Wings of Morning (7 page)

He grasped her hand in a large, callused palm, gave it a gentle squeeze, then released it. “Ye’re most kindly welcome, lass. But we would’ve never turned away anyone in need.”

Regan managed a wan smile. “I know it’s the Highland way, but nonetheless, I may never be able to repay ye. Even if I do have any money . . .”

“Well, with or without yer money, none of that matters. Indeed, we’d be insulted, my mither and I would, if ye ever attempted to repay us. What we offer is given freely. We serve strangers as if they were the Lord Jesus Himself. It can be no other way.”

So, he was a God-fearing man, was he? The realization comforted her, as did the compassionate look of understanding in his eyes. The last bit of apprehension over being in a strange place without even the solace of her memories faded. She was safe.

“Have ye time to sit and talk with me a while?” Her gaze moved past him to where Jane stood by the open door. “Fetch m’lord a stool or something, will ye, lass? It isn’t proper that he should be left standing in his own home.”

Jane immediately hurried over with her own stool. “Will this suit, m’lord?”

Iain smiled. “Aye, it would, but only if ye’ve no further need of it. I’ll not take yer own seat from ye.”

“Och, dinna fash yerself, m’lord. It’s past time I was folding the clean laundry, it was. So I’ve no further need of my stool.”

The servant handed over the little seat, and Regan noted how she blushed and lowered her gaze. Regan couldn’t help but smile herself. If Iain Campbell was always this considerate of his servants, she suspected half the women in the castle were secretly in love with him.

As Jane bustled off to the far side of the bedchamber near the clothes chest and laundry basket, Balloch’s laird placed the stool several feet in front of Regan and took his seat. He then lifted his striking gaze to hers.

“So, what would ye like to speak of, lass?” he asked.

Simple curiosity gleamed in his eyes, which only disarmed Regan the more. Her pulse quickened, and her mouth went dry. Then reason returned with a daunting rush.

Her response was worse than ridiculous. It was daft. No matter how attractive or gentle natured he seemed, this man was a total stranger. She was alone and, for all practical purposes, at his mercy. Or leastwise, she grimly added, until her memory returned.

“That was verra kind of ye to think of Jane’s comfort,” Regan said, casting about for some way to segue into the issue uppermost in her mind.

“Why? Because she’s but a servant?” He shook his head. “Well, mayhap we do things a wee bit differently than some folk, but I find respect rendered is respect returned a hundredfold. And even if it weren’t, I try to remember that we’re all beloved by God and do my best to act accordingly. Not that,” he was quick to add, likely seeing the disbelief in her eyes, “I do all that well most times. But I keep trying, knowing the Lord sees my well-meant intentions and forgives my weaknesses.”

This man was too good to be true. And she
was
used to a far different way of doing things. Yet, just as soon as the realization struck Regan, she stopped short. How was it possible she was so sure, when she had no memories to support it?

An uneasy feeling filled her, and she firmly quashed it. The answers would come in time. In the meanwhile, she must get to the topic of the help she needed from him.

“Aye, mayhap I am one of those folk who are used to a different way of doing things,” she said. “Yer way of doing things, though, has a great deal of merit. But I’m digressing from what I truly wished to speak with ye about.” Regan paused to take in a deep breath. “I greatly desire to regain my memory as quickly as I can. And, since yer mither has informed me that ye don’t recognize me, and ye know all the folk on yer lands, I can only surmise that I came here from somewhere else.”

“It would seem so, lass.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “The mystery is why would ye have come so far, on such a miserable night, alone? Were ye fleeing from or toward something or someone?”

She tried to pierce the blackness of her mind to discover even the tiniest scrap of information that might answer his question—and found nothing. She sighed. “I don’t know. And I want so desperately
to
know. Even if the truth is horrible, I want to know it. Only then can I begin to change my life. Only then can I live it in mayhap a better way.”

Tears filled her eyes. She averted her gaze and angrily blinked them away. Had she always been so emotional, she wondered, or was this but a consequence of her injury? Whatever the cause, Regan hated it. She needed to think clearly, objectively, and she was far from being able to do so.

“It doesn’t matter, lass,” his deep voice came. “All the answers will return in God’s good time. In the meanwhile, what can I do to help ye?”

Och, but there was such kindness, such concern, in his voice! It made her want to climb into his arms and weep out her fears and frustrations. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Or did she?

Regan turned back to face the blond-haired man. “When I’m better, mayhap if someone could take me to the edges of yer lands and beyond, mayhap I might finally see things that would be familiar to me. I know it’s an imposition, but I don’t know what else—”

“Aye, that sounds like a fine idea,” he said, cutting her off. “First, though, I thought to compose a letter to be sent to the clans nearest me, asking if anyone had come to them about a lost daughter or wife. I’d give them yer description and what ye were wearing that night. It might be enough to discover who ye belong to.”

Gratitude filled her. “Aye, it might. It just might.”

Balloch’s laird rose then. “It may take some time to receive replies, so best I do so posthaste.” He grinned of a sudden, and once more Regan was caught up in the heart-stopping beauty of him. “Who knows, lass? Ye might be back safe and snug in yer own home sooner than ye think.”

“So, ye finally managed to find the courage to pay our wee invalid a visit, did ye?” Mathilda Campbell said that evening as they dined. She paused to smile briefly at some comment from one of their guests at table, then took a sip of her wine, set the crystal goblet down, and turned back to eye her son. “Pray, how did it go?”

Iain chuckled. “Well enough. But then, ye already knew that. If Regan didn’t tell ye, I’m sure Jane did.”

“Aye, it was Jane,” she admitted with a touch of impatience. “But she was across the room, and so wasn’t privy to the particulars. And I want the particulars, as well ye know.”

He cut a piece of the roast chicken that was the main course of the evening’s meal, put it in his mouth, then proceeded to chew it slowly. Beside him, Iain could feel his mother fume, the tension building within her like water about to boil. At long last, he swallowed his now well-masticated meat and reached for his own goblet of wine. No sooner had he placed the glass back on the table, however, than his mother grabbed his wrist.

“Cut another piece of that meat, and yer life’s forfeit,” she muttered in her best maternal warning voice.

Eyes wide, Iain turned to her. “And what was it we were discussing then? I seem to have had a momentary lapse of memory.”

“Don’t play games with me, Iain Campbell.” Mathilda glared at him. “Tell me about yer visit with the wee lass and be done with it.”

“Och, aye. My visit with Regan.” He exhaled deeply. “Well, she seemed quite sweet, and of course verra concerned over her lost memory. I offered to help her search out her people.”

“And how do ye propose to do that?”

“Well, this verra day I wrote letters to the chiefs of clans Murray, Menzies, Moncreiffe, Stewart, and Robertson, asking them to inform me if any of their clansmen come to them asking about a missing woman. Those clans seem the most likely lands from which she may be, after all.”

His mother frowned. “It might take a time to see what comes of yer letters. What with waiting on the clan chiefs to get back to us, and all.”

“Aye, but once Regan’s in better health, I also agreed to send her out with an escort to see if aught looks familiar to her. And if that takes riding until they come to other clan borders and past, so be it.”

“Good.” Mathilda returned her attention to her plate and began to cut her meat. “That’s how it should be. I was beginning to worry that ye were avoiding the lass. But now I know my fears were groundless.”

One of her cousins, visiting from the south, chose that moment to ask a question. Iain’s mother turned away from him. The two women were soon deep in conversation, which suited Iain well.

His mother had hit closer to the mark than she may have imagined. Though he had finally brought himself to pay their guest the requisite laird’s visit, his feelings about Regan hadn’t changed. On the contrary, and against all reason, now that he’d had the opportunity to talk with her, Iain only felt the more unsettled.

There was an aura of sadness and vulnerability about her that plucked at his heart. Indeed, he hadn’t long been in the room with her before a strong urge to take her in his arms and comfort her filled him. To whisper words of hope and encouragement. To vow always to protect and defend her.

Even as he admitted to the ludicrous feelings, Iain wondered at his strange response. He had never felt this way about a woman before, not even about Anne. But then, he added with a wry grin, Anne was hardly sad or vulnerable. And she certainly wasn’t helpless.

Not that Regan actually seemed helpless. But a few days since her nearly fatal accident, she was already struggling mightily to regain her memory and had even formulated a plan on how to go about it. Nay, it wasn’t aught specific that gave rise to his strange feelings. If the truth be told, the feelings almost appeared to come from outside himself.

Och, Lord, Iain thought. Surely this isn’t the woman Ye mean for me to take as wife? I know naught about her, and might not ever know, if her memory’s permanently gone. She could be a member of some clan who’s the sworn enemy of the Campbells. She could even be another man’s wife and a mother to his children. Or mayhap she’s a murderess who was fleeing capture that night she was injured. In the Highlands, far stranger things have happened.

Almost as soon as he finished the last thought, Iain nearly laughed out loud. He knew the Lord likely wished for him to wed and father children. It was the way of most men, and he certainly had never felt called to holy orders at any rate. But to interpret his uneasiness about being around some poor, if mysterious, woman as a sign from God that she was his soul mate was worst than ridiculous. It was daft!

The real explanation for his uncharacteristic response was far simpler. Her horrific condition, when they had first brought her to Balloch, had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. No person—and certainly no woman—should have to endure what Regan had endured. His naturally protective nature when it came to women and children had somehow reacted far out of proportion to anything he had ever felt before. And, as she healed and regained her memory, he’d regain his own emotional balance as well.

In the meanwhile, he had been wise in his initial decision to avoid her as much as possible. It was only proper, after all. To show exaggerated interest in a female guest would be unseemly, especially considering her vulnerable state. There was no need to seek her out again, at any rate. With minimal prompting on his part, Iain felt certain his mother would keep him well informed of Regan’s progress.

Aye, he decided, returning to his meal with renewed appetite, it was all so simple really. He hadn’t anything to worry about.

5

“M’lord will see ye now,” the manservant said, even as he looked down his long, thin nose at Walter’s less than sumptuous apparel, then opened the door to William Drummond’s private meeting room and motioned him in.

Gritting his teeth against the impulse to backhand the man for stepping beyond himself in sneering at one of the nobility, however impoverished, Walter strode past him with head held high. The man and his opinions weren’t worth his time or concern. He had bigger fish to fry.

Across the room, William Drummond was ensconced in a high-backed chair, his feet propped on a padded stool where they warmed before the hearth fire. The eldest of Regan’s uncles, he was an impressively large man, a bit on the corpulent side if the truth be told, and close to fifty, if the generous gray at his temples and frosting in his thick beard were any indication. He was also, and more importantly, the titular chief now of Clan Drummond.

“Come, come, MacLaren,” the older man said jovially. “Pour yerself a cup of claret over there on the sideboard and come sit with me. It’s yet another miserable day to be out and about, what with this tiresomely incessant rain of late, and ye look as if ye could use something to warm yer innards.”

Though Walter had no intention of allowing liquor to cloud his mind or spoil the intended purpose of his visit, he supposed one cup of claret wouldn’t do any harm. He quickly poured himself a generous serving and then ambled over to the chair opposite the Drummond and sat. For a time William didn’t press him, but allowed, as was proper hospitality, Walter to drink and warm himself.

Finally, though, Walter set his cup on the little side table and met the other man’s eyes. “Regan’s been gone for over a week now, and no one seems to know where she is. Has she mayhap come home to her clan then?”

William’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “Nay, I’ve had no word from her since her letter about Roddy’s death. Has aught happened to the lass?”

There was a gleam of almost eager anticipation in the other man’s eyes, a feral light that gave Walter pause. He had known for a long while now that William, ever since he had all but assumed total power, had no desire for Regan to return to Drummond lands. Though clan holding most times passed directly to the son and heir, thanks to the ancient law of succession of King Malcolm MacKenneth, if there were no sons, primogeniture
did
allow for the oldest daughter to become heiress to her father’s estates. And, even if William’s close kinship also gave him some legitimacy to that same claim, it did little to negate the inescapable fact that he was—and had always been—immensely unpopular within his clan.

Indeed, in this particular case, there were likely pockets of clansmen who’d rush to Regan’s side if and when she chose to assert her own right to this very house and its lands, not to mention the chieftainship. Yet until this moment, Walter hadn’t fully recognized the hatred—and fear—William had for Regan.

His claim isn’t as strong as he makes it out to be. Nor is his position in the clan as secure as he’d like either.

He filed the information away for possible future use. First things first. Without Regan, after all, there would never be opportunity to take over Clan Drummond.

“I’d like to think she’s safe and sound, wherever she may be,” Walter replied. He sighed. “Poor lass. If she isn’t here, and ye’ve had no word that she’s been seen anywhere else on Drummond lands, then I must presume the terrible events surrounding my brother’s death have driven her away. But where else she’d go, I don’t know.”

“Well, as I’ve already said, Regan’s not turned up anywhere in this vicinity as far as I can tell.” William paused to take a deep swallow of his claret, then met Walter’s gaze with a hard one of his own. “I don’t wish the lass ill, but let’s put aside all the niceties and speak of her future. A future I hope will never involve her return to Drummond lands.”

Walter smiled thinly.
Here it comes now.
“She
is
the heiress of this house and lands, and first in line for the chieftainship.”

His host gave a disparaging snort. “As if a lass,
any
lass, could rule this fractious clan! Ye know as well as I that I’ve no less than three brothers and five other cousins who’ve laid claim to the clan chieftainship. At best, if Regan returned, she’d soon become an unwitting pawn in one of their hands, until she was needed no more. And then she’d likely have an unfortunate accident.

“Not that I’d ever do such a thing to the wee lass,” he hurried to explain when he apparently saw Walter’s gaze darken in anger. “But what power I hold in the clan, I hold only from sheer force of will and might of sword. I can’t be everywhere at once, however. And I tell ye true, MacLaren. I won’t brook any opposition from her if she got it into her head to join with one of our other relatives.”

“One would almost think ye’re threatening Regan’s life,” he offered mildly.

“Take it how ye wish. Just know that, as long as she remains with ye and yers, the lass is safe. And be happy that I’m a generous, kindhearted man. The Drummonds could easily ride to Strathyre House and burn it to the ground, with ye, Regan, and the rest of yer family within.”

Walter stared blandly back at him. “And is a clan feud with the MacLarens in yer best interests right now, what with all the opposition ye claim ye’re dealing with within yer own clan?”

His host gave a harsh laugh, drained the contents of his cup, then set it aside and locked gazes with him. “Of course not, and I’d be the last man to wish a feud with my neighbors. I just want Regan, if the lass is still even alive, to remain with ye. Is that such a difficult thing for ye to do?”

“She’s my sister-in-law. It’s not proper she continue to live at Strathyre indefinitely. I’m not married, after all.”

“Then find yerself a wife, man. It’s past time ye were wed, especially now that ye’re Strathyre’s new laird.”

Excitement thrummed through Walter’s veins. “Aye, and well I know it. But I’ll confess this to ye, and no other, that I’ve long loved Regan. I’ll take her, and no other, to wife.”

“Hmmm, that does present a wee problem.” William templed his fingers beneath his chin, and his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s not proper ye wed yer brother’s wife.”

“Aye, it’ll require a papal dispensation at the verra least.”

“Still, I’ve always thought that a ridiculous law. Ye’re not really related to Regan by blood, only by marriage.”

“I agree.”

The other man finally glanced his way. “I might be of assistance in gaining that dispensation for ye. As one of Regan’s blood family and all.”

Walter smiled. “I hoped that ye would. It’d help the both of us, wouldn’t it?”

His host nodded. “Aye. And mayhap, this time, the clan could provide a yearly stipend, since we’ve already supplied her with a dowry when she wed Roddy. A liberal amount to help keep my sweet cousin in circumstances more suitable to her true station in life.”

It was a generous offer, help with obtaining a dispensation as well as a stipend. Not that William Drummond couldn’t afford that and more. Clan Drummond was a wealthy clan. It would suffice for the time being, however.

“I’d be beholden to ye for aught ye might be able to do,” Walter said. “I truly do love the lass and want her to remain at Strathyre.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” William reached across the distance separating them and offered his hand.

Though Walter felt as if he were shaking hands with the devil, he did so nonetheless. Problem was, none of what had been discussed here this day could come to fruition if he didn’t find Regan. And now, certain she hadn’t come home to Drummond lands, he had no idea where to begin looking for her.

She watched them carry in the man on the strip of plaid, then ran toward them, halting at his side. He was deathly pale, his eyes closed, his body unmoving. She inched forward, watching his chest for any sign of movement, but she saw none. Then she touched him. He was cold. Stone cold.

A wail rose in her throat, bubbling up from the tumult roiling within her, escaping in a choked scream. And then, as if from some place far, far away, she saw herself gather the dead man to her and shriek out her agony. And saw, from that far, faraway place, the blood on his back, clotted and darkening with age, staining her fingers.

Regan awoke with a gasp. Her breath came in short, shallow breaths. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she realized she was bathed in sweat.

For a passing instant, she stared out into the blackened room, disoriented and terrified. Then her gaze snagged on the open window. In the distance, the sky was already losing its sharp edge of black and softening toward dawn.

Relief flooded her. She was at Balloch Castle, snug in her bed, as she had been every night now for the past two weeks. Jane was but a shout away, sleeping on her pallet in an alcove to the right of the door. The castle was well fortified, guarded as it was by the formidable Iain Campbell and his men. She was safe. No harm would come to her here.

But harm
had
come to the man in her dream, and she had played some part in it. How Regan knew this was a mystery, but she knew it, and knew it well. That this man had been very important to her was also clear. But who was he? A brother? A husband? Or just a dear friend?

Whoever he was, Regan sensed he was someone from her past. Whether the event in her dream had actually happened or not, she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was but symbolic of some deep-seated fear or other trauma in her life. Still, whatever the dream represented, it held an important clue to her past. She just didn’t know what it meant or how to interpret it.

Regan shoved up in bed, clasped her arms about her legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Perhaps if she calmed herself and didn’t fight so, clawing frantically at the wall separating her from her former life, the memories might more easily return. She inhaled a deep breath and willed herself to relax and wait.

Minutes passed in lumbering slowness. The silence pressed down, squeezing in on her. She willed her ever-tightening muscles to loosen.
Relax,
she ordered herself.
Take in deep breaths. Keep yer mind a blank.

Yet, as hard as she tried to block out the dream, it returned again and again. Panic filled her. Death . . . blood . . . guilt . . . Over and over the images assailed her, stretching her emotions until they were bowstrung taut.

She climbed from bed and, balancing on her good leg, lit the candle at her bedside. Then, hopping around and holding on to things, Regan proceeded to dress. Jane finally stirred awake and rolled out of bed. She padded over in night rail and bare feet.

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” the servant asked, blinking groggily.

“Naught,” Regan muttered, throwing a plaid over the simple dress and shoving her stockinged feet into a pair of soft leather shoes. “I just can’t sleep. I need to go for a walk.”

“In the dark?” It was evident from the disbelief in Jane’s voice that she thought that idea a tad daft. “Shall I dress too, then, and accompany ye? Even with that tall, stout stick to lean on, ye’re still a bit unsteady on yer feet.”

The maidservant’s question gave Regan pause. Though she had managed to become reasonably adept hopping about with the special stick old Charlie had made to help her keep her balance, it was an entirely different thing to do so in the dark. And where exactly did she plan to go at this hour, anyway, that would give her sanctuary from her terrifying thoughts?

“Aye, Jane,” she replied. “I need ye to come with me and carry the candle to light the way.”

“And where do ye intend to go at such an hour, ma’am?”

“Where else?” Regan asked softly. “To the chapel. I’ve a need to spend some time with God.”

As was his wont, Iain paid an early morning visit to the chapel before beginning his pre-breakfast walk around Balloch’s grounds. It was the fitting start to his day, consecrating all his actions to the Lord, praying for wisdom and strength to be an able steward of his people and holdings, and just plain getting his mind centered on what was really important.