Wings of Morning (27 page)

Walter was becoming increasingly irritated, and when he was irritated, it became difficult to keep his temper in check. He was making headway in Regan’s affections, however, and didn’t dare risk upsetting her. Therefore, he saw no other alternative than to vent his anger on the servants.

“It’s been two weeks now since the bairn was born,” he snarled at Cook one warm, early July morn. “Why haven’t ye moved him to the nursery?”

The older woman glanced up from the cooked chicken she was slicing with a sizable knife and sent him an exasperated look. “It’s really quite simple, m’lord. Regan refuses to let the child out of her sight for even a minute. And, since she sees no need for Colin to sleep apart from her in some nursery, neither do I.”

Walter eyed her with ill-disguised displeasure. The woman was becoming far too impertinent these days. No matter her twenty-some years of service, he had half a mind to let her go this very instant.

Unfortunately, Regan loved Cook and trusted her like she trusted no other at Strathyre. He’d not endear himself to her if he sent Cook away. But later, Walter vowed, once Regan was his, he’d find some excuse to send this interfering woman packing. She had always been a stumbling block to his influence over Regan, and she always would be. He intended that to change, though, and soon.

“Well, Regan won’t regain her strength if she doesn’t get some sleep at night,” he said. “And if ye’re unable to convince her of the wisdom of a nursery, I won’t be.”

“Suit yerself.” Cook returned to the chicken, chopping it into parts with what seemed a particularly vicious enthusiasm. “Ye’ve met yer match, though, I’d wager, in going up against a mother she-wolf.”

Walter snorted in disdain. “Well, we’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

“Aye, we most certainly will,” came the woman’s cheeky reply as he turned to leave.

It was fortunate the walk from the kitchen to the second-floor bedchambers took several minutes. Walter needed that time and a bit more to choke down the foul mood Cook had so unwisely stirred. Still, the consideration of seeing Regan helped immeasurably. She had always, after all, been the brightest spot in his life.

That realization cheered him as he drew up finally before her bedchamber door. He knocked, was answered by a request to enter, and, with a broad smile on his face, immediately opened the door and walked in.

Regan glanced up from her seat before the open window, Campbell’s spawn wrapped in a light blanket and lying in her arms. At sight of the child, it was all Walter could do to keep from grimacing.

Then, when Regan saw that it was him and smiled, all thoughts of that unwanted child fled.

“Och, it’s ye,” she said. “Come over, Walter, and sit with me. I was just thinking about ye, I was.”

Happiness filled him. She had been thinking of him? He was indeed the most fortunate of men! He closed the door and hurried over.

“And were yer thoughts of me pleasant ones?” he asked as he took his seat in the chair facing her.

Regan laughed, and the merry sound washed over him like a soothing caress. “Of course they were. Ye’ve been so verra kind to me these past weeks. Indeed, I don’t know what I would’ve done without ye.”

“Ye’re family, lass.” He couldn’t help the husky catch in his voice. “I was happy to do whatever I could for ye.”

“Aye, as I’d always do the same for ye. But I’m nearly recovered from my childbearing now, and think it’s time I make plans to return to Balloch.”

She couldn’t have stunned him more if she had reared back just then and struck him full across the face. “R-return to Balloch? But why? Ye’ve had not a word or visitor from there since ye lost yer husband. Cruel as it must be to consider, it’s evident the Campbells wish naught more to do with ye.”

Regan sighed and turned her gaze toward the window. “Aye, so it’d seem, but mayhap if I return with Iain’s son in my arms, Mathilda at the verra least will welcome me for his sake. And Colin
is
Iain’s only heir. Whether Mathilda likes it or not, Balloch is now his.”

Walter’s mind raced. Now, more than ever, he had to find some way to put an end to that child. He was Regan’s last link to Balloch Castle and the Campbells. Once
he
was gone, she’d have no reason ever to want to leave Strathyre . . . leave him. He knew she was all but falling in love with him. He could tell by the joy in her eyes whenever she saw him these days. All he needed was just a little more time.

“Balloch Castle’s indeed wee Colin’s birthright,” Walter forced himself to agree in a reasonable tone of voice. “But there’s no hurry, is there, to return to a place and people who now seem to bear ye such ill will? Everyone there knows ye carried Iain’s child. Let the wee bairn, instead, grow up for a time in a happy place.”

She turned back from the window. “Ye’re most kind to worry so about my son. And, even if things eventually improve for us at Balloch, ye can be certain we’ll gladly spend a generous amount of time at Strathyre each year. I want Colin, after all, to know his MacLaren side of the family equally as well.”

“Well, we can speak of this later.” Walter felt his nails dig into his palms, and he had to will his hands to unclench. “There’s no need—”

Regan inhaled a deep breath. “Aye, there
is
a need. I wish to return to Balloch the day after the morrow, Walter. Will ye please make arrangements for a party of clansmen to escort me home?”

Once again he stared at her, dumbfounded. How could she do this, be so heartless and cruel, after all he had done for her? His gaze narrowed as she looked down at the child. Her lips curved in a tender smile, and she lifted a finger to stroke the bairn’s cheek.

Hatred welled, as caustic and hurtful as some bitter gall. It was bad enough that Iain Campbell had stolen her heart. Now the child, in its own way, had cast his spell over her. But why should that surprise him? It was in the bairn’s blood, this ability to ensorcel. He was, after all, his father’s son.

Even in death, it seemed, the warlock mocked him.

Walter had thought he had freed Regan from all enchantment when Iain Campbell died. He had apparently been wrong. Regan was yet bound, even if by the slenderest of threads, by the dead father’s aura of magic through his son. But not for long. If he had to tear the child from her arms to kill it, he would.

There was yet time, though. He must just come up with some pretext temporarily to separate Regan from her son. He didn’t need very long with the bairn. Just long enough to end its life without any sign of foul play. Just long enough to smother it.

“Well, if yer mind’s made to travel back to Balloch, I suggest ye begin taking some short rides to strengthen yerself,” he said, seizing on a plan. “It’s a long half-day’s journey, and ye’ve hardly left yer room in the past few months, not to mention you’ve recently endured the strain of childbirth.”

She appeared to consider that for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, I suppose ye’re right. And I’d dearly love to get out and see some of the countryside.” Her brow furrowed. “I must, though, devise some sort of sling to carry Colin in when I go riding.”

Walter choked back a sharp surge of anger. “For the short while we’ll be gone, I’m sure the child will be quite safe in his cradle.” He began to reform his plan. While they were gone, he’d now have to get someone else to kill the child . . .

“Nay.” Regan shook her head. “I won’t go anywhere without Colin.”

“And why’s that?” he demanded, his patience shredding. “Don’t ye trust him to be safe in Strathyre?”

She looked away suddenly—and most suspiciously—unable to meet his gaze. “He’s precious to me. He’s all I have of Iain.”

Walter threw up his hands. “Well, if ye won’t even meet me halfway on this, then I see no reason to allow ye to risk yer health by attempting to leave prematurely.”

Regan jerked her head around, her eyes gone wide. “What are ye saying, Walter? Are ye threatening to keep me here against my will?”

There was a strange light in her eyes. Almost as if . . . as if she suddenly feared him. As if she doubted him and his motives. As if she
suspected
him. But that was ridiculous. There was no way Regan could link him to her husband’s murder.

Still, the realization that a chasm had unexpectedly opened between them sealed his resolve.

He indeed needed more time to win her heart. And if that required he keep her here for her own good, he would. He had, after all, the perfect bait in her child to dangle over her head, to coerce her into obedience.

“I’m only doing what’s best for ye, lass,” he replied at last. “Ye’ve been through so much of late that I don’t think ye’re seeing things verra clearly. Ye lack sufficient health for a journey back to Balloch just now, not to mention the strength of mind to endure the cruelties ye’re certain to face once ye’re back amongst the Campbells. And then there’s yer unreasoning distrustfulness.” He sighed and shook his head. “Nay, ye’re in no condition to be going anywhere just yet.”

She rose to her feet, her eyes blazing. “What are ye about, Walter? I know ye. I can tell when ye’re up to something.”

He smiled and stood. “It’ll be all right, lass. Just ye wait and see. I’ll take care of ye, I will.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode across the room and out the door.

Regan didn’t have to follow him and try the door to know she was now a virtual prisoner. She had heard Walter give orders to some man just outside—orders that she wasn’t, under any circumstances, to leave her room. She was trapped here now, and well she knew it.

But what was Walter’s true intent in keeping her here? Did he realize she suspected he had played some part in Iain’s death? He should.

She hadn’t dared let herself dwell overlong on that issue during the last weeks of her pregnancy, fearing what the mental anguish over such doubts might do to her and the babe. Still, just as she had tried mightily not to think overlong about Iain either, the questions had returned anew once she had delivered. How had Walter known to arrive just in time to save her from being killed? Had he mayhap been there all along, hiding, and only the threat to her life had brought him out from cover? And where had he gotten the dagg he had used to kill the outlaw?

Perhaps he imagined she hadn’t seen it, but she had. And it wasn’t one of Iain’s pistols picked up from the ground where he had tossed them once they were spent. Regan well knew those two ornately decorated silver daggs, and the one Walter had fired was of far lesser quality.

A sudden, terrifying thought assailed her. What if Walter owned that pistol and always had? How he could afford to come by one was beside the point. But what if . . . what if he’d had that dagg the night Roddy died? And what if, instead of Roddy dying by one of Iain’s pistols, he had been shot in the back by his own brother?

Daggs needed to be fired at close range to have any chance of accuracy. And who’d be any closer than Walter, riding at Roddy’s side? It was a dark night. Both Iain and Walter had attested to that. It would’ve been easy enough for Walter to drop back from Roddy a bit, pull his dagg from his plaid, and fire it in all the confusion.

But why would Walter kill Roddy? Did he covet Strathyre and its lands that desperately? And why had he helped in Iain’s murder, if he really had? True, it was evident there was no love lost between the two men, but enough to kill?

The enormity of her plight struck Regan with shattering force. If Walter had indeed killed or been actively involved in the murder of both her husbands, she was in the gravest of dangers. He was either a murderously vengeful man who sought to punish any who crossed him, or he had purposely killed anyone who came between him and whatever he wanted. And perhaps she was at least some small part of what he had always wanted.

Colin stirred in her arms, opened his sweetly curved little mouth in a wide yawn, then settled back to sleep. Gazing down at him, Regan’s heart swelled with love. She’d do anything to protect her child. Indeed, some instinct had made her insist on keeping him always at her side. An instinct that was now becoming a genuine fear for his safety.

And, as much as she hated to do so, for the time being it seemed his continuing safety was best secured in pretending to acquiesce to Walter’s demand that she remain at Strathyre. Why he wished it so, she could only surmise.

As he had informed her he was keeping her here for her own good, though, Regan had seen something spark in his eyes. Something that unsettled her greatly. Something wild and irrational. Something almost insane.

Aye, she’d pretend to acquiesce for a time more. But then, even if she had to set out on foot, she meant to flee Strathyre. It was becoming increasingly likely Walter had had a hand in the deaths of the two men she had taken to husband.

Regan had no intention of losing her son at his hands as well.

20

The next day dawned rainy and cool. Thick mists rose from the land, swirling, curling, and spreading ever outward like some huge, white serpent devouring everything in its path. All sight and sound seemed swallowed in the insatiable maw of the vaporous beast, until the world disappeared into nothingness.

As Regan gazed out the window of the bedchamber that had now become her prison cell, her mood mirrored that of the dreary, almost foreboding day. An eerie feeling hung heavy in the air, presaging some unknown events to come. Events that promised ill for some and perhaps, God willing, good for others.

Regan shivered, then hastily closed the shutters and drew the thick curtains against the damp chill. Lifting her thoughts heavenward, she prayed to the Lord that, whatever happened, no ill would come to her son. He was innocent of all the foolishness and misguided acts that had brought them to this wretched moment in time. His life still spread out before him, pure, unscathed, and full of potential. And he deserved, oh, how he deserved, a chance to make something better of his life than she had of hers.

She had spent a sleepless night considering all possible ways to approach Walter. She knew she must find some way to win his trust. It was the only chance to get him to lower his guard long enough for her to escape with Colin. And something told Regan, for Colin’s sake at the very least, she must make her escape soon. Very, very soon.

A sound—was it a man’s shout?—rose from somewhere outside. Regan hurried to the window, threw aside the curtains, and swung open the shutters. Just then, out of the gray fog, riders appeared, three or four abreast, emerging as dark forms swathed in their plaids. Armed men in a seemingly endless file, until the open space before Strathyre House was filled with them.

Excitement and a wild hope rose in her. She leaned out from the window, straining to ascertain from which clan the small army had come. At nearly the same time, her bedchamber door violently crashed open, striking the wall with a resounding thud.

Regan jumped back, her heart slamming against her breast. She turned, caught sight of Walter’s enraged countenance, and glanced immediately toward Colin asleep in his cradle near the hearth. As if drawn by her glance, Walter’s gaze followed.

With a snarl, he set out toward the cradle. Regan gave a dismayed cry and ran in the same direction. Walter, however, had the advantage and covered the shorter distance before she was even halfway there. Grabbing up Colin, he handed him to Fergus MacLaren, who had followed Walter into the room.

In the next instant, Regan was there, fighting to get around Walter to reach her son. “Nay!” she cried. “What are ye doing, Walter? Give me back my bairn. Give him back!”

“Wheesht, lass,” her foster brother said, taking a firm hold on her. “No harm will come to the lad. He’s but assurance that ye’ll cooperate. And ye will, won’t ye?”

She didn’t like the wolfish look about him. He had the appearance of some cornered animal, with his panicky gaze, sweat sheening his upper lip, and nervous laugh. She swallowed hard, willing her rising apprehension to ease. Something was afoot. She needed to think and act calmly, or all could be lost.

“Of course I’ll cooperate,” Regan replied, pretending surprise. “Whyever would ye think otherwise? What’s happening, Walter? And who are those men who just arrived?”

His grip tightened on her arms. “They’re Campbells, and Niall Campbell leads them.”

Wild hope sprang anew, but Regan feigned only a look of puzzlement. “Aye, and what does he want with us?”

“He demands to see ye and the child. He won’t say why.”

Regan gave a careless shrug. “Well, that seems a simple enough thing.

Mayhap he’s finally decided to fetch us both back to Balloch.”

“Aye, mayhap,” Walter muttered, his expression clouding in sudden anger. “But ye cannot leave me. Ye see that, don’t ye? I’ve worked too hard to get ye, struck down too many, to lose ye now.”

So, Regan thought, it was as she had feared. Walter had fashioned some bizarre fantasy about the two of them, and the consideration of what he had done to achieve it filled her with revulsion. This wasn’t the time, though, to disabuse him of that crazed notion.

“He has a verra large army with him, Walter,” Regan began, carefully choosing her words. “It might be dangerous to refuse him.”

“Aye.” He nodded his head sharply in agreement. “That’s why I need yer help. Ye must tell him the child’s ill and ye’ll not be parading him just now for all to see. And then ye must tell him ye don’t wish to leave here, that Strathyre’s now yer home.”

Frantically, Regan tried to work out some way to keep her child with her. If she could just get the bairn into Niall’s presence, she knew Colin would finally be safe. Even if that ultimately required that she give him into Niall’s custody and remain behind, at least Iain’s son would be safe.

“Mayhap it’d be better just to bring Colin along,” she finally said. “I could still tell Niall that I wish to stay here at Strathyre, but I’d wager he won’t be satisfied until he sees the babe. And we don’t wish to make him suspicious, do we?”

For an instant, it appeared as if Walter were considering her plan. Then his gaze shuttered. He shook his head.

“Nay. The bairn will stay with Fergus, hidden where Niall can-not find him. It’s the only way I can be certain ye’ll say what needs to be said.”

He grinned of a sudden, and the smile was cold, icy cold. “It’s up to ye now, lass, whether the child lives or dies. Because Fergus has orders to smother the lad unless
I
come for him. And I’ll die first before I lose ye.”

Once again the crazed look flared in his eyes, and Regan knew he spoke true. Even if Niall killed him in the attempt to force Walter to reveal where Colin was hidden, Niall’s efforts were doomed. It was indeed up to her to convince Niall that all was well and to depart Strathyre. The reward for her lies, after all, was the life of her son.

Despair filled her. Niall had always suspected her. He was also not a stupid man and wouldn’t easily be deceived. No matter what Walter demanded, no matter how hard she tried, she might still fail. No matter how hard she tried, Colin might well die.

Regan closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and prayed. Prayed for guidance in the ordeal to come, that she’d say the right words necessary to convince Niall, even though they might all be lies, and prayed, most of all, for her son. Then, opening her eyes and lifting her chin, she nodded.

“It’s past time we went down to greet Niall,” she said softly. “To tarry overlong will only increase his suspicions. And we don’t want to do that.”

He regarded her with a piercing intensity, then nodded in turn. “Aye, we don’t want to do that.” Walter released her and offered her his arm.

Taking it, Regan spared one final glance at Colin, held now in the arms of a man who’d stop at nothing, even the murder of an innocent child, to serve his master. She prayed it wasn’t the last time she’d see her son alive.

Then Walter was leading her away, and Regan forced her thoughts to the task ahead. They descended the turnpike stairs to the second floor and the Great Hall, where Niall Campbell, scowling like some storm rising over the mountains, awaited them with at least a score of his men. Though a few still had their heads covered by the excess length of their plaids, most had thrown aside the damp wool and tucked it back in their belts.

All, Regan noted, bore short swords and dirks and looked to be spoiling for a fight. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Not only were they true sons of the Highlands, but there was the wee matter of Iain’s death that still needed avenging.

With Walter at her side, she walked up to stand before the Campbell clan chief. For a long moment, he ignored Strathyre’s laird and fixed his intense gaze on her. Regan stoically returned it with a steady one of her own.

“Ye look none the worse for the wear, considering the events of the past few months,” he said at last.

“I had Iain’s son to think of,” Regan replied, her glance never wavering. “At times, it was all that kept me alive.” As she spoke, from the corner of her vision, she saw one of Niall’s men slip off to descend the turnpike stairs to the lower level. For an instant, she thought to call him back, then discarded that idea. What did it matter to her anymore what happened in Strathyre?

Niall’s eyes narrowed, and some indefinable light flickered there. “Indeed? Despite yer words to the contrary, ye don’t look much the grieving widow to me.”

Anger, fueled by a deep anguish, welled up and bubbled forth before she could stop it. “And why would I bare my feelings to the likes of ye?” she asked, her voice vibrating with fury. “Ye never believed the truth of my love for Iain. Never!”

Beside her, Walter gave an unsteady laugh. “Wheesht, lass! That’s no way to welcome our guest. And the past is past. In Christian charity, ye need to lay aside yer animosity and forgive.”

Regan jerked around to stare at her foster brother, astounded at his shameless, blatant hypocrisy. An impulse to berate him rose to her lips, and only the hope of saving Colin quashed it.

“Aye, ye’re right,” she murmured, lowering her gaze and turning back to Niall. “I beg pardon, m’lord.”

“Dinna fash yerself,” his deep voice rumbled above her. “As MacLaren said, the past is past. What matters now is that Iain’s son be taken home to Balloch. Where is the wee lad?”

She steeled herself for what she knew was to come. “He’s ill.” Once again, Regan locked gazes with Niall. “And I’ll not be bringing him down for all of ye dirty-handed men to touch and make even sicker.”

The Campbell chief shrugged. “Suit yerself. But, whether ye wish to accompany him or not, the lad’s leaving with me.”

“And who are ye to determine where
my
son is to live?” she demanded. “He may well be fatherless, but he most certainly still has a mither!”

A muscle began to tick in Niall’s jaw. “And
I
said ye could return with him to Balloch. Despite my personal opinion of ye, I’ll not deny the bairn his mither.”

“Well, I don’t wish to return to Balloch. In all the weeks since Iain’s body was carried back home, not one of ye has bothered to visit to see how I was faring, much less ever answered my letters.”

Niall frowned. “What letters? And no one from Strathyre ever attempted to return Iain’s body.” Almost in unison, both he and Regan riveted their attention on Walter.

The blood drained from Walter’s face. “I-I can’t say what happened to the letters ye had me send, lass, but I sent them. I swear it.”

“And Iain’s body?” Regan prodded softly, her blood going cold. “Ye said ye returned his body the verra next day after he was killed. What of that?”

For a long moment, Walter couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. “Truth was, I couldn’t find it. Some animal must have dragged it away, and, though I and my men searched for it for a time, we never found it. But I couldn’t tell ye that. Ye were already in such pain, and there was still great danger that ye’d lose yer wee one . . .”

As much as she hated to admit it, Walter spoke true. As distraught as she had been, if she had learned that Iain’s body had been devoured by wild animals, she may well have lost all control, if not have finally gone mad.

“Nonetheless,” Regan said, “ye could’ve told me after Colin was born.”

“Aye, but it was past, and I hadn’t the heart to steal the first glimmers of joy ye’d had in such a long time.” Walter took her hand. “Can ye forgive me, lass?”

Regan stared at him, struck speechless. He had all but admitted he had killed or assisted in the killing of both her husbands and was even now threatening the life of her son, and he could still stand here and pretend to have acted compassionately in her behalf. It was almost . . . almost as if there were two distinct parts to this man, and neither were influenced, leastwise in any moral way, by the other. Two parts, and she hadn’t ever known either one.

“Aye, I suppose I can forgive ye that,” Regan mumbled, so appalled by all the lies and deception that she thought, for a moment, she might be physically ill. She wrapped her arms about her and lowered her head. “Och, Iain . . . Iain. Now I don’t even have the consolation of yer grave to visit.”

“Well, as touching as this all is,” Niall chose just then to interject, “it’s all beside the point. As Colin’s mither, ye’re welcome at Balloch, and as Iain’s only heir, Colin’s proper place is there as well.”

It was too much, Regan thought. All she’d ever be was a pawn between Niall Campbell and Walter, each one tugging her first one way and then the other, and neither had her best interests at heart. Only Iain had truly cared for and about her, and he was gone.

Grief pressed down on her with such a heavy weight that she couldn’t speak, much less think coherently. Regan felt as if she were falling into some abyss that she’d never be able to escape. An abyss from which no one, not even her sweet little child, would be able to call her back.

Her hand went to the silver cross she always wore, and she clutched it to her. The silver cross . . . her mother’s parting gift that sad day she and Regan’s father had departed for Edinburgh, never to return. Regan had not forgotten the brief prayer her mother had written and enclosed in that precious piece of jewelry.
Dear Lord Jesus, be ever near my beloved daughter . . .

A freshened swell of anguish surged up, threatening to smother her. Regan closed her eyes, fighting with all her strength not to be overcome. Yet, even as she considered the darkness promising an end to the pain, a sudden, blessed assurance filled her. A sense of a Presence, speaking in a soft, quiet voice deep within her heart.

No matter how far she tried to flee or how deeply she fell, there would always be One who would pursue her, who, indeed, would always be there for her. He was her strength and her courage when she had none of her own. He was all the love she’d ever need, even when there seemed no love left her in this world.

All she had to do was reach out and take His hand, the voice whispered, and He would surely lead her, hold her up. Take her and bear her on the wings of morning until, someday, all would be healed and she’d once again find the happiness she had always sought.