Page 26 of Wild Highland Rose (Time After Time #4)

C ameron 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 to 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 something 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."

"Good, then if it wouldn't be too much of an effort, would you mind telling your brother I'd like to use the curach? I'm going to the kitchen for a few things, then I'll come and get the boat. Okay?"

The woman relaxed. In fact, she almost smiled. "I'll do ye better than that. I'll see that one o' the lads takes the boat down to the loch fer ye. Ye can meet him at the shore."

Startled, Cameron managed to stammer out his thanks. She drew herself up to her full height and leaned in close to him. "Just stay away from Marjory. Ye've no business confusing her with yer daft talk o' changing. Ye and I both know the kind of man ye are."

Actually, he hadn't the foggiest notion what kind of man he was, but that wasn't something he intended to share with Aimil. He was curious, however, to know what she thought. "And what kind of man would that be?"

"A Cameron." She spat the word like a blasphemy. "Now go. I'll have the curach ready fer ye."

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he hurried away, relieved to have escaped with most of his hide still intact. Yes sir, short of returning to the twenty-first century, fishing was just what he needed right now. He only hoped Scottish fish liked oatcakes.

Men were all goats. Well, most men…some men…one man.

Marjory turned the crank on the quern with a vigorous hand.

Each bit of grain ground to meal she pictured as a part of Ewen's body.

First she'd grind his hands, then his arms, then his legs, and last…

last she'd grind his head. She dumped more barley into the hand-mill. Oh yes, she'd grind him into fine bits.

"Marjory, lass, slow down. Yer grinding enough meal to last us a fortnight, if the weevils dinna get at it first."

Marjory looked up from the mill. Grania sat at a nearby work table, placidly peeling carrots. "How can you possibly know how much I've ground?"

Grania smiled. "Child, I may no' be able to see, but I know the amount of time it takes to grind the wee bit o' meal we need fer the bannocks. Ye've been at it fer a good long while. 'Twould no' take a pair of eyes to know that yer no' concentrating on yer task. What ails ye?"

Marjory gathered the barley flour into a large wooden bowl. "What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"I know ye, Marjory Macpherson. Now talk to me."

Marjory sighed and sat on a bench by the table. "'Tis Ewen. He hasna changed at all."

"I suspect that few men do what we expect o' them."

"'Tis more than that. I truly thought he was different than before, but this morning he proved to me that he is still the old Ewen Cameron through and through." She bit her lip, then in a quiet voice related the morning's humiliation.

"And yer sure ye saw the situation as it really was?"

"I dinna follow."

Grania put the bowl with the peeled carrots on the table and leaned forward, reaching unerringly for Marjory's hand.

"I mean, child, that when our pride is involved we often dinna see clearly.

From the way ye tell the tale it seems possible that Ewen was as surprised as you to see Aida in his chamber. "

"But she was standing there in, well, in nothing."

"Aye, but a woman with no' scruples will use any trick in the book to get a man. And if ever there were a woman like that 'tis Aida Macvail."

"But he was naked, too, save for his trews." Marjory pulled her hand away, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Aye, so he was. But tell me, lass, what was he wearing when ye left him?"

"The same, but I dinna see how…"

Grania motioned Marjory into silence. "And where did ye leave him?"

"In my chamber." She felt hot color wash across her face and was relieved Grania couldn't see it.

"So, let me see if I have this right. Ye leave a sleeping Ewen in yer bed to go and fetch some food fer the two o' you…"

Marjory nodded, and then catching herself, answered verbally. "Aye."

"How long do ye suppose ye were gone?"

"No' long at all. I went down to the kitchen, got some oatcakes and barley bannocks and brought them back to the chamber." She leaned forward, wondering what Grania was getting at.

"So then, yer saying in that short period of time, Ewen woke up, went to his chamber, summoned Aida, got her undressed, and was about to bed her when ye walked in?"

"Well, when you put it like that, it does sound a bit far-fetched. But I saw it myself."

"Nay, lass, ye saw Aida, naked, trying to climb into bed with Ewen, who was dressed as ye'd seen him last. And when ye add to that the fact that he ran to yer side the minute ye saw what was happening, I think ye have quite a different picture."

"He was just helping with the spilled food."

"Ah, he was helping you. Now that's certainly a trait the old Ewen Cameron was known fer."

"He wasn't," Marjory snapped.

The old woman nodded her head. "Exactly. Ye have to learn to look at things with more than just yer eyes. Ye have to view them with yer heart. Things that appear one way to yer mind often appear quite differently when viewed with a little faith."

"Faith? How can I have faith in Ewen?"

"Ye just do it. Faith is no' earned, Marjory. 'Tis instinctive. Stop listening to yer head child, and start listening to yer heart." She stood, picking up the bowl of carrots. "Now, go and find the mon and see if the two of ye can make peace afore we've enough meal to last us 'til Christmastide."

Marjory sat on a boulder by the loch, tossing stones into its dark gray depths.

The day had turned colder. Clouds were gathering to the east. There'd be a storm before night set in, but that was hours off yet.

She sat still, her eyes closed, letting the breeze wash over her.

It carried the smell of gorse and rowan.

Worry ate at her. She'd spent the better part of the early afternoon searching Crannag Mhór for Ewen. He was nowhere to be found. She was terrified that he had decided to leave her alone to face his father.

She'd only just avoided a confrontation with Torcall as it was, he and that witch Aida. Whether she believed Grania's version of the morning's events or not, she knew that Aida was an adversary and a dangerous one at that.

Praise the Saints, for the serving passage. Her father had built it so that food could be brought more easily from the kitchen to the great hall. The passageway wound down the tower wall without stairs, a ramp of sorts. It started in the pantry and ended in an alcove in the wall behind the dais.

It was designed so that the entry sat behind an elaborately carved screen.

That way dinner guests wouldn't be able to see it.

Her father had always been proud of it. Marjory had always used it as an escape route.

As a child, she had mostly escaped from imaginary enemies, but as she grew older, she'd found it useful in evading people she didn't want to see.