to Cameron, searching his face, as if trying to reassure himself he was truly looking at his son. "'Tis hard to fathom ye could forget such a thing. But then ye weren't present that day." He reached for his ale cup and drained it. "We were out riding. Yer mother always loved to ride." He smiled lost in his past. ""Twas a beautiful day, and the world was ours, until we rounded a bend and found the reivers."
"Reivers?"
Torcall shot him a quizzical look, and Cameron cursed his stupidity. "Cattle thieves. Macphersons, they were. Wild in their lust to capture the herd. We tried to pull back out of sight, but 'twas too late. They'd seen us. In a moment, we were surrounded, outnumbered and defenseless." His fist tightened at the memory. And Cameron felt his pain.
"I asked them to let Cait go. To take me fer ransom and leave her to her sons. But Manus would no' hear of it. He wanted her. I could see it in his eyes. But my Cait was a fighter, and she refused to surrender, instead moving her horse away, saying her bairns needed her and she'd no' go peacefully.
"Manus laughed. I can still hear it. Then he charged at her, his steed twice as big as the mare she rode. The wee beast took fright, and reared back, Cait flew off and landed against a tree, her neck broken. I held her in my arms until she died.
"I want
ed to kill him, but there were too many of them and I had you and yer brother to think about. So I let them take me." He reached for a pitcher to refill his tankard, and then drank deeply. "So ye see, my son, there can be no' room in yer heart for anything other than revenge."
"But wasn't that what happened here, when you killed Marjory's parents?"
"How is it ye remember that and no' yer own mother?" Torcall's voice rose in anger, and Allen looked up to eye them speculatively.
"I don't remember. Someone told me."
Torcall studied him for a minute, then nodded. "The raid was meant as revenge. A way to honor yer mother. And for a while it was enough. But there was talk of Macpherson retaliation, with more than just our two families involved, and so the lairds came together to find a solution." He spat the word as if it were poison. "Yer marriage was the outcome. I've no mind telling you that I'd as soon have seen ye marry the devil himself as Manus' spawn, but I had no choice in the matter."
"And now you think if Marjory bears a child it will be the end of it all?" Cameron wasn't sure he followed the logic.
"I'd rather run her through with a claymore, but it canna be so. And if it canna, then what better revenge than to take Crannag Mhór? Manus loved this valley more than he loved life itself. And since he took what I loved best…"
"You'll take what was his."
"Aye." Torcall nodded, slamming a fist upon the table. "Tis how it must be done."
And of that Cameron had no doubt. But revenge came at a price, and not just to those who were on the receiving end. The Camerons and the Macphersons were living proof. One death had led to others and they in turn would lead to more. It was a never ending cycle fed by hatred.
Hatred that couldn't be stopped—unless someone with little to lose could step in and make things change.
It was a heady thought. And one he did not want to accept. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He refused to acknowledge the idea that he might have been sent here for a reason. He didn't believe in things like cosmic intervention.
He was a man of science.
And more importantly, he was a man who wanted to go home.
CHAPTER 10
Cameron had had enough toasting to last his entire life. At least, he was pretty sure he had. He'd know for certain when he could think clearly again. He tried to focus on the fire in the fireplace, but its hypnotic dance made him queasy. Best he could remember, they'd drunk their way well into the night.
The Cameron contingency that is. Most of the Macpherson clan had skipped the festivities, and those that had attended had been stoically silent. Marjory of course hadn't stayed. She'd finished her dinner and left with the frigid regality of a queen.
She hadn't spared him so much as a glance, making it more than clear she thought him a defector. Although it wasn't entirely apparent why she'd think he'd do anything less. She'd consistently rejected him, even when he'd tried to save her. Hell, he had saved her, and gotten nothing but ice in return.
Damn the woman. He burped noisily—which seemed to be the order of the day for Cameron men—and drank from his cup. In truth, he didn't need Marjory. He had Aida. No smart mouth on that one, just plain old adoration. She was up there somewhere, right now, waiting for him. He looked toward the stairs, surprised to see that there were two sets.
"Have some more, Ewen. We'll drink to yer health." Torcall held up his cup, sloshing ale over the rim.
Cameron tried to shake his head, to signal that he'd had more than enough, but the gesture was more than he could handle. Besides, it wouldn't have stopped Torcall anyway. The man was a bottomless pit.
"To my heir," his pseudo-father called, and the Cameron crew dutifully hoisted their cups.
"To Ewen," Dougall bellowed, seeming no worse for wear. Which was amazing considering the amount of ale he'd personally put away.
"To my brother." Allen's toast lacked sincerity, but Cameron had already realized that there was no love lost between them.
Like Dougall and Torcall, Allen seemed to be in no danger of succumbing to the effects of the alcohol. For just a moment, Cameron wished for the man's genes. Or at least a stouter stomach.
His father waited expectantly. Never one to disappoint, Cameron focused on both of his cups, concentrating until there was just the one, and, with a satisfied grin, lifted it in salute, somehow managing not to spill.
Looking around at the assembled group, he realized there was not a Macpherson left. It was only the diehard Camerons that remained, and evidently they intended to stay until the keg ran dry. A practice he fervently hoped was not a nightly routine. If so he'd pickle his liver before he had a chance to figure a way out of this mess.
"Are ye listening to me, boy?" Torcall asked, "I want to know when yer going to end this thing and get the woman with child."
Torcall wanted an heir to Crannag Mhór, and he wanted Ewen to provide one. Which meant that Cameron had to sleep with Marjory. But that was impossible considering the woman could barely keep a civil tongue in her head when talking to him, and if she couldn't stand the sight of him, she was hardly likely to allow a seduction.
"She doesn't like me." Cameron blinked his eyes slowly, trying to focus. His tongue seemed thicker than usual. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he would hazard to guess that whoever he'd been, he wasn't a drinker. He certainly didn't have the stamina of these guys. "Don't see how I can make love to her if she's not interested." He jerked his thumb toward the stairs, dismayed to see that there were still two sets.
"Since when has a bit o' spite stopped a Cameron?" Torcall asked. "Sometimes a mon has to take what he wants. Besides, all ye have to do is get the wench with child. Allen can handle the rest."
The two men exchanged glances.
"Handle what, exactly?" Cameron waited, trying to clear his mind. He sensed that this was something important.
Allen sneered. "Dinna fash yerself brother." He bent close to Cameron's ear, his breath making Cameron want to puke. "Yer part is simple, I reckon ye can do it in yer sleep."
Cameron tried to make sense of the conversation. "What do you mean? Do what in my sleep?" He closed his eyes, feeling the room start to spin. He opened them, forcing himself to focus on the nearest object, which happened to be Dougall's face.
"Plant yer seed. That's the important thing." Dougall's words had begun to slur, but Cameron couldn't figure out whether Dougall's mouth or his own ears were responsible.
The other men nodded in agreement.
"And I, fer one, am no' leaving until I'm sure ye've done just that." Torcall straddled a bench, apparently prepared to wait it out right on the spot.
Cameron sobered instantly, panic rising. Surely they weren't serious. "These things take time. You can't be away from Tyndrum that long." The minute the name of Torcall's home came out of his mouth he worried that he'd said it wrong, but the man didn't seem to notice, and Cameron sighed, relief flooding through him.
"Aye, 'tis the truth, Torcall. Ye canna leave the holding unattended fer too long. Yer enemies are sure to hear o' it and take advantage o' the situation," Dougall intoned seriously.
"I've an idea, Father." Drinking had only made Allen more odious. Cameron had the feeling he wasn't going to like what was coming next.
"All right, Allen, me boy, let's hear it." Torcall staggered over to his son and slapped him heartily on the back. A smaller man would have been sent sprawling.
Allen eyed Cameron, his expression veiled. "Well now, lads, I say we make sure that Ewen is doing his best to make sure there's truly a Cameron in the Macpherson's belly."
Dougall looked confused. "I dinna ken what yer saying."
"I'm saying we should watch."
"Watch what?" Dougall's brows drew together as he tried to follow the conversation.
Cameron felt a dawning of comprehension and the curl of revulsion in the pit of his stomach.
"I say," Allen paused to make sure his father was listening, "we go with Ewen and watch him take the sl
ut upstairs."
"Aida?" Dougall drained his cup with a single swallow and reached for the pitcher to refill it.
Allen grabbed the earthenware jug, refilling his own cup. "Nay, man, I mean his Macpherson wife."
Cameron tried to think of something to halt the conversation, but his ale-numbed mind was too slow.
"Tis a grand idea." Torcall downed his ale, wiping his face with his sleeve. "'Twould be like old times."
Cameron had no idea what that meant and, frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Allen reached for his cup and filled it to the top. Cameron sipped from it absently, trying to find a way out of this new predicament. "You know Marjory isn't going to cooperate."
"Since when do you care if she cooperates? She'll do as she's told. If ye canna stomach the task, brother, I'll be glad to serve in yer place."
The thought made Cameron choke. No way would he let Allen touch Marjory again. "Thanks, Allen, but I believe I can handle my wife." He met Allen's lust-filled gaze. "And I don't need witnesses." Absolutely freaking right he didn't. There wasn't going to be a bedding.
"All right then no witnesses. But the least we can do is walk ye to the door." Torcall started for the stairs, swaying slightly.
"Now?" Cameron felt bile rising.
"Seems as good a time as any." Torcall squinted, studying him. "Dinna worry, lad, we'll no' get in yer way. We'll stay just outside the door. Ye'll never know we're there." He laughed loudly, ending with a belch. "After all, a man deserves a little privacy does he no'?" Torcall cuffed Cameron's cheek.
Dougall and Allen laughed heartily. The whole group headed for the stairs. Cameron swallowed convulsively. Oh God, what had he gotten himself into? Worse still, what had he gotten Marjory into?
The stairs were narrow and circular, connecting only with the family's private rooms. Even with torches, the passageway was dark. It was a difficult trek in the daylight, sober, but in the dark, reeling from all the beer, it was close to impossible. Dougall made it about ten steps before he started retching.