Wings of Morning (12 page)

“Och, Iain,” Regan whispered, “and I’m so blessed in knowing ye.” She leaned back in his arms. “Ye’re the most wonderful, honorable, loving man I’ve ever known!”

Her beautiful brown eyes were filled with such ineffable tenderness that, for a passing instant, Iain was undone. Almost as if drawn to her by invisible cords, his head lowered toward her soft, slightly parted lips. And then, as if Regan finally realized that he meant to kiss her, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back in willing acquiescence.

Then one of their horses, grazing nearby, must have trod on its reins. The animal snorted, jerked back, and shook its head. Leather squeaked; a bit jingled.

The spell was broken. Realizing what he had almost done, Iain released Regan and took a quick step back. Her eyes snapped open.

“We need to return to Kilchurn,” he barely managed to grit out through clenched teeth. He forced himself to glance toward the sun, nearly at its zenith. “As it is, we’ll just make it back for the midday meal.”

With that, Iain turned on his heel and strode over to gather up both horses. It was a long while later, however, before he could banish from his mind that look of wounded disappointment on Regan’s face and the heady memory of her eager mouth lifted to his.

Four days later, Walter watched the party depart Kilchurn. Two men and women rode out, followed by another man driving a cart. If the empty cart following in their wake were any indication, they were likely bound for the village of Dalmally, just two miles down the road, and its Saturday morning market. One of the women he recognized as Regan. Like some leech who couldn’t long survive without his source of sustenance, Iain Campbell rode at her side. The other woman, who rode behind them with an older man, he guessed to be the Campbell’s wife, if her famous flaming hair were any indication.

“Och, lass,” he whispered from his hiding place in a thick stand of birch trees, “between the witch and her warlock, ye haven’t a chance. It’s past time I speak with ye. Past time I try and break their devilish spells.”

He allowed them to pass and, after a short wait, set out after them. Wherever they were headed, it was evident their outing was but for the day. And he could easily follow their tracks, wherever they led.

Aye, one way or another, Walter resolved, today was the day he’d rescue his beloved Regan from the clutches of her unholy captors.

“Och, look, Regan,” Anne exclaimed in excitement as they stood in the midst of Dalmally’s bustling market. “What do ye think of these candles? The proprietor claims they’re made of the purest beeswax. Do ye think the queen would find them pleasing in her bedchamber?”

Regan stepped over to examine the candles. Tall and thick, they gleamed with a creamy luster that bespoke the highest quality. These candles would fill the room with a delightful fragrance, not drip or smoke, and burn for a good hour or more with a warm glow. They were also, Regan knew, very costly.

“I doubt Mary would find any better candles in the land,” she said, looking back to Anne.

“Aye, that’s what I was thinking as well. And Niall said to spare no expense, so I think I’ll buy them.”

The man wrapped six candles of various sizes in soft cloths, then placed them in the wicker basket Anne carried. She paid him and turned to Iain, who had just rejoined them.

“These are verra heavy.” She smiled up at Balloch’s laird. “Would ye be a dear and carry them to the cart so Regan and I can continue our shopping?”

Iain accepted the now candle-laden basket. “Gladly. It
is
why Niall asked me to come along, after all. As escort and errand boy.”

“And ye do both as admirably well as ye do everything else,” Anne said with a laugh.

He grinned and, wheeling about, began to thread his way through the ever-thickening crowd.

Regan watched him until he finally disappeared from sight. Strange, she mused, how she never tired of seeing him, being near him. Indeed, every time she was with him, it seemed she discovered yet another endearing aspect of his personality. Given the rest of her life with him, she thought she always would.

Still, since that day he had taken her to that favorite spot of his, Iain had once again been avoiding her. And avoid her he had. She knew that now. A soft smile touched her lips. No matter how hard he had tried to cover up his intent, her woman’s instincts told her he
had
meant to kiss her. And, she knew as well, it was only a matter of time until he actually did.

“Enough of pining after Iain,” Anne’s amused voice cut into her reverie just then. “He won’t long be gone, and ye’ve still the entire ride back to be with him.”

Embarrassed to be caught in a daydream, Regan whirled around. She couldn’t help the hot blood in her cheeks, however, no matter how hard she pretended surprise over Anne’s comment. “I’d dearly appreciate it,” she muttered, glancing down, “if ye’d quit teasing me about that.”

“Why? Afraid Iain might hear me sometime?”

Regan jerked up her head. “Ye promised ye’d not say a thing to him!”

“Well, actually, I didn’t promise. Ye just asked me not to do so, and I haven’t. Though I don’t see what a terrible thing it’d be, Iain knowing and all.”

“Anne, please!” she wailed in dismay. “Please don’t!”

Her friend chuckled and laid a hand on Regan’s arm. “Och, I won’t. But I think
ye
should tell him. If ye did, I wager ye might be verra pleasantly surprised.”

For a fleeting instant, Regan was tempted to ask Anne why she thought so, then quashed the impulse. It didn’t matter. Until she regained her memory and knew who and what she truly was, she had naught to offer a man such as Iain Campbell. To do aught else would be cruel and self-serving.

“Mayhap I will, when the time’s right,” she replied instead. “But it must be when
I
feel it’s right.”

Anne shrugged and smiled. “Suit yerself. Now,” —she paused to glance around her—“there’s still a passel of foodstuffs to buy in order to feed the queen and the entourage she’s sure to bring with her.” She tore her parchment in half. “Here, ye take this” —Anne handed one piece of the list to Regan—“and start shopping for those items, and I’ll proceed to find what’s on mine. That way we can purchase everything in half the time.”

Regan glanced down at her list. She needed to buy ten pounds of sugar, five different kinds of spices, forty pounds of flour, and about ten each of halibut, salmon, and cod. “Just as soon as the men return, will ye be sure and send one to aid me?” she asked, meeting her friend’s gaze.

“Hmmm, and which one of the two would ye like to serve as yer errand boy?” Anne furrowed her brow in exaggerated thought. “Hmmm, Charlie or Iain?”

“Och, and well ye know who I’d choose!” Regan replied with a laugh. “Send me Iain, of course.”

With that, the two women parted. Regan spent the next fifteen minutes haggling with the itinerant spice merchant over the cost of cloves, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and pepper. When she was finally satisfied that she had extracted the best possible prices, she had the man fill individual leather pouches full of the spices and tie them closed. Once back at Kilchurn, the valuable spices would be locked in a wooden spice box for safekeeping.

As she finished paying the merchant and tucking the spice bags into her basket, a hand settled on her shoulder. Someone leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“Don’t make a scene, lass,” a masculine voice said. “Just turn around as if ye’re going about yer shopping, and come with me.”

The voice was familiar, yet Regan knew she hadn’t heard it in months. A memory flashed through her. She was standing in a courtyard, gazing up at a man. He wore a blue bonnet decorated with one eagle feather, identifying him as a gentleman of the nobility.

“I’d crawl back on my hands and knees, I would,”
he’d said,
“to return to a bonny lass such as ye.”

Walter!

Her heart thudding beneath her breast, Regan forced herself to do as he asked. Already he was striding away, headed toward an alley between two of the wattle-and-daub-constructed buildings. Wracked suddenly with uncontrollable shivering, she glanced about for Anne or Iain. It was now the height of market day, however, and she failed to see them among the jostling bodies crowding around nearly every stall and table.

Well, mayhap that was for the best, she told herself. Time enough later to find them, once she met and talked with Walter. Walter . . . her brother-in-law. Walter, a MacLaren, which made her, as well, a MacLaren.

As soon as Regan neared, he grabbed her arm and drew her into the shadowed alley. For a long moment, he said nothing, only searched her eyes.

“Ye don’t look bespelled,” he muttered at last.

She stared up at him, bewildered. “Of course I’m not bespelled.

Whatever would make ye think such a thing?”

“And what other reason would there be, then, for ye keeping company with Iain Campbell all these past weeks? The verra man who murdered yer husband.”

Her husband?

For an instant Regan’s mind was so filled with memories, coming now one after another in rapid succession, that she feared her skull might explode. The face of the dead man in her dreams appeared before her, and this time she knew him.
Roddy! Och, Roddy, Roddy!

Nausea seized her. The world spun suddenly around her. Her knees buckled, the basket dropped from nerveless fingers, and, if not for Walter’s firm grip, Regan would’ve gone down.

“Now, none of that, lass.” He gathered her into his arms and carried her to a rickety old bench. Placing her there, he shoved Regan’s head between her knees.

“Take some slow, deep breaths,” he ordered, his voice now sounding curiously far away. “And keep yer head down until it clears.”

Three separate times, Regan did as she was told. Then, just when she thought she was finally feeling better, like a sharp punch to the gut, all her long-lost memories would return. Once more dizziness and nausea would overwhelm her, and she’d have to put her head back down. Finally, though, the chaotic onslaught of her newfound recollections sorted themselves out a bit, and she began to calm.

“Let me up,” she croaked at last. “I’m . . . I’m feeling better.”

He released her, and she slowly straightened. For a second or two more, everything twirled about her, then settled. She looked to Walter, managed a wan smile.

“It’s so good to see ye again.” Tears welled. “So verra, verra good!”

“What happened to ye, lass?” He leaned close, touched her cheek, his dark eyes filled with worry and compassion. “Why didn’t ye come back home to Strathyre House?”

She felt the moisture trickle down her cheeks but didn’t care. “I-I couldn’t. That night I went out to find ye, I fell from my horse and hit my head. And, when I awoke in Balloch Castle, I found I’d lost all memory of my past life.”

“Sounds to me more like witchcraft, it does,” he growled.

“Och, nay. I was sore injured, with a huge knot on my head and a broken ankle, not to mention all my other scrapes and bruises.” Regan took his hand. “Blessedly, though, I was found by one of Iain’s clansmen and brought to Balloch, where Iain and his mither most kindly took me in. It’s where I’ve been all this time, healing, while I struggled to regain my memory.”

She paused as additional memories assailed her of that night she had ridden into that storm, trying to catch up with Walter and his men. “What happened? I tried to reach ye, to stop ye from lying in ambush for Iain, but I never found ye. And it’s evident ye failed in yer attempt to kill him.”

He gave a snort of disgust. “They never left Balloch. Seems the foul weather put them off. And then the men began to grumble, so I decided it best to try again some other day.”

“Och, if only ye, instead of that Campbell crofter, had found me! I wouldn’t have spent these past two months not knowing who I was . . .” And not ever knowing and coming to love Iain, either, Regan realized. The man who may have killed her husband.

“Well, what’s past is past,” Walter replied, interrupting her anguished thoughts. “All that matters is ye now know who ye are, and we can head back to Strathyre this verra day.”

Head back to Strathyre? Leave Iain and Anne and Mathilda? Regan swallowed hard. The thought sent a shard of agony piercing clear through to her heart. Yet wasn’t this what she had been working toward and praying for all these weeks? Finally to know who and what she was?