Page 38 of Wild Highland Rose (Time After Time #4)

" H old still, I canna do this right with you jumping about like a wee hare.

" Marjory shot a frustrated glance at Cameron as she tried to fold the recalcitrant pleats of his plaid into some semblance of order.

It didn't help that just touching the man through the layers of wool sent her body into shivers of anticipation.

"I'm trying, but the damned thing keeps wrapping around my neck. I miss blue jeans."

"Blue jeans?"

"Yeah, denim." He sighed.

She marveled, briefly, at the thought that an article of clothing could cause such longing. "I've never heard o' such a thing." She pulled the wool tight around his waist.

"They're pants. The uniform of my century, really."

She shot him a blank look. Pants? Uniform? His words were gibberish.

He sighed again. "Never mind." He pushed at the end of the plaid hanging loose over his shoulder, threatening to undo the entire process.

She grabbed it just as it began to fall, and with a frown in the direction of his face, pinned it neatly into place at his shoulder, forcing herself to ignore the implications of his words. "All done. I'll be more than glad when you've mastered the art of this and I dinna have to do it any longer."

"Are you saying you don't enjoy touching me?" He gave her a teasing smile echoed in the amber depths of his eyes.

She caught her breath, amazed that her passions were so easily ignited.

"Nay, I dinna say that at all. I merely meant that I would rather spend the next fifty years taking your plaid off, no' putting it on.

" She shot him a shy smile, amazed at her own boldness, but felt it quickly fade when she met his somber gaze.

She wished desperately that she could unsay the words, but they hung between them, as solid a barrier as the thick plank of wood comprising the door to the sleeping chamber. "I wasna…I mean, I dinna…." She stopped, unsure of how to proceed.

He sighed and tried for a smile, but it came off more of a lopsided grimace. "I know what you meant. It's just that we don't have fifty years and I guess I feel honor bound to keep reminding you of it." He looked almost pained and she felt her heart constrict.

"Well, you needn't. I know you canna stay and I wasna trying to convince you otherwise. 'Twas no more than a comment made in the moment. Dinna concern yourself with it."

He moved to stand in front of her, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair around her face. "But I am concerned with it, Marjory. I care about you and I don't want to see you hurt." He stopped, guilt washing across his face.

"You canna protect me, Cameron. The heart is no' something you can control.

But dinna fash yourself. I'll be fine. 'Tis no' new for me to lose the people I care about.

And I'll handle it this time as I have before.

" She swallowed, forcing herself to smile.

There was no sense in adding to the pain.

"I'd no' trade a minute o' it, but when the time comes for you to go, I'll survive. So quit your worrying."

"Marjory…" He moved to take her in his arms, but she deftly side-stepped him. If he touched her now, she'd surely fall apart.

"I said I'd be fine and I meant it." She looked at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

"We'd best get a move on. They'll have expected us at the table by now and we certainly dinna want them coming to find us.

" She blushed, despite herself, and spun toward the door, her eyes blurring with unshed tears.

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 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.