Wild Highland Rose (Time Travel Trilogy, Book 2) (35 page)

*****

Cameron had never been to a finer feast.  The great hall was full to brimming with people.  Macphersons gathered to celebrate the safe return of their mistress.  He was seated at the dais with the family.  Fingal on his left and Marjory on his right.  A place of honor.  For tonight, at least, he had been accepted, the husband of the mistress of Crannag Mhór.

He glanced over at her.  She was smiling at something Fingal had said, her long hair swaying slightly with the movement of her shoulders.  She raised her eyes and met his briefly, the contact warming him as if she
'
d reached out to touch him.

He took a sip of his wine.  It was warm and flavored with spices of some kind.  He hated the fact that he was going to hurt her.  Hated that he
'
d let himself get involved.
 
But his heart, it seemed, had a mind of its own.

And another life.  He had to face the reality that there very well could be someone out there waiting for him.  The blonde from his dreams?  There was something about her, something about the dream that called to him.  Made him want to go back.  To face himself.

If
he could go back.
 
The thought haunted him, always on the edge of his conscious mind.  What if he couldn
'
t?  He shook his head, not ready to face the thought.  He needed to get back.  Needed to face whatever demons were behind the dream.  Until he did, he couldn
'
t be whole.  Not in this world or any other.

He had to go home.

And Grania could help, he was certain of it.

Marjory laughed, the sound filling him with joy and sorrow.  Bittersweet.  She was an amazing woman.  One he could easily lose his heart to.  But he
'
d couldn
'
t discount the notion that he might not be free to lose it.  And he valued his honor.

Of that he was certain.

More laughter interrupted his thoughts, this time from Fingal, whose mouth was full of meat.
 
Aimil had outdone herself, the tables full to bursting with every imaginable food.  Joints of beef, minced pies, venison and rabbit.  There were the requisite barley and oat cakes and earthenware pitchers of ale and wine, a full one replacing an empty almost before the last drop could be drained.

Serving platters, attached to serving people, appeared continuously from behind a large carved screen.  A fire burned brightly in the huge fireplace, augmented by huge iron candelabras, the flickering light adding to the magical feel of the event.

One tray, sitting in the center of the head table, contained what Cameron supposed was the culinary masterpiece of the evening.  An entire bird rested on the wooden platter, its plumage arrayed as if it were merely out for a stroll in the meadow, rather than providing the main course for the people seated on the dais.

He marveled at the detail.  Grain of some sort had been used to create grass, with wildflowers added for a true
meadow like
meadow-like
effect.  It would put a museum of natural history to shame, let alone a five star chef.  Perhaps he'd have to rethink his position on medieval Scottish cuisine.

Music wafted through the room.  Bagpipes, he supposed, although the instruments were smaller than the ones he recalled, with a sweeter sound, more like pan pipes.  There was also a harp of a sort, smaller and shaped differently from its modern day counterpart.  The soft sounds filtered through the hum of conversation, filling the hall.

"Will ye have some caboc?"  Fingal smiled at him, thrusting a small platter in his direction.  Taking it, Cameron eyed it dubiously.  It looked like an ice cream cone dipped in oatmeal.  Seeing his look, Fingal laughed.  "'Tis no just oats, mind ye.  There's much more inside."  Taking his
sgian dubh
, he cut a piece off the cone and held out the knife.

Sharing utensils was common among the Macphersons, and with a sigh of resignation, Cameron took the offered blade and popped the oat-clad morsel in his mouth, praying that it wasn't intestines or eyeballs or something.  He held his breath, chewed, then relaxed and swallowed.  Caboc was cheese
—
just cheese.

"It's good."  He returned the knife, and reaching for his own, cut off more of the cone, trying to avoid the oats.

"A toast."  A red-faced man at a nearby table stood, swaying slightly, his cup held aloft.  Cameron groaned.  He'd already had firsthand experience with Scots when they started toasting.

The room quieted somewhat and the man raised his glass higher.  "To Marjory Macpherson.  'Tis glad we are to have her home."

There was much scraping and scuffling as the assemblage pushed back benches and rose to their feet echoing the toast.  Cups were drained and refilled, others expressing similar sentiments.  Marjory stood serenely, looking out at the members of her clan, the faint wash of color across her cheeks the only sign that she was embarrassed by all the attention.  Finally, exhausting both beverage and verbiage, the assembled Macphersons settled back into their seats.

Cameron leaned over to Marjory, speaking softly.  "They love you."

She flushed a deeper red and turned to meet his gaze.  "Nay, no' so much me, 'tis Crannag Mhór they love.  I'm just a figurehead o' sorts, filling the role my father should rightfully have occupied."

"Or your husband."

The color drained from her face.  "I've no' husband and well you know it.  Ewen is dead."

He placed his hand on the gentle curve of her cheek.  "I didn't mean Ewen.  I meant someone new.  Someone who could love you as you deserve to be loved."

Her eyes searched his, looking for something that he knew he didn't have to offer.  "You need a man to help you here."  He paused, watching hope flare in her eyes.  "A man from your own century."

As quickly as it had come, the hope died and her eyes hardened.  "I dinna need a man or anyone else.  I've done fine on my own all these years and I'll manage quite nicely now."  She turned away, asking Fingal for a platter of meat.

Cameron looked at his food, his appetite gone.  Why couldn't he learn to keep his mouth shut?  The idea of Marjory with another man was repulsive to him.  So why had he felt the need to speak to her of finding someone else?

To ease his guilt.  Cameron reached for his goblet and drained it, letting the warm wine wash away his thoughts.  Guilt or not, at the end of the day, the facts remained the same.  He had to get back to his own time, to his own life, and he couldn't let his feelings for Marjory stand in the way.

*****

Marjory smiled at Aimil, trying to listen to what the woman was saying.  This was supposed to be a celebration, but she didn't feel particularly festive.

"Are ye going to send word to yer grandfather?"

Marjory focused on the words.  "If need be."

"If need be?  I dinna ken.  What are ye waiting for?  A direct attack by Torcall?"  The old woman frowned at her.

"Aimil, I'd like nothing better than to see Torcall Cameron brought to his knees, but for now he has gone, and I canna bother my grandfather with my fears.  I
'
ll send word to him when the time is right, and no
'
before.
"

"
I dinna believe we
'
ve seen the last o
'
Torcall Cameron. 
'
Tis a trick o
'
some kind hatched up between the mon and his son.
"
  She tilted her head toward Cameron, lowering her voice to a whisper. 
"
I told ye before that a cat canna change his ways.
"

Marjory swallowed a sigh.  "There is no plot between them.  Of that I
'
m certain.
"

Aimil stabbed viciously into a chunk of meat.  "Well, if ye ask me yer dancing with the devil, and there
'
s no way ye can win.  A Cameron is ne
'
er t
o be trusted.  And believe me,
I know that better than most."

Marjory tilted her head, studying the woman. 
"
Yer speaking o
'
my parents murder.
"

"
Among other things.
"
  Aimil said, her face closed, memories reflected in her eyes. 
"
The important thing is that ye mustn
'
t trust a Cameron.  No matter how comely of face.  And I
'
d be watching my back if I were you.  I tell ye the mon will be back.
"

Marjory nodded, sipping absently from her goblet.  There was truth in Aimil
'
s words, no matter how enigmatic.  Once Cameron was gone, it was only a matter of time until Torcall discovered it.  And when he did…she shuddered involuntarily…when he did, there would be hell to pay.

"Are you all right?"

She felt Cameron's words, warm against her ear, almost before she heard them.  "I'm fine."  She flashed him a smile, hoping that it looked sincere.

"Look," he screwed up his mouth, a look of regret on his face, "I'm sorry if I was out of line before.  I just want you to be happy."  He reminded her of a puppy, scolded for something it didn't understand, but still honestly repentant.

"I know."  She patted his hand.  "Perhaps we should call a truce.  Just for tonight.
"
  She smiled and raised her cup in tribute.

Deliberately, he took it from her and took a sip.  She felt the embers inside her stir and begin to glow.  Slowly, she reached for the cup, taking it from him and sipping slowly, her lips touching the exact spot where his had, her eyes never leaving his.  She'd never thought drinking could be so provocative.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of color.  Aida.  Marjory's high spirits plummeted.  The woman was sitting at a table in the far corner of the hall, surrounded by men vying for her attention.  Marjory knew that they didn't stand a chance.  Aida Macvail had eyes for only one man.

She drained the goblet with a long swallow, reaching for the pitcher to fill it again.

Cameron took the cup from her.  "Easy, princess.  Don't let her get to you."  He covered her hand with his.  "Remember this afternoon."

"Aye, that I do."  She felt her spirits buoy a little at the thought of Aida's ousting from Cameron's chamber.  Aida looked in their direction, her pouty lips drawing into a beguiling smile when she realized Cameron was looking at her.  She might as well have been calling his name out loud.

"Well, what do you say we continue the show?"  He raised Marjory's hand to his mouth, his tongue tracing a slow possessive path along her palm.

Aida's smile faded and her eyes narrowed.  In an instant, anger marred her features, making her beauty seem only an illusion.  Marjory tightened her hand on Cameron's.  Aida's gaze shifted, her narrowed eyes meeting Marjory's.

The smile remained in place, but there was nothing resembling cordiality in her gaze.  If a look could be a weapon, Marjory knew she would have been mortally injured.

"Look at me."  Cameron whispered, his lips still caressing her skin.

With an icy smile in Aida's direction, she tipped her head in acknowledgment of the other woman, and then, turned her attention back to the warmth of Cameron's touch.

  Cameron squeezed her hand and released it.  "That's my girl.  Just ignore her.  Tomorrow she'll be gone."  He poured her some more wine, holding out the goblet when it was full.  Marjory took it, her gaze straying back to the table in the corner.  She'd be more than glad to see the backside of Aida Macvail.

*****

Cameron rubbed his temples, wondering if this party was ever going to end.  He'd eaten until he thought he might explode.  He looked around the room.  No one seemed even remotely interested in winding things down.

Marjory was sitting back with her eyes closed, looking as tired as he felt.  Fingal was still eating as if there were no tomorrow.  A ruddy-faced young man was talking with Grania.  Cameron had overheard something about love potions and knew he didn't want to hear any more.

First thing in the morning, he intended to get to the bottom of Grania Macpherson's stories.

A man, seated at the table directly in front of the dais, belched loudly and leaned back, lighting some kind of pipe with a rush from the floor.  Yet, another example of the sterling quality of fifteenth century hygiene.  He smiled, wondering who had died and made him the king of clean.

Aimil was refilling the wine pitchers at their table.  He wouldn't have put it past her to add a little something extra to his.  Arsenic perhaps?  Thank goodness it was a community pitcher.  The woman certainly wasn't overly fond of him.

Hell, who was he kidding, she despised him.  A stray thought caught in his tired mind, its exact significance alluding him.  He dismissed it.  The events of the past few days were catching up with him.  He stifled a yawn.