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

He rose quickly, his head spinning with the action, hands raised in what he hoped was still the universal gesture of surrender.

Pivoting slowly, he turned to face the voice, and immediately felt a shudder of alarm.

The man before him was roughly the size of an oak, built every bit as solid, and he held the largest sword Cameron had ever seen.

Their eyes met, and the man blanched, the sword wavering for a moment. "Ye're a dead mon." His tone held a mixture of fear and awe, and with his free hand he managed the sign of the cross.

Cameron, hands still held high, took a step forward, and the man swallowed, but to his credit held his ground, the sword steady now.

"Be gone, spirit." The man waved his weapon threateningly.

Cameron, more than aware of his mortality, stepped back. "Your friend needs help." He spoke slowly, as if to a child. The man's English was garbled at best, and although Cameron understood him, it was obviously not his native language.

The sound of his own voice startled him, the tone deeper than he remembered, more guttural. Almost as if he, too, were speaking something other than English.

Ridiculous thought.

"Move away from her, Cameron."

The man knew his name. The thought was somewhat less than comforting, and Cameron searched his memory for some hint as to who he might be. He lowered his gaze to the sword. Obviously not a friend.

"I said move." The giant barked again, edging forward slowly, his narrow-eyed gaze fierce.

Cameron did as suggested, watching as the man inched toward his friend. "She's only fainted," he volunteered. "I checked her pulse and she's fine."

"Ye've no right to touch her." This last was hissed between gritted teeth. The big man bent down to touch the woman, who was beginning to stir.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God." Another giant rounded the corner, crossing himself in the same way as the first. The tangle of red hair, both on his head and face, left only a white swatch of face visible.

Again, Cameron searched for recognition, but there was nothing. Enemy or friend, these people were strangers to him, the idea far more frightening then the monstrous swords they held.

The woman was sitting up now, her gaze locked on him, her expression guarded. Pushing aside the first giant's offer of help, she scrambled to her feet, and moved toward Cameron, tipping her head first to one side and then the other, as she studied him.

"You're supposed to be dead." Her voice was low, the timbre velvety. It raked across him like a warm breeze, sending his senses reeling.

"That seems to be the consensus." Cameron glanced toward the two men, noticing they'd been joined by others, all sporting swords and kilts. Apparently he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in the middle of Braveheart . The only thing missing was the blue war paint.

Not a comforting thought, and not something he wanted to examine right now.

The situation was puzzling at best, downright frightening at worst. And the truth was this wasn't the time for a meltdown.

As if in contradiction to his thoughts, his head spun, black spots swimming across his line of vision.

"I saw you fall." Giant number one had moved closer. "There's no way you could have survived." He looked toward giant two for confirmation, and though it looked as if agreement was not in his nature, the man gave a brief nod, his gaze still locked on Cameron.

"Fingal, 'tis obvious that he has survived," the woman said. "And nothing we wish to the contrary will make it less than so."

Another vote of confidence. It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to be voted Mr. Popularity in this crowd.

Cameron opened his mouth to tell them he wasn't who they thought he was.

That in fact as far as he could tell, he wasn't anyone at all, but another look at the still drawn swords changed his mind.

Best to find out the lay of the land before committing to anything.

Maybe there was a way out of this Scottish version of Deliverance , a hospital around the corner, or a nice cold beer. Something that fit into his concept of reality.

"We'd best get you back to the holding. It'll be dark soon." The first giant, the one they called Fingal, took a step toward him, and involuntarily Cameron stepped back. "Allen, he's your brother, perhaps you should help him."

Brother .

The word washed over him and he waited for emotion, some connection to the big man striding toward him.

But he felt no sense of belonging or recognition.

The man was a stranger. Again he moved backward, this time following his instincts.

The other man's expression changed, his eyes narrowing in confusion and something else.

Wariness possibly. It seemed there was intelligence under all that hair.

"Marjory," Fingal said. "Perhaps you should be the one to help your husband."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, a look of loathing crossing her face. "I'm sure he has no need of me." Despite her words, she moved to take Cameron's arm.

Her skin against his started pheromones firing.

Husband ? Yet another revelation. He should have been put off.

After all he had no memory of the woman, and she certainly hadn't bothered to hide her disdain for him.

But his body wasn't listening to reason, and an absurd sense of elation swirled through his head.

He turned to say something, to explain that he had no brother, and certainly no wife, but before he could open his mouth, the ground rushed up to meet him, the world going suddenly black.