Wings of Morning (11 page)

“Well, that settles it. Just as soon as we return from our visit here and the harvest’s in, I’m taking Regan and we’re going to ride until we find that blasted family of hers, even if it means covering the entire Highlands!”

“An overly ambitious plan, to be sure.” Mathilda released his arm and leaned back in her chair. “But it won’t hurt to have tried everything ye can to find Regan’s family, even if that takes some extended journeys. And if ye start soon after harvest and travel out mayhap in a hundred-mile radius from Balloch, well, that’s a good four to five days’ travel in every direction. It’s verra unlikely she could’ve come from any farther away than that.”

The plan heartened him. If luck was with them, they’d be back at Balloch before the heavy snows came. And mayhap, just mayhap, if Regan
did
bear some affection for him, they could even be wed by Christmas.

“Aye, it’s verra unlikely Regan’s family would live even that far away, but at least it gives us a fair range,” he replied, well aware his hopes and dreams were getting away from him. “And surely, if her memory hasn’t returned by then, it isn’t coming back. By then, if she’s willing, she’ll be mine for the taking.”

“It’d seem a fair and reasonable plan.” Mathilda pushed back her chair and stood. “So we’re agreed then, are we? That you’ll neither do nor say aught to encourage the lass until all efforts to discover her past have been exhausted?”

Iain looked up at his mother. She was a clever one, and no mistake. Once again, she had maneuvered him into another trap. If he agreed, it would likely be another four months, at the very least, before he could approach Regan about his true feelings. Four more long, frustrating months.

“I’ll do my best, Mither,” he said, meeting her searching gaze with an equally resolute one of his own. “For Regan’s sake, if not for my own.”

Five days later, Anne asked Mathilda, Regan, Iain, and Caitlin to meet her and Niall in the library just before the evening meal.

“Do ye have any idea what this is all about?” Mathilda asked her son as they descended the stairs from their bedchambers.

He smiled and shook his head. “Nay. But all will be revealed in good time, won’t it?”

“Aye, I suppose so.” She immediately turned to Regan, who was walking on her other side along with Caitlin.

“And what of ye, child? Have ye any inkling of what this meeting’s about? It’s all so private that I worry there might be bad news.”

Though Regan did indeed have an inkling, she wasn’t about to ruin Anne and Niall’s surprise. In the past days, once she had learned of Anne’s special skills as a healer, she had begged her to teach her some of the healing arts. In the process of the lessons, which generally began early in the morn when most herbs were best harvested, she had soon discovered that Anne had been suffering for several weeks now with a queasy stomach.

“I’d imagine, as much that goes on here, Niall being clan chief and all, that it could be one of several things,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen any long faces of late, so I’d wager the news will be good.”

The older woman harrumphed, then admitted Regan was likely right. Mathilda next turned to query Caitlin, but just then they drew up outside the library.

Iain opened the door, motioned them in, then followed, closing the door behind him. Anne and Niall awaited them before the curtained windows. Mathilda wasted no time in hurrying over to them.

“Well, what is it?” she immediately demanded. “I’ve been dying of worry ever since ye sent word to meet ye here, and that ye’d something of utmost importance to tell us.”

Anne looked to Niall, and their gazes locked momentarily in joyous anticipation. Then, as Iain, Regan, and Caitlin drew up at last at Mathilda’s side, Anne turned to them.

“I’m with child,” she said, breaking into a breathtaking smile. “We’re going to be parents sometime in early February.”

As Mathilda staggered backward and would’ve lost her balance if not for Regan and Caitlin’s quick response in catching her, Iain leaped forward to take Anne into his arms. “Och, lass, lass,” he whispered, holding her close. “I’m so happy for ye. So verra, verra happy!”

“And why is it ye’re always grabbing my wife and so conveniently forgetting all about me?” Niall groused from behind them. “I vow if I didn’t like ye so well, cousin, I’d be taking great offense right about now.”

With a laugh and quick kiss to Anne’s cheek, Iain released her and quickly strode over to Niall. They grasped each other, hand to forearm, and grinned.

“Ye always were a jealous lout,” Iain said. “Not that I ever had a chance with Annie at any rate. But my heartiest congratulations nonetheless. Ye’re going to be a father then, are ye?”

Niall returned his grin, though it was one of sheepish bemusement. “Aye, so it seems.”

By then Mathilda had regained her composure and had replaced Iain at Anne’s side, hugging her in happy excitement. Caitlin rushed up and threw her arms about her brother.

“Och, lass,” Iain’s mother all but wept. “I’m so verra happy for ye. Whatever ye need, ye just have to ask. And if ye wish me to attend ye at yer lying-in, just say the word and I’ll be at yer side. Och, lass, lass!”

Watching them, Regan couldn’t help but smile. They were such a close, loving family, and would do aught for each other. It would be so verra good to belong amongst them.

But she must not let herself long so desperately for what wasn’t hers to have. She must be content even having the opportunity to get to know them and share in this happy moment. Knowing now of Niall’s loss of his first wife and son in childbirth, she could guess that the news Anne was carrying his child was bittersweet for Niall. Yet life, love, and renewed hope had given him the strength to go on, until he had once more been granted another chance at fathering a family. Love and hope in his beloved Anne—and in the Lord.

Someday,
she
might have that same chance to begin anew. Not with Iain, of course, but perhaps with some other man. Some man she might even already know and had yet to rediscover. But to do that, she also needed to place her hope and trust in the Lord. In the end, that was all she
could
do.

Amidst the excited chatter and congratulations, it took a moment for Regan to realize someone was knocking on the library door. One glance back at her friends and she knew they were unaware of the unexpected visitor, so she headed across the room and opened the door.

Charlie stood there, a worried look in his eyes.

“Is there aught I can do for ye?” Regan asked.

His glance strayed past her to the jubilant gathering across the room. Then he looked back to her. “Er, Brady the stableman just brought me this sealed document. Seems some rider delivered it but a few minutes ago, with orders for it to be delivered to m’lord.”

Regan hated to have Anne and Niall’s happy moment interrupted just then. “Can’t it wait for a time? Until at least after the evening meal?”

The old man shook his head. “Nay, ma’am, it can’t. The messenger said this letter had to be delivered immediately. And, since he was sent from the queen, I daren’t disobey.”

“The queen? Queen Mary?”

“Aye, the verra same.”

She stepped aside, wordlessly waved him in, then watched as he hurried across the library. As he approached Niall and the others, they seemed finally to notice him. All fell silent. Regan closed the door and followed in Charlie’s wake.

“A letter, m’lord,” Charlie said as he drew up before the Campbell. “A letter from the queen.”

His expression gone serious, Niall accepted the missive, opened its sealed leather case, and extracted the rolled parchment. He lost no time unfurling it and reading the contents. The seconds ticked by in the now stone-silent room, and Regan could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Niall lifted his gaze and met that of his wife. A slight smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll be having a royal houseguest in two weeks’ time. Seems the queen is paying us a visit.”

8

Every letter from Fergus of late, Walter thought, crumpling the latest missive and throwing it into the fire, seemed to convey increasingly worse news. It was bad enough that Regan appeared to be developing a close relationship with Iain Campbell and had made no attempt to escape. But now Fergus had recently watched them depart for what appeared to be an extended visit to Kilchurn Castle, the seat of Campbell power. Regan was not only getting farther and farther away from him, but he feared she was also coming so deeply under Iain Campbell’s spell that he might never be able to bring her back.

It was time he cease hiding behind his spies, Walter resolved, and try and make contact with Regan himself. Kilchurn, after all, saw all sorts of strangers pass through its gates, most in the hopes of gaining some special favor from the Campbell. He might just as easily pass through them unnoticed and finally speak with Regan.

What he hoped to accomplish if she truly
were
bespelled, Walter didn’t know. But there was a local healer who might have some charm to protect him, as well as some magical potion to remove Regan’s ensorcelment. Still, even the consideration of drawing near to such devilish taint made Walter’s skin crawl. There was naught to be done for it though.

For the sake of his bonny Regan, he was willing to risk even that.

Though he found the act distasteful, if not downright cruel, Iain managed successfully to limit the amount of time spent in Regan’s company for the next week to an hour or two during and after the evening meal. And that time was spent in the presence of others, forcing his conversation with her to be general rather than personal. The rest of each day, he either buried himself in the library researching documents or holed up in private conference with Niall, interspersed at times with riding with him to survey Campbell landholdings or to meet with Niall’s various lairds and tacksmen.

Regan, however, must have found the brief interactions with him as frustrating as he did. On the morn of the seventh day, almost as if she were lying in wait for him to appear, she hurried down the keep’s front steps just as he led his horse from the stables.

“And where are ye going this fine morn?” she asked, finally drawing up before him. “Another ride out to survey Niall’s domain for him? Or mayhap he’s sent ye on yet another mission altogether?”

A wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Iain gazed down at her. Her cheeks were most becomingly flushed, and her chest heaved from what was likely her race to catch up with him before he departed. But there was a fire in her eyes as well, and he wondered if it wasn’t fueled by anger. But whether it was anger at him for his failure to spend much time with her of late—which he secretly hoped was the case—or from some other cause, Iain didn’t know.

“Actually, I’d planned a wee ride around Loch Awe to one of my favorite spots,” he replied. “Niall’s busy with Anne at the moment, fine-tuning the plans for Queen Mary’s visit. And, as complex as that will be, what with all her royal needs, I’m free for the morn.”

Her face fell. “Och, so ye’ll be wanting some peace and quiet for yerself then, won’t ye?”

He knew he should agree with her assessment, even as he sensed she wanted to spend some time with him, but suddenly Iain didn’t care what he had promised his mother, or what was likely the best and honorable course to take with Regan. What harm could possibly come, after all, from a wee gallop together around Loch Awe?

“Would ye like to ride with me, lass?” He angled his head and smiled. “Because if ye would, I’d be most pleased to have ye along.”

Regan’s expression brightened. “Aye, I’d like that verra much.” She hesitated. “But can ye wait fifteen minutes more, while I go and prepare myself?”

“Sounds like just enough time to tack up yer mare.” Iain made a shooing motion. “So get along with ye, then. The morn draws on even as we stand here and blather.”

With a laugh, Regan gathered her skirts and raced back toward the keep.

True to her word, fifteen minutes later she returned, dressed in a simple, blue wool gown and Campbell plaid wrapped around her shoulders and fastened in place with the smaller silver version of the Campbell clan crest he had gifted her with just before they had departed Balloch. With her long, reddish-brown hair plaited into a single braid and then twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, she looked so lovely, and so much a Campbell lass, that she took Iain’s breath away.

He had an instant’s misgiving about agreeing to take her on the ride, then shoved it aside. He was a grown man, after all, and could well control his more carnal impulses. Besides, he’d never intentionally do anything to cause her harm or pain.

Iain helped Regan mount, and they were soon galloping through Kilchurn’s massive gates and out and around the loch. It was a glorious early August day, the heavens scrubbed to a fresh, clear blue from last night’s rain and the windswept clouds shredded bits of white strewn across the sky. They rode for a time, content in each other’s company and in the beautiful day. Finally, though, not quite across the loch from Kilchurn, at a spot where they were just able to catch a glimpse of one of its towers, Iain halted.

Swinging off his horse, he dropped the reins to let the animal graze on the verdant grass and walked over to her. “Come down, lass,” he said, lifting his arms to her. “I want to show ye one of my favorite places at Kilchurn.”

She tossed down her own horse’s reins and gladly came to him. Unlike that eve they had first arrived at Kilchurn, as soon as her feet were firmly on the ground, Iain lost not a moment putting her away from him. He tried to ease what might be taken as avoidance by grabbing her hand and tugging her forward, down to one side of a small burn that eventually emptied into the loch.

Huge, ancient oaks spread their gnarled arms across the chuckling little stream, the sunlight piercing their foliage in spots to send bursts of dazzling brilliance glancing off the water. Summer wildflowers, including lavender-hued wild orchids and purple thistle, grew in the rich, green grass. In the distance behind Kilchurn stood mighty Ben Cruachan, its bare, wind-scoured peaks jutting toward the sky.

She turned to him. “It’s lovely. I can see why ye like to come here. Thank ye for showing this spot to me.”

“I brought Anne here, just after she’d first arrived at Kilchurn. In those days, she’d just agreed to handfast with Niall in order to bring an end to the feud between her clan and ours.”

“Aye, Anne told me of yer kindness in those early days, and the quick bond ye formed.” Regan grinned. “Indeed, if I didn’t know she was madly in love with her husband, I think I’d almost be jealous of yer special friendship.”

Iain chuckled. “Would ye now?”

“I might, if I didn’t know yer first love was Clan Campbell and aiding Niall in every way ye can. No woman, even the likes of Anne, can ever hold a candle to that.”

He frowned at the slight edge to her voice now. “And why would ye say that, lass?”

She shrugged, disengaged her hand from his clasp, and turned to gaze out over Loch Awe. “Why else? Save for Niall, no one has hardly seen ye this week except for the evening meal. Or is it just me? That ye no longer have time to spend with me?”

And how was he supposed to answer that? Iain wondered. To tell her he was purposely avoiding her because he feared the consequences of revealing his true feelings for her would only complicate things for the both of them. Yet to admit he didn’t wish to be around her was a lie.

“It’s verra complicated, lass,” Iain replied, choosing to take an entirely different tack in the hope she’d fashion an alternate reason for his continued absences of late. “It’s been over two years now since my father, Niall’s first tanist, died. In the aftermath of that death, several of Niall’s lairds and other kinsmen cautioned him about his plan to name me his next tanist. I was, after all, the son of the traitor who had plotted and planned for years to seize the chieftainship, not only from Niall but from Niall’s father, my father’s own brother. Who was to say that I, too, didn’t secretly covet Niall’s position?”

“And it’d be dangerous for Niall to keep ye too close,” Regan offered, turning back to him, “and hold ye in the private confidences he’d need to if ye were his tanist.”

“Not to mention, as long as Niall had no heir, and I was his chosen successor, if aught happened to him, I’d automatically be next in line for the clan chieftainship.”

“Yet he chose ye nonetheless.”

“Aye, he did, and for a time, several lairds looked none too favorably on me.”

“So what did ye do? Just wait them out?”

Iain nodded. “In a sense, aye. I returned to Balloch and lay low, aiding Niall as best as I could from afar. Indeed, in the two years since he first named me tanist, this is only the second time I’ve returned to Kilchurn. Hence,” he added with a grin, “why there’s so much work when I do pay Niall a visit.”

She smiled. “And it explains, as well, some of his rather barbed comments toward ye when we first arrived. I wondered why Niall chided ye so about sequestering yerself so long at Balloch, and threatened to send his men to drag ye here.”

“Aye.” Iain sighed. “Mayhap I did wrong in not advising him of my plan to stay away for a time, but I didn’t want to add to his burdens. He didn’t need the sight of me hanging about, stirring up his other lairds, who feared another Duncan Campbell, albeit a younger version, might be in their midst.”

“It must be hard, two years since yer father’s death, still to be paying the price for his deeds.”

“Och, in some ways, I fear I’ll be paying the price for him the rest of my days!” he said with a sharp laugh. “As will my mither, in the pain he caused her. It’s why she finally left him, when I was almost a man. She did her best all those years of my boyhood and youth to protect me from my father’s cruel, callous acts, even as she silently suffered as his wife. Indeed, whatever sort of man I am today, it’s because of my mither and her loving ways. But never, ever, thanks to aught my father did, for he never had any time or interest in me. Or, leastwise, not until I was a man and could be used to further his own ambitions.”

Suddenly, all the old frustrations and seething anger swelled anew. Iain couldn’t bear for her to see him like this, so he walked the few feet more to stand at the edge of the loch. A sudden breeze whipped the water’s surface, sending agitated ripples across its darkling expanse. Just like the state of his soul just now, he realized. A soul that, for the most part, was at peace with his failed relationship with his father, but so easily stirred once again to discontent and restlessness with but the slightest touch of memory.

“I thought—hoped—I had forgiven him when I gave my life over to the Lord,” he said, hearing Regan come up to stand behind him. “But over and over, with but a passing reminder or provocation, the anger rises anew, and I know I’ve never fully forgiven. It’s a thorn in my flesh, it is, that I’ve a limit to the amount of times I can be hurt or betrayed before I forever pluck a person from my heart. It seems I lack the courage—or love—sufficient to forgive seventy times seven.”

Anguish flooded him. “Och, what must the Lord think of me, Regan? That I’m a coward, a liar, a false friend? And why can’t I finally and forever let my father go?”

Of a sudden, her arms came around his middle to hold him, and he felt her small body press against his. She laid her cheek against his back.

“I read something once, or mayhap it was something someone told me,” she said. “About forgiveness sometimes being a journey. A journey as much directed inward as it was outward toward the person we were to forgive. And that, as we circled ever deeper and deeper toward self-knowledge and toward God, we came to forgive more completely. In a more Christlike, totally self-forgetting way.”

He placed his hands over hers and clasped them to him, savoring her nearness, her touch. “Then I’ve a verra long way to go on my journey to God. I think that realization, more than aught else, is what distresses me so in times such as these. Not that I’m far from the holiness the Lord wishes of us all, but that I’ve failed Him.”

“He understands, Iain,” she whispered, her voice now clogged with tears. “After what ye’ve been through at yer father’s h-hands . . .”

Dismay filled him. He pulled her hands free to turn and face her. Regan tried to hide her countenance from him, but he grasped her chin and gently forced her to look up. As he had suspected, she was indeed weeping.

“Lass, lass,” he cried, his gut twisting at her pain. “It’s not as bad as that. Och, I shouldn’t have told ye all this! I never meant to make ye weep!”

She gazed up at him with tear-bright eyes. “It’s fine.
I’m
fine. But just for a moment, the image of ye as a wee lad crossed my mind. Of ye running to yer father to show him something ye’d found—a pretty pebble or a cleverly fashioned bit of wood—and having him turn and walk away. A-and ye were such a bonny wee lad, with yer pale yellow hair and rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, and I imagined the look on yer face, and it f-fair to broke my h-heart.”

“Ah, sweet lass,” Iain crooned, pulling her to him. “Whatever I experienced, it’s over now. And all of us have our special hurts as we grow, but we don’t have to allow them to twist us into the poor, unhappy folk that inflicted them. I told ye all this once before, and I meant it.” He paused, cursing the self-pity that had led him to this moment, even as it touched his heart that she seemed to care so much for him. “In most ways I’m content with my life. I’m blessed with such abundance in my home and lands, my family and friends, and in the knowledge that, in spite of all my missteps and failings, the Lord Jesus will never cease to love me.”