by Davis, Dee
The rain had stopped and a single star peeked from behind a cloud. Somewhere, in the heart of the storm, afternoon had melted into evening. He closed his eyes. He'd just rest for a minute. Then he'd figure out what they should do.
*****
Marjory lay in the dark cocoon of her bed, wondering why it was so wet. She twisted, trying to find a warmer, dryer spot, then opened her eyes to a sky full of stars. She frowned, confused now. There were no stars in her bed chamber. Memory flashed, vanquishing her lethargy. The curach…the water…Ewen. She tried to sit up, but something held her down.
Panicked, she tried to pull her arms free, but couldn't. She struggled, but to no avail. Something heavy was definitely pinning her down, and to make things worse, she seemed to be encased in a length of wet wool. It scratched her arms and held them immobile. She tried to calm herself by breathing deeply, in and out… in and out, but even her breathing seemed constricted.
The object on top of her shifted. An awful noise filled the air. Marjory closed her eyes, waiting for something terrible to happen. Silence. She opened one eye, nothing, only the placid glow of the stars. She opened her other eye. Still silence. Determined to free herself, Marjory wriggled to the side as much as she could. By twisting her head to the left, and looking to the right, she could just make out locks of hair falling across her shoulder. Tawny locks of hair, attached, no doubt, to a familiar head.
The noise repeated itself, but this time she identified the rumbling for what it was: Ewen snoring. Relief brought a flash of anger.
"Get off of me at once." Nothing happened. Another deafening snore filled the air. "I said, get off of me, man. Do I look like a bed to you?" He snorted, but remained prone across her. Drawing in as much air as she could, she screamed at him. "Ewen, wake up!"
The minute she used his name she regretted the fact. If he were to be believed it wasn't his name at all. Cameron, he'd said. Cameron was his name. An odious name to be sure, yet oddly fitting. And suddenly she wondered if there wasn't something good about the name after all.
"Marjory?" He shifted his weight, his voice groggy.
"You're crushing the life out o' me. I canna move. Get off."
With a groan, he rolled off of her. Unfortunately, the wool cocoon kept them bound together and Marjory flipped over to land on top of him, sliding forward so that blue eyes met gold, his breath mingling with hers. Despite the situation, she felt her heartbeat accelerate at the feel of his body beneath hers.
He blinked. "Where are we?"
"You read my mind. I was going to ask you the same question." His heat invaded her, lighting a fire somewhere below her belly. Whoever he was, he had an effect on her like no other. Forcing herself to ignore her burgeoning feelings, she concentrated instead on his face.
His eyes narrowed and then widened as he came fully awake. With a jerk, he pulled an arm free. Fumbling with the plaid, he managed to untangle it so that one side flapped free.
"You can move now."
The significance of his words were slow to sink in. When the full impact hit her, she felt herself grow hot. He always seemed to rob her of her sanity. She rolled off of him, shivering in the cool of the night air. The loch's water lapped at the shore, almost at their feet. The small clearing was lit faintly by starlight, but it was difficult to make out details.
When she was sure she had her feelings under control, she turned back to him. "The curach?"
"Gone, I'm afraid."
"How did we get here, then?" She chewed on her lip, still very aware of his body close to hers.
"Don't you remember?"
Irritation flashed. "If I remembered then I wouldna be asking you, would I?" She immediately regretted her words. "I didna mean to sound so harsh. I remember jumping into the water." The memory of the icy darkness closing over her was something she'd never forget. "I also remember you pulling me to the surface, but after that, I'm afraid 'tis a blank."
"Join the club." He offered her a wry smile.
"Join the what? I dinna fash?" She frowned. How in the world could a body join a weapon?
"Well, that makes two of us."
"I beg your pardon?" The man was talking in riddles. Maybe this last ordeal had robbed him of his sanity once and for all.
He grinned. "I only meant that if you can't remember what happened, you're in the same boat as me when it comes to amnesia."
"Of course I was in the same boat with you. How else would I find myself stranded in the middle of the wilderness with you?" Saints above, the man was making no sense at all. "And there's naught wrong with me that a good night's sleep wouldna cure. I certainly dinna have am-nee-sha."
He laughed, his even white teeth shining in the darkness. "Amnesia's just another word for memory loss, Marjory. I only meant that it was ironic that you had memory loss, too."
"Ach, well if you'd just said that instead of talking about clubs and boats…"
"I'm sorry, I'll try to speak more plainly in the future." He didn't sound at all apologetic.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened after we jumped into the water?" she asked indignantly
"I swam to the shore, pulling you along with me."
The enormity of what he had done hit her. "You saved my life."
"I saved us both."
"Aye, but you could have left me."
"Don't be silly, I would never have done that. Anyway, it's behind us now. We're here, somewhat worse for the wear, I'd say, but still alive, and that's what counts." He tipped back his head, rubbing his temples.
"Are you all right?" Fear laced through her, maybe he was going away again. She wasn't certain what was more unsettling, the fact that he might just disappear or the fact that she believed it could happen.
"I'm fine. Just a little tired. It was a long swim." He opened his eyes, his face lined with exhaustion. "Tell me something though, how is it you grew up living next to a lake and never learned to swim?"
She grimaced, and looked down at her hands, old wounds still painful. "No one would teach me."
His brows drew together in question. "Why?"
Marjory looked up at the night sky with a sigh. It certainly wasn't from lack of trying. She'd begged everyone she knew. Fingal, her father, and after he died, her cousin Iain. But the answer had always been the same. "It isna ladylike. Women dinna swim."
"But that's just plain stupid. What are you supposed to do when a boat capsizes?" Marjory met his gaze and stuck her chin out defiantly. His eyes widened with understanding. "You weren't supposed to be on a boat were you?"
"'Tis my holding and, in point of fact, my curach, so I can ride in it whenever I choose."
His eyes narrowed. "Marjory Macpherson, have you ever been on a boat before?"
She ducked her head, embarrassment welling up inside. The man made her daft with his questions. "Nay, no' until today."
"And why didn't you mention that fact to me before we took off for the middle of the lake?"
"Would you have taken me with you if I'd told you?" She looked up again, still defiant.
He was silent for a moment, then smiled ruefully. "No."
"Well, then…" She paused, hoping the conversation was at an end.
"I see." He studied her face until she felt squirmy under his gaze. With amazing speed, he reached for her hands, pulling her close. "I'll say one thing for you, Marjory mine, you've got guts."
She searched his eyes, trying to understand the meaning of his words. Was he insulting her? She sucked in a breath and swallowed convulsively, he was so close she could see the stubble of his beard. She wanted…well she didn't know what she wanted exactly, but she was pretty sure now wasn't the time or the place for it. Jerking her hands free, she sat back.
His lips curled into a knowing smile. Damn the man, he saw entirely too much. "Do you know where we are?"
Praise the saints, a change of topic, and none too soon, she'd actually been fantasizing about throwing herself into his arms, propriety be damned. She looked ar
ound the clearing. Thick trees bordered it on one side. The sound of running water gurgled over the quiet lapping of loch water.
"I canna say for sure. 'Tis too dark, but I hear the sound o' a wee burn just o'er there." She pointed off to the right. "And if it's the burn I think it is, then there's a cottage no' far upstream from here." She shivered, suddenly aware of how cold she was.
"A cottage sounds great. We need to get inside and out of these wet clothes before we catch cold."
Marjory nodded in agreement. Looking down at herself, she realized for the first time that she was wearing only her shift. She felt the heat rise into her face and automatically covered her breasts with her arms. The thin material did little to hide her body.
He laughed, standing up and extending his hand. "Now is not the time for modesty Marjory mi…" He cut off the endearment. She felt absurdly disappointed. She reached for his outstretched hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. "Okay, so where is this cottage?"
*****
Cottage was a kind word. Cameron looked at the remains of what had once been a dwelling of some kind. Gaping holes marked where walls had been and vegetation had overtaken its masonry to the point that it resembled a mangled topiary gone wild. A great tree lay drunkenly across the center of the cottage, effectively dividing into two halves, what had been, in better days, a whole house. The tree, obviously the victim of some long gone storm, straddled the structure, its gnarled roots reaching skyward in grotesque imitation of human limbs.
"This is your cottage?"
"I didna say 'twas mine. I only said I knew it was here." Marjory looked as disappointed as he felt. "I knew it had been damaged, but I'd no idea it had been destroyed. What do we do now?" Her voice sounded small and tired. The long trek to the cottage had taken some of the fire out of her.
"Come on. Maybe it's not as bad inside as it looks from out here." He reached for her hand and felt her fingers curl warmly around his. Stepping carefully over debris and tree roots, they made their way to what had once been the door.
"Stay here." He released her hand, pushing her behind him.
"I willna. I'm no' a weak babe that needs protecting." She moved around him and stepped through the doorway.
"Fine. Have it your way." He held out his arm, bowing from the waist in an imitation of chivalry, but his gesture was wasted on her back as she disappeared into the gloom of the interior.
"Marjory wait..." His words were interrupted by her groan. He leapt through the opening, ready to battle whatever it was that threatened her. He barked his shin on something immobile and let out a sharp curse. Feminine laughter filled the air. He stared in its direction, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the shadows. Marjory stood directly in front of him, a beam of starlight from a hole in the roof lighting her face. He grimaced. At least there was a roof—sort of.
"I dinna think you need to attack the chest. It willna harm you. Although as a sentry, I can say with certainty," she rubbed her hip ruefully, "it does a good job."
He turned to find the infidel responsible for his throbbing shin. A waist high chest partially blocked the door. Stepping gingerly around it, he surveyed their newfound castle. There wasn't much left of it, but miraculously the tree had just missed the fireplace. It sat in the far corner, amazingly undamaged.
"Have a look at this."
He turned from his perusal of the hearth to find Marjory in the opposite corner, gleefully looking at what appeared to be a moldy pile of hay. He raised his eyebrows in question.
"'Tis the bed. And it's in passable shape." To illustrate the point, she held up two raggedy blankets.
"You call that a bed?" He could just imagine what was living in there. It made his skin crawl.
"Well, I'd say we're lucky to find anything at all." She bent to examine the bed more closely, stepping back in alarm when an unidentified rodent scurried out from under the pile of straw. She turned to Cameron with a sheepish expression. "Well, at least we have the blankets."
He eyed them with some hesitation and then nodded. She was right. Beggars couldn't be choosers. "Help me gather up some of this broken wood. We'll use it to start a fire."
How exactly, he had no idea. Gas jets wouldn't be invented for a couple of centuries yet, and unfortunately, that was the only way he'd ever started a fire. He wandered around the room, picking up scattered pieces of broken furniture and mangled tree branches. The wood was dry. That ought to help.
Arms full, he turned back to the fireplace to find Marjory kneeling in front of it, blowing gently onto growing yellow flames. "How did you do that?" People who looked down on the inhabitants of ages past had obviously not met any of them first hand. They were a very resourceful lot.
She looked up with a pleased smile, the light from the fire illuminating her face. "I had a flint in my sporran." She held up the small bag triumphantly. "Aren't you glad now that I took the time to find it?"
Recalling the incident, he had to admit that escaping the boat had been his priority at the time, but now, feeling the heat of the flames reaching out to him, he was pleased she'd refused to abandon the sporran. But, he'd be damned before he'd acknowledge it. After all, he was the one who was supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around.
Surprised at the Neanderthal nature of his reaction, he watched as her face fell. Guilt washed over him, vanquishing his wounded pride. "I'm glad you have it, but even if you didn't, I suspect you'd have found a way to coax a flame from the wood." She brightened at the compliment and he stared at her, enchanted for a moment by her beauty.
"I'll need some bigger pieces to keep it going." She looked pointedly at the stack he carried.
"Right." He pulled his thoughts away from the lush curves of her body. "I'll just put it all down right here." He made a tidy little pile next to the hearth. Stepping back, he watched as she efficiently fed the growing fire. Turning away, he stripped off his plaid and hung it over a large branch of the dead tree. It made a perfect drying rack. Close enough to the fire to allow the wool to absorb the warmth, and far enough away to keep it from catching fire. Hell, he sounded like Martha Stewart.
He pulled his shirt over his head and hung it beside the plaid. With a shiver, he moved closer to the fire. "You can hang your wet clothes over there on the tree."
She looked up at him, her eyes widening at his lack of attire. Cameron actually felt himself blush. The Scottish version of underwear resembled a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts, hardly enticing. Hell, his bathing suit was more revealing. But somehow, under her gaze, he felt naked.
"Here, give me one of the blankets." She handed it to him without a word, color washing over her face. Holding the material by two corners, he shook the blanket, thankful when nothing living popped off. He twirled the thing around his shoulders making a cape of sorts. It was musty smelling, but seemed to be bug free and it was certainly warmer than nothing.
Marjory's eyes were still on him. He bent and picked up the other blanket, handing it to her. "Your turn."
She took the faded rectangle from him, jumping back when their hands met. Good, she wasn't as immune to him as she pretended. It made him feel better to know he wasn't alone in his attraction.
"Turn your back."
She looked a bit like a prim schoolmarm in an old western. With a grin, he spun around, granting her a little privacy. He could hear her movements and his unapologetic brain conjured vivid pictures to go along with them.
"All right. You can turn around."
She was covered from ankle to shoulder in the blanket. She had managed to tie it somehow at one shoulder so that it hung from her body, toga style. It was an appealing sight.
"Here." She held out her shift. He hung it next to his plaid, trying to get his libido in control.
"What now?"
"I think we should try and get some rest. We've a long walk, in the morning."
That was his Marjory, practical to the core. Her no nonsense attitude effectively tamped down his rising desire. "Where do you
suggest we sleep?"
She shot a look at the bed in the corner. "Maybe we can use a bit of that?"
He walked over to the pile of straw. It certainly looked more appealing than the debris strewn floor. "All right. You clear a place by the fire and I'll see what can be salvaged here." He stirred the pile with a stick, hoping to frighten off anything else residing there. Nothing moved. Gingerly, he reached under the straw, grabbing an armload.
Three trips later they had place to sleep. Marjory had found an old piece of linen folded in the chest. She spread it over the top of the makeshift bed. "It could be worse." Ah yes, that Gaelic sense of optimism.
"It'll be fine," he said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
"It'd be better if we had a blanket for the top." Marjory shot a look at his plaid.
"Not a chance, it's still too wet."
"Oh." Her face fell.
"I've got an idea, but I'm not sure if you'll like it."
She bit her lip, waiting for his thoughts.
"I could take this off." He gestured to his blanket. "We could use it for cover."
She shook her head, slowly.
"Look, Marjory, it isn't like I'm naked under here. Besides, we've slept in the same bed before."
She blushed. "Aye, but that was because of Torcall."
He smiled to himself, remembering her plea for him to stay after it had no longer been necessary. "Well," he said, trying to reassure her with his tone. "It's like this. Even with the fire, it's cold in here and the best way I know to stay warm is to share our body heat. For that to work best we need insulation of some sort. And it's either mine," he ran a hand along the blanket, "or yours."
She frowned, obviously thinking it over. Then squaring her shoulders, she sighed. "Fine. We'll use yours."
The woman made it sound as if he was asking her to sleep with a cobra, for heaven's sake. He waited until she was lying down and then settled in beside her, tucking the blanket around them for additional warmth. She turned her back to him, snuggling against his chest. He willed himself not to respond as she wriggled against his body. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her closer, listening as her breathing deepened and slowed.