Wings of Morning (13 page)

“Aye, mayhap that’d be best,” she said, her voice strangely tight. “But first, I must find Anne and Iain and tell them what’s happened, that my memory’s returned.” She stood, walked to where she had dropped the basket, and retrieved it. “Aye, that’s what I must do. I owe them that much at the verra least.”

Walter leaped to his feet and hurried to her side. “Nay, lass. Ye daren’t tell them! They’re in league, they are, bound by the evil craft they both pursue. If ye tell them—indeed, if ye even dare return now to them—they won’t
let
ye leave. It’d break the spell they’ve cast about ye, it would!”

She eyed him with puzzlement. Whyever did Walter continue to go on so about witchcraft and spells? It made no sense.

“Anne and Iain aren’t witches, I tell ye.” Regan dug beneath the neck of her gown and withdrew her mother’s cross. “And, even if they were, this would protect me. But ye needn’t worry. Both Anne and Iain are good, God-fearing folk. They’ll be happy that my memory’s returned. It’s what they’ve all wanted for me since I first came to them.”

“Regan! Where are ye, lass?”

From the market stalls fronting the alley, Iain’s deep voice came. It was filled with concern, and Regan’s heart twisted. She’d never wish to cause him worry or pain.

Instinctively, she turned to go to him, only to have Walter grasp her arm and pull her back.

“Ye’d return to him then? Yer husband’s killer?” he rasped in her ear.

His words drew her up short. Once more, roiling confusion muddied her thoughts. Iain . . . Iain had killed Roddy? Then she remembered.
The pistol shot to Roddy’s back as he and his men tried to escape the Campbells . . . Campbells led by their laird. Balloch’s laird. Iain Campbell.

“Regan! Answer me, lass!”

Once more Iain cried out for her, his beloved voice washing over her heightened awareness like honey flowing over the tongue. She yearned to go to him, to see once again that boyishly endearing smile, to beg him to take her and hold her close. Och, to hide away in the haven of his arms, to drink deeply of his strength and reassurance that all would yet be well . . .

Perhaps that dream was gone forever, crushed beneath the terrible weight of her hard, heavy memories. It was too soon to be certain of that, though. And too soon to turn her back on what yet lay before her.

“I cannot go with ye today,” she said, looking at Walter. “I need time to think, to sort it all out.”

“And that can only be done within the Campbells’ foul lair?”

“For a time more, aye.” Resolve hardened within her. “Can ye meet me this time two days’ hence?”

A joyous, eager light flared in his eyes. “Where?”

His question gave her pause. Where could they meet that would be safe from prying eyes? Inspiration struck her.

“Not far from Kilchurn, on the shores of Loch Awe, there’s a small burn whose banks are lined with huge oaks. Ye can just see the trees from Kilchurn’s gates. Meet me there.”

“Gladly.”

Regan had turned to go when Walter’s grip tightened. “Aye?” She cast a glance over her shoulder at him.

“One thing more. Whatever ye do, don’t tell the Campbells, and especially not Iain, who ye are or that yer memory’s returned. Best ye wait a bit on that, until ye’ve sorted everything out.”

She considered his advice for a moment, then nodded. “Aye. Ye’re right. Best I wait.”

He released her then, and Regan made her way back down the alley toward the market stalls.

9

For the next two days, Regan felt as if she were in a waking nightmare. Nonetheless, when she wasn’t hiding in her bedchamber, staring out the window and crying, she went about her usual daily routine if for no other reason than to avoid unnecessary questions or concern. Everything she did, though, felt forced, drained of all joy or energy.

Not that anyone appeared to notice, what with all the busy anticipation of Mary’s arrival on the morrow. Which was just as well, Regan thought, once more in her bedchamber shortly after the midday meal on the day she was to meet once again with Walter. If Anne or Mathilda had even touched on her less than happy countenance, she feared she’d have broken down right there and confessed everything. And if Iain had had the opportunity to speak with her in any context, she might have begun shrieking at him and never stopped.

Regan felt strung so tightly she thought she might snap at any moment, pulled first one way and then the other. All memory of her past life had now returned, its recovery set into motion by her encounter with Walter. She
had
been wed before, but no longer. She
had
loved Roddy, but never, ever like she had come to love Iain.

Yet Walter claimed Iain had killed Roddy with a single, wellplaced pistol shot to the back. And Iain owned not one, but two, fine silver daggs. He had also led, according to Walter and several of their clansmen, the Campbell party that had pursued them. All evidence pointed to Iain as Roddy’s killer. Few others, save the wealthier nobility after all, could afford such expensive weapons.

It still strained belief that Iain would’ve committed such a coldblooded, brutal act, that he was a murderer. He had spared the MacLarens when his superior force had overwhelmed them, then sent them on their way. Why would he then choose to shoot Roddy in the back?

Yet he was apparently the only one with pistols.

For hours on end Regan struggled with that dilemma. Perhaps Iain thought he had reason for what he did. Perhaps he imagined, at the last minute, that Roddy and the others were turning back to attack them. Perhaps it was best just to confront him and demand the truth.

But could she believe it—
would
she believe it—if he denied his involvement in Roddy’s murder? Or would the doubts hang between them for the rest of their lives?

One thing was certain. Roddy deserved justice. Deserved that his killer be punished. But not as Walter had intended that day he had ridden off after Iain and set this whole, convoluted, painful mess into motion. Nay. Only a court of law could sort through it all and arrive at a just verdict.

But who’d dare convict a member of one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands? A man who was an influential laird in his own right, not to mention the Campbell chief ’s cousin as well as tanist? Only a king—or a queen—might dare look past the Campbell clan’s trappings of power and wealth to the eventual truth.

Regan’s heart commenced a trip hammer beat. The queen would arrive on the morrow. The timing was so perfect as to be almost a divine intervention. They had come to Kilchurn at the most opportune time; she had met Walter and regained her memory just two days ago, and now the queen would soon be here.

It was a bold plan, but likely Regan’s only chance to win justice for Roddy. And, though the accusation would humiliate Iain, the resulting investigation might well exonerate him as it uncovered the true killer. Or it might convict him.

The consideration chilled her to the bone. Was she willing to risk seeing Iain sent to trial, found guilty, and sentenced to hanging or worse? Dear, kind Iain, the man she loved?

Or rather, had once loved. Perhaps she had never really known him. Perhaps he was but a superb dissembler, a handsome, charming man who had long ago learned how to manipulate and deceive others. If the truth be told, he’d had a superb teacher in his father, the faithless, callously ambitious Duncan Campbell. Perhaps Iain had learned from him all too well.

Hot tears stung her eyes. What was she to do, to think? What was truth, and what were lies? It was beyond her ken, she well knew. But it wasn’t beyond the Lord’s.

Regan swiped away her tears, rose from her window seat, and headed across her bedchamber. Kilchurn’s chapel was on the same floor and but a quick five minutes’ walk away. Surely, in one of His holy sanctuaries, God would listen and answer her prayers.

Thankfully, no one was about in the chapel. Regan hurried down the aisle until she reached the first pew and slipped into it. Kneeling, she clasped her hands before her and gazed at the altar in fervent supplication.

Och, Lord,
she prayed,
help me, I beg of Ye. I’m torn between Roddy and Iain and don’t know what to believe, what to do. Is Iain a killer? My heart tells me nay, but the evidence against him is so damning. A part—a verra selfish part—wants to let it be, pretend I know naught about Iain’s possible guilt. To allow things to take their natural course, which, now that I remember who I am and that I’m free to take another husband, could well lead to a marriage between Iain and me.

He loves me, Lord. I know he has yet to speak the words, but I saw it so surely in his eyes that day by Loch Awe. But if he’s guilty, of what value is his love? And what of my first commitment to Roddy, to seek a just retribution for his death? What manner of woman am I if I shirk my responsibilities, my honor?

She pressed her forehead against her now fisted hands and clenched shut her eyes.
Help me, Lord. Och, help me!

The minutes in the stone-silent chapel passed with lumbering slowness. The sweet, clean scent of the beeswax tapers on the altar filled the air. An errant fly buzzed in some dark corner. And Regan’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears.

But no whisper, no still, silent voice came to fill her with hope or reassurance. To fill her with the answers she craved. Not then, or later, as she knelt there until she was stiff from kneeling and numb from the cold.

At long last, Regan rose and left the chapel. If God wouldn’t tell her what she must do, then she’d have to decide on her own. And it was past time she rode out to meet Walter.

It was harder than Regan had anticipated, leaving Kilchurn in the middle of the afternoon. But then, at the time she had made the arrangements with Walter, she was inundated with all the market chaos and noise, Iain was nearby, calling her name, and she had just barely reestablished some semblance of equilibrium after having her memory, rife with all sorts of momentous implications, return. Fortunately for her, everyone was still preoccupied with all the lastminute preparations, and no one questioned her as she tacked up her horse and rode from the castle. Equally as fortunate, she hadn’t seen either Iain or Niall at the midday meal, which likely meant they were holed up somewhere in some sort of deep discussion.

Only when she was a goodly distance from Kilchurn did Regan finally begin to relax. She wasn’t some prisoner, after all, and had every right to go for a ride. If questioned later, she’d just claim she hadn’t wanted to impose on anyone, what with them being so busy and all.

Still, Regan couldn’t escape the stab of guilt at her deliberate deception. She
was
sneaking off to plot and plan with Walter. The act made her feel dishonorable, but she could see no other option. She couldn’t do what needed to be done alone, yet she daren’t risk seeking an ally in Kilchurn.

Mathilda was Iain’s mother and loved him dearly. Anne was his fiercely devoted friend. And Niall was not only Iain’s cousin, but he was also a loyal chief to his tanist. There’d be no support or understanding from any of them.

But Walter understood and would support her. He wanted Roddy’s killer brought to justice just as dearly as did she. And if, after the accusation was taken to the queen, something should “accidentally” happen to silence her, Regan at least had the comfort of knowing Walter would still be out there to raise a hue and cry.

Not that she truly expected the Campbells to stoop to such a dastardly ploy as having her killed to protect Iain, Regan thought as she rode along. Anything was possible, but she believed Niall and Anne to be honorable people. And she was, after all, a guest in their home, protected by the Highland code of hospitality. Notwithstanding the fact that such a powerful clan as the Campbells would be unlikely to risk such a horrible stain on their honor, to do so in the very presence of the queen would be unthinkable.

Nay, Queen Mary’s presence guaranteed her safety. What Regan dreaded was the inevitable moment of confronting Iain, of looking into his eyes as the accusation was made. Of facing Mathilda, and Anne and her formidable husband. Of the recriminations for her lack of gratitude for what they had done for her, especially Mathilda and Iain for taking her in and caring for her.

She had so cherished their kindness and friendship. Friendship that would be forever swept away in the impending floodtide of shock, disbelief, and pain. It would never, ever be the same again.

For a fleeting instant as Regan caught sight of the burn flowing down to Loch Awe and glimpsed Walter and his horse in the shadows of the oaks, she wavered once more in her resolve. She had known such joy and contentment in the company of the Campbells these past two months. A joy and contentment she well knew, with the return of her memory, that she had never experienced since her parents’ deaths. Even with the satisfaction of gaining justice for Roddy—
if
that ever happened—she’d never find that again, leastwise not at Strathyre House.

But, in the end, she wasn’t doing this to obtain joy or contentment. She was doing this because her honor would tolerate no less. She was doing this for the sake of justice. And she was doing it in order to assuage her guilt over her part in Roddy’s death. She had been his wife. This was the last thing she could ever do for him.

Walter hurried over as Regan drew up and dismounted. Meeting his excited gaze, she knew he fully expected her to return to Strathyre House with him this very day.

“I’ve decided what I must do,” she said, lifting a hand to forestall the question she sensed was forthcoming. “Queen Mary arrives at Kilchurn on the morrow.”

A look of impatience flashed in his eyes. “Aye, it’s all the talk in Dalmally. But what’s that to us?”

“I intend to bring my demand for justice for Roddy’s death to her. And ye can be sure I’ll include the evidence against Iain in my accusations.”

He went pale. “I don’t like it, lass. It’s too dangerous for ye. There’s got to be some other way.”

“Such as going back to yer old plan of lying in wait to ambush Iain?” Regan shook her head. “Nay, I’ve already paid a terrible price for that escapade of yers. And I won’t stoop to the same despicable actions of the man who killed Roddy. His murderer
must
be brought to trial.”

“But once ye accuse Iain Campbell of such a vile deed, yer life’s well forfeit. If naught else, the Campbells stand by each other. Not to mention, with their powers of witchcraft, yer death can be made to look an accident.” Walter took her by the arms. “Och, I won’t hear of it, lass. I’ll not lose ye as well as Roddy.”

“Dinna fash yerself. I’ll be in no danger. The queen will protect me. And besides, just as soon as I set this all into motion, I intend to depart Kilchurn. The Campbells, for their part, will be more than happy to send me on my way.”

“So ye want me to await ye here in Dalmally? Is that it?”

Actually, Regan realized with a stab of disappointment, she had wanted Walter to offer to accompany her back to Kilchurn. She had then intended to set her plan into motion by first revealing her memory had returned and that Walter was her brother-in-law. Next, on the morrow, she hoped to have him stand beside her as she begged for Mary’s aid in finding Roddy’s killer and told her of Iain’s possible involvement in that death.

But then, Regan quickly reminded herself, if, in spite of her certainty that nothing would happen to her, something did, she needed Walter on the outside. And surely he had already thought of that and assumed she had too.

“Aye,” she replied, her mind made. “That seems the best plan, unless ye can think of aught better.”

“The only better plan
I
can think of is ye discarding this daft idea and returning to Strathyre with me posthaste. Molly’s been beside herself these past months, missing ye, crying her wee heart out. She needs ye, Regan. Needs ye verra badly.”

An image of a cherubic, pink-cheeked face flashed across Regan’s mind.
Ah, Molly, Molly,
she thought with a sharp pang.
How could I have forgotten about ye?

“I’ll soon be back home with Molly,” she said. “This only postpones our return by another few days at the most. I didn’t say I wasn’t riding back with ye. Just not today.”

“But think on it, Regan.” His grip on her arms tightened, and once again the excitement flared in his eyes. “If the Campbells don’t even know yer memory’s returned, they don’t know who ye really are. And, since MacLarens rarely if ever have opportunity to see them under normal circumstances, they might never know what became of ye. Ye can plead yer cause to Queen Mary just as well through letters, and the Campbells won’t ever know it’s ye.”