by Davis, Dee
Grania moved slowly around the bench and settled beside him, a hand comfortably on his arm. "I do care, ye know."
"If you cared so much, why didn't you tell me who you were?"
She sat for a moment and then answered, her voice trembling a little. "I dinna tell ye because I've never told anyone. Old habits die hard, I guess. And you never gave me reason to believe ye knew you were no' from this time."
What she said was true enough. He'd purposefully kept his knowledge of the twenty-first century from her. He felt some of his anger slip away.
"Do ye know who ye are then?"
He sat forward, threading his hands through his hair. "Yeah. I do."
"All of it?" Her voice was at once soothing and probing. "Do ye remember what happened to bring you here?"
He sighed. "No. I have memories from as far back as when my mother died, but nothing at all about what happened to bring me here."
"Your mother died?"
He sat back again, closing his eyes. Somehow, it seemed easier to talk that way. "Yeah, when I was eight."
"I'm truly sorry." She patted his knee. It was comforting in an abstract sort of way.
"It was a long time ago. I've learned to live with it."
"Have ye other family?"
"No." He paused, trying to think how to frame his next words. He'd spent the past few hours dealing with his guilt and he wasn't sure he wanted to share it with anyone else. "My father's dead, too." There, he'd given her the truth, to a point.
"Ah, no siblings I take it."
"Nope. Just me."
"I had five."
"Siblings?"
"Aye, four brothers and a sister. My folks were Irish Catholic. I'm surprised there weren't more."
"It must have been a lively family." He wondered what it would have felt like to grow up with other children. A hell of a lot less lonely most likely.
"I think it probably was. I dinna know really. I ran away from home you see. We were poor and there was always more work to be done. I wanted more for myself and so I left one day and never looked back." There was a wistful note in her voice.
"But you miss them now?"
"Aye, that I do. The folly of an old woman, no doubt." She laughed gently.
"Is that when you came here, after you ran away?"
"Oh, heavens no. I went from home to college, and from there to the home of a wealthy widower." She paused, her voice tinged with embarrassment. Cameron was almost glad the shadows hid her face. "He helped me get into Harvard Medical school."
"And then?"
"Pretty straight forward really. I graduated with honors and decided to be a surgeon."
"Did you specialize?"
"No. It was the fifties. I was lucky to find a general practice that would take me. Women doctors were still pretty much an oddity and in surgery they were definitely a rarity."
"Did you marry?"
"I'd call it more of a business merger. We each needed the respectability of marriage."
"Sounds like my family. My mom was a doctor, too, and my dad was a lawyer. He came from a prominent Boston family." They sat for a moment enjoying the shared intimacy. "Did you have children?"
Grania was silent for a long while, and when she finally answered, Cameron could hear the agony in her voice. "Aye, I had a son."
He wondered what it would feel like to live in a world where your son hadn't even been born yet.
"Do you miss them?"
"I dinna think of my husband much. He was a good man, but we never shared anything more than a desire to make it big in the world."
"And your son?"
She sighed, the soft sound heart wrenching. "I miss him every day. I regret that I wasna much o' a mother to him. I was too involved with my career. I'd give my soul to have a chance to set things right."
Uncomfortable with her obvious pain, he tried to find words. "I'm sure he remembers you fondly." The words sounded trite. He wasn't good at comforting people.
She squeezed his hand. "I hope yer right, but I'd imagine 'tis more likely he doesna remember me at all."
"Was he young when you…" His voice trailed off.
"Came here? Aye."
"What happened?"
"To bring me here?"
"Yeah."
"There was a terrible accident. I remember searing pain. I thought surely I would die from it." She smiled, her teeth white in the faint light. "I guess in some ways I did. Anyway, suddenly the pain was gone and there was a flash o' blinding white light and then I was here, wandering about the country side in another woman's body."
"Did you try to get back?" He sat forward on the bench, intent upon her answer.
"Every day at first, but when the years kept passing and I was still here, I began to realize that maybe I was meant to be in this time."
Cameron uttered a frustrated oath.
"I know 'tis no' what ye want to hear, but ye need to face the truth o' it. 'Tis possible you, too, are meant to be here."
"Impossible. I have a life in Atlanta. I have a practice and a house and a…." He stopped, letting the sentence dangle between them.
"A wife?"
"No." He hesitated, guilt cresting. He wanted to stop there, to avoid saying it out loud., but he wasn't a man to shirk responsibility. He turned to face her. "I have a fiancée, Grania. Her name is Lindsey Bowden."
"I see. And now yer feeling guilty o'er yer feelings fer Marjory."
Cameron groaned. The woman could read his mind. "Yes. In a crazy kind of way I've betrayed them both." Grania's sightless eyes seemed to search his. He had a sudden urge to throw himself on her lap and sob. He blinked and pushed the thought aside, embarrassed. "I have betrayed them."
"Not knowingly."
"But how could I possibly have forgotten something as important as a fiancée?" The images of his dream ran through his mind, the little voice inside him saying that he hadn't forgotten, just repressed the memory. His guilt intensified. "I've got to get back there. To make things right."
"Are ye so sure that's where you belong?"
An image of Marjory, flushed from their lovemaking, popped into his head. Suddenly, her dark hair faded to gold and her eyes changed from blue to green. Lindsey. He buried his head in his hands. "I've made promises there, in Atlanta. And I think," again images of the dream flashed through his mind, "I think, that Lindsey needs me. What kind of man would I be if I abandoned one woman for another?"
"A human man." He felt her arm around him. He leaned into her and felt the tears begin to flow. 'Stop those tears, this instant.' He could hear his father's voice, disdainful at any sign of emotion from his young son. With a gulp, he pulled away from Grania's embrace, humiliated by his display of weakness.
"Never be afraid to show ye care, lad. 'Tis the man who canna share his feelings that is to be pitied, no' the man willing to bare his soul." She paused and then apparently making up her mind about something, stood and placed both hands on his shoulders. "I never knew exactly where it was I arrived here. 'Twas somewhere in the woods on the far side o' the loch, but I never did find the exact site."
Cameron sobered instantly, all emotion gone. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"I'm telling you that just because I couldna get back doesna mean that the same will be true fer you. Ye know where ye were when ye awoke, and more importantly, ye have good reason to go home."
"I don't understand. You had good reason, too. There was your little boy."
"Aye, but that wasn't the overriding reason I wanted to return. At least no' in the beginning."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that my reasons were selfish. I wanted my life back. No' my marriage or my son, but my life, with all its wealth and privilege. I'd worked so hard to get it and then just as I was finally feeling like I'd made it, I landed here in the lap o' poverty again."
"But you said that you prefer it here, now." He stood, too. Her hands dropped to her side and she tipped her face up toward his.
> "I do. God moves in mysterious ways and I've come to realize that the things I valued then were worthless. What matters is the people you love. Here, in this time, despite everything, I'm at peace. And I wouldn't trade that fer anything in the world. Except perhaps to see my son again." She sighed, then squared her shoulders, obviously pushing the past behind her. "Marjory tells me yer real name is Cameron."
"Yeah. My first name is actually Robert, but I never use it. Always preferred Cameron." He didn't add that he had started using his middle name when his mother had died. Somehow he couldn't bear to be called Robert anymore. It made her death seem more real.
As if sensing his discomfort, Grania reached for his hand. "We've said enough for tonight. Yer tired and in need o' a good night's sleep. Things will look better in the light o' a new day."
He nodded. He was tired, and frankly, bed sounded like the perfect way to escape all of this for a little while. He squeezed Grania's hand, then released it and walked away without another word.
CHAPTER 22
Cameron paced around the small bedroom. Firelight danced against the walls, creating shadowy partners that writhed to an unheard rhythm. He sat on a stool by the hearth and pushed back his hair. No, he thought, not his hair, Ewen's hair. Cameron Even had black hair, and a life far removed from the Highlands of Scotland.
His practice in Atlanta was thriving. Or at least it would be in a few hundred years. He sighed. It was all so complicated. He thought about his new house, a great big Tudor mansion. He and Lindsey had picked it out together. It was in the most exclusive part of town. Hell, he'd just bought a brand new Porsche.
Lindsey.
The thought of her brought a smile to his face. They were suited in so many ways. He'd known the minute he'd seen her that she would make the perfect wife. He had pursued her with the precision of a surgeon, planning each move with expertise learned from his father.
And he'd won the prize. Despite being besieged by other suitors, Lindsey had fallen in love with him. And he with her.
And now he'd betrayed her.
Thoughts of Marjory pushed themselves front and center. The opposite of Lindsey in so many ways, she was no less attractive. Perhaps in some ways even more so. Maybe it was the framing of the fifteenth century, or maybe his mind had somehow been touched by Ewen Cameron's. But as horrible as he felt about betraying Lindsey, he couldn't force himself to truly regret his time with Marjory.
Which made him feel less than honorable. He had to go home. He had to make everything right. Prove to Lindsey that she was the one. Take away the fear and pain he saw in the dream. Pain he was certain somehow, he had caused.
He stood, and grabbed the poker, stirring the embers of his dying fire. It leapt to life and he spread his hands out in front of the flames, seeking their warmth. Lord, it was cold in Scotland. He released the pin at his shoulder and managed to unwind the long length of plaid. Removing his shirt, he jumped quickly into bed, pulling back the bed curtains so that he could still see the fire.
A sound from the next room caught his attention. Marjory. He shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts bringing on a physical response. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think about her, but his mind refused to listen and he felt a longing so acute that it brought actual physical pain.
As a countermeasure, he tried to think of Lindsey, to evoke a similar kind of passion at her memory, but all he saw was the vision from his dream—Lindsey standing there in the pouring rain. Guilt washed over him. He'd never thought of himself as the philandering sort. Yet here he was with thoughts of two women.
He shifted restlessly. He had to get out of here. It was the only answer. He owed it to Lindsey. Hell, he owed it to himself. He couldn't undo what he had done, but he certainly could remove himself from temptation and get his old life back on course.
At least he thought he could. Again, he heard Grania's voice. It was almost as if she were in the room. "I know 'tis no' what ye want to hear, but ye need to face the truth o' it. 'Tis possible you, too, are meant to be here."
No. She was wrong. He wasn't meant to be here, to live the life of another man. He had his own life and that was where he belonged. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his life in Atlanta—on Lindsey. The effort made him sleepy.
He yawned, snuggling deeper into the his blankets, allowing himself to drift toward sleep, only vaguely aware that his last thoughts were not of a green-eyed blonde, but of a blue-eyed brunette.
*****
Marjory sat in her bed, staring at the coals of her fire, her knees drawn up under her chin. She couldn't sleep. At first she'd waited to hear Cameron come to bed. It had been late when she'd finally heard him moving around in his chamber. She'd half hoped that he would come to her, but soon it had grown quiet on his side of the door and she'd realized that he wasn't coming.
Then, feeling dejected, she'd spent the last few hours tossing and turning, trying to make some sense out of all that had happened. She'd believed Cameron when he'd told her he was from another time. Believed him primarily because he had believed it so fervently himself. And yet, she realized, some part of her had not really accepted the truth of it until that moment in the great hall when he had cut into Fingal's throat.
She laid back against her pillows, pulling her blankets up to her chin. It was cold tonight. Immediately, the thought of Cameron's lithe body, lying warm against hers, filled her mind. Something deep inside her tightened in anticipation and she moaned, rolling to her side, bringing her knees to her chest. Oh, how she wanted him.
She tried to tell herself that there was a chance he'd stay, that, now that he knew his identity, he'd be satisfied to live out his life here with her, but she knew it was only wishful thinking. Grania's words came back to her, flowing through her mind, with unwanted wisdom.
"If you really love him, then you may have to face the fact that he'd be better off in his own time. He has a life there. Perhaps even a family."
She sighed. A family. That meant a wife. Another woman who held him at night. Another woman who occupied his heart. Cameron had wanted to go back from the very beginning. He'd always been honest with her about that. She'd be foolish to think that she would be enough to change his mind. She flipped onto her back and stared listlessly upward, watching the shadows move across the ceiling.
It was going to be a very long night.
*****
Cameron knew he was dreaming, but it still seemed real. He could feel the rain on his face, see the sheen of water on the driveway. He turned the key in the lock and slid into the Porsche.
At least it was dry inside. The water from his suit coat beaded on the leather upholstery. He brushed at it reflexively. He leaned against the steering wheel, trying to get his emotions under control. He couldn't remember ever feeling so angry. He jammed the key into the ignition, the powerful engine roaring to life.
He flicked on the headlights. The harsh light illuminated the blonde, just as it always did, but this time there was a difference. He knew her. Lindsey. She pushed at her sodden hair, extending a hand to him, pleading with her eyes.
Ignoring her, he grasped the stick shift, feeling the car slide into gear. He watched as she opened her mouth, both hands extended now. The word 'no' resounded in his brain. It was almost as if he'd actually heard her. She jumped back, her face reflecting her fear.
He felt his foot press down on the accelerator. He willed himself to stop, but knew he wouldn't. This was not just a dream. He was reliving the past. Nothing his mind could say or do would change the reality of whatever had happened. He felt the car jerk and waited helplessly for the dream to play out, to see at last the part that had been eluding him.
Suddenly, the picture changed, as though a movie projectionist had switched reels at the wrong moment. Lindsey was gone. All he could see was blood, blood on the windshield, blood on the steering wheel, everywhere blood. He tried to get out of the car, but he couldn't move. He opened his mouth, screaming her name.
He came awake with
a start, his breath coming in harsh gasps. The reality of the dream hit him like a two-by-four. The anger, Lindsey's fear, his foot on the accelerator, the blood. He buried his head in his hands. What had he done? Oh God, what had he done?
*****
Marjory sat up in bed. The last echoes of Cameron's cry resounded through the room. She fumbled with the bedcovers, and finally freeing herself, ran to the connecting door. Whatever was happening, there was no mistaking the anguish in Cameron's voice.
"Are you all right?" She held a breath, waiting for an answer. Hearing none, she ran to the side of the bed. The bed curtains were open and he was sitting up, his head buried in his hands. She climbed up beside him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.
"What is it? Tell me?" She waited impatiently for his answer, but there was no sound except the harsh hissing of his breathing. She reached for his hand and pulled it away from his face. "Cameron, 'tis Marjory. Talk to me. Let me help you."
He stared at her as if seeing someone else, then gradually relaxed, his eyes losing their haunted look. His hand tightened around hers as if it were a lifeline of some kind.
"'Twas only a dream." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, smoothing it away from his face with her free hand.
He shook his head. "It's not a dream. It's a memory, or a premonition, or… God, I don't know."
His anguish tore at her. If she could take it from him and carry it herself she would, but that was impossible. "Do you want to tell me about it?" There was more to the question than just the dream. She held her breath, waiting.
Cameron sighed, and stood up, walking over to the fire, the embers banked and glowing. "My name is Cameron Even. I live in a place called Atlanta. I'm a surgeon, Marjory. I operate on people, save their lives."
"Like with Fingal." She thought again of the magic he'd done.