Wild Highland Rose (Time Travel Trilogy, Book 2) (23 page)

Instinctively, he followed Fingal
'
s advice, surprised at the difference it made.  The key here was evidently to let his body rule his brain.  He took a couple more swings then lowered the weapon and walked over to where Fingal stood.

"
You look like the devil himself this morning.
"
  Fingal raised an inquiring eyebrow. 
"
Seems an odd time for practicing with a claymore.
"

"I felt a need to stab something.
"
  Cameron tried but couldn
'
t keep the bitterness from his voice.

"
Looks to me like ye missed more than ye hit,
"
Fingal observed. 
"
Could be all the drinking last night.
"

"
Yup.
"
  He nodded.  If the man guessed what else he
'
d been up to, he
'
d probably skewer Cameron for breakfast.  Best to keep that part of it to himself. 
"
You were wise to abandon the party when you did.
"

Fingal shrugged. 
"
I
'
m no
'
against drinking mind ye,
'
twas just the company that was no
'
to my liking.
"
  He studied Cameron, waiting no doubt for a sign of displeasure.  A defense of Torcall and crew.  But he was too tired to play the game.  And just at the moment he didn
'
t give a damn anyway.

"
They can grate on a man
'
s nerves, I
'
ll grant you that.
"
  Which was an understatement when he thought about what they
'
d asked of him last night.  But he wasn
'
t prepared to go that far in denouncing what was supposed to be his kin. 
"
Are they up and about yet?
"

"Nay, they're still sleeping it off."

Cameron looked up.  Judging from the sun, he'd guess it was a little after noon.  "Well, it was a late night."  Actually he
'
d guess he
'
d fallen asleep closer to dawn.  Maybe if he was lucky, the other Camerons would sleep the day away or, better yet, wake up and decide to go home.

He started toward the weapons shed to return the claymore, surprised when Fingal followed.  They were hardly friends.  Still, for what it was worth,  it was nice to have company.  They passed an outbuilding of some kind, and Cameron noticed a huge skin covered object leaning against a wall.  Curiosity aroused, he stopped.  "What
'
s this?"  The thing was man sized and reminded him of a turtle shell, without the turtle.

"'Tis just a
curach
."

"A what?"  Cameron turned back to Fingal in time to catch his bewildered look.  "If I
'
ve ever seen one of these before,
"
he paused, meeting the older man
'
s gaze, "I don
'
t remember it now.
"

Fingal
'
s eyes narrowed for a moment, then relaxed as he shrugged.  "It must be terrible no' to be able to remember things.  A
curach
is a wee boat."

"You mean this thing is sea worthy?"  He looked at the turtle shell skeptically.

"Well, now, I'd no' say sea worthy, but it will certainly keep you afloat in the loch."

"Is it hard to handle?"  Cameron pulled the small boat away from the wall.  The inside was hollow, made of wood and what looked like wicker.  A wooden bench of sorts ran across the center.

"Nay, you just use the oar."  Fingal motioned to a long wooden paddle leaning against the wall.  "To be honest with you, I've no' been in one since I was a lad.  My brothers and I had one.  We used to race it across the loch at Moy."

The thing looked like a poorly constructed canoe and a misshapen one at that.  Cameron wasn't entirely sure he could manage it, but he needed to get away from here and the curach provided an ideal method for escape.  "Would anyone mind if I borrowed it?"

"I doubt it, but what would ye be wanting it for?"

"I'm going to go fishing."  Cameron felt a release of tension at the thought.  Time to get things in perspective.  Time to work Marjory Macpherson out of his system.  Fishing was the perfect answer.  He might suck at swordplay, but he could fish.

"Fishing?  Whatever for?  We dinna need food, and besides there are men here to do that.  You needn't go."  Fingal helped Cameron lean the boat back against the wall.

"I'm not going so that I can provide food."

Fingal looked puzzled.  "Then why?"

Cameron shrugged.  "For fun."  He started walking toward a wood pile stacked against a storage shed, already trying to think of a way to construct a fishing pole.

"Fun?  Yer going fishing for merriment?  Seems to me Aimil
'
s right.  Ye are a wee bit touched in the head.  Perhaps bed would be a better place fer ye."  Fingal kept pace as he walked.

"Nope.  Just a little relaxation, and I think fishing is just the ticket.  Besides, Fingal, a man has to have his little eccentricities."  Cameron handed him the claymore, then squatted down by the pile, extracting a long thin branch and inspecting it like he would a pool cue.  Satisfied that it was fairly straight, he stood up, cast it back over a shoulder and then flicked it forward several times.

"Perfect.  Now all I need is a some string and a hook and I'm set.  You want to come with me?"  He actually didn't want company, but Fingal looked fascinated.

"I'd love to, if for no other reason than to find out just exactly what yer up to."  He frowned.  "But I canna.  I
'
ve work to do."

Cameron heaved an inward sigh of relief.  "Next time, then."

Fingal nodded and set off toward the stable.  Cameron watched him go, then turned to find the blacksmith.  Surely he would have something that could pass for a hook.

*****

"Marjory, are ye in there, lass?"  Aimil's voice drifted through the closed door.  Marjory rolled over, turning away from the sound.  She frantically tried to erase signs of her tears, but she was too late.  She felt the bed dip as the older woman sat on the edge.

"Come now, lamb, tell Aimil what's ailing ye."

Marjory felt a hand in her hair, smoothing it with a gentle caress.  The sign of affection undid her and she sat up, throwing herself into Aimil's arms.  "You were right, I should have listened to you," she sobbed.

"Right about what, love?"  Aimil's voice was low, soothing.

"About him."

"Him who?"

"Ewen."  Just saying his name made it all come back.  She'd been so happy this morning.  Waking in his arms had been wonderful.  She had hurried downstairs to get his breakfast, eager to spend the day with him, to simply be with him.

"Ah.  I was afraid this would happen.  Has he hurt you?"  Aimil pulled back, looking into Marjory's eyes.  "Did he…."

"No, no, nothing like that," she assured the older woman, surprised by the strength of her desire to protect him.

"What then?"

"He...he spent the night here.  'Twas so…" she released a sigh, "so, beautiful.  But then this morning he…I…"

"Take yer time,
mo chridhe
, tell Aimil."

Marjory took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.  "I came to bring him the morning meal and found the chamber empty.  So I took the tray in there."  She pointed to the connecting door.  "And he was with Aida."

Tears filled her eyes again as she relived the humiliation.  Aida, naked and obviously ready to climb into Ewen's bed, and Ewen sitting there, waiting for her.  It was her wedding night all over again, except this time her heart was involved as well as her pride.  She fought the notion, but couldn't deny the truth of it.

"I wish I could tell ye the news surprises me, but it doesna.  I warned ye against believing the man had truly changed.  He hasna and he willna. 
'
Tis naught but a trick.  The sooner you accept that, the sooner ye can get on with yer life."

Marjory wiped her eyes.  "If only it were that easy, Aimil.  The man is my husband after all.  'Tis no' as if I can get rid of him altogether."

"Dinna worry yourself, lamb, things have a way o' taking care o' themselves, just ye wait and see."  She patted Marjory on the shoulder.  "Come now, dry yer eyes.  No use letting the man know how much he's hurt ye."

Marjory swallowed her pain, pushing it deep down.  Aimil was right.  She wouldn't let a man like that matter to her.  She'd had a moment of weakness that was all, nothing that couldn
'
t be forgotten.  All she had to do was put him out of her mind.  She climbed out of the bed, Aimil hovering worriedly.  "'Tis all right, Aimil.  I'm fine.  'Twas my pride and nothing more."  Liar, her heart cried.  "I'll be down directly."

"If yer sure?"

Marjory nodded and the older woman hugged her.

"Yer like me own child, Marjory.  I'll never let the likes o' Ewen Cameron harm ye.  I promise ye that,
mo chridhe
."

"Thank you, Aimil, but I can take care of myself.  I'm a grown woman after all."

Aimil beamed.  "That ye are, me girl, that ye are."  With a final pat, she turned to go.

Marjory kept her face serene until Aimil was gone.  Then, with a small cry, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands.  It was easy to tell herself Ewen didn't matter, that he hadn't the power to hurt her, but unfortunately her heart wasn't listening.

Cameron leaned against the handle of the narrow wooden shovel.  If there were worms in the garden, they were evidently on a coffee break.  He'd been digging for what felt like an hour without locating a single slimy one.  Maybe it was the wrong time of year.  Maybe he wasn't digging deeply enough.  Actually, he didn't seem to know a damn thing about finding worms.

One more shovelful and he was going to give up.  He'd head for the kitchens.  Surely there was something there fish would eat.  Hell, he really didn
'
t care if he caught anything.  It was just the normalcy he sought.  Something removed from the harsh reality of fifteenth century Scotland.

He ought to be out searching for a way home.  Wherever the hell that was.  But just at the moment, even that was too much to deal with.  He needed something
t
o ground him, something that he knew how to do
,
in any body.

He stuck the shovel into the soft brown earth, carefully turning the dirt so he wouldn't disturb the plants.  All he needed to add to an already bad morning was to incur the wrath of Aimil Macgillivray.

"And just what do ye think yer doing, Ewen Cameron?"

Speak of the devil.  He looked up from the pile of sod he was carefully examining.  "Looking for earthworms."

"I'll no' have ye speaking yer addled gibberish to me.  Say it to me plain."

"I'm looking for s
omething to bait my fishing line."

"Yer fishing line."  She repeated his words slowly, as if saying them would make them make sense.

"Yes, my fishing line.  It goes with the fishing pole."

"Seamus warned me, ye were talking crazy."

The blacksmith had made it clear what he thought of fishing, in fact, what he thought of all recreational endeavors.  It seemed the people at Crannag Mhór weren't big on leisure time activities.

"I'm well aware of Seamus' views."  Cameron dumped a handful of soil back to the ground.  No worms there.  He stood up, brushing his hands against his legs to knock off the remaining dirt.

"I'll have ye know, I
'
ve no time fer yer playacting.  Ye may be able to fool Marjory, but ye canna fool me."  The older woman crossed her bony arms across her chest and glared at him.

"Look, Aimil, I don
'
t know what Marjory told you, but there's been a misunderstanding.  When she cools off a bit, I'll explain it to her.  In the meantime, I
'
m going to go fishing."  He walked over to the shed and replaced the shovel, only to turn and find her blocking his way, a speculative look on her face.

"Fishing is it?  Are ye sure 'tis no' a rendezvous with yer whore?"

Cameron groaned.  God save him from women.  "I am going out in a boat to the center of the lake to be by myself.  There will be no one with me
,
not Aida, not Marjory, not anyone.  Do you understand?"  He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word.

Her eyes narrowed to slits.  "Oh, I understand ye, all right."