Wings of Morning (18 page)

Niall’s wife shook her head. “Nay. Seton immediately sequestered himself in the library with Mary. Even Niall wasn’t privy to their discussion. And now he’s busy fetching Iain even as I’ve come for ye. We’ll all hear the results of Lord Seton’s investigation together.”

The sudden realization that Iain’s fate would likely be decided this very eve filled Regan with a curious mix of apprehension and dread. She wanted very much to know who had killed Roddy, to see that person punished. She just didn’t want it to be Iain.

Not that there was anything she could do now to change the outcome of Seton’s findings. That die had been cast the instant she had opened her mouth to accuse Iain. There was naught left her but to see this whole, sorry mess through to its natural end, and accept the outcome.

“I’m so afraid, Anne,” she whispered. “I don’t know anymore what I want out of this.”

“No more afraid than I, my friend,” her companion whispered back. She reached over and took Regan’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now, as it’s always been. We must trust in Him.”

They reached the stairs just then and began to descend them. Below, and off to their right, Niall drew up with Iain at the library door. Both men paused to turn and gaze up at them.

There was some indefinable light in Iain’s eyes as his glance met hers. Not fearful. Not angry. Regan puzzled over it for an instant and decided it was one of acceptance. Whatever the findings, she realized, Iain was already at peace with them.

She only wished she felt so calm. Instead, her heart pounded almost painfully in her chest, and fear clutched her insides with a cruel, twisting grip. Her head spun with conflicting emotions until she almost feared she was on the verge of losing her mind.

They halted a few feet from the two men. Niall all but impaled her with a steely glance, then turned and opened the door. Mary and Lord Seton sat across the room, the queen at the head of the long, oak table with Seton in the chair to her right. Three rolled and ribbon-bound parchments lay before him. Once they were all inside and Niall had shut the door behind them, Mary indicated the chairs lined up down the length of the table.

“Come,” the queen said. “Seat yourselves and we can commence. Lord Seton has been most thorough, and I’m well pleased with his work.”

As she took her place on Anne’s other side, Regan could only wonder at what Mary meant by that comment. Did it imply Seton had actually discovered the identity of Roddy’s killer? Or was Mary just satisfied with the outcome, whatever it was?

For some reason, Iain ended up directly across from her. Regan had no recourse but to meet his gaze, however briefly. He smiled at her, a kind, concerned smile without any trace of anger or rancor. She managed a swift, wan smile of her own, then immediately fixed her attention on Lord Seton.

The nobleman waited until all were settled and quiet. Then he cleared his throat, shot Mary a questioning look, and began speaking after she nodded to him. “The past three weeks have been long and arduous. I have tried, though, to the verra best of my ability, to be thorough and leave no stone unturned.” He paused, reached over to the parchments that lay before him, and took up one. After unrolling it, he began to read.

“Report of my findings at Balloch Castle. All men queried agreed that the night in question was dark, due to heavy cloud cover that only rarely parted to shed any moonlight. Though several admitted to hearing pistol shots, there was great discrepancy as to how many shots were fired and when. Some claimed to hear two gunshots, others, three. Some thought two were fired in close succession, some thought two were fired at different times during the course of the fighting, and some thought two were fired in close succession and then one more at a later time.”

As Regan listened to Seton’s Balloch report drone on, she realized that no conclusive information would come from it. Finally, Lord Seton finished reading that parchment, rerolled and tied it, and set it aside. He then picked up a second parchment.

“This is my report from Strathyre,” he next began, and proceeded to deliver an almost identical report. “A survey of all wounded MacLarens,” he finally said as he neared the end of the document, “revealed one man—in addition to the deceased—who had suffered a pistol shot. No one saw anyone in their midst with a pistol. No one, including Walter MacLaren, the current laird, admitted to owning a pistol, and once again there was great disparity as to the amount of gunshots heard that night. All agree, however, that all shots were heard in close proximity to the other, suggesting only that the shots had come from either or both the Campbell and MacLaren camps.”

He finished, rerolled and tied that parchment, and picked up the third and final one. As Regan watched him, her thoughts raced. So, two or three shots had been fired that night, yet it was unlikely Iain had had sufficient opportunity to reload his two pistols. Two men had received pistol wounds—Roddy and another MacLaren clansman. If only two shots had been fired, all evidence pointed to Iain, even though he claimed he had fired both pistols in rapid succession earlier in the fighting, long before Roddy was shot. If three shots had been fired, and Iain’s claim were true, Iain may have missed once and hit one man, and the third shot had come from somewhere else. The third and last shot that likely killed Roddy.

“A summary of my findings and conclusion are as follows,” Lord Seton finally spoke up again, and essentially began to repeat exactly what Regan had just surmised on her own. “In conclusion, due to the poor visibility that night, the discrepancy in accounts as to the number of gunshots heard, and that no eyewitnesses as to who fired the pistol used to kill Roderick MacLaren are available, only circumstantial evidence now links Iain Campbell to the murder. And circumstantial evidence, as ye well know, isn’t sufficient to convict.”

With that, he rerolled the parchment, tied it, and added it back to the pile. In the sudden hush, all gazes turned to the queen. She closed her eyes, looked down, and for a long moment was silent. Then, with a sigh Regan couldn’t help but imagine was at least partially one of relief, she glanced up and opened her eyes.

“So, no one has been found guilty?” she asked, meeting Lord Seton’s gaze.

“That’d be correct, Majesty.”

“Then you’re no longer a murder suspect, Iain.” She turned to smile at him. “Congratulations.”

His face expressionless, Iain answered with a slight nod. “Thank ye, Majesty.”

Niall grinned. “In that case, if there’s no further work to be done here, may I suggest we adjourn to the Great Hall? From all the savory scents coming our way, I’d say the supper meal’s nearly ready to be served.”

“One moment more, m’lord.” Mary placed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “There’s yet one small matter to discuss.” Her glance moved from Iain across the table to Regan. “You’re a widow now and, as the Drummond heiress, will soon be considered by many as a potential wife. What are your plans, lass?”

All eyes turned to Regan, and she could feel her cheeks flush fire hot. “Why, they’re just as I’d mentioned before, Majesty,” she managed to reply. “Return to Strathyre House. The MacLarens—Walter and his sister, Molly—are the only real family I have. I can hardly remember any Drummond relatives, after all, and few have ever visited me over the years I remained at Strathyre, much less ever requested I return home.”

“Yet you cannot wed Walter MacLaren. He’s your brother-inlaw.”

“Aye, that’s true, Majesty.” She shrugged. “I suppose, in time, some suitable man will take me as his wife. However, I’m in no hurry to wed again.”

“Nay, I suppose you’re not,” Mary replied. “Still, I’d prefer you wed well, rather than poorly. And, if someday you wished to try and reclaim Drummond lands from your mess of squabbling relatives, it’d be wise to have a strong husband, from a strong clan, to aid you, wouldn’t you say?”

Regan wasn’t quite sure where the queen was going with this, but some instinct warned she’d had some plan in mind all along. “Aye, a strong husband from a strong clan would be ideal. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, when and if that time comes.”

“Ah, but it has, lass.” Mary’s mouth lifted in a triumphant smile. “Now that Iain has been cleared of all charges against him and found to be innocent as he has always claimed, I cannot think of a finer man for you to wed. Indeed, it’s my greatest desire for you to marry him.”

The blood drained from Regan’s face. She stared, open-mouthed, at the queen.

“Och, don’t look so shocked, lass.” Mary laughed. “There are women aplenty who’d swoon from happiness at the chance to take such a fine, handsome man as Iain Campbell to husband. I only wish I had given him more serious consideration myself when I was contemplating a second marriage. But I was headstrong and determined that wiser folk wouldn’t tell me who to wed. And who, indeed,
was
to tell me otherwise? But you . . . you’re fortunate. Wiser folk can, and will, tell you otherwise.”

“But yer Majesty,” Regan all but whispered, so tight now was her throat, “I don’t want to marry Iain. Though he wasn’t proven to be Roddy’s killer, he also wasn’t really proven not to be, either. And I could never marry him while there was still doubt.”

Mary’s mouth tightened. “Well, in my mind, there is no doubt, and that’s all that matters. As is my will that you two should wed.”

The room and faces before her began to whirl about. Regan felt hot, then cold, then hot again, and feared suddenly that she might be sick.

Wed Iain? Nay, it could never be. All she wanted was to leave behind him and that illusory life she had once, for a short time, lived at Balloch. All she wanted was to return to Strathyre, to abide once more among folk who were like her, who understood her and would always accept her.

Yet she was also well aware that the queen’s will was tantamount to an order. To refuse her was potentially to bring down her wrath not only on Clan MacLaren but on Clan Drummond as well. There seemed no way, absolutely no way, to decline.

But what of Iain? How did he feel about this? If he were also unwilling, surely the two of them together might sway the queen. Regan looked up, snared his gaze, and sent him a silent entreaty.

He stared back, his glance steady but lit from within by a fierce, burning fire. A fire that was both joyous and exultant. She knew then, even before Mary next turned to him, that her fate was sealed.

“And what of you, Iain Campbell?” the queen asked, at last riveting the full force of her gaze on him. “Are you equally adverse to the idea of wedding a woman who still doubts your innocence in the murder of her husband?”

As he wrenched his attention from Regan to Mary, his mouth quirked sadly. “It pains me greatly that Regan still mistrusts me, Majesty. I can but hope that, over time and close association, she’ll eventually see me for the man I am, a man who’d never commit such a dastardly deed. So, in answer to yer question, nay, if it’s yer will, then I’m not at all adverse to taking her as my wife.

“I am, after all,” he said, inclining his head toward Mary, “yer most loyal and devoted servant.”

12

Though she could have demanded that Regan attend the supper meal, Mary apparently took some small measure of pity on her. Which was likely for the best, Regan thought as she hurried upstairs to her bedchamber. As tumultuous as were her emotions and the state of her stomach just now, if she had been forced to sit at table and even watch the food brought in, she feared she might become physically ill before them all.

It had been difficult enough to endure Seton’s endless droning as he laboriously read through all the parchments, when he could’ve summarized his conclusion in a few, brief sentences. Indeed, he might as well have just said Iain was innocent and been done with it. In her heart of hearts, Regan had suspected that would finally be the case at any rate.

But she had never anticipated that, once the investigation was finished, she’d be all but commanded to wed the prime subject of the investigation. It was beyond belief, much less understanding! And it was so unfair.

Not that a queen had to worry about what was and wasn’t fair, Regan thought sourly as she finally reached her bedchamber door and entered.
She
could do whatever she wished, and they must all obey. But Mary was a woman as well as a queen and must surely understand a woman’s horror of being forced to wed against her will. Why, oh why, had Mary chosen to turn on her like this?

Regan all but slammed the door closed, only to have someone give a squeak of surprise behind her. She whirled around. For some reason, Jane was there, sitting before the fire apparently warming herself against what had turned out to be a rather chill, mid-September night. Regan, however, was in no mood for company.

“I won’t be needing ye further this eve,” she forced herself to say in what she hoped was a polite tone. “Ye may go, Jane.”

“But won’t ye be wanting something to eat later?” the maidservant asked. “Considering ye don’t seem to be attending the supper meal?”

Regan choked back a laugh she feared might end up more a scream than anything else. “Nay,” she ground out, walking over to stare out the window even as she fought to hide her sudden surge of tears. “I thank ye for yer consideration, but nay, I’ve no appetite, and likely won’t for a long time to come.”

Jane finally must have taken her turned back and extended silence for a dismissal. “As ye wish, ma’am,” she said at long last and departed the room.

Almost as soon as the door closed, Regan’s tears came. They weren’t, however, tears of sadness, but ones of fury and bitter frustration. They were all in a conspiracy against her! Mary, Niall, and Iain. Perhaps they had planned all this from the start.

Anne was the only one whom Regan doubted had had a hand in this. Regan had seen the shocked look on the other woman’s face, a look that quickly turned to one of compassion and concern as she had met Regan’s gaze after the queen’s startling pronouncement. Next, Anne had swung her glance to that of Iain, her gaze puzzled and questioning. Not that her friend had gained aught for her effort, Regan thought angrily. Iain’s expression had gone carefully blank by then.

Och, but she hated him, she did! Regan pounded her fists on the stone windowsill. He was a devious, cold-blooded manipulator. And he had likely been maneuvering her to his own purposes from the start.

But why? Of what possible use was she to him? The MacLarens had naught to offer. She held no right to any of that clan’s lands, or even Strathyre House. And, though Drummond lands were far larger and more profitable, was Iain really that interested in them? It seemed unlikely, leastwise for any wealth he might think to procure.

Though historically Clan Drummond had always been staunchly loyal to the Crown of Scotland, her cousin William Drummond was known to favor the faction of lords at Court who seemed to be distancing themselves from the queen. Perhaps Mary hoped to regain the allegiance of the Drummonds through Iain and his marriage to the Drummond heiress.

Iain had, after all, admitted he was the queen’s loyal and devoted servant. Perhaps it was his way of agreeing to all Mary was—and wasn’t—saying.

The sense of a trap closing around her filled Regan. Not that that should surprise her. She had been well aware that the exceedingly generous dowry William had sent to honor her marriage to Roddy had been a bribe. A bribe to keep her firmly bound to Clan MacLaren and far away from Drummond infighting and machinations for the chieftainship.

Nay, Regan had known but had chosen to pretend ignorance. She had, after all, wanted the marriage to Roddy. She had wanted to stay where she knew she was welcomed and loved.

But she was also tired of being used as the pawn of ambitious men, as well as now of a queen who was struggling to keep her crown. The problem was how to extricate herself from this newest and most untenable situation. If there were indeed any way to do so.

Walter would have no influence with the queen, especially not against the Campbells’ overwhelming strength. And even if Regan could assure Mary that Clan Drummond would be loyal to her, with Regan as its chief, there seemed no way for her to secure that chieftainship all on her own. William wasn’t the only relative who’d prefer never to see her step foot in Drummond lands again.

Like a wheel turning on its axis, it all came back around to Iain. Regan’s brow furrowed in thought. If his main motive in wedding her was to gain Drummond support for Mary, perhaps there was some way to bargain with him. If she could procure Campbell aid in winning the chieftainship, with the assurance that she’d then keep Clan Drummond loyal to the queen, perhaps that would suffice to prevent this forced marriage.

It would solve so many problems. She’d avoid wedding Iain. She’d still be free to pursue an investigation of her own as to Roddy’s killer. And, if ever she discovered who that person was, even if it were indeed Iain Campbell, she’d then possess a certain amount of power to seek justice in her own right.

The problem lay in convincing Iain that he didn’t need to marry her to demonstrate his loyalty to Mary. All he had to do was support her in her quest to regain the Drummond chieftainship. There had never been any true affection for her in his heart, though he had been supremely adept at pretending it was so.

She smiled grimly. Iain Campbell was indeed his father’s son.

Regan lifted her chin, inhaled a deep breath, and made up her mind. Somehow, some way, she must convince Iain of the many advantages of her plan. Advantages that would serve both of them well. And, one way or another, Regan knew she must do so this very night.

He was, after all, her only hope of convincing Mary to change her mind.

As Iain rose to join the queen, Seton, Niall, Anne, and his mother for some after-supper talk and fellowship before the huge hearth fire at the end of the Great Hall, one of the servants ran up and slipped a note into his hand. He stared at the lad in bemusement, but the boy simply shook his head and hurried away. Only Niall saw the surreptitious act and lingered nearby while the rest of their party headed across the Hall.

“A secret admirer?”

Iain shrugged and proceeded to open and read the note. As the words registered, excitement rippled through him. “Hardly,” he replied with a grin, meeting Niall’s intent gaze. “It’s from Regan. She asks to speak with me in the library.”

Niall gave a snort of disgust. “Have a care, cousin. She’s had time to reconsider and regroup. In fact,” he added, a hard look darkening his eyes, “I’d better come with ye. Ye’re so besotted with her and the idea ye might finally take her to wife that ye’re in desperate need of a clearer perspective. A perspective from someone who won’t be distracted by a fetching face and form.”

Iain had had all the unkind remarks about Regan he could take from his cousin. “And I thank ye kindly for yer offer. Her request, though, was to speak with me in private, and I intend to do so. Now, if ye’ll give my regrets to the ladies . . .”

“Wait.” Niall grabbed him by the arm, halting him.

Pointedly, Iain looked down at the hand on his arm, then up to Niall. “Leave it be, cousin,” he growled. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Ye forget the queen has already made her will in this clear.”

“On the contrary, I’ve forgotten naught. And, despite what ye may think of me of late, I’m no fool.”

With a sigh, Niall released him. “Most times, nay, ye’re certainly no fool. But when it comes to this particular woman . . .”

“She’s to be my wife, whether she wishes it or not,” Iain said softly. “I don’t need to grant her aught, and I’ll still have what I’ve desired for a long time now.”

“Aye, true enough, but I know ye too well. Ye want more than her body. Ye want her love. And ye’ve a long way to go to acquire that, my friend. The question is, how much will ye sacrifice in the hopes of attaining it?”

“I’ll sacrifice everything.” At Niall’s startled expression, Iain grinned. “Everything but my clan, my queen, and my soul, that is.”

The look of relief on his cousin’s face almost made Iain laugh out loud.

“Och, in that case,” Niall said, “I suppose it’s safe to send ye on yer way.”

“Aye, it most certainly is.” With that, Iain turned on his heel and headed for the entry hall and the library.

He found Regan already there, standing before the hearth fire, her slender form silhouetted by the leaping flames. His throat went dry with longing, and his palms were suddenly damp, but Iain forced the unsettling thoughts from his mind, focusing instead on the confrontation to come. For a confrontation it would most certainly be, considering the stakes to be won or lost this night.

She must have heard him close the door. Regan turned. From across the room, their gazes locked. He felt something hot and powerful arc between them, but what it was he wasn’t sure. For all he knew, it could well be hatred, leastwise emanating from Regan.

There was naught to be done for it, however, but meet the battle head on. Iain strode toward the hearth and came to stand before her. She didn’t flinch or back away, only stared up at him with those incredibly rich brown eyes of hers, eyes, he noted, that were still a bit red and swollen, most likely from weeping.

“I came as soon as I received yer message,” he said softly, filled with remorse that he had been the cause—at least partially—of her pain. “What do ye wish of me, lass?”

She looked down to stare into the fire. “I need yer help.”

He almost imagined that the entreaty had been all but physically wrenched from her. “If it’s within my power, ask and I’ll do it. But I cannot—I won’t—go against the queen’s desire for us to wed.”

“Why not?” Regan jerked up her head to impale him with a piercing stare. “In the end, what matters is that Mary have what she wants, and not the manner of how that’s achieved.”

He angled his head to eye her. “Exactly what do ye imagine she really wants, lass?”

“What else?” She gave a shaky laugh. “She wishes to ensure the stability of her position. She wishes to gather as many allies about her as she can. But that can be done without forcing us to wed, Iain.”

So,
he thought,
now we get to the heart of the matter.
“How would our marriage help Mary in that regard?”

“Ye know as well as I that she stands to lose Drummond support if my cousin William has his way. But if I was chosen clan chief—an undertaking only possible with Campbell support—she stands to regain Drummond allegiance.”

“Aye,” he agreed slowly, “that might well be part of her plan. A wise ruler hopes to gain more than one advantage from a political marriage. Somehow, though, I think Mary also possesses a tender, romantic side. I think she hopes our marriage will be a more successful and far happier one than she’s ever been blessed with.”

“Then she doesn’t know us verra well, does she?” Regan muttered through taut lips.

“On the contrary, she has come to know
me
reasonably well. I’ve been at Court several times now over the past five years of her reign here in Scotland. My mither, after all, spent four years at Court with her, as well as with her mither before her.”

“And yer point is?”

Iain chose to ignore the anger blazing in her voice and gaze. “My point is, Mary’s a friend, and friends help each other the best they can. True, she needs my loyalty and cooperation. But she also cares what becomes of me, cares for my happiness.”

“Well, she’s mistaken if she imagines ye’ll ever find happiness wed to me!”

“Indeed?” Iain couldn’t help it. Regan’s vehemence filled him with amusement. “Yer hope for our wedded bliss is dismal, to be sure, and we’ve yet to speak our vows.”

“And why shouldn’t it be dismal?” she cried, rounding on him. “Not only am I still unconvinced of yer innocence in Roddy’s murder, but now ye conspire to marry me for political reasons. Whyever would ye imagine I’d be happy to take ye as husband?”

“Och, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Mayhap because I love ye and would wed ye even without the queen’s command? Because I loved ye even before I knew ye were the Drummond heiress, not that I care one way or another about that even now.”

She glared up at him for a long moment, speechless, then turned away. “Well, I don’t believe ye. Ye’re naught more than a far more charming replica of yer father. And ye well warned me about him many times already, so I’m forearmed.”