Wings of Morning (21 page)

“And what of me?” Anne demanded just then with a laugh. “Have ye totally forgotten about me, Iain Campbell, now that ye’ve finally found yer lady love?”

“Och, of course not, lass,” he replied, wrenching his glance from Regan with what could only be described as a great effort. He stepped over and took Anne into his arms. “Ye’d not allow me to do so, even if I tried. Not that I ever would, mind ye. I love ye, lass.”

“But only as a sister,” Anne said with a mischievous grin.

“Aye, of course.” Iain grinned back. “Niall would sever my head from my neck if I attempted aught else, and well ye know it.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then released her and stepped back. “Fare ye well, lass. I’ll miss ye and that pigheaded lout of a husband of yers.”

“A pigheaded lout, am I?” Niall asked, choosing that moment to join them. He sidled up to his wife and slipped a hand about her rapidly thickening waist. Their gazes met, and some silent and very warm and personal message arced between them.

Regan envied them their deep comfort and closeness with each other. She supposed, over time, she and Iain might eventually share such an intimate relationship as well. If she could ever come to trust him and, even more importantly, trust herself.

A touch on her arm drew her attention away from Niall and his wife. Regan turned to Iain.

“Come, lass. We must be going.”

She nodded, then paused for an instant more to look to Anne and Niall. “Farewell. And thank ye again for yer most wonderful hospitality.”

Anne smiled. Her husband met her glance with a stern look, the merest tightening of his lips, and brusquely nodded in reply. Then Iain escorted her over to the horses, where he helped her mount. A few minutes more, and they were riding from Kilchurn.

The morning sun glinted off the waters of Loch Awe, reflecting shards of light in all directions. In the distance, Ben Cruachan was dusted with a fresh coating of snow. A chill breeze whipped down, setting hair and cloaks to fluttering. The trees, adorned in gold, rusts, and browns, were already beginning to shed their leaves. Winter wouldn’t be long in coming to the Highlands.

But this year, Regan realized as their party soon left behind the great stone fortress of Kilchurn Castle, she’d spend the frigid winter months far from all that she had known and loved. She’d spend it as the wife of a man she’d have never, in a hundred thousand years, imagined now to be calling husband. Yet the consideration, as much as she strove to deny it, wasn’t all that unpleasant.

Nay, not that unpleasant at all.

After three days of rain alternating with sleet, they finally arrived at Balloch Castle. At Iain’s insistence, the three women immediately entered the keep to get out of the inclement weather, while he and the rest of the men unloaded their belongings and put up the horses. Regan and Mathilda had no sooner removed their damp cloaks and handed them to Jane, however, than Margaret, the head cook, hurried over to greet them.

“Och, yer timing couldn’t be better, m’lady,” Margaret said, halting before Mathilda. “I’ve a pig roasting on the spit, in the hopes ye’d be here this eve, but there’s still the accompanying dishes to prepare. Would ye prefer cullen skink with some chunks of smoked haddock or yesterday’s Scotch broth for the soup? And would stovies and cabbage do for the vegetables, besides a nice raisin and spiced bread pudding for ‘afters’?”

Iain’s mother opened her mouth to reply, then paused. “Of course ye wouldn’t know this as yet, Margaret, but Regan and Iain were wed just a week ago at Kilchurn. So ye really must now defer to her in all household matters.”

As the cook murmured her congratulations, Regan turned a shocked gaze on Mathilda. True enough, as Iain’s wife, she did now outrank his mother as lady of Balloch. But she hadn’t thought Mathilda would care to relinquish her authority, much less do so quite so quickly.

“Ye needn’t do this,” she said in a low voice. “It doesn’t seem right, much less fair to ye.”

“And do ye imagine yerself unsuited to take on these tasks, child?” Mathilda arched a brow. “Because if ye do, ye must soon learn them at any rate. Whether ye wish it so or not, it’s the proper way of things.”

“Well, over the years, I’ve pretty much taken charge of Strathyre’s household when I lived there,” Regan said. “Balloch, however, is far larger, and I’m sure the running of it’s also more complex. I’d appreciate any advice ye might be able to offer.”

“Even in deciding what we’re to have for the supper meal?”

Struck by the ridiculousness of that minor undertaking, Regan laughed. “Och, nay, I suppose I am up to that particular task.” She met Margaret’s considering stare. “Save yerself the extra work. Yesterday’s Scotch broth will be even tastier today, so let’s have that for the soup. And all the rest of yer suggestions are most appropriate too.” She paused. “Is there aught more ye’d ask of me, Margaret?”

The woman shook her head. “Nay, m-m’lady. That’ll do nicely. With that the head cook backed off a few paces, then bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.

Jane, still clutching the cloaks, sidled over. “Er, excuse me, m’lady,” she said, glancing from Regan to Mathilda and then back to Regan. “Now that we’re home, would ye both be wishing for me to continue to wait on ye, or would m’lady Regan prefer some other serving maid?”

Regan wasn’t sure how to answer her. She looked to Mathilda.

Iain’s mother smiled. “Likely Regan will need her own serving maid, but until we can talk over her needs in the next day or so, ye can continue to serve us both.” She glanced at Regan. “If that’s to yer liking, of course, child?”

“Aye.” She nodded. “That’s most satisfactory.”

As the men finally walked in with the bags of belongings, Jane curtsied and left with the cloaks. “We need to sit down and work through the details of both our new roles here, don’t we?” Regan asked her companion.

Mathilda nodded. “Aye. It’d help the transition and lessen the staff confusion, it would.” She watched the men carry the bags up the stairs to the bedchambers, then turned back to Regan. “Why don’t I have one of the kitchen help prepare us both a nice mug of hot cider and bring it up to yer bedchamber in about a half hour? That’d give us about an hour or so to discuss the basics before the supper meal. Then, on the morrow, we can continue with the details.”

Relief flooded Regan. Though Mathilda had been most courteous since Regan and Iain’s wedding day and had warmly welcomed her into the family, Regan had still felt a certain reserve from Iain’s mother. Despite that continuing reserve, it appeared the older woman was willing to help rather than hinder her transition into her married life at Balloch. It was more than she had dared hope for.

She smiled. “That’d be most appreciated, m’lady.”

“Mither.”

Regan frowned in puzzlement. “I beg pardon?”

“If ye would, I’d like ye to call me Mither. If ye’d feel comfortable doing so, of course. If not, Mathilda will do. But I’m not above ye now, child. If aught, I’m below ye.”

“Nay!” She flushed. “Never, never, think that. It’s I who feel the usurper, and a most undeserving one in the bargain.”

“Yet ye’re now my son’s wife, and he
is
lord of Balloch Castle.”

Unable to meet Mathilda’s steady gaze, much less comprehend why the other woman would offer her such kindness, Regan looked down. She felt shamed and humbled. No matter the pain
she
had caused the son—and she had, no matter how justified she had felt in doing so—the mother still treated her with fairness and courtesy.

Regan knew she could do no less.

“Will ye help me, Mither?” she asked at last, meeting Mathilda’s now piercing appraisal. “To be a fit wife and mistress of Balloch? I’d try to do so, but I fear I cannot do it half so well as ye without yer support and assistance.”

“For Iain’s sake, aye, I’ll do so and gladly.”

So, the barriers were still there, Regan realized. But at least Mathilda was willing to try. It was a beginning, and it was more than enough.

“Thank ye, Mither.” With a nod, Regan turned and made her way up the stairs to her bedchamber.

As Iain’s wife, Regan soon discovered she was no longer permitted to use the old chamber she had been given when she first arrived at Balloch. Or, leastwise, she learned that just as soon as Iain finished seeing to the unloading and care of the horses and found her in her old bedchamber.

Luckily, Mathilda had the sense to figure out where she had gone and met Regan there a half hour after they last parted. They discussed castle affairs until time for the supper meal. Afterwards, she joined Iain and Regan for a short while and sat before the fire in the Great Hall. She soon, however, pleaded exhaustion and retired. Not long thereafter, Regan’s lids began to droop.

“Time for bed, is it?” her husband asked, amusement in his voice.

Regan was instantly awake. “Och, nay. I’m good for another two or three hours, I am.”

Iain chuckled. “Well, be that as it may, I’m not.” He rose from his chair and extended a hand.

She looked from it back up to him. “Aye? Must I go to bed because ye wish to?”

“Normally, nay. But once I leave, there’ll be no one to carry ye up to bed when ye fall asleep. Which ye and I both know ye’ll soon do. So, best ye come with me now.”

There was no point in arguing, she supposed. And she was weary. Regan just didn’t know if she was ready for another physical encounter with her husband. Between the onset of her women’s courses the day after their wedding and the lack of privacy on the journey home, she and Iain hadn’t lain together since that first night. But they were safe and soundly home now, and her courses had ceased. There was no further excuse possible for avoiding him.

Not that she in truth wished to avoid him, Regan admitted to herself as she took his hand, rose, and made her way across the Great Hall. Not out of fear or loathing at any rate. Well, not out of fear of
him
. What she feared were emotions, emotions that threatened to seize her heart and send her careening down a similar path to renewed loss and pain.

With each passing day, it became harder and harder to remain closed to Iain, to maintain her objectivity. Since their wedding night, he had seemed to relax around her, become again the man she had come to know during those early days and weeks together. He laughed again, was ever solicitous of any and all of her needs, and his love for her shone unashamedly in his eyes.

She wanted, och, how she wanted, to bask in that love, to return it with an equally ardent response. But Regan knew if she did, she must finally and forever surrender her need for justice for Roddy. If she couldn’t keep an open mind to
all
possible suspects, then she risked missing the truth, however hard and painful it might be.

Yet who else, she thought of a sudden, had she truly considered

besides Iain? Because a pistol had killed Roddy, Regan realized she hadn’t given much thought to anyone else. No one else that night could afford pistols, could they? There were others that night, though, who possessed possible motives for killing Roddy. And one man above all came to mind.

Walter.

Though she hated to consider him and indeed had all but put it from her thoughts, Regan knew the time had come to do so. He stood to gain much if his older brother died. And then there were possibilities among the MacLaren clansmen who had accompanied Roddy that night. Roddy could frequently be a strict, even brutal leader. Perhaps one of the men nursed a secret grudge.

Pistols could be stolen or taken from dead men and secreted away until the proper opportunity presented itself. The proper opportunity of a dark night, with fighting and confusion. But she had stubbornly—aye, even unjustly—clung all this time to the likelihood of Iain being Roddy’s murderer.

As they climbed the stairs together, hand in hand, Regan shot her husband a quick glance. Apparently catching the movement, Iain turned his head and smiled. His expression was so open and unabashedly affectionate, she couldn’t help but smile back.

Dear Lord,
she thought,
don’t let him be the killer. Once again fear I’m losing my heart to him. Still, I can’t help but think if I do, I’m turning my back on Roddy. I just want to do what’s right. I only fear that doing what’s right may be a different path than the one that may well bring me the happiness I’ve long been seeking.