Read Wings of Morning Online

Authors: Kathleen Morgan

Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Historical, #General, #Romance, #book, #ebook

Wings of Morning (2 page)

“The alarm’s been raised, m’lord. Reivers have attacked Shenlarich and taken the cattle.”

Not another village,
Iain Campbell thought late that evening,
and that only a fortnight since the last attack.
Though he loved the Highlands dearly, there were times when he grew mightily weary of all the lawlessness, plundering, and blackmail that were such an integral part of the Highland way of life. He had suffered enough at the hands of power-maddened, narrow-visioned men. All he wanted was to live in peace.

But apparently the fulfillment of that particular wish wasn’t in the offing anytime soon. With a sigh, the laird of Balloch Castle and tanist to his cousin and clan chief, Niall Campbell, glanced up from his spot in the chapel pew. “And have ye word, as well, Charlie, as to which clan’s doing the thieving?” he asked.

“It’s likely the MacLarens, m’lord.” Charles Campbell’s mouth lifted in an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry to be disturbing ye at prayers, and this well into the eve and all, but if we’re to have a chance of catching them . . .”

Iain closed his prayer book, set it aside, and leaned back in the pew. “Dinna fash yerself. Clan honor won’t permit such a humiliation. Best we see to the task forthwith.”

“Shall I call out the lads to ready themselves then?”

Though understanding for his reluctance burned in his captain’s eyes, Iain knew his men would leap at the chance to avenge the thievery. They’d be eager for a late night’s rousing ride, thirsty for retribution against a band of other clansmen likely out for naught more than a bit of excitement and a few cattle to prove the mettle of their manhood. Still, the crofters who had lost their beasts were poor folk and could hardly spare even one less animal. Even more importantly, they were Campbells and looked to him, as their laird, for a reckoning.

“Was any crofter seriously injured or killed?”

Momentarily, Charlie’s weathered brow furrowed in thought. “Nay. Daniel, the smithy, was banged upside his head, and old Angus got a foot stomped on by a passing horse, but no one was much in the mood to defy armed men. Most just stood back and watched.”

Things might not go quite as peaceably for the MacLarens, Iain well knew. Once his men’s blood was stirred to recapture their cattle, the possibility was strong that lives might be lost. MacLaren lives, as well as the lives of his own men.

Iain grimaced. He’d had enough of fighting and death in the past two years to last him a lifetime. He’d had enough of treachery and misguided Highland honor. Yet few seemed to share his sentiments. Few Highlanders, at any rate.

“Well,” he said, rising, “though we didn’t start this absurd custom of reiving, we’ve no other choice but to end yet another instance of it.” He shook his head. “As if Roddy MacLaren and his clan are on the verge of starvation, now that he’s gone and wed that Drummond heiress.”

“Mayhap he intends to present the cattle to his wee bride as a wedding gift.” Charlie chuckled. “The MacLarens are themselves, after all, poor as church mice. And a man, even a poor one, has his pride.”

Iain gave a snort of disgust. “So a stolen bridal gift is better than no gift at all, is it? Nay. I don’t see it that way, and never will, Charlie.”

The older man stepped aside for Iain to slip from the pew and head down the aisle of the ancient, stone chapel. “Nay, m’lord,” he softly called after him. “But then, ye’re not like most men, are ye? And thanks be to God that ye aren’t. Aye, thanks be to God!”

“R-Regan? Regan, are ye all right? Regan, wake up!”

Cold, stiff, and miserable, Regan awoke in the pale light of dawn to a sweet, childish voice. For a fleeting instant, disorientation, as thick as the morning mists hanging heavy on the air, swirled about her. Then, as she tried to stretch her drawn-up legs—and found she couldn’t—remembrance returned.

She was in the garden, crammed between the high stone wall and the yew bushes that formed a backdrop for the fountain with its crumbling statue of an archer. Her gown and woolen cloak were damp with dew. Her toes, clad as they were in a pair of thin leather slippers, were numb.

“Regan?”

She looked up and, through the parted branches, saw Molly. Roddy and Walter’s little sister gazed back at her with frightened eyes. Regan’s heart went out to the seven-year-old. Likely she had heard the noisy celebration last night. And, just as likely, she had been awakened in the wee hours to Roddy roaring about like some wounded lion. No wonder the bairn was confused and afraid.

“I’m fine, lassie.” She attempted a reassuring smile. “I was just playing a game with Roddy and Walter, that’s all.”

Molly’s pert little nose wrinkled in puzzlement. “But Roddy’s not even here, nor is Walter. So why are ye still hiding?”

Good question.
“Och, well, I suppose I dozed off while I was waiting. But now there’s no reason to hide anymore, is there?”

“Nay, there isn’t.”

With a sigh, Regan rolled to the side and crawled from her hiding place. It was past time she face the world again, whatever time it actually was. Fortunately, no one was about in the garden, and the mists effectively blanketed her from view of the tower windows.

As she climbed to her feet, however, a chill breeze swept through the little, enclosed courtyard, sending needles of ice to pierce her sodden garments. Regan shivered and wrapped her arms about her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d surely catch the ague from the past night’s sorry refuge in the garden.

Served her right, she supposed, for running out on Roddy last eve. Not that he had long remained in his drunken stupor. Scarcely a half hour later her husband had roused and taken to storming though Strathyre House, shouting her name and demanding she join him posthaste. For his efforts, Roddy had stirred anew his still-inebriated clansmen, who had then proceeded to add to the pandemonium.

Not that any of the blustering and threats had pried her from her secret bower. Regan was no fool. Roddy was a man changed when under the influence of liquor. A man whom she had only recently discovered she neither liked nor trusted. Or, leastwise, didn’t like or trust when he drank. No matter how he bellowed and pleaded, she had refused to face him again last night.

One betrayal in her life was far more than she could bear. She’d not risk her heart again.

At the irony in that thought, Regan’s lips lifted in what she imagined was a parody of a smile. Roddy’s abandoned promises last night had been an unexpectedly savage wounding. It might indeed take a long time to heal, if it ever did. But she hadn’t really been thinking of his shameful behavior. She had been remembering an even more troubling, long past ordeal.

Odds were, though, that Roddy and his clansmen would return soon. After a time of searching the tower house, her husband had given up his efforts to find her. He and his men had ridden off, apparently in pursuit of the nearest tavern. She only hoped the drunken lot had managed not to fall from their horses and been trampled in the doing. That’s all she needed. A hungover
and
injured husband.

“Er, shouldn’t we be going inside?” Molly asked just then. “It’s verra chilly out, ye know.”

Regan glanced down at the little girl. With a mop of long, blond curls, big, blue eyes, and the sweetest smile, Molly was the sister Regan had never had. She had been born late in Roddy and Walter’s father’s second marriage, and her birth had killed her mother. Regan, with the help of the servants, had essentially raised her.

“Aye, ye’re right as always, lassie,” she replied. “It
is
verra chilly out.”

Taking Molly’s hand in hers, Regan skirted the flower beds that angled out from the fountain, then headed down the flagstone path between the two, long rows of herbs and vegetables leading to the ground-floor entry. Slipping inside, she made her way to the turnpike stair leading up to the first floor, which opened immediately onto a large kitchen. Cook and her two helpers were already hard at work, preparing what Regan realized, with a start, was the noon meal.

“And what’ve ye been about,” the older, pleasantly plump woman demanded as she caught sight of her, “to be slinking into my kitchen like this?” She shot Molly then Regan a quick, assessing glance before returning her attention to the bread dough she was kneading. “Ye look a drenched cat, ye do, Regan MacLaren. Best ye hie yerself up to yer bedchamber and have Isabel draw ye a nice, hot bath. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare ye a wee bit of breakfast to tide ye over, and have it sent up. The young lord has yet to return. Ye’ve still time to prepare yerself, not to mention gather yer wits about ye.”

Regan could feel the warmth flood her cheeks. She looked down at Molly. “Why don’t ye go over and see if Sally has any sweets left from last eve’s meal?”

The little girl seemed to like that idea and scampered off. Once she reached Sally’s side, she tugged on the woman’s apron.

“And why would I be needing to gather my wits about me?” Regan asked then, sidling up to Cook even as she faced the humiliating realization that her and Roddy’s marital spat was indeed known by all.

“Why else than to show that man of yers the proper way of things?” Cook gave a hoarse laugh. “He acted the craven boor last eve, and well ye know it. Ye mustn’t let him off lightly. Not if ye’ve even an ounce of pride in ye, at any rate.”

Cook meant well. Indeed, over the years living at Strathyre House she had been the closest thing to a mother that Regan had had. In the end, though, she was now a MacLaren. Her first loyalty must ultimately be to Strathyre’s laird.

“I’ve my pride,” Regan muttered. “But I’ll deal with my husband in my own time and way, thank ye verra much.”

The expression on the other woman’s face fell. “Och, I beg pardon, m’lady. I didn’t mean aught by my comments. Of course ye must deal with the young lord as ye see fit.”

She had bruised Cook’s feelings. Compunction filled Regan. “Och, I didn’t mean aught by my unkind comments! I value yer advice, truly I do. It’s just that . . . well, I’ve a lot to think on before Roddy returns.”

“Aye, that ye do.” Cook smiled in sympathy. “And it’ll all go better after ye’ve had a bite to eat and a nice, hot bath.” She made a shooing motion with her flour-dusted hands. “So off with ye now. Just as soon as ye hie yerself to yer room, I’ll send up my two lasses with the buckets of water.”

Regan’s mouth quirked in gratitude. “Thank ye. I don’t know what—”

A cry went out from high overhead. It was the sentry walking guard on the tower house parapet. Regan and Cook’s gazes met. It was surely Roddy and his men, headed home at last from their night’s escapades.

Now that the moment was upon her, Regan wasn’t so certain she was up to facing her husband. Perhaps it was best to take to her chambers for a time, then find Roddy in a less public moment. But that smacked of some beaten dog slinking away to hide, and she had nothing to hide or be ashamed of.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “The time for gathering my wits, I see, has passed. I must go and greet my husband.”

Understanding flared in Cook’s eyes. “Aye, m’lady, ye must. Naught else would be fitting, would it?”

“Nay, it wouldn’t.” Regan hesitated, her glance alighting on Molly now seated at the table, her face smeared with strawberry jam from one of the tarts she was eating. “Best Molly stay down here. Until I’ve had a chance to speak with Roddy.”

Cook nodded. “Aye, best she does. We’ll keep an eye on the lass, we will.”

“My thanks.” With that, she turned and left the kitchen.

Though Regan’s intent to have it out with her husband had sounded confident back in the kitchen, as she made her way to the stairs, then up another flight to the Great Hall where she intended to await the men, fresh doubts assailed her. How should she receive Roddy? What should she say, or should she say aught at all? Might it not be best just to let him do all the talking?

One thing was certain. He must understand, and understand thoroughly, that his behavior last eve was reprehensible and wouldn’t be tolerated ever again. He must, or there was no hope of salvaging their marriage.

She removed her cloak and laid it on a bench as she passed into the Great Hall. Her gown was still damp, but no one would likely notice in the excitement of the homecoming. There wasn’t aught to be done about her hair, but then, the dampness only made the thick mass of chestnut locks even wavier, and Roddy was well used to that. Regan doubted he’d note aught amiss in her appearance.

Drawing up before the hearth fire, she first took a seat in one of the high-backed, carved wooden chairs placed there. Finally, however, when it began to seem Roddy and the others were taking an interminable amount of time to come inside, she stood and began to make her way across the wide expanse of rush-covered floor. Before she could traverse even half of the room, however, the MacLarens walked in.

Regan jerked to a halt. Between the double file of clansmen, they carried what looked to be a length of tautly stretched plaid. For an instant, she stared at them in puzzlement. In the yet gloomy day, it was difficult to make out what they carried between them. Then, as the men drew nearer, Regan saw a body lying on the plaid.

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