Wings of Morning (23 page)

“I saw no point in telling ye until I was certain. And who else would be able to advise me but another woman?” She smiled up at him. “Mathilda was verra happy, she was, to know she’ll finally be a grandmither.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “I can well imagine she was. Many were the times when I’m sure she despaired ever of seeing me wed, much less gifting her with grandchildren. She’ll be forever in yer debt now, lass.”

“No more so than I’ll always be in hers.”

“Och, lass, lass!” Iain pulled her to him and held her tight. “I’m to be a father. Indeed, Niall and I’ll both soon be fathers. Won’t Anne and Niall be happy to hear this news! I’ll have to write them this verra day.”

“Don’t ye think we should wait a time, like Niall and Anne did, to make certain all’s well with the wee one?”

“And how long would that be?” Iain asked, holding her from him now so he could see her face.

“Well, I’ll be over three months along by Christmastide. Wouldn’t that be a most wonderful Christmas gift to send them? And we could tell all of Balloch the news at the same time.”

“Christmastide, eh?”

She nodded.

“Another three weeks, eh?”

“Aye.”

Iain smiled, and, standing in the wake of his smile’s breathtaking beauty, Regan thought she might melt right there at his feet. Och, how she loved this man! How good the Lord had been to the both of them!

“Well, if it pleases ye to wait, lass, then I’ll do it,” he finally replied. “But I warn ye they may all suspect something’s afoot anyway, seeing as how I’ll constantly be grinning from ear to ear and strutting about like some banty rooster.”

“Then our secret’s safe enough, it is,” she said with a chuckle.

He frowned in puzzlement. “Indeed? Why so?”

“Because, dearest husband, grinning and strutting are yer usual behaviors.” She smiled up at him sweetly. “Ye did know that, didn’t ye?”

Iain arched a dark blond brow. “Nay, I didn’t.”

“Well, it’s true enough. Or, leastwise, true since ye brought me home as yer wife.”

“Och, lass,” he said, pulling her back into the strong, warm haven of his arms. “Ye speak true. Indeed, what man wouldn’t strut and grin with a bonny wife such as ye?”

She snuggled up against him, so happy and content she thought her heart would burst with the sheer joy of it. “Aye,” Regan whispered, “and what woman wouldn’t feel the same, with a bonny husband such as ye?”

Two months later, Walter brushed the snow from his thick leather jacket and plaid as he waited for William Drummond to be notified of his arrival. It had been a miserable journey here, through a driving snowstorm and near blizzard conditions, but he knew better than to keep William Drummond waiting. Especially when the man’s terse letter had suggested a joint plan to return Regan to MacLaren control.

William’s manservant finally returned. “M’lord’s otherwise engaged for at least another fifteen minutes. He said for ye to take yer ease in his study closet. There’s a fire to warm yerself there, and I’ll soon fetch ye a hot drink. Have ye any preferences?”

“I took a fancy to yer fine ale last time I was here. Would a pitcher of hot King’s Cup be too much trouble to prepare?”

“Nay, m’lord. It’d be my greatest pleasure.” The man bowed and hurried away.

Quite a change in his reception since his last visit, Walter thought, watching William’s manservant depart. It could only mean one thing. Drummond was very upset about something and desperately needed his help.

A smile on his lips, he headed across the entry area to the small room William used as his study. The room was indeed warm from the hearth fire. Walter was soon settled in a high-backed chair with his feet propped on a stool. It didn’t take long for him to thaw his frozen limbs and, indeed, even begin to doze a bit. The manservant, however, soon returned with a small pewter pitcher and two mugs on a tray.

Walter lost no time in pouring out some of the hot brandy and strong Scotch ale drink, then swallowing half the mug’s contents. It was a most pleasing mixture, with the slightly sweetened, liquid fire of brandy and ale, passing tang of lemon, and rich flavors of cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg. As the King’s Cup slid down his throat, a satisfying warmth spread from his gullet out to fill his whole chest. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and savored the delicious sensation.

With a resounding thud, the door behind him slammed open. Mug in hand, Walter wheeled around. William, hands on his hips, stood there in the open doorway, grinning back at him.

“Rather fond of the grand entrances, aren’t ye?” Walter asked before rising from his chair. He lifted his mug. “Care for a wee swallow of King’s Cup? It’s verra tasty, it is.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” His host grabbed the door and pushed it shut, then strode over to the fire. He took the mug Walter offered and, throwing back his head, proceeded to drain its entire contents.

Walter watched him with no small amount of irritation. If William thought to intimidate him by all this showmanship, he’d soon learn otherwise.
He
already knew all that he needed. William needed his help.
He
, for a change, held the upper hand.

After a refill, the Drummond chief finally settled in the other chair facing the fire. Walter was content to wait for him to make the first move. He sipped his spiced ale and brandy and pretended interest in watching the fire.

Finally, William cleared his throat. “So, have ye heard from Regan of late?”

“Aye. About Christmastide, she wrote me a verra cheery letter, informing me how happy she was and that her and Campbell’s first bairn is due in July.” He gave a disparaging snort. “I wonder who coerced her into writing that drivel, leastwise the part about how happy she was.”

“And I say ye delude yerself if ye imagine she isn’t settling nicely into life at Balloch.” Walter’s host paused to take a deep swallow of his mug. “The lass has aught she wishes, and wants for naught. She’s happy, and no mistake.”

Walter’s irritation simmered into anger. “It’s but a charade she plays to lull that preening peacock of a husband into betraying his cold-blooded, murdering side. Give her time, and ye’ll see.”

“Well, time’s not a luxury I can spare.” William eyed him over the top of his mug. “Despite his assurances to the contrary, I feel certain Iain Campbell plans to manipulate Regan to seek the Drummond chieftainship. And ye know as well as I that, with Campbell forces to back them up, I’ve no chance of keeping my position.”

Ah, at last we get to the heart of the matter,
Walter thought. “Aye, neither of our clans can hope to defeat any Campbell attack, be it separately or united.”

“Regan should’ve stayed where she belonged—at Strathyre House. Curse Roddy for going off that night, to reive Campbell cattle, no less! He was daft, he was!”

“It was ill-advised, to be sure.” Walter shrugged. “Even now, I frequently revisit that ill-fated night and wonder what I could’ve done to prevent the tragedy. But Roddy never was one to listen to reason.”

“Well, ye certainly profited from that ill-fated night.” As William took another drink of his mug, his gaze never left Walter’s. “Ye’re now laird of Strathyre and its lands. One would almost wonder if ye didn’t have a hand in yer brother’s death.”

Walter knew there had been talk among Clan MacLaren about that very possibility. But he also knew there was no proof, and without proof no one could be convicted. Iain Campbell’s exoneration, by the queen, no less, was ample evidence of that.

He smiled. “Just because a man stands to profit by the unfortunate death of his kin doesn’t mean he had a hand in that death.”

“Nay, to be sure.” The other man’s glance narrowed. “We’ll both profit, however, if Iain Campbell dies.”

Walter wasn’t about to appear overeager, though he had thought long and hard about ways to murder the Campbell tanist. Even the thought of him touching Regan made his blood boil. Indeed, when he had first read of Regan’s pregnancy, he had thought he’d choke on his upsurge of rage and envy. But William didn’t need to know that. Such knowledge would only give him the upper hand.

“I’d like Regan back at Strathyre where she belongs,” he said. “That’s true enough. But to kill to get it . . .”

“Well, I’ve no scruples about seeing Campbell dead,” William muttered darkly. “He thinks he can blackmail me to support the queen, he does. I won’t permit anyone to do that. Not even a Campbell!”

“And is he mayhap using the threat of Regan returning to claim the Drummond chieftainship as his inducement?”

William shot him a furious look. “What else
could
he use against me? The conniving, viperous worm!”

“More like an abortive, rooting hog, to my mind of it.”

“Aye, and a foul lump of deformity,” William countered, his voice beginning to slur a bit. “Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile to boot.”

From the sound of him, Walter decided the man had been in his cups long before he had arrived. It was likely past time to get this matter settled, before William slipped into a drunken stupor.

“Well, be that as it may,” he said, “ye’ve yet to tell me yer plan.”

“Plan?” His host glanced up from the mug he had just emptied, a slightly befuddled expression on his face.

“Aye,” Walter patiently reiterated. “Yer plan to rid us both of the scourge of Iain Campbell.”

“Och, aye.” He nodded. “My plan. It’s simple enough, it is. We need to keep in close contact as to Campbell’s whereabouts, and mayhap even lure him to Strathyre for a wee visit. I’m sure ye could convince Regan to pay a visit home, couldn’t ye?”

“In time, aye. She dotes on my wee sister.” Walter smiled. “And Campbell’s apparently so besotted with Regan, it might be an easy enough undertaking to get him to come along. Once I get him to Strathyre, however, what do ye propose I do with him?”

“Naught save inform me when ye know their departure date. Then I’ll bring my men, all dressed as outlaws, to lie in ambush. Since ye’ll also apprise me of the number of men accompanying Campbell home—and his route—it’ll be an easy enough thing to send a sufficient number of my lads to overpower them, as well as to set up the perfect ambush along the way.”

“And naught about that attack will incriminate me?”

William grinned. “Naught will incriminate either of us, my friend. Otherwise, the plan’s ultimately a failure, isn’t it?”

“Aye, I suppose it is.” Walter paused. “And what of Regan?”

His host gave an offhand shrug. “What of her? It matters not to me if she dies in the attack. Indeed, her death’s of even greater personal advantage than Campbell’s.”

“Well, it matters to me.” Walter leaned forward, dangling his now empty mug between his legs. “In truth, ye must give me yer word Regan won’t be harmed, or I’ll not help ye in this.”

“So, ye still want her, do ye? Another man’s leavings? Carrying
his
child?”

A grim, cold resolve filled Walter. “It’s true. I don’t think I could stomach Campbell’s child hanging about. But bairns die all the time of a variety of illnesses and accidents.”

“It matters not to me what ye do with the brat. Just as long as ye hold to our earlier bargain and keep Regan at Strathyre, I’ll be content.”

“Aye, I’ll keep her so safe and sound she’ll never set foot off MacLaren lands again.” Walter cocked his head. “Ye also still intend to honor yer offer of a yearly stipend for her upkeep, don’t ye?”

William’s mug clattered to the stone floor. “Aye, to be sure, MacLaren,” he muttered thickly. “I’m an honorable man. I keep my word . . .”

With that, the Drummond chief fell back in his chair. His eyes slid shut, his mouth fell open, and a soft snore emanated from the back of his throat. Walter watched him for a time, considering all the possible ways he could turn this windfall to his best interests. Finally, though, he rose and left the room, his purpose to find William’s manservant.

He needed food and a place to sleep for the night. The morrow was soon enough to confirm their agreement before heading back to Strathyre. Then, all that remained was to await the perfect opportunity. After all, even if William tended toward a reckless impatience, he didn’t.

He had all the time in the world. All the time in the world to win back his lady fair.

16

Iain lay there in the darkness, suddenly awake though he didn’t know why or how he had come to be so. All was silent in Balloch, the thick stone walls and window shuttered against the late winter cold an effective deterrent against the usual household sounds.

Beside him, Regan slept peacefully, curled on her side facing him. They had only retired an hour or so earlier, so the hearth fire still dimly illuminated the room, casting her features into soft, shadowed relief.

He smiled tenderly. Och, but she was so dear to him, his beautiful, loving wife! His gaze lowered to her belly. Though she had carried their child for five months now, it was barely rounding beneath her night rail. Indeed, only this night had she finally felt the bairn’s first movements deep within.

In a little over four months, he’d hold that child in his arms. His and Regan’s child. Iain longed for that day with all his heart. And he vowed he’d be the father to it that
he
had never had.

His mouth twisted wryly. Strange that the longer he was wed to Regan, the less and less he thought about his father. Perhaps that bitter time was finally behind him.

Already, he felt he had surpassed the man Duncan Campbell had been. He had a wife whom he loved and who loved him, the first child of what he hoped would be several on the way, and a castle and lands that, under his diligent management, were far more prosperous than they had ever been in his father’s time. And he was tanist of Clan Campbell based on his own merits, not as a result of treachery and subterfuge.

He was also a man of God. He loved the Lord and strove always to do His will. To treat others with kindness and a fair hand. And he was blessed, och, so very blessed in turn. In truth, he felt as if the Lord led him, and His right hand held him up.

Outside, the stout wooden gate of Balloch’s outer wall squealed open. Iain slid from bed and hurried to the window. Shoving aside the thick woolen curtains, he unfastened the latch and pushed open the shutters. Down below, in the inner courtyard, twenty riders were just pulling up.

He closed the shutters, latched them shut, then pulled the curtains to. Next, Iain made his way to the clothes chest and quickly began to dress.

As quietly as he attempted to do so, however, his actions must have wakened Regan. She sat up in bed.

“What are ye doing?”

“Some men just rode in.” He hopped around as he tried to don his soft leather brogues. Finally, giving up the attempt, Iain sat on the side of the bed. “I need to go down and see who they are.”

Regan tossed aside the comforter and climbed from bed. “Well, then so must I. They may need something to eat and most definitely a place to sleep for the night.”

Iain was tempted to tell her to stay abed and he’d take care of their needs, but he knew such an order wouldn’t sit well with his wife. She took great pride in fulfilling her duties as lady of Balloch. “Well, dress warmly then,” he said, donning his shirt and tucking it into his trews. “Ye know how chill it gets once they bank the fire in the Great Hall for the night.”

She grinned. “I will.” Regan angled her head, eyeing him up and down. “Ye look verra fetching, ye do. I look forward to snuggling with ye, once we return to bed.”

“Do ye now? Then let me be on my way. The sooner I deal with our nocturnal visitors, the sooner we’ll be back abed.”

He left her then to finish her dressing and was soon striding down the long corridor to the stairs leading to the entry hall. As Iain reached the head of the stairs, the front door opened and Niall and five of his men were let in by Charlie.

Iain’s heart commenced a furious pounding. Anne had been due to deliver in the past few days or so. And Niall would never leave her side until she had, unless . . .

His throat constricted.
Please, Lord Jesus. Don’t let aught ill have happened to Anne.

As Iain forced himself to descend the stairs, Niall caught sight of him. The Campbell chief grinned. Relief swamped Iain. He smiled back.

“And what of Anne and yer bairn?” he asked just as soon as he drew up before Niall. “Has she delivered?”

His dark-haired cousin nodded, his eyes gleaming with pride and satisfaction. “Aye, but a week ago. We’ve a son, a strong, braw lad with Annie’s eyes and my hair.”

“And is she well?”

“Her childbearing was difficult, but, aye, she’s well. Despite everyone’s admonitions to stay abed, Anne’s already up and about.”

Iain gripped his cousin by the arm. “Och, I’m so glad. Congratulations, Niall. Ye finally have the son and heir ye’ve so long desired.”

A movement at the head of the stairs apparently caught Niall’s eye. His smile dimmed. Iain knew it had to be Regan.

“And what of yer wife?” the Campbell asked. “Is all well with her and yer wee bairn?”

“Aye.” Iain nodded. “All’s well with her—and with us. We’re verra happy.”

Niall wrenched his gaze back to Iain. “Then I’m verra happy for the both of ye.”

Despite his words, Iain knew his cousin still had his misgivings about Regan. There was naught to be done for it, though, save allow time to smooth over that rift. Which it would soon enough, Iain knew. Niall only had his best interests at heart. When Niall finally accepted that all was truly well between him and Regan, Iain felt certain he’d put his misgivings about her aside for good.

“So, I was expecting word from ye once Anne delivered,” Iain said with a grin, “but I didn’t anticipate the proud father being the one to deliver the message.”

Niall’s smile turned grim. “Och, to be sure that wasn’t my plan either. If the queen wasn’t in such dire straits, ye’d have to pry me away from Annie with a stout iron lever. But Mary needs us, she does, and we must attend her posthaste.”

Regan drew up at that moment, just in time to have overheard Niall’s disturbing declaration. “Welcome to our home, m’lord,” she said with a quick curtsy. “And what’s happened with Mary?”

He returned her salutation with a brusque nod. “Her husband’s been murdered, and she and Lord Bothwell, among others, are being implicated in the death.”

She put a hand to her throat. “When?” she whispered hoarsely. “Where, and how?”

Iain moved to her side and slipped an arm around her waist to steady her.

“Darnley was residing outside Edinburgh at Kirk o’Fields, apparently recuperating from the pox. Two hours after midnight on the morn of February 10, an explosion rocked the city, destroying Kirk o’Fields. Darnley, however, was found outside in his nightshirt, strangled along with his manservant.”

Regan swayed against Iain. He tightened his grip and pulled her close.

“Two days later, Mary sent off a messenger, requesting that Iain and I join her in Edinburgh.” Niall looked to Iain. “Even then, she seems to have feared there’d be some sort of public—and political—hue and cry raised against her because of the suspicious circumstances surrounding Darnley’s death. Will ye come with me, cousin?”

Iain looked to Regan. Understanding gleamed in her eyes. But there was an equally strong reluctance burning there as well. He had to admit to similar feelings.

Still, there was naught to be done but obey Mary’s summons. He turned back to Niall. “Aye, ye know I will. I’m yer tanist, after all.”

“Good. Then we depart at first light. As it is, what with the snow and road conditions, it’ll be nearly two weeks since Darnley’s death before we finally gain Edinburgh.”

“So soon?” Regan’s voice came out in a dismayed squeak. “Must ye leave so soon?”

When Niall glanced back at her, his hard expression had softened. “Aye. There’s no telling what’s come about in the meanwhile. If we don’t make haste, we might not make it in time to be of any use to the queen. If there’s aught we can do at any rate.”

Puzzlement clouded her gaze. “I don’t understand.”

“Mary’s marriage to Henry Darnley was likely the most illconsidered, politically destructive thing she ever could’ve done,” Iain interjected, looking down at her. “In the doing, she likely permanently alienated the Earl of Moray and Maitland, her secretary of state, not to mention the lords Mar, Kirkcaldy, Atholl, and others.” He sighed. “Though we’ll go to her, I’m not certain it’ll do any good.”

“Not with Bothwell so increasingly glued to her side, it won’t,” Niall muttered. “He’s no better for Mary than Darnley was, and it hasn’t been for want of trying on my part to convince her otherwise.”

“Then if ye truly feel the queen’s bent on her own downfall,” Regan asked, “why continue to support her? Likely she’ll only bring ye down along with her.”

Niall and Iain exchanged troubled glances.

“Because, sweet lass, we’ve given our word to be Mary’s true and loyal servants, that’s why,” Iain said. “And there’s yet hope, especially now with Darnley’s death, that Mary may finally see the error of her ways. There’s yet hope that Bothwell might finally dig himself a hole from which he cannot extricate himself.”

“In Darnley’s murder, ye mean?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“And if she persists in standing by Bothwell, what then?”

Once again, Iain and Niall looked at each other. They didn’t need to say a word. He and Niall had already spent countless hours debating their options if such a calamity were actually to occur. In the end, both had arrived at the same conclusion. The welfare of Clan Campbell would come before Mary’s crown. It had to, if she persisted in not listening to reason and instead continued to follow her heart rather than good Scottish sense. Unfortunately, for a queen at any rate, sometimes following one’s heart wasn’t always a good thing.

“We’ll address that problem if and when it becomes one,” Niall firmly said. “Now,” he added, glancing around, “my men and I haven’t eaten since midday, and we’re sore weary. Would it be possible—”

“Och, aye.” Regan pushed free of Iain’s clasp. “I beg pardon, m’lord.” She glanced at her husband. “Iain, why don’t ye take Niall and his men into the Great Hall? I’ll soon have Cook and the others up and preparing a meal. And then I’ll see to the preparation of several bedchambers.”

“Aye, that sounds like a fine plan.” Iain turned to Niall. “I’ll see to yer needs. Then, if ye will, I’ll excuse myself to begin arrangements for the morrow’s journey.”

Niall nodded. “Aye, best ye do. It’s been a long day, and a few hours’ rest will be most appreciated, it will. We’ve likely got a good five days’ journey ahead of us. And then, there’s no way of knowing what awaits us in Edinburgh.”

“Whatever awaits us,” Iain muttered, filled with foreboding, “I fear it may be the beginning of the end for the queen.”

“Aye, I fear that as well.” His cousin heaved a great sigh. “I but pray to God that there’s still a chance left us. I don’t like the thought of what might become of Mary if we fail.”

News of Darnley’s murder reached Walter at nearly the same time Niall and Iain set out for Edinburgh. He knew that, for the spy he had sent to Balloch Castle returned with a report of the two Campbells’ departure on the same day William Drummond arrived for a visit.

“Past time, I’m thinking,” the big Drummond chief said, “to be enticing my wee cousin to Strathyre for a visit. Iain Campbell, once he returns from Edinburgh, will then lose no time racing to be at his wife’s side.”

“Getting a bit queasy over all the political upheaval, are ye?”

William gave a snort of disgust. “The Campbells are fools to remain loyal to Mary. Mark my words, this is the beginning of the end for her. And, of all times, I don’t need Iain Campbell forcing me to join with them to support the queen!”

Walter motioned to the chairs before the fire. It was a bitterly cold day, the wind seeking out every chink in Strathyre’s crumbling mortar walls to whistle down the frigid corridors and into the rooms, until the only place of warmth was directly before the hearth fires. There were nights when he actually slept there, wrapped in woolen blankets, waking only to stoke the fire to keep it burning.

What he needed, if the truth be told, was to rebuild Strathyre from the ground up.
If
he had the money, which he never would unless he obtained it from somewhere outside Clan MacLaren. Clan Drummond had sufficient coin, if only Walter could find some way to finagle it from them. And the only way to do that was to convince Regan not only to return here but ultimately to wed him.

“Aye, I must agree with ye on that,” Walter said as he settled in the chair opposite William. “And I’ll gladly do what I can to aid ye in not pledging fealty to the queen. I must, however, have some pretext for luring Regan from Balloch at this time of year. Otherwise, she’ll just put me off, and Iain will likely become suspicious.”

Drummond leaned forward expectantly in his chair.

It was time to wheedle some money from the man, Walter decided. Not as much as he’d eventually demand, but at least some token of William’s commitment. What possible pretext could he use, though?

“Regan’s verra devoted to my wee sister, Molly,” he finally said. “Indeed, she’s been all but a mither to her.”

When he paused, his guest’s impatience quickly got the better of him. “Aye? And how do ye plan to use that to lure Regan here?”