Wings of Morning (4 page)

But mayhap Walter needed to speak of this. And mayhap, in the speaking, it would ease a bit of his pain.

He had always kept his feelings close, not sharing much of his heart with anyone. Indeed, she was perhaps the only person who had ever been privy to any of Walter’s thoughts, and even that was a rare happening. But she saw the look that had haunted his eyes since Roddy had first been brought home, already cold and lifeless. It was there still, gnawing at him like some relentless beast that refused to release its fallen prey. In his own way, Walter had likely loved his older brother far more deeply than Regan—and perhaps even Roddy—had ever realized.

“Aye?” she prodded when he chose not to continue with his unsettling pronouncement. “And what of it? Roddy’s dead. What more is there to say?”

“It’s one thing to die fighting yer enemy face-to-face. There’s some honor on both sides in that.” Walter paused and glanced away yet again. “But when yer enemy chooses to spare yer life and sends ye on yer way, only to then backshoot . . .”

For a long moment, Regan just stared at him. She knew now where Walter was going with this. Roddy’s murder was grounds for a feud. No Scotsman worthy of calling himself a Highlander would deny there wasn’t just cause to call out the clan. But to go up against the mighty Campbells . . .

“Aye, ye’re right.” Regan expelled a long, slow breath. “At the verra least, Iain Campbell must be brought to justice.”

Walter gave a harsh, high-pitched laugh. “And who’d dare bring the Campbell clan’s tanist to justice? He’s cousin and dear friend to the clan chief, and once even saved his life.” He shook his head with a savage vehemence. “Nay, we’d get no support from anyone in accusing one of the Campbell nobility. The queen dotes on those two, she does.”

Regan knew Walter spoke true. As if Mary’s favor in itself didn’t squelch any hope of legal justice, Niall and Iain Campbell were both powerful lairds in their own right, owned highly fortified castles, and could commandeer hundreds of men with but a few days’ notice. And if the MacLarens declared a feud, clan loyalty would then require the entire Campbell clan join with their two clansmen.

“Aye, we’ve no hope of bringing Iain Campbell to legal justice,” she finally replied. “Yet, in all honor, we’re bound to do
something
to avenge Roddy’s murder. And murder it is, now that we know how he truly died.”

A grim smile tugged at the corners of Walter’s thin lips. “There are many forms of justice, some legal and some not. But the final result’s the same.”

As if a chill breeze had found its way into the room, Regan shivered. “What are ye suggesting?”

He chose that moment to walk over to stand before her. Presentiment brushed Regan before skittering away to cower in some dark corner of the room. She looked up and met his suddenly piercing gaze.

“Iain Campbell must suffer the same fate as Roddy. It’s only fair, wouldn’t ye say?”

“Aye,” she replied warily. “But because he’s a cold-blooded murderer doesn’t mean we have to become one in the doing.”

“Och, lass, lass!” With an exasperated sound, he took a seat beside her on the settle. “It’s not murder. It’s justice! The only difference is, instead of taking him to the High Court in Edinburgh for trial and hanging, we’ll instead be his judge and executioner. And only because there’s no other way
to
bring him to justice.”

She eyed him with misgiving, even as a part of her agreed with him. Iain Campbell, because he
was
a Campbell, would indeed likely get away with his cowardly attack on Roddy. And a part of her dearly desired revenge. But it wasn’t just because Roddy had died. It was also because she felt she had played a part in his death. If she hadn’t rejected him, run and hid where he couldn’t find her . . .

Somehow, the act seemed nearly one and the same with whatever she had done long ago to drive away her parents.

As if summoned by her memories, Roddy’s voice came to Regan, still unsteady from the copious amounts of liquor he had imbibed that night, plaintively calling for her. Calling for her like some wounded child—like a child she had once been—confused and hurt because he had been left alone, and he couldn’t quite comprehend why. If only . . . if only . . .

Tears welled at the recollection. With a savage effort, she choked them back and forced herself to return to the matter at hand.

“What ye propose is verra dangerous,” she said. “Even if ye were to succeed, ye could be discovered. And then the Campbells would descend on us like a plague of locusts. All honor aside, is it worth the risk to the clan?”

“It is to me. And it’s not just for Roddy, ye know. It’s for ye too.”

“Me?”

“Aye, sweet lass.” As he spoke, Walter lifted a hand and, with his fingertip, tenderly stroked her cheek. “I know ye well, I do. Yer heart’s aching for Roddy, but it aches as well over yer guilt in sending him out that night.”

It was as if his finger had suddenly turned to flame. Regan jerked away. “I-I don’t know what ye’re talking about!”

“Aye, but ye do, lass,” he said, his voice deepening to the thickest honey. “I know what ye did. I heard my brother staggering through the house, calling for ye. He loved ye, he did, and he thought ye’d abandoned him.”

She turned away from him then.
Please, don’t say that. Please, don’t make me remember . . .

“It wasn’t like that,” Regan whispered, wrapping her arms about her. “I just . . . just wanted to give him time for the whiskey to leave him. He wasn’t himself that night. I don’t know why, but he just wasn’t my Roddy.”

Hands settled gently on her shoulders. “Wheesht, lass. I know. I only said what I did because I wanted ye to understand why this is so important to me. I wouldn’t do this for any other reason. I’m not a bloodthirsty man. But I also won’t stand by and see what matters most to me ruined.”

A great weariness crushed down on her. She didn’t know how to sort through this terrible mess anymore. What, indeed,
was
the right thing to do, and what was wrong? Where was there any fairness in any of it?

“Do what ye think is right,” Regan said at long last. “Whatever happens, it’s only just.”

“Aye,” Walter murmured, a strange, oddly triumphant note in his voice. “It’s only just.”

The attack on Iain Campbell took a time in coming. Walter wasn’t fool enough to ride up to Balloch Castle and demand a battle to the death with the Campbell chief ’s finest warrior. His particular gifts lay in less physical pursuits than sword practice and sweat. Which was well as it should be. As the days, then weeks, passed, Regan had a gradual change of heart and began to hope he’d not hold fast to their plan.

Finally, Walter’s spies returned with news that the Campbell tanist would depart in two days’ time for a short visit to the nearby town of Fortingall. Walter immediately moved to gather his men for the long-planned ambush.

By midday, they were armed and ready to depart. Watching them mount up from the front door of Strathyre House, Regan was filled anew with misgiving. Too many times to count in the past weeks, she had reconsidered her acquiescence to Walter’s bloodthirsty plan. If anything went wrong with this undertaking, after all, it wouldn’t bode well for Clan MacLaren.

He must have seen the uncertain expression on her face. After a few final words to his captain of the guard, Walter strode over.

“A wee kiss for the departing hero?” he asked, taking her by the shoulders.

“Aye,” she murmured distractedly and allowed him to press his lips to her cheek. When he finally pulled away, however, Regan met his dark gaze. “Are ye certain this is the best of all solutions? The more I think on this plan of yers, the more uneasy I feel. Mayhap we should—”

“Wheesht, lass.” He pressed a gloved finger to her lips. “It’s natural for ye to have yer doubts and fears. It’s the way of women. That’s why it falls to men to be the doers of the braw deeds. Once we make up our minds, we don’t waste time wondering if it’s the right decision. We take action.”

Stung by his belittling appraisal of her reservations, Regan opened her mouth to speak her mind. Then she thought better of it. What, indeed, did she know of men’s ways when it came to things of this nature? The only weapon she had ever learned to use was a bodice knife, and that but in self-defense. She truly didn’t have any better solution for what to do about Iain Campbell.

Regan pulled his hand away. “Then at least promise me ye’ll abort this plan if it appears there’s any chance of failure. There’ll be other opportunities. Don’t risk yerself needlessly.”

“Och, and is that concern I hear?” he asked, a broad grin splitting his face. “One would almost imagine ye’d feelings for me.”

There was something behind that lightly given statement that troubled Regan. A fleeting expression of eager expectation, of primal hunger? Whatever it was, the look was so quickly hidden that she questioned what she had really seen.

“Ye’re my brother and the only one, besides wee Molly, who’s left now of my true family,” she chose to reply instead. Lifting on tiptoe, Regan gave him one final hug, then released him and stepped back. “What would Molly and I do if we lost ye too?”

“Well, that’ll never be.” He grinned. “I’d crawl back on my hands and knees, I would, to return to a bonny lass such as ye.”

Walter paused to don his blue bonnet and adjust it until the large, soft, woolen cap sat somewhat sideways on his head. As the new laird of Strathyre House and its lands, and hence a gentleman of the nobility, he now proudly wore one eagle feather on his bonnet. Indeed, it gave even plain-faced Walter a certain flair that he had never possessed before.

Regan knew he had long desired that feather, which, until a few weeks ago, had been the sole prerogative of his brother. But no more, she reminded herself as she watched him turn and swagger off to mount his horse. Naught was as it had once been. Naught would ever be the same again.

In those minutes that next passed, Regan’s emotions ranged far and wide. Then, with a shout, the men reined their horses around and rode away. The wind picked up and, as if a shroud had passed over the sun, clouds darkened the sky. She shivered, as much from the sudden chill as from the unreasoning fear that washed over her.

“Ye’re wrong to let him go,” a gravelly voice rose from over her shoulder.

She wheeled about and found Father Henry standing there. The bald, old priest, his threadbare, black robes fluttering about his ankles in the rising wind, stared calmly back at her. Guilt flooded her.

“Ye know Walter well enough to know he’ll do what he wants.” Regan brushed a lock of dark cinnamon-colored hair from her eyes. “And justice must be done.”

“Aye, justice,” the elderly priest said. “But whose justice does Walter truly go out to mete? His or the Lord’s? The murderer shall surely be put to death, but mayhap not in the time or manner ye now imagine. And it may not even be the man ye imagine.”

He turned then to leave. Regan reached out and grabbed his arm.

“What do ye mean?” she asked, her voice going taut with apprehension. “And what have I to do with it?”

Father Henry looked deep into her eyes. “Lassie, ye stand on a threshold this day. Whatever ye do or do not do, ye can never turn back. I only pray that ye choose the true path. The path that, in the end, will lead ye where ye’ve always been meant to go.”

“And where exactly would that path lead me?” she demanded hoarsely, her heart hammering, her palms going damp.

With the gentlest of touches, the priest pried her fingers from his arm. “Wherever ye wish, dear child. To yer healing and happiness, if only ye’ve the courage to face and survive the journey. If only ye discover who ye’ve always been meant to be.”

3

Mathilda Campbell, hands on her hips, glared over at her son. “Well, ye’ve the luck of a charmed man, ye do, and once more have managed to escape the matrimonial snares I’ve laid for ye. Thanks to this foul weather, there’ll be no visiting Lord Fleming and his family this day. And, since they’re hoping to set out for Edinburgh on the morrow . . .”

“Och, don’t go on so, Mither.” With a wry twitch of his lips, Iain turned from the deep, stone-cut window overlooking Balloch’s inner courtyard and his view of the rain sluicing down from the leaden skies. “If the truth be told, when have I once refused to meet any of the bonny lasses ye’ve chosen for me? Can I help it if, this time, the capricious Highland weather—which
ye’ve
allowed to cancel yer plans for the trip to Fortingall, not I—prevents my willing participation? Or that Lord and Lady Fleming choose to race through this part of the Highlands, with barely a pause in their journey?”

“Nay, ye’re a good son, ye are,” Mathilda Campbell replied, then shook her head and sighed. “Meeting someone’s a far, far cry from courting, though, and nearly a lifetime away from marriage.

And correct me if I’ve misstated the situation, but ye’ll be a score and eight in another two weeks and have yet to take a wife. Why, oh why, won’t ye have pity on yer poor mither and make her a grandmither?”

“And would that be with or without the services of a wife?” He shot her a grin, then walked to the small table beside the hearth in his mother’s bedchamber. A pottery pitcher of sweetened, mulled cider and two cups stood there. “Care for a wee sip?” Iain asked, holding the pitcher aloft.

“Nay.” His mother shook her head once more. “I’m so restless and frustrated I fear naught will satisfy me this day. I’d so looked forward to that visit—and not just for ye to meet Fleming’s two marriageable daughters. After all those years in Edinburgh, I confess I still miss the stimulation of court life.”

Iain made a sympathetic sound and proceeded to pour himself a cup of cider. After nearly ten years at Court, his high-spirited, gregarious mother must indeed find it difficult to adapt to the far quieter, commonplace life of a rural estate as was Balloch’s. Not to mention that the castle, which she had first come to as the new wife of its laird, Duncan Campbell, likely still held many painful memories.

His father, after all, had been a distant, coldhearted, self-serving man. A man who bore no loyalty to family, be it to his older brother, who had been clan chief, nor his nephew, whom he had plotted against for years to prevent from him ever assuming the clan chieftainship, nor even his wife and son, whom he had used to his own ends as well.

But that had all ended with Duncan Campbell’s death now almost two years ago. Well, all but the lingering pain and anger, at any rate, which Iain struggled with still, as he knew did his mother. Though her strong religious faith never permitted her to sever her marital vows, she had finally put a physical distance between herself and her philandering husband by moving to Edinburgh to serve the then-regent, Mary of Guise. After the queen mother’s death in 1560, Mathilda had remained on in Edinburgh until the daughter, named Mary as well, arrived from France to take up the throne of Scotland.

By the end of 1565, however, Mathilda had finally had her fill of all the political intrigue and machinations of the Scottish court, not to mention the increasingly unpleasant presence of Queen Mary’s alcoholic and adulterous second husband, Henry, Lord Darnley. Indeed, she had eagerly accepted Iain’s invitation to return home to Balloch.

Nonetheless, though it was apparent his mother was glad to be rid of the less savory aspects of court life, Iain knew she struggled still, even after six months, to find enough here to entertain her. It was likely why she had taken to playing matchmaker with such zeal.

“Mayhap we can pay Niall and Anne a wee visit,” he said by way of consolation. “Indeed, it’s been nearly a half year since I was last at Kilchurn. Niall will begin to view me as a shoddy tanist if I don’t soon make an appearance there.”

“Truly?” His mother wheeled around and hurried over to join him. “We can pay Niall and Anne a visit? When? And for how long might we stay?”

Iain took a deep swallow of his cider, then lowered the cup and smiled. “Och, at least a month, so as I can assist Niall with any pressing issues he’ll be needing my help with. One way or another, we have to return home before the harvesting begins.”

“It’ll be time enough, it will.” Mathilda smiled in happy anticipation. “And mayhap Anne will have a few eligible lasses in mind for ye to meet while we’re there. I’m certain she wants to see ye happily wed as dearly as I do.”

“Aye, mayhap she will,” Iain murmured, then took another sip of his cider.

His thoughts flew to Niall’s beautiful, silver-eyed and auburnhaired wife. He had been in love with her himself and, along with Niall’s suspicions that Iain was involved in the treachery that swirled around him at the time, Iain’s friendship with Anne had caused a serious and almost fatal rift between them. But Anne’s love for Niall had never faltered. Even Iain finally had to face the inescapable fact that Anne would never be his.

It was one of the reasons he had kept his distance from Kilchurn for nearly a year after his father’s death, in as much to allow his wounded heart to heal as to permit Niall the time he needed to solidify his position as the new Campbell clan chief, without
his
presence to muddy the waters. It was the least he could do after all the trouble he had caused his cousin, however inadvertently. For Niall
and
for himself.

Problem was, though Iain had finally come to terms with his unrequited love for Anne Campbell, he still compared every woman he met to her—and all had been found lacking. Despite his mother’s untiring efforts to the contrary the past several years—for she had worked as tirelessly in absentia as she had in person—Iain was beginning to wonder if he’d ever find a woman to equal Anne. And he wouldn’t wed unless he did.

“There’s a woman out there for ye, son,” Mathilda’s voice came of a sudden, drawing Iain back to the present. “A woman who’ll be yer soul mate until the end of yer days. A woman chosen just for ye by the dear Lord above.”

“Aye, I’m sure there is,” he said softly. “It’s one of my most frequent requests of the Lord, it is. I but hope to have the good sense to recognize her when the Lord finally does bring her to me.”

Iain set down his cup and walked back to the window.
If He ever does
, he silently added, staring once more at the rain pouring from the skies.

Regan rode hard and fast, following the trail left by Walter and his men until the rain came and washed it away. Then, when she was finally drenched through to her skin, the winds picked up, chilling her clear to her bones. The meager sunlight soon faded as the day drew on to dusk. She was finally forced to slow her mount to a walk or risk the animal stumbling on the now mud-slick cow track.

Darkness fell. Clouds scudded across the moon, blocking its light more often than not. After a time, Regan began to wonder if she were even on the path anymore, or headed in the correct direction. Her teeth chattered, her fingers and toes grew numb, and she alternately cursed Walter for his foolish plan and herself for thinking she’d had a chance of catching up with him, much less stopping him.

For a time, the wind lessened. Moonlight managed to thrust past the clouds, and she thought she might yet find her way up the northwestern side of Loch Tay along the route Walter had told her he and his men would take. And then thunder rumbled, the wind quickened once more, and the rain came again. This time, though, lightning accompanied it.

At first, the bolts of light danced several miles south of her. But not for long. As she entered yet another stretch of forest, the thunder lumbered ever closer, until the air fairly sizzled with repeated, jagged flashes. Her horse alternated rearing in terror and threatening to race off with her. It was time to take shelter, but where?

The trees offered no haven, yet she was just as vulnerable out in the open. What she needed was to find a cave or rocky overhang under which to hide. As the trees once more thinned, Regan searched the surrounding hills now looming before her. Then, blessedly, a burst of lightning illuminated the terrain, and there, up a gently sloping hillside, was a dark opening in a large jumble of boulders. An opening at least large enough for her, if not also for her horse.

She reined her mount to the left and urged it up the hill. Around her, as if the storm had decided to unleash at last the full force of its fury, lightning struck. The air crackled. An ear-splitting explosion engulfed her.

Her horse squealed in terror, reared, and, in the slippery grass, lost its footing. Regan scrambled up on the animal’s neck, throwing her weight forward in a futile attempt to add counterbalance and keep the horse from toppling over. Almost overhead now, lightning exploded again. The animal shrieked, lurched to one side, and fell.

The last thing Regan remembered was trying to leap free, but her foot caught in the stirrup. Then her head struck hard, and everything went black.

Iain closed the ledger, set down his quill pen, and, with a sigh, leaned back in his chair. The rain that had begun yesterday had continued off and on through most of the night, culminating in a horrific storm before finally ceasing. In its wake, however, the moisture-saturated air had given rise at dawn to heavy fog. Even now, nearly midday, though the sun and bits of blue sky were at last peeking through the dense vapors, mist still lay heavy in the low spots, swirling and churning like steam rising off some witch’s brew.

It was past time, Iain supposed, that he ride out and meet with his farmers about the status of the grain fields. Then he needed to check on the progress of those drainage ditches, not to mention he had yet to get in much sword practice this week.

Balloch Castle’s laird shoved from his chair. There were always responsibilities to keep a man occupied. Responsibilities he had assumed at an early age, thanks to his father’s decided lack of interest in Balloch and its lands. But then, Duncan Campbell had always had bigger fish to fry and no time for the simple cares of a country laird, much less those of a husband and father.

Iain, on the other hand, was quite content living at Balloch and working hard to improve its lands and the lot of his people. Life was difficult enough in the Highlands, a vast amount of the ground either rocky and ill-suited for farming or consumed by inland sea lochs, marshes, and peat bogs. Still, there was much that could be done if one but took the time, studied the land, and patiently coaxed out its fullest potential. Much like the care required to please a wife and raise a son.

His mouth twisted in grim irony. His father had been blessed early in life with a wonderful, loving wife and excellent mother for his son, and he had all but tossed her aside after a few short years. And
he
, who wanted with all his heart to find such a woman, had yet to do so.

Not that the women weren’t there for him. He just couldn’t seem to discover the soul mate he sought in the bevy of eager but largely empty-headed beauties who came his way. He was yet a man in his prime, though, and his mother and Anne frequently assured him there was still hope.

In the meanwhile, naught was accomplished in mournful thoughts or pointless worrying. There was work to be done, and lots of it. He had best—

A fist rapped smartly at his door.

“Aye?” Iain called.

“It’s Charlie, m’lord. There’s a problem downstairs. Seems one of the crofters was out chasing down a runaway cow and came upon this woman . . .”

Frowning in puzzlement, Iain strode immediately to the door. “Aye?” he asked when he had opened it to confront the older man. “And what of this woman? Is she dead or injured?”

“Och, aye. She’s injured, and no mistake. Angus found her lying beside her horse, who was grazing quite peacefully. The lass’s foot was still caught in a stirrup.” Charlie stepped aside and motioned for him to go ahead of him. “Angus thinks she was dragged a goodly distance, and she looks in a verra bad way.”