Wings of Morning (14 page)

His quite evident concern for her touched Regan’s heart, banishing the last, lingering doubts over what seemed his unwillingness to stand at her side when she went to the queen. He was her true family, he and little Molly. And they both loved her and wanted her back home.

Walter’s idea was very tempting. She’d not have to confront the Campbells, see the pain in their eyes, hear their angry protestations and counterattacks. Indeed, his proposal was more tempting than she cared to admit. But it was also cowardly, dishonorable.

“Nay, if I haven’t the courage to look them straight in the eye and face them down, then I don’t deserve to accuse them. And an accusation through letters will also give our cause less weight with Mary, I’d wager.” Regan met his dark gaze. “This is the best of all plans, Walter. I’m certain of it.”

He released her then with a sigh and stepped back. “Have it yer way then, lass. I just have a bad feeling about this. A verra bad feeling.”

“Naught about this sad, sorry mess is going to be easy or pleasant. Ye must have faith that justice will prevail.” She managed a smile. “Now, I daren’t stay overlong outside Kilchurn or someone’s bound to notice my absence. I must be going.”

“I’ll await ye in Dalmally then, at the lodging of the town butcher,” Walter called to her as she turned and headed back to her horse. “And don’t tarry in yer task, lass. Remember, Molly needs ye. And so do I.”

Regan reached her horse, mounted, then met Walter’s suddenly piercing glance. “I won’t forget. I promise.” With that, she turned her horse and set off back toward Kilchurn.

Queen Mary’s arrival the next afternoon, though she brought only the most minimal retinue, threw all of Kilchurn into an uproar. Regan pled a sick headache and didn’t even go down for the formal greetings. The queen, after all, had come to visit Campbells, and she wasn’t a Campbell.

It also didn’t sit well with her to stand beside them, pretending an allegiance she no longer felt. Not that she held Anne, Niall, and Mathilda guilty of any blame. Far from it. She just knew, in such a close-knit family, to turn against one Campbell was to turn against them all. And it was past time she begin distancing herself from them, physically as well as emotionally.

There was no way she could avoid attending the grand feast welcoming Mary to Kilchurn that eve, however. She only hoped she could fade into the background, what with all the attention and talk turned to the queen. That and retire early, just as soon as was proper.

Mathilda had apparently been waiting for her outside the Great Hall. She hurried over just as soon as she caught sight of Regan descending the stairs from the bedchambers.

“Och, there ye are, child,” Iain’s mother said. “I was sorry to hear ye didn’t feel well enough to attend Mary’s arrival, but it’s just as well. There was so much confusion and folk milling about that ye likely wouldn’t have been able to greet her anyway.” She paused to search her face. “Are ye feeling better? Ye look a mite pale, ye do.”

Regan forced a smile. “Aye, or leastwise well enough to attend the feast. I may not be up to a late night of it, however.”

Mathilda patted her on the cheek. “Dinna fash yerself, child. Mary will understand.”

Regan glanced down to hide the sudden moisture that sprang to her eyes.
Och, don’t be so kind to me,
she thought.
I don’t deserve it.

The fiddlers, who were to play during the meal, began a lively jig, signaling the meal would soon begin. Mathilda grabbed Regan’s hand.

“Come, child.” She began to pull her along. “We need to take our seats, as the queen will enter last. And ye’re to sit beside me, four seats down from Mary on her left.”

Dismay filled Regan. She had assumed, what with all the dignitaries present, she’d be at the end of the main table or even seated at one of the lesser ones. Four seats down from the queen was not at all conducive to fading into the background.

“Och, I couldn’t take a seat from someone far more worthy to sit at the main table,” she protested. “I’m not even a Campbell, after all.”

“It was Iain’s wish, child,” the older woman said briskly, “and he’d brook no protest. So ye sit next to me.”

Regan swallowed hard. Iain. Why, oh why, did he persist in his kindness to her? It only made the coming confrontation so much harder to bear. But then, once the truth was out, she expected she might finally see what he was really made of. And that would almost be a relief.

The Great Hall was ablaze with light, from the sputtering pitch torches on the walls to the thick candles on tall, iron spikes standing at each end of the main table to the pretty centerpiece of a single, pure beeswax candle surrounded by pine boughs, summer flowers, and the strongly aromatic bog myrtle, clan plant of the Campbells, placed on the table where Mary would sit. A long, white linen cloth covered the length of the main table, which was placed upon a dais above the other tables and set with pewter plates and cups, linen napkins, spoons, and finger bowls.

Regan followed Mathilda and took the seat she indicated. Gazing out at the assemblage of diners already at the four long tables below, she drew in a deep breath. The room was filled to capacity with invited guests, and Regan was nearly overcome by an impulse to get up and run from the room. She didn’t belong here. Didn’t deserve the honor being paid her.

In that irrational, panicked instant, she almost hated Iain for putting her into this position, knowing it would make her ultimate betrayal of him—for treachery it would be in the minds of Clan Campbell—all the more reprehensible. Yet it was so unfair. All she was trying to do was obtain justice for her murdered husband.

Closing her eyes, Regan took several long, deep breaths, then opened her eyes again.
But a few days more,
she told herself,
and it’ll all be over. But a few days more for Roddy . . .

Then, with a dramatic flourish, the fiddlers abruptly ended their song. All eyes turned to the doorway at the end of the Hall. Mary, queen of all Scotland, stood there, her hand in her escort’s, the ever-loyal Lord Seton. She was tall and beautiful. Everyone inhaled in admiration.

Once more, the fiddlers began to play, a solemn, regal piece that filled the room with music. Mary looked to Lord Seton and then, as one, they entered the Great Hall.

The next afternoon, after another private conference in the library with the queen and Lord Seton, Niall and Iain headed out together for a short ride along the shores of Loch Awe. The ride was as much for the freedom to speak their minds in private as it was for the opportunity to remove themselves for a short time from all the ongoing chaos of the queen’s presence and the resultant constant agitation of Anne and Mathilda, who were striving to care for Mary’s needs in every way they could. For a while, both rode in silence, mulling over the queen’s current plight and her plea for their support.

“She can’t get in a much worse position,” Iain finally said, glancing over at his cousin. “The lords at Court dare to murder her personal secretary in her verra presence, with her husband’s full support no less, and now Mary’s all but estranged from him because of it.”

Niall made a disgusted sound. “Darnley was always a dissolute, irresponsible man. Likely he began to fear he was losing favor with the queen and blamed poor David Rizzio for it. I’ll wager it didn’t take Lord Ruthven and the rest much to convince Darnley after that. Still, ever since, Mary has aligned herself with Bothwell, and I’m not so certain that won’t ultimately be a mistake as well. In his own way, he’s a verra ambitious, self-serving man.”

“But ye’ll support Mary nonetheless?”

His cousin sighed. “Aye. She’s now mother of our future king, as well as ruling queen in her own right. I fear, though, what this next year might bring. Mark my words. Between Darnley and Bothwell, her position’s not as stable as it once was.”

“She needs to divorce Darnley,” Iain muttered.

“That’d be the wisest course, to be sure.”

Once more, they fell silent, enjoying the late summer’s day. Already, Iain could see a change in the leaves as the days began to grow shorter. Autumn wouldn’t be long in coming.

“Anne says ye’re verra taken with yer ward,” Niall of a sudden said. “That ye’re in love with her.”

Iain shot his cousin a startled glance. Niall had never been known for playing the matchmaker, so his unexpected observation likely had some other motive behind it. “And what of it?” he asked at last, well aware there was no point in pretending ignorance. He did make a mental note, though, to have a wee talk with Anne at the verra next opportunity. “Regan’s a bonny lass and suits me in every way.”

“Well, I suppose ye cannot play on the young ward ploy too much longer, even if she is, what—ten or so years younger than ye? Considering she came to ye under such mysterious circumstances and all.” He looked at Iain, squarely meeting his gaze. “But aren’t ye treading a thin line, cousin, in giving yer heart to a woman ye know absolutely naught about? What if she planned this loss of memory, with the intent to win ye over all along? Or what if her memory returned a while back, and when she saw yer interest and the fine life she’d have as yer wife, decided to continue to play the helpless maiden to yer gallant rescuer?”

Iain could feel his anger begin to rise, but he clamped down hard on it. Niall meant well, he told himself. Though it was none of his concern, he meant well.

“I know all I need to know about Regan,” he muttered. “With or without a memory, her true essence, her soul, shines through as brightly as sunlight off a polished sword blade. And I trust her to tell me when her memory does return. Indeed, I think she has feelings for me too, and but waits as I do to regain her past.”

“Mayhap.” Niall shrugged. “Just have a care for yer tender heart.

Anne’s worried about ye, ye know. And, for some reason,” he added with a grin, “she has a great need to see ye settled and happy.”

Iain chuckled. “Aye, she does. If all goes as planned, come Christmastide, I may be well on my way to that verra state of wedded bliss.”

“Indeed?” Niall asked with an arch of a dark brow.

“Indeed,” Iain replied, then settled back to enjoy the ride and lose himself in happy contemplation.

Standing at Queen Mary’s side in the private study just off what was currently the royal bedchamber, Regan waited in rising dread for Niall and Iain to put up their horses and answer their sovereign’s summons. It had taken her until just before the midday meal, directly after Niall and Iain had finished their first meeting of the day with the queen, to get a note requesting a private audience with Mary. Three hours later, to Regan’s astonishment, the queen’s lady-in-waiting had come for her, saying Mary would see her now.

Gazing into Mary’s sympathetic eyes, Regan found it a surprisingly easy thing to tell the queen all that had happened to her in the past three and a half months, from her marriage to Roddy, to his death, to how she had come to Balloch Castle and finally regained her memory. Mary was, after all, only seven years older, and had had her fair share of trials—indeed, more than any young woman deserved.

Mary’s expression, however, as Regan proceeded to tell her of Iain’s possible involvement in her husband’s murder, gradually changed from that of open regard to a more shuttered one. And, when Regan’s tale finally ended, Mary had rather flatly stated that it was only fair that Iain be brought before them to share his side of the story. She had next sent off her lady’s maid to fetch him and the Campbell chief. Fortunately—and not—the two men had just returned from a ride and sent word they’d meet with Mary posthaste.