Wings of Morning (22 page)

And then they were heading down the corridor and soon standing at their bedchamber door. Iain wasted no time in opening it and drawing her inside. Barely had he pushed the door shut behind them than he took her in his arms and kissed her.

His mouth slanted over hers with hungry ardor, but it was at the same time gentle and tender. After an instant of breathless surprise, Regan pressed close, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed

him in return. She was, she realized, just as hungry and needful of him as he seemed to be of her.

Finally Iain pulled back, gazing down at her with bemusement. “Ye seem particularly eager, ye do, wife, now that we’re in the privacy of our bedchamber.”

Embarrassment flooded Regan. “I . . . I was just trying to act like I thought ye’d wish for me to act. But if my behavior offends ye . . .”

He caught her chin as she turned her head and began to look down, and brought her gaze back to meet his. “Och, and did ye imagine I found offense in an eager wife?” Iain grinned. “On the contrary. I was but marveling at my good fortune.”

She didn’t know whether to be pleased or aggravated by that statement. But then, of late, she was so confused and tugged in one direction then the other that she frequently found herself indecisive. This time, though, Regan decided to take Iain’s statement at face value.

“Well, all right then,” she muttered. “Just don’t let it puff up that fine opinion of yerself any more than it already has. I haven’t fully made up my mind about ye, ye know.”

“I know that, sweet lass.” He bent down and kissed her again, this time lightly. “I’m just grateful ye’re willing to give me—give us—a chance. And that ye at least like kissing me.”

She eyed him with thinly veiled amusement. “I’m thinking I could like doing some other things with ye too. If our wedding night was any indication, that is.”

At that, Iain threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter.

“Och, it was and more, lass. And, by yer leave, I’ll begin straightaway to show ye.”

15

Two months later, after finally overcoming the mild nausea she had been feeling upon awakening for the past two weeks, Regan sought out Mathilda one morn. Iain’s mother was already busily engaged for the day, consulting with the castle weaver over the colors of wool to be used in the fine plaid the woman was currently setting up to weave. At Regan’s arrival, she looked up.

“Good morrow, child.” Mathilda paused to eye her closely. “Are ye ill? Ye look a wee bit pale, ye do.”

Regan managed a halfhearted smile. “Aye, mayhap. Could I speak with ye?”

The older woman nodded. “Shall we take a short walk in the garden? It’s a bit brisk outside, but the fresh air might do ye good.”

“Aye. I’ll but need to fetch my cloak.”

Mathilda nodded. “Good. I’ll meet ye near the back door in ten minutes’ time then.” She turned back to the weaver. “Yer suggestion of scarlet, dark green, and fawn sounds like a most pleasing combination. But are ye certain ye’ve enough crotal and heath for the scarlet and dark green? The birch bark for the fawn’s available all the time, but this late in the fall, there’s not much chance of finding any of the other two plants . . .”

Regan didn’t hear the weaver’s reply as she walked toward the door. It didn’t matter, though. The loom work was Mathilda’s bailiwick, and she took great pleasure in it. Besides, there were plenty of other duties nowadays to keep Regan more than occupied. Well, leastwise, before this strange malady had struck, forcing her to keep to bed for half the morn or risk vomiting out her guts. Well, mayhap not quite so strange, she corrected herself. She had an inkling of what might be wrong with her. She had seen similar symptoms in Anne Campbell, after all.

Ten minutes later, Iain’s mother joined her at the back door, and they set out on their stroll through the garden. Few plants had survived the hard frosts that, even this early in November, had begun coming in close succession. Regan thought she missed the roses most of all. At least there was hope now, though, that she’d be here to see them bloom again.

“So what did ye wish to talk with me about, child?” Mathilda asked after a time. “Since it was apparent ye wished to speak in private.”

“I’ve been ill most morns for the past two weeks,” Regan said, deciding there was no point in prevaricating. “It’s also been over nine weeks since my last woman’s courses.”

Iain’s mother stopped short and stared at her.

Regan halted with her. She didn’t know if the other woman was shocked speechless with joy or dismay. One way or another, it was too late to do aught about it,
if
either of them had wished to.

“So,” Mathilda all but whispered, “are ye trying to tell me ye’re with child?”

“It’d seem the most likely cause, wouldn’t it?”

“Aye, it would.” Mathilda cocked her head, studying Regan closely. “And if ye were, how would ye be feeling about it?”

“Verra happy,” Regan quickly replied, smiling. “I’ve always wanted bairns of my own. Indeed, at one point, they seemed to me the only good reason to wed. Well, leastwise,” she quickly amended, realizing how that might sound, “the only good reason when I knew I was about to wed Roddy. I loved him as a brother, but the thought of sharing the marriage bed with him—or any man—didn’t please me.”

“And is it the same now, with Iain? Sharing the marriage bed?”

Regan’s eyes grew wide. Was it proper for her husband’s mother to be asking such a private question? But then, perhaps Mathilda still had her doubts about the stability of their marriage.

“Nay, it’s not the same,” Regan replied, blushing fiercely and not quite able to meet Mathilda’s gaze. “But then, I long since ceased to see Iain as a brother.” She looked up. “And everything’s so much better between us. Surely ye’ve seen that, Mither.”

“I’ve seen that my son’s verra happy, and ye appear to grow happier with each passing day, but ye still hold a lot close. There’s yet a wariness about ye, as if ye’re not entirely certain this isn’t some dream that’ll soon pass and ye’ll once more be that poor girl who first came to us, not quite sure who she really was or that she deserved the fate that had befallen her.”

“And now, still full of doubts as to my commitment to yer son, ” Regan said, “I’ve just told ye I’m to bear him a child and heir. An heir that’ll only complicate this unexpectedly happy but uneasy union we’ve made.”

“A union, to my son’s potential sorrow, that’s only unexpectedly happy but uneasy for ye.”

Sadness filled Regan. “So, after all this time, ye still fear I’ve not relinquished my desire to see Iain convicted of killing Roddy, is that it?”

Fire flashed in her companion’s eyes. “Ye tell me. Have ye?”

Regan squatted before a rosebush. Save for one brown, withered bloom and a few dry, scraggly leaves, the plant was now bare. She plucked the flower from its stem and stood. Not looking up, she began, one by one, to pluck and discard the desiccated petals.

“Aye,” she replied at last, “I do believe I’ve relinquished that desire. Anne advised me on my wedding night to give Iain a chance, to try being open to what his words and actions really meant. To work to grow closer to him each and every day. And I’ve attempted to do that, to view him as dispassionately as possible and discern the real man beneath his most charming exterior.

“Try as I might, though,” —Regan lifted her gaze now to meet Mathilda’s—“I’ve failed to separate the two. Iain
is
as he appears to be—a good, kind, generous man. A man not capable of coldblooded murder.”

The older woman smiled. “Have ye told Iain yet that ye’re with child?”

“Nay. Besides some remedy for my poor stomach, I wanted to ask ye when the best time was for such an admission. Should I wait a while longer, in case I’m wrong about this, or should I inform him now?”

“What do yer woman’s instincts tell ye?”

Regan thought a moment on that, and had her answer. “I want to tell him now. I think the news will make him verra happy.”

Mathilda chuckled. “Och, it will indeed, and no mistake. But not half as much as it makes me.” She exhaled a wondering breath. “At long last, I’m going to be a grandmither. A grandmither!”

“And I’m to be a mither.”

In silent, joyous contemplation, the two women turned and resumed their walk in the garden.

That afternoon, waiting for Iain to finish some last-minute instructions on a repair of the granary roof that lay just inside Balloch’s inner walls, Regan couldn’t help fidgeting with the clasp of one of the two cloaks she held. Though she suspected her husband would take the news of her pregnancy very well, she still felt a certain nervous anticipation. More than anything she had ever wanted, Regan wanted to make Iain happy.

Watching him as, with bent head and intent expression, he spoke with Charlie, she couldn’t help a thrill of pride. He was such a braw man, he was, tall, broad-shouldered, and strong. And he was hers. This good, wonderful, caring man was
her
husband.

She didn’t know how she had ever come to deserve him. She was past caring why. He was God’s gift to her and, for however long she would have him, she was learning to accept it and be content. To do otherwise was the height of ingratitude and no small amount of cowardice. Regan refused to live her life in fear anymore.

But then, how could anyone live life in half measures when one was so blessed? A good home. A magnificent, loving husband. A wee babe growing in her womb. What more could any woman want? Och, but she was so verra, verra happy!

Iain glanced up just then, caught her staring at him, and grinned. He turned back to Charlie for a minute more, then nodded and began to walk toward her.

“Ye must really cease the hungry looks ye send my way,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s becoming quite the talk of Balloch, it is.”

Regan knew him too well now to permit him to unsettle her. “Och, and ye love it, and don’t even try to deny it.” She laid a hand on his arm. “It’s a fine day for a stroll. Can ye spare a short time away from all yer duties to accompany me?”

“Aye, but only if ye agree to go to a special spot I’ve been meaning to show ye and gaze at me adoringly all the while. I’m not a man who soon tires, after all, of his wife’s doting attentions.”

“Well,” Regan replied, pretending to give his request some intensive thought, “I suppose it’s a small price to pay for yer company. But just this once.”

He nodded solemnly, though a smile twitched at one corner of his mouth. “Of course. Just this once.”

She handed his cloak to him. “Then we’re off?”

“Aye.” Iain swung his cloak over his shirt, trews, and jacket, fastened the neck closed, then helped Regan don her cloak.

The land was frost-edged and glinted in the late morning sun. It was a cold day, but no breezes blew. The snowcapped peak of massive Ben Lawers reflected sharp and clear in the waters of long, narrow Loch Tay. The dark, bare, ascendant arms of the myriad oaks, ashes, and elms on the valley floor contrasted with the long, drooping branches of the willows growing at the lake’s edge. Mixed woodlands of birch, rowan, pine, and juniper dotted the higher elevations before giving way above the tree line to upland heath dominated by what was now snow-covered heather and blaeberry bushes.

At Regan’s insistence, their walk was leisurely. The cold, however, soon turned their cheeks and noses pink, and they expelled white clouds with each breath they took. At last, though, they arrived at a spot on Loch Tay where a wooden, straw-thatched roundhouse on stilts, connected to the shore by a timber walkway, stood about twenty feet out in the water. It was obviously no longer inhabited and looked to be slowly falling in on itself. Still, Regan found it a fascinating sight.

“This is a crannog, isn’t it?” she asked, striding up to the beginning of the crumbling causeway. “I’ve heard of these man-made islands, though this particular one isn’t built on a pile of rocks like the ones I’ve read about.”

“Nay, it isn’t.” Iain ambled over. “It’s just one variation, I suppose. Not that cutting all that wood to build such a structure would’ve been much easier than dragging tons of rocks out into the loch to form a small island would be. They’re all verra ancient, or at least the original crannogs were anyway. Some of them have been modified and reused over the centuries as farmers’ homesteads, or refuges during times of trouble, or for hunting or fishing stations. Likely their original use was as individual family homesteads, which housed not only the people but their livestock.”

Regan studied the dwelling with renewed interest. “How old do ye imagine these places to be?”

Iain shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Some of them may date back to well before the birth of Christ. Some of the tales about them, anyway, go that far back.”

“Do ye think those folk were verra different than we? I know their lives must have been much harder, of course, but do ye imagine they had the same sort of hopes and dreams as we do, fell in love, wed, and were just as happy raising their families and working toward a future together?”

He moved to stand at her side and slipped an arm about her waist. “Even that far back, I think they were just like us, lass. Just trying their best to live their lives with honor and to make a safe, happy home for themselves and their loved ones.”

“And some of them may well be yer ancestors.” Regan leaned her head against his shoulder. “Just like, someday if the good Lord is willing, we’ll be ancestors of folk who’ll mayhap look back on the ruins of Balloch Castle and wonder what sort of people we were.”

“Ye’re certainly in a thoughtful mood.” He kissed the top of her head. “Wondering about legacies, ancestors, and children.”

“Aye, that I am.” She straightened and regarded him with tender consideration. “I love ye, Iain Campbell. Love ye with all my heart.”

Joy flared in his deep blue eyes. “Do ye now?”

“Aye,” Regan replied with a firm little nod, “I do.”

“And I love ye, lass.”

“I know.”

“Do ye now?” He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose I’m not one for hiding what I truly feel.”

She chuckled. “Nay, ye’re not, or leastwise, not with me. I like that, though. Indeed, I needed it even when the time came when I couldn’t understand why ye’d ever care for someone like me. Even when I dared not accept or even trust yer love.”

“But now ye do.”

“Aye, I do.” She sighed and laid her head back against his shoulder. “And in just enough time too, I’d say. Our bairn will need both parents loving it and each other. Bairns require, after all, quite a lot of work and patience.”

Iain’s hand tightened on her waist. “Are ye trying to tell me, in yer own roundabout and especially unnerving way,” he asked hoarsely, “that ye’re with child?”

“So it seems.” Regan grinned. “Does that please ye?”

He sighed and nodded. “Aye. It pleases me greatly. And what of ye? Are ye equally pleased?”

“Aye. I am.”

“When’s the bairn to be born?”

“In early July, from yer mither’s calculations.”

“My mither!” Iain released her, turned, then took her by both arms and searched her face. “My mither knows, and ye’re just now telling me?”