Wings of Morning (25 page)

he said, his gaze now locked with hers, “and that ye’d been gone for nearly six weeks, I wondered at yer reasons. Especially when ye’d originally planned to attend Molly’s birthday celebration, then return home after a week or so.”

Regan sighed. “Aye, that was my original plan. But Molly begged me to stay on for a time more, and then once I sent David back to Balloch to fetch my escort, a few more weeks passed before ye and—”

“What do ye mean, ye sent David back?” Iain shoved to one elbow. “He wasn’t at Balloch when I arrived home, and Mither never made mention of his return. Indeed, she was wondering when he
would
return.”

Apprehension twisted her gut. “But I sent David back two weeks ago, Iain. What happened to him?”

Her husband’s expression darkened. “Whatever happened, I doubt the lad lived to tell about it.” He sat up in bed. “This doesn’t bode well, lass. Something foul’s afoot here.”

“Outlaws could’ve set upon him.” Regan blinked back a sudden swell of tears. “Och, he could’ve been wounded and lain there all alone until he died, and no one would’ve known to come to his aid!”

“It’s strange no one found his body.”

She jerked her gaze back up to him. “What are ye implying?”

He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again. “Naught. Leastwise, not yet. I’ve no proof, only suspicions.”

Anger filled her. “Suspicions that Walter’s involved in David’s inexplicable disappearance? Is that what ye mean?”

“Och, lass, leave it be.” Iain sighed and leaned against the bed’s wooden headboard. “It’s true enough I think little of Walter MacLaren. But I’m here, am I not, and willing, for yer sake, to give him another chance.”

Regan crossed her arms over her night-rail-clad body. She didn’t like Iain having such a poor opinion of Walter. True, Walter was a very private sort and could have a bit of ruthlessness about him at times. And she
had
had her passing doubts about his possible involvement in Roddy’s death, but that had soon dissipated once she was back at Strathyre. Walter had changed in the time they had been apart. He was now calmer, more patient and secure, as if becoming laird had brought with it the self-fulfillment he had always needed. Their friendship had bloomed as well. Regan knew now he had never had anything but her best interests and welfare at heart.

Yet she also knew Iain loved her and would do anything for her. Surely two good men could eventually be brought to find peace with each other.

“Fine.” Regan sighed her acquiescence. “I’ll not ask ye to make Walter yer bosom friend. It’s enough for now that ye’re willing to give him a chance.” She paused, shooting him an impish grin. “Ye needn’t worry, though, that Walter will ever steal my heart. It’s hopelessly, and eternally, yers.”

“Indeed?” He cocked his head, smiled, and she could tell he was pleased. “Well, it’s the least I’d expect, ye know. Ye being the queen’s most obedient subject, and her having commanded ye to wed me and all.”

Iain’s mention of Mary reminded Regan she had yet to hear the outcome of his and Niall’s journey to Edinburgh. “How is she, by the way?” Regan asked. “And whatever came of Darnley’s death? Did they ever discover his killer?”

“Nay, though there are many who suspect it was Lord Bothwell and several other conspirators who had a hand in that unpleasant affair. And there are just as many who also suspect Mary.”

“Mary? Why?”

“Because it’s long been evident she was unhappy in her marriage to

Darnley, because Bothwell’s always been her loyal and devoted servant, and because she couldn’t have pulled off her husband’s murder on her own. And, now that all charges have been dropped against Bothwell, there are new rumors he means to take her as his wife.”

“But Bothwell’s already wed!”

Iain’s mouth went taut and grim. “Not for much longer, I’d wager. The man’s riding high after the failed attempt by Darnley’s father to bring him to trial. Lennox was afraid to face him, what with four thousand of Bothwell’s supporters roaming Edinburgh the day of the trial. So, in the absence of an accuser, Bothwell was declared innocent. After that, the rumors of his intent to seek Mary’s hand began.”

“Och, poor, poor Mary.” Regan shook her head, so overcome with a sense of impending disaster that she found, for a moment, she couldn’t speak.

“Aye, poor, poor Mary,” her husband muttered. “It was then that Niall and I decided it was past time to take our leave of Court and Edinburgh. Mary had her chance to repudiate Bothwell and distance herself from him, but she didn’t. She listens only to him now, and apparently has no further need of us.”

“She may just be lost and confused right now, Iain. So much misfortune has befallen her in the past year or so. Mayhap if ye just give her some time, then approach her again . . .”

He sighed. “Aye, mayhap. We’ll see what the next few months bring.”

There was such sadness, such a sense of defeat in his voice and words that Regan’s heart went out to him. He and Niall had worked so hard to aid the queen, as friends, advisors, and loyal subjects, remaining true to her when many of their own clan had begun to distance themselves from Mary. Yet now it seemed as if all they had done had been for naught.

She scooted close and laid her head on his shoulder. “Ye’ve done the best ye could,” she whispered. “It’s time to place it all in the Lord’s hands.”

“Aye, mayhap it is.” Iain kissed the top of her head. “And it’s time, as well, to see to what’s truly the most important things in my life—ye, our bairn, and Balloch.”

Regan looked up and smiled. “I find no fault in that, m’lord.”

“And neither do I, m’lady. Neither do I,” he said, his voice going thick with longing as he pulled her down with him onto the bed.

Just a few more days,
Walter repeated over and over as he paced the confines of his bedchamber late that night. The message had been sent to William Drummond, alerting him to bring his men for the long-awaited ambush. Just a few more days, and Iain Campbell would never again strut off to bed with Regan on his arm. Just a few more days, and Campbell would be dead and she’d be his at last. If only he could endure the torment just a few more days.

There were plans of his own to make while he waited on Drummond’s men’s arrival. A site had to be chosen for the attack, one that positioned Campbell and his meager escort to their greatest disadvantage. Precautions also had to be clarified to ensure Regan survived unscathed.

One thing was certain in that regard. He intended to set himself and his own men at some secret but advantageous spot to oversee the whole affair. He didn’t trust William Drummond not to “accidentally” have Regan killed in the ensuing chaos. Her death, after all, would remove all threat of her ever laying claim to his chieftainship. And it would also absolve him of any future support payments on her behalf, monies Walter would always desperately need.

Additionally, something had to be done to prevent Molly from accompanying them, despite both Regan’s and his sister’s expectations to the contrary. Perhaps some unpleasant but innocuous herbal concoction from the local healer would do the trick. All he needed, after all, was to make Molly temporarily too ill to travel.

It was bad enough Regan had to endure the horrors of the slaughter. She at least, though, was an adult. As much as he hated making his sister sick, it would be far worse to subject sweet, innocent little Molly to the sight of what was sure to be some ghastly butchery.

A sudden thought assailed Walter, and he drew up short. Indeed, such a traumatic event might be enough also to send Regan into premature labor. If it did, she’d surely lose the child.

Walter couldn’t help but smile at the consideration. In one short, expedient act, he could well be free not only of the father but also the child. Regan—and he—would be able to begin anew, unencumbered by anything that bound her to her former life with Iain Campbell.

The more he thought on it, the more convinced he became that this was the most perfect of all plans. The warlock would finally lose his hold on Regan, and she’d finally open her eyes to the truth. The truth that he, her lifelong friend, was the real man of her dreams.

And he and Drummond had already agreed the attackers would all be men Regan had never met, dressed as outlaws and broken men. There’d be no way to trace the killers back to them. And, not long after the ambush was over and the outlaws had all ridden away, Walter and his own men would come riding up on the pretense of trying to catch the Campbell party to deliver some item Regan had left behind. Riding up to find her there among the dead and rescue her, to bring her back to the safe, familiar home she had always known and loved.

After that, it would be a simple thing to play the stalwart comforter to the grieving widow. He was certain he could win her back to him, once the effects of Campbell’s spells waned with his death. And if perchance the shock of the massacre didn’t cause her to lose the bairn, there were other ways to see the child gone soon enough.

Aye, Walter thought as he once more began to pace. There were many plans yet to be made, the details refined to unerring perfection. Just a few more days and he’d have everything he had ever wanted, ever dreamed of.

All he had to do was remain busy. All he had to do was keep his mind off the revolting image of Iain Campbell lying in bed just down the hall, holding Regan in his arms.

18

Two days later just after breakfast, Iain and Regan bade Walter farewell and headed out on the half-day’s journey back to Balloch. Though Iain knew Regan was disappointed at having to leave Molly behind, there was nothing to be done for it. The little girl had begun vomiting last night and was now too ill to travel. Regan seemed somewhat mollified, however, when Walter had promised personally to bring Molly to Balloch when she was fully recovered.

Not that Iain was overly thrilled at the thought of having to take Walter MacLaren into his house for even one night, he admitted as he rode along, Regan at his side and his men lined up behind them. But he was resigned to the possibility. Highland hospitality demanded it, if not just for the fact the man was all but Regan’s kin.

Try as he might, though, Iain found little to change his opinion of Walter MacLaren as a grasping, untrustworthy, shallow-hearted man. And he didn’t care much, either, for Walter’s proprietary, calculating air around Regan. If he hadn’t been her foster brother and dear to her, Iain would’ve gladly taken the man aside and set him straight about several things, the least of which was who was and who wasn’t Regan’s husband.

And he might still do so, if the man dared put on airs when he came to Balloch. Still,
that
day was likely at least a week or more away, if little Molly’s appearance this morn was any indication. The poor lass looked very sick, with a pasty complexion and dark circles beneath her eyes, and was so weak she could barely sit up in bed. Thankfully, though, she was finally taking a bit of broth, or he feared Regan would’ve refused to leave at all.

They rode for a time in silence, the horses all going at a walk to keep pace with the pony cart wherein Regan rode. Iain glanced at her every so often as well, attempting to gauge her toleration of the ride. She looked none the worse for it, he supposed, but still he worried.

Eight more weeks, and he’d at last be a father. Even now, all these months since Regan had first revealed her pregnancy to him, Iain still experienced the same excitement and eager anticipation each time he thought of his impending fatherhood. The Lord was so good. At long last, he had everything he had ever wanted.

“Ye look verra pleased with yerself,” Regan said just then.

He looked over at her. Och, but she was so beautiful. Soft color bloomed in her cheeks, her striking brown eyes sparkled, and she looked voluptuously healthy in her childbearing.

“Can ye think of any reason why I shouldn’t be pleased, sweet lass?” he asked as the trail began to dip down into a narrow glen, its steep hillsides covered in dense forest. “It’s springtime in the Highlands, we’re going home, and I’m so verra much in love with ye. What man wouldn’t be pleased?”

She smiled and colored most becomingly. “Yer pleasure’s all that matters to me, husband.”

Iain chuckled. “As well it should, wife. Still, I wish for ye always to find equal pleasure in—”

From somewhere above them in the trees, a horse snorted and Iain caught the faint clink of metal upon metal. All his warrior’s instincts sprang immediately to the forefront. He turned, glanced back at Thomas Campbell, one of his most trusted clansmen, and signaled for him to join him. Before the man could even nudge his mount forward, however, a crossbow quarrel hissed through the air and struck the man square in the chest.

Thomas gave a sharp cry and toppled from his horse. An instant later the air was thick with quarrels, all arching down toward them. Iain tore free the targ fastened to the back of his saddle and tossed the round, leather-bound shield to Regan.

“Cover yerself and hold on!” he cried as he next grabbed her pony’s reins and kicked his own mount in the side.

Both animals leaped into a gallop, and they raced down the glen. Behind him, Iain heard his men follow his lead, what men were still with him. As he had set out, he had heard additional quarrels strike home.

There was naught to be done for them. To tarry a second more in that narrow little glen would’ve surely been the end of them all. Their only hope lay in their getting out of crossbow range. Even if their attackers were mounted, it would be a difficult if not impossible task to reload a crossbow while in pursuit.

The glen, however, was longer than he had bargained for, especially at the slower pace the pony and its cart set. Two quarrels sunk deep into the targ Regan held up before her. Then one, burning like fire, pierced his left shoulder.

Iain ground his teeth at the pain, reached up to wrench the quarrel free and toss it aside, then forged on. For a few dizzying seconds, the world spun around him. Behind Iain, another man cried out and fell, striking the ground hard.

Fury boiled up and seared through him, clearing the dizziness like a cold splash of water. The cowardly knaves! Let them come out and face them like men! He’d gladly give them a wee taste of his claymore.

The end of the glen rose before him like some blessed entrance to sanctuary. Once they were out in the open, there was hope they could outrace their attackers to safety. Iain didn’t dare look to Regan. It was enough she managed to hold on, stay in the cart, and shield herself with the targ.

And then, men on horseback were suddenly there at the mouth of the glen. Armed men, men whose myriad colors of plaids bespoke of no specific clan or family loyalty. Outlaws, broken men who stood as a human barrier three or four ranks deep, between Iain and freedom.

He reined in his horse. Regan’s pony halted on his right. His remaining men drew up on his left.

One had a quarrel in his thigh. The other was yet unscathed.

Two men left out of nine, to face at least twenty men.

“Och, Iain,” Regan cried softly just then. “Ye’re hurt!”

As he turned to her, panic swelled. Even with just his two remaining men, he’d have gladly, even eagerly, rode to do battle against such overwhelming odds. But this time it wasn’t as simple or easy as that—he had Regan and their unborn child to think of. How could he protect her and still fight these men?

Help me, Lord. Help us all,
Iain thought, lifting a quick, desperate prayer as he scanned the terrain around them. There were scant defensible spots where Regan would be sufficiently out of harm’s way. A pile of boulders and several fallen trees about twenty yards back down the glen looked the best place.

He pulled his claymore free of its sheath on his back and pointed with it toward the boulders. “There, lads,” he growled. “We’ll make our stand there.”

Urging his horse on, Iain sent the animal racing toward the boulders, pulling Regan’s pony along with him. His two men followed close behind. Yet even then the outlaws were racing toward them.

They barely made the boulders. Immediately, Iain leaped down, thrust his claymore several inches into the earth, and pulled Regan from the cart.

“Go,” he cried, pushing her in the direction of the boulders. “Take shelter behind those rocks and trees!”

She opened her mouth as if to protest, then apparently thought better of it. Instead, Regan tossed his targ to him before hurrying to do as he commanded. She made cover none too soon. The first rank of outlaws attacked, slamming into the defensive barrier Iain’s men had made to protect him.

He swung up onto his horse, grabbed first one pistol and fired it, then the other. Both shots at such close range hit their targets, and two outlaws fell, mortally wounded. Then there was no time left but to fight. He drew free his short sword, a far more effective weapon on horseback than the huge claymore. With a targ on the other arm, Iain moved into position beside his men.

Sheer desperation, and likely greater skill, served them well for a time. One outlaw after another fell. Eventually, however, some in the back were able to reload their crossbows and began again to fire. Richard Gordon died, his throat transected by a quarrel. Then Willie Campbell’s horse took a bolt in its chest.

The animal screamed, reared, its front legs flailing the air, before toppling over sideways, taking Willie with him. He was immediately set on by three assailants.

“Cruachan!” Iain roared and reined his horse around, kneeing the beast into the thick of the battle for Willie’s life.

He used the sharply pointed tip in the middle of his targ to spear one man, and then his sword to all but slice off the hand of another. Both fell back, screaming in agony, but there were always more to take their place. There was nothing, though, he could do to help free Willie from beneath his fallen horse. To dismount now would’ve been the end of them both.

Hacking, slashing, stabbing, Iain fought on and on. There were times he held them all at bay, and then times when they surged forward like an uncontrollable floodtide, and he could barely defend himself. His sword arm grew heavy. His lungs heaved for air. Blood trickled from the hole in his shoulder, weakening him until it became increasingly difficult to lift his targ. Sweat poured into his eyes until he could barely see.

The wounds began to come more frequently now—slices to his arms and legs, small, passing jabs that pierced his skin more and more deeply before Iain could parry them away. And then the volley of quarrels flew again.

One struck him in the thigh, penetrating to the bone. Two more he barely defended against with his targ. Another three found his horse.

With a grunt, the mortally wounded animal sank to his knees and began to roll to its side. Iain leaped free, pivoted to run back to his claymore, when the quarrel tip in his thigh ground against bone.

Sharp, brilliant bits of light exploded in his brain, and he nearly cried out from the excruciating pain. He staggered, went down on one knee. A blade plunged into his back, then withdrew and plunged again. He thought he’d black out from the searing agony.

With the last bit of strength left him, Iain swung around on his good leg and thrust his sword into his attacker’s chest. The man plummeted to the ground.

And then Regan was there, catching him in her arms as he swayed then toppled over backward. Catching him to ever so gently lower him to the ground.

The tears streaming down her cheeks, she reached around to try and pull his sword from his hand. Iain gripped it all the tighter.

“Nay, lass,” he groaned.

“Let me have it,” she pleaded. “Ye fought for me. Now let me fight for ye.”

“N-nay.” His voice sounded curiously distant now, and only a superhuman effort brought him back through the encroaching mists. “If ye fight . . . they may kill ye. And, no matter what happens to me, ye must live . . . live for yerself . . . for the sake of our b-bairn.”

“I-I don’t want to live without ye, Iain,” Regan sobbed, holding him close. “I haven’t the courage, the strength!”

“Aye . . . but ye do.” He tried to smile, but he even seemed to be losing control of his lips. “Ye do . . .”

Something from the corner of his vision caught Iain’s attention. He turned his head. A man stood there, black rage in his eyes and a sword raised overhead.

He meant to strike, and strike a killing blow. But the man’s gaze wasn’t fixed on him, Iain realized fuzzily. It was directed to another. It was directed at Regan.

“Nay!” he cried and, with the last bit of strength left in him, threw himself in front of Regan.

Almost simultaneously, a shot rang out. The man hesitated; a befuddled look spread across his face. His sword tumbled from his hand. He took one, then two, staggering steps backward and toppled over.

It was the last sight Iain saw. Like a heavy curtain falling before his eyes, everything went black.

Regan had but a split second to glance up after the shot rang out and killed her assailant—a man she knew had meant to murder her. Her gaze flew past him to another man mounted on a horse but thirty feet away. A man who, until this moment, hadn’t been part of the outlaw band. In his hand, he held a smoking dagg. It was Walter.

She gave a sharp cry of recognition. Then Iain slumped, went limp in her arms. Suddenly, Walter’s unexpected arrival meant nothing. All that mattered was her beloved husband.

“Och, Iain!” The words barely made it past a constricted throat. “Don’t die. I beg ye. Don’t die!”

He looked so pale now, his mouth slack, his beautiful eyes closed, and there was blood, so much blood! Regan stared down at him in wordless anguish. He was dying. Iain, her joy, her good, kind, loving husband, was dying, and she could do naught to save him.

Pulling him tightly to her, Regan clenched shut her eyes and prayed.
Spare him, Lord,
she cried out in her silent agony.
He doesn’t deserve this, not now, not when he’s so close to seeing the child he wants with all his heart. He’s one of Yer most devoted servants. And I love him! Och, how I love him!

As she rocked Iain to and fro, sobs began to wrack her body. She tried to will all her strength and life into him. But, no matter how hard Regan tried, he lay there limp and unmoving.

A wren called from a nearby tree. A gentle breeze kissed her cheek. The scent of crushed, new grass enveloped her. Strange, she thought, that at a time like this she was so acutely aware of every thing around her. It seemed as if she were in some dream, hovering between heaven and hell.