Read Wings of Morning Online

Authors: Kathleen Morgan

Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Historical, #General, #Romance, #book, #ebook

Wings of Morning (6 page)

“There’s time enough to visit when she’s feeling better,” he replied at last. “Allow her at least to get her sight back before she’s subjected to additional strangers in her bedchamber. Especially men.”

Mathilda eyed him curiously for an instant, then nodded. “Aye, likely ye’re right. For a time more at least, she’s better off with quiet, soft-spoken women about her, rather than a big lout like ye stomping in, smelling of horse and sweat, and bellowing to the high heavens.”

Though he hardly imagined himself a big lout who bellowed to the high heavens, Iain let the majority of his mother’s less than flattering assessments pass. “Och, and surely I don’t smell that bad, do I?” he asked with a grin.

She laughed then. “Och, nay, lad. Right now, ye smell
far
worse.”

4

Late the next afternoon, Walter and his men arrived back at Strathyre House. Thanks to the heavy rains and last night’s ferocious storm, the cow tracks had turned to quagmires and the rivers they’d had to ford on the return trip had become swift and treacherous. What should’ve been half a day’s journey evolved into nearly an entire day.

He was soaked to the skin, cold, ravenous, and in the foulest of moods. And he didn’t like the thought of having to inform Regan that all his fine plans to avenge Roddy had miserably failed. Even worse than losing a fight, there had been no fight at all. It was hardly the most auspicious way to impress Regan, much less commence his own courtship of her.

But was it his fault that conceited Campbell popinjay was so fussy about the weather? One would almost imagine him born in the Lowlands, rather than a true Highlander, to let a bit of rain forestall his plans.

Well, there was naught to be done for it, Walter consoled himself as he tossed his horse’s reins to the stableman and strode into Strathyre. Leastwise, not once his men, who hadn’t been overly pleased about reentering Campbell lands in the first place, soon began making noises about returning home. It wasn’t as if he could ambush Iain Campbell all by himself.

For all his prissy good looks, Balloch’s laird was a formidable warrior. Walter fingered the ragged scar on his chin. He had Campbell to thank for that, and all over some peasant wench he had taken a liking to, now six years past. He had been eighteen at the time, and Iain Campbell but a few years older. Both had accompanied their fathers to a gathering of clan chiefs and their lairds at Kilchurn Castle. Walter had found it the most impressive massing of Highland nobility he had ever seen.

He had also met a particularly bonny lass who was equally as impressive, as impressive as he had imagined she viewed him to be. Yet when he had finally enticed her to leave the others and walk with him into the forest, Walter soon found his advances most forcefully rejected. Mayhap he
had
let his anger at her teasing ways get the best of him, but she was only a peasant lass, after all.

Her screams, however, must have alerted others. One moment he was holding the lass close, silencing her with what he thought was a commanding, manly kiss, and the next he was wrenched back and thrown to the ground. When he finally cleared the scattering of stars dancing before him, Walter looked up to see Iain Campbell standing there.

With a roar, he launched himself at the other man. The battle, unfortunately, was shamefully brief. And then, like some strutting peacock, Campbell offered his arm to the lass and strode off, leaving him lying there with a broken nose, split lip, and gashed chin.

To this day, Walter’s teeth clenched and his hands fisted whenever he recalled that humiliating incident. He had learned from his mistake, though. In dealing with more physically proficient men like Iain Campbell, one turned to using one’s head instead of one’s brawn. And, when it came to cleverness and cunning, Walter was certain he was now the match and more of that particular Campbell. He’d had plenty of time over the years, after all, to learn and practice those skills close to home.

All he needed was the right place and opportunity, and he’d have his revenge. A revenge that had grown apace with each and every recollection of what Iain Campbell had done to him, and with each and every time he saw his scar and his permanently misshapen nose. A revenge that combined very nicely with his other plans, plans he had already set into motion and had now but to bring to their sweetest fruition.

For the first time, as he paused inside the second-floor entry and glanced into the Great Hall, Walter noticed how dark and cold the house seemed. No fire burned in the huge hearth. No candles had been lit, and it was nigh onto dusk.

He frowned. Regan never let the servants neglect their duties. Something was amiss.

Striding into the Great Hall, Walter found no one about. He took the stairs and descended to the kitchen. A pot of something rich and savory bubbled on the hearth. A loaf of bread lay on the worktable, covered with a cloth. But there was no one there save Cook, who dozed on a chair in the corner.

“What’s happened here?” he demanded, roughly grabbing the woman and jerking her awake. “Why’s there no fire in the Great Hall, or any servants but ye in attendance?

Cook gave a squeak of surprise and leaped up, sending her chair tumbling over. “Och, by the bones of St. Columba!” She blinked in surprise, apparently finally recognizing him. “I-I don’t know, m’lord. Mayhap the other servants thought that, since ye and Regan were both gone, there was no need to hang about. But I, not certain when either of ye’d return, felt it necessary to keep something hot and nourishing ready for ye. Not to mention, there was still wee Molly to feed and all.”

For an instant, Walter thought he had heard wrong. Regan was gone?

His grip tightened on Cook’s arm. “What do ye mean, Regan’s gone?”

“Why, she rode out not long after ye, m’lord. We didn’t know what to think, but she apparently said naught to the servants, for I questioned them all.”

“And she’s not back yet?”

The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Nay, m’lord.”

“And her escort? Have any of them returned?”

Cook’s face turned a sickly green. “From what I was told, m’lady didn’t take any escort. She rode out by herself.”

Fury exploded within him. “This is beyond belief! With me gone, how could ye and the others permit Regan to leave here without escort?” He released her and motioned impatiently. “Go, fetch all the servants. Have them meet me in the Great Hall in ten minutes’ time. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I will. And, if any thought they’ve had an easy time of it for the past day, they’ll soon rue
that
mistake.

“Aye, they’ll rue it day and night until Regan’s found and returns, safe and sound, to Strathyre House!”

It took two days for the swelling to subside enough for Regan to see again. As soon as she looked into a mirror, though, she almost wished she could’ve foregone that experience for a week or two more. Her eyes were frighteningly bloodshot, and purple-red smudges encircled both sockets. There was a bruise on one cheek, and a wide, scabbed abrasion on the other. The knot on the left side of her head made her hair stand out a bit from her face, and though her hair had been washed, it was still an unsightly mess.

Her arms and legs ached whenever she moved them. There were several spots on her ribs, back, and hips that were very tender to the touch. She couldn’t walk without being all but carried, thanks to her broken, splinted ankle. And her memory, even with the return of her eyesight and Mathilda Campbell’s revelation that her first name was likely Regan, was as empty as ever.

The pretty silver cross the older woman had placed back around her neck hadn’t jogged anything loose in her mind. Neither had its contents. That admission disturbed her far more than her probable name. The cross was obviously hers, even if it was still unclear who the little note was from and to whom it had been written.

But no more surprising, she supposed as she gazed out the bedchamber’s window from a chair they had settled her comfortably in after a breakfast of porridge and cream, than the fact she could look out on the rolling hills and verdant meadows beyond this castle and not recognize any of it. Surely she couldn’t live that far from here. Yet Mathilda had assured her that her son, who was Balloch Castle’s laird, knew every one of the people who lived on his lands, and didn’t recognize her.

But perhaps it was her current battered state that made her face unrecognizable. Regan hoped so. This blank state of mind was most disconcerting. If only she could find her family, she’d be happy to accept any of their recollections about her until her own finally returned. Just to belong somewhere, to know who you were and where you fit into other peoples’ lives, would be a comfort of sorts.

In the meanwhile, Mathilda and her servants had treated her kindly. The tall, gray-haired matriarch of Balloch Castle with the spare frame and gentle hands had seen to every detail. Regan’s bed was soft and warm. The soups and fresh-baked breads had been both delicious and fortifying. Even if she had never before lived such a life, Regan knew she could easily come to like it very much.

But for all she knew, she could be some poor peasant woman, wed to a man who struggled to eke a meager living from the frequently inadequate Highland soil. She could have a brood of scrawny, illfed children, though she thought perhaps her flat belly at least belied
that
notion. Still, there was no way of knowing anything for certain.

There was nothing to be done for it but, as Mathilda had told her, be patient with herself, trust in the Lord, and focus first on her physical healing. When she least expected it—if she didn’t try so hard—her memory would begin to return until, like some riddle, everything would finally be solved. And whatever her life had been, it would surely be as dearly grasped and loved as it was before.

There was some comfort in that, Regan thought, reaching up to clasp the silver cross in her hand. A comfort she must cling to with all her strength as she walked this dark, empty tunnel that was now her mind. Whatever the dear Lord had in store for her, surely it would lead—

Words, spoken by a voice she didn’t recognize but somehow knew she should, suddenly filled her mind.
“I only pray ye choose the true path,”
the voice—a man’s voice—said.
“The path that . . . will lead ye where ye’ve always been meant to go . . .”

Unnerved, Regan glanced around. There was no one there but Jane, the little maidservant sent to remain with her and see to her needs. And Jane sat across the room, dozing in her chair by the door.

Her hands clenched now in her lap, Regan turned back to gaze out the window. The unexpected words had been passing thoughts, snatched from the depths of her memory. She smiled. Though the words had been cryptic, they were the first ones from her past. How long ago they had been spoken was a mystery, but it didn’t matter. She was beginning to regain her memory!

Knuckles rapped unexpectedly on the door. Regan jumped almost as high as Jane, who was startled awake. She, however, didn’t fall off her chair as did the rattled serving girl. From her spot now on the floor, Jane looked to her.

“Sh-should I see who it is, ma’am?”

“Aye, that’d be best, Jane,” Regan replied. “I’m a guest here, after all, and since I’m fully clothed and wide awake, I’ve no justification to refuse any who might wish to enter.”

Jane nodded, climbed to her feet, and opened the door. A man’s deep voice rumbled some request, then the servant bobbed a nervous curtsy and all but danced back to swing wide the door.

“It’s m’l-lord, ma’am,” Jane stammered in her apparent excitement. “He wishes to pay ye a wee visit, he does.”

He was tall, blond, and very broad of shoulder. That much Regan could tell from across the room. In the shadowed doorway, however, she couldn’t quite make out his features, though he appeared relatively young. He was also, she well knew thanks to Jane’s introduction of him, the laird of Balloch Castle.

“Pray, bid him enter, Jane.” Regan straightened in her chair and plastered a smile on her face. A fleeting consideration that her appearance was far from passable filled her before she flung it aside.

Balloch’s laird was but paying her a courtesy visit, and no more. His mother had already regaled her with tales of how busy he was, how devoted he was to his lands and people, and that it was the reason he hadn’t, until now, been able to find the time to visit. Regan’s mouth quirked at the memory of how proud Mathilda had seemed as she spoke of her son. But then, wouldn’t any mother speak so?

At her request, Iain Campbell strode toward her. He wore a white linen shirt open at the throat, knee-high hose and shoes, and the belted plaid common on most Highland men. The bulk of the fabric, forming both kilt and mantle, did little to hide his long, lithe, superbly fit form—or the coiled strength and power emanating from him.

Still, if his imposing size and athletic stride weren’t intimidating enough, as he passed from the shadows and into the sunlight streaming in from the window, his face only completed the effect.

He looked to be in his late twenties and was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.

His wavy hair was dark blond and brushed loosely away from his face to curl thickly down the back of his neck, almost to his shoulders. His eyes were a rich, deep blue and reminded Regan of the waters of some bottomless, inland loch. The expression in them, though, was fiercely assessing and intelligent. His brows were thick and tawny, his nose straight and strong, his jaw square with just a hint of stubbornness.

His lips were well molded, and as he finally drew up before her and smiled, she noted his teeth were white and even. It was the dazzling brilliance of his smile—warm, open, and welcoming—and how it spread all the way to his beautiful eyes that were Regan’s true undoing.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to offer him her hand. “I’m honored finally to meet ye, m’lord,” she said, her voice sounding tight and odd. “I’ve wanted to thank ye for yer hospitality. I don’t know what would’ve become of me if ye hadn’t taken me in.”

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