Page 3 of Wild Highland Rose (Time After Time #4)

He struggled to remember something, anything, but his mind still refused the summons. He slammed his hand against the tree, surprised at the force of the action, reveling in the additional pain. At least it proved he was alive.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to turn inward, to concentrate. Surely, if nothing else, he could remember his name.

The word came unbidden.

Cameron.

He smiled. It wasn't much. For all he knew it wasn't even his name. But for now it would do. It was a tether to reality. A way to move forward.

Opening his eyes, he took a tottering step forward, the sound of a stream forcing its way front and center. Obediently his mind filled with a picture of cool shimmering blue, the idea beyond enticing.

Cocking his head to one side, he concentrated on the musical sound, forcing his feet to move toward it, one slow step after another. Coming around a little stand of birch trees, he saw the creek. It wasn't big, but a couple of rocks had blocked the water's progression making a small pool.

Moving gingerly, he managed to skirt the rocks and kneel by the stream's edge. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing more than his parched throat.

Below him the water sparkled in the dappled light, something at the bottom of the stream catching his eye. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached in and pulled it out, balancing the tiny knife in the palm of his hand.

The handle was ivory in color and striated with gray and black. Animal horn, the still functioning part of his brain whispered. The blade itself was brass or some similar metal. It was flat on one side and intricately carved on the other, sort of loopy curls and circles.

He looked around for its owner, but the clearing remained empty.

Upon closer examination, he realized the knife had been in its watery home for more than a few days, its edges worn smooth by the rushing water, mineral deposits beginning to mar its intricate design.

He started to throw it back, then hesitated.

Perhaps it would come in useful.

Not certain what to do with it, he searched his body, rejecting the belt in favor of what appeared to be a purse.

There was no doubt a more masculine term, but his brain either didn't know it, or had buried it along with other pertinent information, like what the hell he was doing here in the first place.

Lifting the flap, he eyed the contents dubiously, discarding what looked to be a hunk of petrified oatmeal. He hated oatmeal.

Dropping the little knife in the now empty pouch, he flipped it closed, feeling as if the effort had cost him the last of his strength.

The drummers, abated momentarily by the water, had returned in full force, and fighting nausea, he dropped down on a large rock, closing his eyes, the enormity of the situation suddenly overwhelming him.

An eagle screamed in the distance. And he marveled at the fact that he knew it was an eagle. Certain parts of his mind seemed to be working quite well. Which meant the injury to his brain was localized. Specific to only his memory.

Forcing his eyes open, he checked the discovery by naming the items around him. Birch trees, river rocks— granite and sandstone. Across the stream he recognized wild roses mixed with the purple of thistles, as well as the waxy green leaves of a rhododendron.

He knew that the material of this kilt was wool, and that he'd suffered hematomas.

Obviously, the blows to his head had caused some sort of trauma.

Hopefully temporary trauma. Although the little voice in his head whispered that there was no such thing.

Lying back against the lichen covered rock, he ignored the voice, preferring, for the moment, the sanctuary of ignorance.

Eventually, he'd have to get up and face the music. Try and figure out what had happened to him and why, but right now the rock was warm and, if he held very still, the drums were only a faint staccato.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

What he needed was a little shut-eye. Just a few minutes and then he'd be on his way.

Marjory walked through the gorse damning Ewen Cameron. The man had been the devil himself or at least the spawn of the same, and if she'd had her way she'd not be trekking through the mountains trying to find his body.

The sky threatened rain, the clouds so close to the ground now she could almost touch them.

The weather in the mountains was always fluid, calm one moment, stormy the next, without so much as a by-your-leave in between.

Pulling her plaid close around her, she stopped for a moment on an outcropping of rock, letting her eyes drink in the valley.

The lands of Crannag Mhór stretched below. The tower itself, situated on its islet in the loch, glistened white against the blue-black of the lake, the turrets already disappearing into the gathering mist. She breathed deeply, letting the cool mountain air fill her lungs.

This was her home, and she'd not let a Cameron take it away from her. Living in hell had always been a small price to pay for preserving her heritage.

Fingal stopped beside her, his large hand heavy on her shoulder. "We'll find a way, Marjory. We always do."

She nodded, comfortable with the fact that he could read her mind. Since her father's death it was Fingal to whom she turned. Fingal in whom she confided. At least about most things.

She forced a smile, looking up, comforted by the fierceness in his eyes. Fingal would protect her with his life, and she'd return the favor without pause. But, even so, there were things she could not share with him. Things she kept locked away tight in a dark corner of her heart.

"It's no' far now." He moved back, his gruffness meant to hide his emotion, but she knew him too well. "Just 'round the bend."

As if to underscore the point, Allen appeared from behind a jutting spray of rocks, his face twisted in anger. "He's no' there."

Fingal frowned, his hand automatically reaching back for his claymore.

Marjory laid a hand on his arm, leaving it there until she felt him relax.

"Maybe this is no' the place." They moved forward, flanked by two more Macpherson men.

"Sometimes the mountain plays tricks." Crannag Mhór was an isolated place, many of its crannies and crags inaccessible to those who didn't know it well.

Fingal shook his head as they came to the foot of the cliff, rocks and debris clearly indicating a recent landslide. "This is where he fell."

Allen growled low in his throat, eyeing the older man. "What have ye done with him, then?"

"I've done naught." Fingal roared. "I left him here same as you."

Again Marjory stepped between the two men. She glared at Allen. "You know as well as I that there are wolves in these mountains. Anything could have happened to him." She narrowed her eyes, daring Allen to argue with her.

He glowered at her, holding her gaze for one beat and then another, and then with a snort, he turned away, walking over to his men, the division between the two groups, Cameron and Macpherson, symbolic of the ever widening gulf between the clans.

Ignoring both, she headed toward the burn. Solitude was always the best for thinking, let the men deal with the disappearance of Ewen's body. Fingal was always saying she lacked the sensibilities of a lady. So she'd use the fact to her advantage.

The flowers of summer were in fierce bloom, their color vibrant even against the mist. If it weren't for the fact that her dead husband had gone missing, she'd have stopped to revel in the beauty of the mountains.

Her mountains. But there was no time for idling.

She had to come up with a plan, and without a body it was going to be that much more difficult.

Coming out of a small stand of birch she walked toward the stream, and a large rock. A favorite thinking place since she was a child, it afforded the perfect view across the valley. Except of course when the mist hugged the ground. Then it was more like a cloister. Silent and safe.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a breeze rose, its gentle touch lifting the fog, revealing something lying across the rock. Something bulky. With baited breath, she crept forward, using the undergrowth to quiet her steps and shield her from view.

The mound began to take shape, and she recognized it for what it was. A body. She'd been right about the wolves. Steeling herself, she crept forward, torn between a desire to run back to Fingal and the macabre need to know for certain that it was him.

With a trembling hand, she pulled back a tree branch for a clearer view. It was indeed Ewen. Relieved, she released the branch and stepped into the clearing.

Suddenly, the body shifted. Marjory stopped mid-step, her heart jumping into her throat. She screamed as the body rose, the face all but obliterated by crusted blood. Flinching, she held out a hand, and shut her eyes tightly, certain that she was in the presence of the dead.

"What the hell?"

The voice was garbled, but definitely human. Alive. Marjory braced herself and opened her eyes. He stood there, staring at her as if she were the ghost, his left hand fumbling to open his sporran.

Involuntarily, she took a step backward, her head spinning, her hand still out as if to ward him off. It seemed the devil had alluded death yet again.

Cameron closed his eyes and then opened them again, stupidly staring down at the young woman who had collapsed at his feet, out like a light. She was a tiny thing, her features as delicate as her frame. Ethereal was the word that came to mind.

He knelt beside her, trying not to jar his aching head, and lifted her wrist, automatically feeling for her pulse. It was rapid, but strong. Releasing her hand, he pushed the hair back from her face, surprised at how soft it was.

"Unhand her, or I'll slit your throat." The voice came from off to his left, and Cameron was certain that the owner meant every word.