Wings of Morning (26 page)

Then a hand settled on her shoulder, and a familiar voice filled her ears.

“Come away, lass,” Walter said. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

She opened her eyes, saw him squatting beside her. For an instant her head spun. Walter was here. But how? And why?

Then it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was Iain. Iain . . .

“N-nay,” Regan whispered. “He’s not dead. He’s not! Help him, Walter. Help him!”

He sighed and shook his head. “Come away, lass.” He began to pull her hands free of her hold on Iain. “It’s not safe for ye here. Though a bit of coin has managed to convince these men to spare yer life, they’re an undependable lot and might soon change their mind. Come away while ye still can.”

There was real concern in his voice. Some instinct told her he was likely right. “Aye, I’ll come away,” she said. “But bring Iain. Please, Walter. Bring Iain.”

She let him move Iain aside and help her to her feet. When he slipped a hand about her waist and tried to walk her away, though, Regan dug in her heels. “Bring Iain, Walter. Please!”

A taut, grim expression tightened his features. “Not now, lass,” he growled. “They only gave me leave to take ye away. We daren’t press our luck.”

“Nay!” Hysteria finally gained a stranglehold on her. She twisted wildly in his grip, struggling to turn back to Iain. “Nay!”

“We’ll come back for him later.” Walter fought to maintain his hold on her. “Later.”

A scream rose to her lips. “Nay!”

And then a pain came, deep in her belly, twisting and coiling so hard and tight that it took her breath away. She gasped, doubled over, and clutched at her swollen abdomen.

The pain came again, and Regan recognized it now for what it was—a birthing pang. Fear swamped her. The child! She was losing the child!

She screamed. Her knees buckled, and only Walter’s quick response in catching her and swinging her up into his arms saved her from falling. For a fleeting moment, Regan felt his jarring motions as he carried her away. Then another pain came, sending her over the brink of consciousness and into a blessed place where nothing mattered.

“Och, my poor, sweet child. It’ll be all right. Just ye wait and see.”

The soothing voice—Cook’s voice—rose from the graying mists, accompanied by a cool, damp cloth sliding down the side of her face. Regan groaned, pushed it away, and rolled over to face in the opposite direction. For her efforts, she was rewarded with another belly cramp. This one, though, was far less intense.

Her eyes snapped open. Her bairn! Was it all right? It
must
be all right!

On the heels of that thought came the memory of Iain, of holding him in her arms as he lay dying. Freshened grief flooded her. Once again, all Regan saw was the blood, and his dear, waxen face. She heard his beloved voice speaking to her for the last time. And all she felt was helpless, empty anguish.

She wept, but the tears didn’t wash away any of the searing pain. How could they? Iain was gone, and he had been everything to her. Everything!

“There, there, child. Don’t cry so. Yer weeping may yet harm yer bairn, and ye might lose it.”

Cook laid a hand on her shoulder and patted it. It was a big, broad, work-roughened hand, but the woman’s touch comforted Regan nonetheless. She rolled back to face her.

“My bairn? Ye mean I haven’t already lost it?”

“Och, nay.” Cook smiled and shook her head. “Ye were bleeding a wee bit when Walter first brought ye back home, but once I got ye into bed and bathed ye, it came no more. We may well have to keep ye in bed until it’s yer true time for birthing, but I think there’s yet a chance we can save yer wee one.”

Yet a chance we can save yer wee one . . .
The consideration that she might still carry Iain’s child to a safe birth was a bittersweet one. Though Regan knew it was what Iain had died trying to protect—her life and that of his unborn child—she found scant solace in the realization. She wanted Iain. Without him, life—the future—seemed nothing but a bleak, endless torment. More than anything she had ever wanted, Regan wanted to be with him, even if it meant following him in death.

But two things held her here. It was a sin to take one’s life. She’d then never be with Iain in heaven, a place Regan was certain a man such as her husband would go. And there was the bairn. She’d soon be a mother. That bore with it a responsibility to care for her child. Her child . . . and Iain’s.

“I’m glad for that at least,” she managed to choke out at last. “That there’s still a chance for our bairn. But what of Iain? His b-body . . . It needs to be taken back to Balloch and his mither.”

“I don’t know aught about that, child.” Cook paused to pour a cup of water, then slid her hand behind Regan’s head and lifted it. “Here, take a sip. Ye need to drink something. Later, I’ll bring ye up a fortifying broth and a nice, soft bannock or some fresh-baked bread.”

Though she obediently drank a few swallows of water, Regan shook her head once Cook had lowered her back to the bed. “I’m not hungry. Dinna fash yerself.”

“Well, if ye won’t eat for yerself, then eat for the bairn.”

Regan sighed. “Aye, well I know that. And mayhap in time I’ll eat, but not just now. I need to speak with Walter. Will ye fetch him for me?”

For some reason, the older woman didn’t look at all happy about that request. “Can’t it wait for a time? Ye need yer rest. And it isn’t wise to be upsetting yerself unnecessarily just now.”

“Then the sooner ye fetch Walter, the less upset I’ll be,” Regan

said stubbornly. “Until I know my husband’s body has been retrieved and is on its way to Balloch, I assure ye I cannot rest.”

“Fine.” Cook rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Have it yer way. Ye always do in the end.”

Remorse filled Regan. “Och, I’m sorry, Cook. I didn’t mean that to sound so unkind. There’s just naught else I can do for Iain, and I want—I n-need—to do what little is left me. Please try to understand.”

Compassion filled the other woman’s eyes. “I do, child. He was a good man, yer husband was. Even the short time he was here, I could see that, and see, as well, how happy he made ye. But now he’s gone, and I’ve got ye to worry over.”

“Then help me with this, Cook. Please.”

“I will.” She hesitated. “I’ll fetch Walter now, I will, if ye promise me one thing.”

Regan arched a brow. “Aye, and that one thing is?”

“Stay in bed, for yer bairn’s sake if not for yer own.”

Her bairn. It was all she had left of Iain. “Aye, I promise.” Then, as a freshened surge of tears filled her eyes, Regan closed them and turned away.

An hour later, Walter crumbled the letter Regan had written to Iain Campbell’s mother and tossed it into his bedchamber’s hearth fire. The parchment smoldered but a few seconds, then burst into flame, its remains soon wafting up the chimney as large flecks of ash. That task completed, he took to his chair to contemplate his next steps.

Regan had begged him to return to the glen where her husband’s body still lay, to bring it back to Strathyre so it could be prepared, before she accompanied the corpse to Balloch Castle for its proper burial. Walter had soon dissuaded her from her plan to return to Balloch. The continuation of her pregnancy was in jeopardy, and well she knew it. Though he half hoped she’d lose the bairn and be done with it, Walter also knew that keeping her abed for a time better served his purposes.

And, as far as the retrieval of Iain’s body went, if he’d had his druthers, he’d never return it to Balloch. Let the fool’s corpse lie there until it either rotted or became carrion for the vultures or wild beasts. Only later, much later, when the flesh was stripped from the bones along with those of the rest of Campbell’s men, might he visit the massacre site, pick out an appropriately sized skeleton, and send it to Balloch. Indeed, the thought of Clan Campbell burying someone other than Iain Campbell in his grave amused Walter greatly . . .

Still, all pleasant thoughts of such things aside, Walter knew it was in his best interests just to get the unpleasant deed over and done with. He couldn’t dare risk, after all, the suspicion sure to be raised if he failed promptly to carry through with the delivery of Iain Campbell and his men’s bodies back to Balloch. One way or another, though, he’d then immediately return to Regan’s side to help her through the worst of her mourning and the crucial remaining months of her childbearing.

A day or two more in seeing to a distasteful task, he comforted himself, and he could finally turn to more important things. Things besides Regan’s welfare, such as paying William Drummond a wee visit. The man owed him money, he did, and it was past time, now that Regan was back at Strathyre and Iain Campbell was dead, that the recompense begin.

Next, fortified with some badly needed funds, Walter intended on returning home for a very long stay. He needed time with Regan, lots of time, in which to evolve, leastwise in her mind, from the concerned, comforting brother to a cherished friend whom Regan both cared for and depended upon. From there, it was a simple enough leap to her falling in love with him.

In entirely different but equally effective ways, he had removed the two men who had come to stand between him and Regan. At long last, the way was clear to devote himself to winning her heart. And he would. He was certain of it.

All he needed was time and an absence of distractions. And there was but one distraction left standing in his way. Still, there was hope Regan might yet prematurely shed herself of the bairn. If not, a wee babe was an easy enough obstacle to overcome. Indeed, with its untimely and most unfortunate death, an additional opportunity to play the devoted, compassionate friend presented itself.

Thinking over it all, Walter couldn’t believe how everything—
everything
—was falling into place. If he had been one of those true and devoted followers of God, he’d have almost thanked Him for His most generous assistance.

19

As the days, then weeks, began to pass, the enforced bed rest appeared to work its calming effects—leastwise on Regan’s body. She experienced no further birthing pangs or bleeding. It was the only blessing, however. With little to keep her mind occupied, Regan endlessly relived the events surrounding Iain’s death, finding no relief save in slumber.

Even now, it seemed as if that horrific day had occurred but yesterday. She examined it from every angle, seeking to discover the answer that would yet save Iain’s life. If strength of will and intensity of desire could’ve turned back the clock to that fateful morn, Regan would’ve gladly prevented them from leaving Strathyre. If only they hadn’t set out that day, perhaps the outlaws wouldn’t have been at the glen when they had finally come that way.

Yet, even as she dwelt on the possibilities, another consideration crept into her mind. The outlaws had not only been at the glen at the correct time but also apparently had been waiting for them. As if . . . as if they had known the exact day and time of their departure. As if someone had told them, and even sent them to that place for their murderous purpose.

But who would wish to do such a thing? True, Clan Campbell had its share of enemies. All Highland clans did. But how had they discovered Iain’s whereabouts so easily, not to mention knew when they were to depart for Balloch?

Or was the outlaws’ intent, instead, to murder her, and Iain and his men were but unfortunate impediments to that purpose? At the thought, a shiver coursed through Regan. Who would want her dead? Certainly not Walter—though, if her husband’s and his continuing enmity were any indication, his motives could well be suspect when it came to Iain’s death. Still, Walter
had
possessed the information as to their departure date and time.

When it came to folk who wished
her
dead, there was only one possibility, and it fell at the feet of her own clan. Her relatives, William Drummond most of all, were the most likely suspects. With her gone, there’d be one less obstacle to their continued infighting over the clan chieftainship. Aye, and William, who now was titular head of Clan Drummond, would wish her gone most of all.

There had certainly been no love lost between them when he had attended her and Iain’s wedding. Though his responses to her, the rare times they had talked, had been courteous, there had always been an icy layer just beneath the surface.

William hated her. There was no doubt of that. And, for some additional reason she had yet to fathom, he hated Iain equally as much. She had seen that in his eyes the morn he and his wife had departed Kilchurn. Seen hatred and a most appalling fury.

There was nothing she could do, though, about any of it just yet. Her first responsibility was to her unborn child. And, once it was born, she must have a care to its continued safety. Not only was the child Iain’s heir, but through her, it was also true heir to Clan Drummond. There were those who’d be equally upset over that, as there were those who knew the bairn to be a Campbell.

Clan Campbell, however, would be apprised of her suspicions just as soon as she delivered and had recovered from her childbearing. It was a hard thing, it was, not to be able to act immediately to seek out and punish Iain’s murderers. But there was yet time. And, just as she had diligently attempted to discover Roddy’s killer, she’d do the same now for Iain.

Two husbands, both murdered. That such a thing could happen to the same woman in less than the space of a year was all but inconceivable. Was she cursed somehow? Had God turned His face—and His love—from her?

The thought terrified Regan. Under Iain’s gentle tutelage, she had come to see the Lord as a benevolent, merciful Father, and His Son as a lover and friend. She had come to see herself, as well, as a good person worthy of all the love and tender care Iain and his family had showered on her. But now . . . now she wondered.

Almost everyone Regan had ever truly and deeply loved had ultimately left her. They had all died. Was she somehow tainted, a cursed person who could only bring tragedy and death? It had been her secret fear for a long while, and now it seemed to have been amply justified. But why? What had she ever done to deserve this? And would this child she bore be relegated to the same fate?

“No matter what happens to me, ye must live . . . live for yerself . . . for the sake of our bairn.”

Those had been some of Iain’s last words. Yet despite his insistence that she possessed the strength and courage to go on without him, if she also lost her child, Regan wasn’t certain she could survive that atop all the other losses she had endured. Nor, if the truth be told, would she want to.

Aye, there were always Molly and Walter. Molly did her best to try and cheer her up, spending hours each day playing games with Regan and telling her stories. And cool, distant Walter had become a most surprisingly solicitous friend, a solid presence who patiently listened to her endless outpourings of grief. But Molly was just a little girl, and after all these years of guarded friendship with Walter, trust and a true affection for him would surely be slow to come.

The disturbing lack of communication between her and Balloch also nagged at Regan. Though she had sent off her letter to Mathilda over three weeks ago along with Iain’s body, Regan had yet to hear back from her. She had hoped against hope that, once Iain was buried, his mother and perhaps even Niall and Anne Campbell would come to Strathyre to visit her. But instead it seemed that with Iain’s death, Clan Campbell had all but washed their hands of her.

A sudden thought assailed her, sending an icy chill through her veins. What if they suspected she had a hand in Iain’s death? Regan wouldn’t put it past Niall to harbor such a suspicion. She had long ago despaired of winning his friendship or trust.

But surely Anne and Mathilda . . . She heaved a great sigh. With Iain gone, the two women who loved him almost as much as she had would surely be so grief-stricken it wouldn’t take much to turn them against her. Especially when the one doing the convincing was someone as persuasive as the Campbell clan chief.

Despair seized Regan. She buried her face in her hands. Would it never stop, the seemingly limitless repercussions of Iain’s death? Instead of Iain, it should have been her who had died that day. Her death would have been mourned by few, her influence soon forgotten. True, their bairn would have died with her, but they would have soon been safe and eternally happy in heaven.

And Iain . . . Iain could have easily found himself another wife. A wife far, far worthier of him.

But instead, the Lord had chosen
her
to be his wife. Even now, Regan didn’t understand that. But He had, and she must see it through to the end, whatever end God had in mind for her. She couldn’t conceive how she could have chosen any other path than the one she had. Everything she had done had been done in the name of human decency or justice. If she had been wrong, then she had done so in good faith. She had chosen the way she truly thought she had been meant to go.

And that path had, in the end, led to her healing and happiness. She had done nothing wrong; she had tried to do the right thing. And she had experienced, if only for a brief time, the most astounding, heartbreakingly beautiful love. No matter what came next, she would always, always have that.

“If only Ye hadn’t asked for such a terrible purchase price,” Regan whispered hoarsely, the tears falling anew. “I’ll try to be strong and courageous, Lord, but och, I want Iain back. How I want him back!”

She wrapped her arms about herself and pulled up her legs as far as her swollen belly would allow. There, in the gathering twilight of yet another day without Iain, Regan lay there weeping, until she finally drifted off into an exhausted slumber.

Barely a month later, deep, contracting pains woke Regan in the middle of the night. Jolted awake, she lay there gasping at the sheer, breath-grabbing intensity of them, her hands clenched in the bedsheets, her back arching from the mattress. The pains went on for what seemed an eternity, then gradually abated.

Regan lay there in the darkness, taut and perspiring, terrified of what the pains might mean. Her thoughts raced. It was June 19, if the night had already turned to the next day. Two weeks until her calculated birthing date.

A short time later, the pains came, just as intense as before. Regan couldn’t be positive, but there seemed barely five minutes between this one and the last. She gritted her teeth and rode the ever-worsening wave of contractions. Suddenly, she felt a gush of warm fluid between her legs.

“C-Cook!” Shoving up in bed, Regan glanced toward the little pallet set across the room. “Cook! I need ye!”

The older woman all but leaped from her bed. Since Regan’s arrival back at Strathyre, Cook had insisted on sleeping close by in case Regan required anything. Though Regan had thought her efforts went far beyond what was necessary, tonight she was glad the woman was near.

“What is it, child?” Cook drew up beside her with a candle she had hurriedly lit. She held out the candle until it illuminated Regan’s face.

“My waters have broken,” Regan replied. “And in the short time since I woke, I’ve had two verra strong birthing pangs.”

“Have ye now? Well, let me examine ye and see what I find.”

With that, Cook quickly checked Regan. “Aye, I’d wager yer confinement’s begun,” she finally said. “But don’t fear. Yer bairn’s grown sufficiently now to survive.”

Regan clasped her hand tightly. “What should we do?”

“Well, first I’ll help ye from this sodden bed, wash ye, and dress ye in a fresh night rail. Then ye can sit in a chair and wait while I send a servant to fetch the midwife.”

Excitement and a happy anticipation coursed through Regan. “But what if the babe comes while ye’re gone? What shall I do then?”

The older woman chuckled. “If only we gave birth so quickly, leastwise when it’s the first time.” She patted her on the cheek. “Fear not, child. Naught will happen in the short time I’m gone. And then, when I return, I promise not to leave ye again until the wee one’s born.”

As Cook attempted to help her then from bed, another contraction came. Regan sat on the side of the bed, refusing to move further until that pain subsided. Then she undressed, Cook quickly washed her, and she donned another night rail.

An hour later, the midwife arrived. By then Regan’s birthing pangs were coming regularly, with increasing intensity and frequency. An hour later, she was in hard labor.

She tried not to cry out or complain. Most times she succeeded. But she had never before known such agony. Though a large part of it was physical, Regan was overcome as well by an overpowering need to have Iain at her side. He had dreamed of this moment for so long and had promised he’d be there for her when the birthing came.

And he still was, Regan repeatedly reassured herself as she lay there limp and exhausted after yet another contraction had passed. Iain was here in spirit, looking down at her from heaven. Even though in this life he’d never hold his child in his arms, he’d know, nonetheless, that he’d soon be a father. She had to believe that. She just had to.

The birthing seemed to drag on forever, until Regan thought she’d go mad from the pain. Finally, however, an uncontrollable urge to push came, and the pain was suddenly made bearable by a fiercely satisfying sense of purpose. Just as the sun peeked over the mountains, Regan delivered of a fine, healthy baby boy. His strong cries soon rang through the air.

Seeing him for the first time, Regan felt herself fill with pride and a deep, abiding joy. She watched impatiently as the midwife bathed her son in salt water and performed all the traditional rituals. At long last, the woman carried her babe over and laid him in her arms.

As she gazed down at her perfect child, her heart swelled with satisfaction. She had succeeded. She had carried Iain’s son and safely delivered of him. She had done what she’d had to do, and done it well.

For ye, my beloved,
Regan silently thought.
My parting gift to ye, as is my vow to raise him well with full knowledge and love for his magnificent father.
She leaned over and tenderly kissed her son.

“We fetched the priest, we did,” Cook offered just then. “In case ye’d like him baptized straightaway.”

“Aye,” Regan said, “I’d like that verra much.”

Cook turned and left the room, soon returning with the old cleric. He set out his bottles and linens, then faced Regan.

“We need a name for the wee lad, we do. What would ye be calling him?”

A soft smile lifted her lips. “Colin. I’ll be calling him Colin. It was his father’s wish that he bear the name of his great-grandfather, and so it shall be. Colin Campbell.”