long been closed to anything that even resembled feeling. She ought to be safe from the charms of her half-brained husband.
But she wasn ' t. Marjory touched the back of her hand, feeling again the strange warmth his fingers against her skin had invoked. No matter what her practical mind said, her body would not, could not deny that his touch had woken a part of her she had long thought dead.
She shook her head. She knew better than to open herself up to someone, and particularly to a Cameron. With a strength of will built from the pain of a destroyed childhood, she forced herself to picture her parents' bodies. The horror of the image washed over her like icy water. The man upstairs was an enemy. No matter what he said or did, he was still a Cameron. And she hated the lot.
*****
Cameron shifted in the bed so that he was closer to the window. From this vantage point, he could look down into the courtyard of Crannag Mhór, people below him going about their daily chores, scurrying here and there, each intent upon his or her task.
One girl, wrapped in a brightly colored plaid, looked up at his window. He waved. She blushed a bright crimson, quickly averting her eyes, and continued on her way without an answering gesture. Obviously, she had been warned about the infamous Ewen.
There were several outbuildings directly across from him. He had no idea what purpose they served. One billowed smoke and so he figured it was probably a blacksmith of some kind. His knowledge of fifteenth century craftsmanship was limited to television and movies. And everyone knew how accurate they usually were.
Adjacent to the front of the tower was another structure. This one was surrounded by a pen of some kind. A barn, he figured. At least it looked like a barn. He frowned in frustration. A horse whinnied. A barn . He smiled with relief. Funny, how even the slightest shift in a man's sense of reality left him questioning even the most mundane observations.
Not long ago, he'd had an ordinary life in the twenty-first century, or more precisely he thought he'd had such a life. And now…well now he seemed to be a man without a memory, stuck in some crazy time warp.
He felt frustration rising again and tried to push it back down. It was only a matter of time, he reassured himself. His memories were already starting to come back. He'd remembered his car in the dream. And then there was the girl. The blonde. It was clear that she was important somehow , t hat she needed him. But why?
He told himself that it would all come back. He just had to be patient and get well. Once that was accomplished he ' d find his way back to the rockslide. Surely there, he ' d find a way home. The little voice in his head insisted that it was a long shot at best, but he ignored it. If sheer will would get him home, then he ' d soon be on his way.
"Are ye all right?" Grania stood at the foot of the bed. He'd been so deep in thought, he hadn't heard her come in. He automatically reached for the sheet to cover himself, realizing as he did so that the gesture was unnecessary. Grania couldn ' t see him.
"I think, even if I were no' blind, I would be too old for you to have to worry about modesty, but I thank ye for the thought." Her voice was filled with laughter. Somehow she must have guessed his actions . Her tone grew more solemn. "I passed Marjory outside yer chamber a bit ago. Did the two of you have words?"
Cameron winced. If only it were that simple. " Believe me, words had nothing to do with it. "
"Cameron, ye see what ye want to see and naught more." W ith that enigmatic comment, she moved to open another window. "'Tis time ye were up and about, lad. 'Tis a beautiful morning." She handed him his shirt. "Dinna fash yerself about things ye canna change."
Easy for her to say. Her life was ordered and as it should be. His was falling down around
But she wasn ' t. Marjory touched the back of her hand, feeling again the strange warmth his fingers against her skin had invoked. No matter what her practical mind said, her body would not, could not deny that his touch had woken a part of her she had long thought dead.
She shook her head. She knew better than to open herself up to someone, and particularly to a Cameron. With a strength of will built from the pain of a destroyed childhood, she forced herself to picture her parents' bodies. The horror of the image washed over her like icy water. The man upstairs was an enemy. No matter what he said or did, he was still a Cameron. And she hated the lot.
*****
Cameron shifted in the bed so that he was closer to the window. From this vantage point, he could look down into the courtyard of Crannag Mhór, people below him going about their daily chores, scurrying here and there, each intent upon his or her task.
One girl, wrapped in a brightly colored plaid, looked up at his window. He waved. She blushed a bright crimson, quickly averting her eyes, and continued on her way without an answering gesture. Obviously, she had been warned about the infamous Ewen.
There were several outbuildings directly across from him. He had no idea what purpose they served. One billowed smoke and so he figured it was probably a blacksmith of some kind. His knowledge of fifteenth century craftsmanship was limited to television and movies. And everyone knew how accurate they usually were.
Adjacent to the front of the tower was another structure. This one was surrounded by a pen of some kind. A barn, he figured. At least it looked like a barn. He frowned in frustration. A horse whinnied. A barn . He smiled with relief. Funny, how even the slightest shift in a man's sense of reality left him questioning even the most mundane observations.
Not long ago, he'd had an ordinary life in the twenty-first century, or more precisely he thought he'd had such a life. And now…well now he seemed to be a man without a memory, stuck in some crazy time warp.
He felt frustration rising again and tried to push it back down. It was only a matter of time, he reassured himself. His memories were already starting to come back. He'd remembered his car in the dream. And then there was the girl. The blonde. It was clear that she was important somehow , t hat she needed him. But why?
He told himself that it would all come back. He just had to be patient and get well. Once that was accomplished he ' d find his way back to the rockslide. Surely there, he ' d find a way home. The little voice in his head insisted that it was a long shot at best, but he ignored it. If sheer will would get him home, then he ' d soon be on his way.
"Are ye all right?" Grania stood at the foot of the bed. He'd been so deep in thought, he hadn't heard her come in. He automatically reached for the sheet to cover himself, realizing as he did so that the gesture was unnecessary. Grania couldn ' t see him.
"I think, even if I were no' blind, I would be too old for you to have to worry about modesty, but I thank ye for the thought." Her voice was filled with laughter. Somehow she must have guessed his actions . Her tone grew more solemn. "I passed Marjory outside yer chamber a bit ago. Did the two of you have words?"
Cameron winced. If only it were that simple. " Believe me, words had nothing to do with it. "
"Cameron, ye see what ye want to see and naught more." W ith that enigmatic comment, she moved to open another window. "'Tis time ye were up and about, lad. 'Tis a beautiful morning." She handed him his shirt. "Dinna fash yerself about things ye canna change."
Easy for her to say. Her life was ordered and as it should be. His was falling down around
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