Wings of Morning (8 page)

He knelt there for a time, his gaze fixed on the altar, his thoughts lifted heavenward, before turning to pick up the book of prayers he had set on the bench. As he did, out of the corner of his eye, Iain caught an unexpected movement. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the side of his lower leg, where his woolen hose held the ever-present
sgian dubh
.

In one swift, smooth motion, Iain turned and pointed the blackhilted stocking knife before him. Even then, Regan was just pushing herself upright in the pew behind him.

Her cinnamon-colored eyes widened. “Och, I’m sorry to have startled ye, m’lord,” she hurried to say, clutching her hands protectively before her. “But I fell asleep and didn’t hear ye come in, and then I didn’t realize ye were even here until ye bumped the pew when ye leaned back. And that startled me awake, and I jumped up and—”

“Wheesht, lass,” he said, shoving his
sgian dubh
back into his stocking. “Ye don’t have to say aught more. It was but a misunderstanding on both our parts.” He settled back sideways in the pew so he could face her, and cocked his head. “But why were ye here, sleeping in chapel rather than in yer own bed?”

A most becoming blush spread up her neck and into her face. On closer inspection, Iain noted her features were no longer swollen, the abrasion now but faint red marks, and the bruises had faded to yellow. She was quite lovely, from her high cheekbones and sparkling, long-lashed eyes, to the small chin and lush, pink mouth. Though her long mass of chestnut hair was a bit mussed from sleeping in the pew, it framed her face and complemented her eyes perfectly before falling in luxuriant waves down her back.

He had been wise to avoid her as much as possible these past two weeks, only catching glimpses of her at the evening meal, where she always sat on the other side of his mother. Even then, he had barely allowed his glance to linger on her before turning it away. In the end, though, what had he imagined he was accomplishing in the doing? Only strengthening his response to her, when next he met her like this morn?

A fierce yearning swelled within Iain. She was so very beautiful, and he wanted her. Wanted her with an intensity as strong as he had once wanted Anne Campbell.

And ye’re a fool if ye lose yer heart to this woman,
he savagely chastised himself.
Ye know naught about her. And, with yer unusual good fortune when it comes to women ye give yer heart to, she’s either already wed or she’ll not want ye in return. Have a care. Have a care . . .

“It’s . . . it’s difficult to explain,” Regan finally began, averting her gaze. “I woke from a nightmare and, try as I might, I couldn’t shake it. So I thought to come to the chapel and spend the wee hours with the Lord, hoping He’d dispel the terrors.”

“And did He?” Iain forced himself to ask, clamping down on his renewed yearning to take her into his arms and comfort her. “Help ye, I mean?”

“Aye. He gave me no insight into the meaning of the dream, but as I prayed, I felt better. So much so,” she added with a soft laugh, “that I finally became drowsy and, as ye can see, fell asleep.”

“Would ye tell me what yer dream was about? And was it aught that might shed some light on yer identity?”

Regan paled. “I don’t know how it would help.” She shuddered. “It was so horrible . . . and sad.”

Compunction immediately filled him. “Then I retract my request. Truly, I’ve no wish to make yer experience any worse. I but thought mayhap two heads might be better than one in discerning yer dream’s meaning. But ye should never feel as if ye
must
tell me aught. Yer thoughts—and dreams—are yer own.”

She shot him a considering look. “I thank ye for that. And mayhap ye’re right. In such a situation, two heads may well be better than one.” Once more, she glanced away.

When Regan paused, Iain said nothing and continued to wait patiently. Taking a deep breath, she at last turned the full force of her open, trusting gaze on him.

“I dreamt of a man brought to me who was already dead, shot in the back somehow. And, though I didn’t know who he was, I knew I must mourn him and that . . . that I’d played some part in his death.” She clasped her arms tightly about her and shook her head. “But that was all, and now the unanswered questions surrounding this dream are worse than the dream itself.”

Her glance turned pleading. “What am I to do? What am I to think? Och, what if I killed him?”

As loath as he was to admit it, the same thought had crossed Iain’s mind. It couldn’t help but do so, after his own questions earlier about her. What if she were indeed some murderess fleeing justice?

Yet, as he continued to stare deep into her tormented eyes, a strange certitude filled him. Regan was no killer. She might bear guilt over something she regretted, and mayhap her overwrought mind had translated that into a dream far more horrible than what had actually occurred, but he knew she was no more a murderer than he was.

Impulsively, palm up, he extended his hand to her. Her eyes wide and wary, she hesitated, then reached over to place her hand in his. He closed his fingers around hers.

“Don’t do aught, sweet lass,” he said, his voice gone husky. “At a time like this, as yer poor mind struggles so hard to sort through all the riddles and questions, all the disjointed pieces of yer returning memory, there’ll likely be moments when things become unfathomable and even exaggerated. Aye, there mayhap might be clues in that dream, but I wouldn’t take it at face value.”

“But it seemed so clear, so real, like I’d seen it, experienced it before!”

“And do ye imagine ye’re an evil person, lass? Are ye capable of murder?”

Misery clouded her beautiful eyes. “Nay, but what do I truly know about myself? What if my life until I came here was a hard, painful experience? What if I was wed to a brutal man who beat me? Or what if someone tried to harm someone dear to me? What would anyone do in such a situation?”

“The best they could, lass,” Iain replied, his heart twisting at her quite evident distress. “But that wouldn’t be murder then, would it? That’d be self-defense.”

Regan withdrew her hand from his. “Aye, it would. And I suppose it’s best if I do as ye say, and not dwell on it so. Time will tell, after all, what parts are real and which aren’t.”

“Ye can’t do aught until ye can distinguish one from the other.”

She exhaled deeply. “Aye. Ye’re right. Thank ye for listening, and for yer wise counsel.”

In her gentle way, she was signaling she wished to end this particular topic of conversation. Iain took her lead.

“Would ye like to remain here a time more,” he asked, “or have me assist ye back to yer bedchamber?”

“Thank ye kindly, m’lord.” Regan managed a wan smile. “But I’ve prayed all the prayers I have within me, leastwise for the time being. And I’ve also kept ye from yers far too long.”

Pushing awkwardly to her feet, she balanced on one leg, then reached for her stout walking stick. Iain was far swifter, however, and came around to her pew to grasp her stick and hand it to her.

Once again, their hands touched, and neither pulled away. Her smile deepened, became warmer. “Thank ye, m’lord,” she said. “For everything. Ye give me hope that, in time, all will be as it should be.”

Knowing the only proper thing left him was to release the stick, break contact, and move away, Iain forced himself to do so. “It will be, lass. I know it.”

She moved then, turning and leaning on her stick to hop from the pew and out into the aisle. Halfway to the door, Regan finally turned and looked back.

“There
is
one more favor I’d ask of ye, if ye don’t mind, m’lord.”

Iain’s heart gave a great leap. “And what’s that, lass?”

She grinned. “Could ye open the door so I might leave without having to hop to and fro doing so myself? It would aid me greatly.”

He nearly knocked over the pews in his eagerness to do so, then watched as she made her way down the corridor until she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Walter reined in his horse at the little parish kirk two miles down the road from Strathyre House. He hadn’t been to Mass since Roddy was buried, and then only because Regan had insisted on the ceremony prior to his brother’s burial. He didn’t intend to attend today either, but he did plan to speak with the priest just as soon as the services were over.

At long last the chapel doors opened, Father Henry, dressed in all his finery, stepped out, and the few pious followers began to depart, greeting him as they did. Walter waited patiently in the shadow of a stand of birches growing by a nearby burn, until the old priest finally bid the last person farewell, then turned and reentered the chapel. Walter gave Father Henry and his straggling churchgoers an additional five minutes, then dismounted, tethered his horse to a tree, and headed toward the little kirk.

He found the priest kneeling at the railing up near the altar. At the sound of his footsteps echoing up the stone-paved aisle, Father Henry cast a glance over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise; he crossed himself and rose, then hurried down the aisle to greet him.

“And what brings ye to our bonny kirk, Walter MacLaren?” he asked with a welcoming smile.

“Naught that has to do with God, ye can be sure,” Walter snarled. “I was told ye’re the last one to speak with Regan the day she rode out to parts unknown. And, since it’s been two weeks now since any last saw her, I was hoping ye could shed some light on where she may have gone.”

“Och, I didn’t know that she hadn’t told anyone where she was headed.” The old man sighed. “I’m so sorry, Walter. If I’d known, I’d have come to ye posthaste.”

“Aye? So ye
do
know where she went?” With only the greatest difficulty, Walter managed to keep his rising anger in check. “By mountain and sea, man, tell me! She could’ve been taken by outlaws, or be lying in some ditch, hurt and helpless.”

“We talked about ye going out to ambush Iain Campbell.” Father Henry met his gaze with a calm, steady one of his own. “That there was no true justice in taking it into yer own hands. And then I left her.”

“So she
didn’t
tell ye where she was headed then?” Frustration filled Walter.

“Nay, not in so many words. But I heard she left soon afterward, so I can only surmise she headed out after ye, to stop ye from committing murder.”

“What?” He almost choked in disbelief. “Ye sent Regan out after me, without an escort, riding straight into Campbell lands and a fierce storm, no less?”

“I didn’t send her anywhere, lad,” the old priest replied. “If anyone sent her, it was the Lord, working through her conscience.”

Walter reached out and grasped the priest’s cassock, roughly pulling the priest to him. “Ye old fool,” he ground out, his fury boiling over now. “She could’ve lost her way in the dark. She could’ve gone in some entirely different direction. She could be anywhere!”

“I’ve kept her in my prayers ever since I heard of the lass’s disappearance. As ye must as well.”

Enraged, Walter found it was all he could do not to throttle the old man right here and now. But even that would steal precious time from setting out to search for Regan. He released Father Henry with a jerk, sending him sprawling backward to slam into a pew.

“Prayers never helped me, and they’ll not help Regan,” he cried. “Only action will help her now. But know one thing, priest.”

“Aye?”

“If she’s dead, she won’t be needing yer prayers anymore, will she? And, in that case, neither will ye, for I swear I’ll see ye dead just as soon as she’s properly prayed over and buried!”

Walter turned on his heel and stalked down the aisle. “Think on that, priest,” he flung after him, “when next ye say yer prayers!

“Think on
that
, if ye dare!”

6

As the summer days eased into late July, Regan’s strength returned and her ankle finally healed enough to begin walking on it. Bits of old memories continued to arrive from time to time but in confusing, disjointed jumbles. She still lacked the key pieces, she realized, to join them all in some cohesive whole that would give her back her past life.

In no particular order, replies arrived from the clan chiefs Iain had first sent letters to, and none of them reported missing women matching Regan’s description. She began to feel as if her family had fallen from the face of the earth. It was time, she decided, to approach Iain Campbell about the second part of their plan.

Though he seemed very busy of late, she finally managed to track him down late one morning, having seen him ride in with a group of his men. Following their voices, Regan made her way to the stables. The odor of manure and horse drew her up as she approached the large, open door, and then she realized that not only were the smells familiar, but she actually liked them. They were good, honest smells, after all, and came with horses and riding across open meadows and having the wind in your hair and the sun on your face.

A sudden image of herself astride a pretty bay mare, a dark-haired man galloping beside her, shot through her mind. She stopped short, grasping at the memory as it raced away and faded. He was the same man of that awful dream, now almost two weeks past. Until today, she hadn’t recalled him again. But who
was
the man, and what was he to her?

Frustration filled her, but with a sigh, Regan relinquished the battle. Naught was served trying to force herself to remember. What came, came when it did, and she had finally learned to accept that. Most times, now, she actually did a pretty good job of it.

She knew she had the Campbells, Iain, Mathilda, and their kinsmen, largely to thank for that. They had all accepted her so readily into their midst and made her feel welcomed and loved.

Indeed, over the past weeks, Mathilda and she had grown so close that Regan felt as if the older woman had become almost a mother to her. And, though she saw Iain little enough, what she did see and hear about him from his mother and the servants only reinforced her growing esteem. Of late, he even seemed to go out of his way to stop and speak a few words with her whenever their paths crossed. And her feelings, which had at first been those of awe and respect, had gradually evolved to a great sense of ease and pleasure in his presence. Not exactly that of a brother or even a friend, because he always took great care not to be overly familiar with her, but, nonetheless, there was something special about their relationship.

Or perhaps it was just she was no different than half the women in Balloch and was simply falling in love with the handsome, generous, exceedingly kind man. Aye, that was it, Regan decided with a roll of her eyes. She was falling in love with a totally unattainable man, just like all the rest of them.

Striding into the stables before her foolish imagination next had her wed and bearing his children, Regan walked down the strawlittered aisle until she found the stall housing Iain’s big horse. As expected, Iain was there, bent over, picking out his mount’s hooves.

She watched him in silence until he had finished all four hooves and straightened, keeping a tight rein all the while on her thoughts about his fine, strong form. Then she cleared her throat.

Iain whirled around. “Och, it’s ye, lass.” Straight, white teeth gleamed in his sun-bronzed face. “I didn’t hear ye come up.”

“I didn’t wish to disturb ye while ye were so busy with yer horse.”

Regan smiled. “Besides, I like being in a stable and around horses.

It feels verra natural to me, it does.”

He arched a dark blond brow. “Indeed? Does that mean ye’re hinting ye’d like to go riding sometime soon?”

She laughed. In many ways, Iain Campbell already knew her very well. “Aye, I’d like that verra much. Which brings me to the reason I sought ye out. We’ve had no luck so far in discovering where I came from. I thought mayhap it was time to begin visiting the lands surrounding yers, if ye’re still of a mind to assist me in that undertaking.”

Iain paused to remove his horse’s bridle and offer the animal a handful of hay. Then he walked from the stall and latched closed the door.

“Aye, I’m still of a mind to assist ye,” he said as he ambled over to her and halted. “In fact, I’ve a plan to begin so three days hence, if ye’re interested.”

Gazing up at him, his sun-streaked blond hair and blue eyes a most pleasing contrast to his tanned face, Regan felt her stomach plummet to her toes. Och, but he was so tall and powerful and so very appealing! If only she was some noblewoman and worthy of his consideration . . .

“Of course I’m interested,” she replied instead, squeezing the words past a suddenly tight throat. “I’ve imposed on yer hospitality overlong as it is.”

“Then what say ye to imposing on someone else’s hospitality for a time? A new setting and new people might do wonders for yer memory.”

Though he likely hadn’t meant to sound that way, Regan couldn’t help the twinge of pain at what seemed Iain’s sudden eagerness to send her away. To balk at his proposal now, though, would appear as if she were unappreciative of all he had already done for her.

“I’d gladly accept whatever ye had in mind, m’lord.”

“Then it’s done, and ye’ll accompany my mither and me to visit my cousin, the Campbell clan chief, and his wife.”

She stared up at his smiling countenance, struck dumb by what he had just said. He was taking her to stay now with the Campbell clan chief?

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Regan finally managed to stammer. “Yer cousin lives at Kilchurn Castle on Loch Awe, does he not?”

“Aye, that he does.”

“But that’s so far afield from any lands I may have come from. So far, indeed, as to be impossible. Why, it’s at least a good two days’ ride from here, it is.”

“More like three, if one’s in a party and traveling at a more sedate pace. Which we’ll be doing. My plan’s not just to pay my cousin a long-overdue visit but also to traverse a path ye may well have taken in coming here. Since it seems that ye’re not from the clans north and east of us, mayhap ye’re instead a Mac Nab or even a Breadalbane Campbell.”

He arched a brow in inquiry. “It
is
what we’d talked about, riding out to view other areas in the hope it’d jog yer memory, is it not?”

The relief that flooded her almost made her dizzy. So, he wasn’t intent on ridding himself of her. He was just trying to help her as he had promised.

“Aye, it most certainly is.” Regan smiled. The time hadn’t yet come when they must be parted, and she realized, with a start, that particular fear had gained great import over the past month. “It sounds a wonderful plan, m’lord.”

Some emotion flickered in his deep blue eyes. He offered her his arm. “Come. We’ve lingered overlong in this less than aromatic place. Would ye favor me with a short walk in the gardens?”

Regan laughed then. “Och, I wouldn’t say the stables lack in aroma, m’lord. Just mayhap not the most pleasant of aromas.” She took his arm. “But a wee walk in the gardens would be wonderful. The roses are in full bloom now, ye know.”

“I noticed that just the other day,” Iain said as he began to escort her from the stable. “I go for days at a time so busy that I observe almost naught of the gentler aspects of Balloch. And then I reach a point when my heart and mind scream out for a bit of respite, and I make myself take a day or two away from the more burdensome tasks of being a laird.”

“Such as today?”

“Aye, such as today.” He shot her a quick glance, then looked back to the path leading to the rock-wall-enclosed garden. “And I’d like verra much to share a part of it with ye, if ye’ve no pressing duties.”

“Yer mither and I were planning on spending the afternoon embroidering that tapestry she’s making.”

Iain chuckled. “Somehow, I think I can prevail upon her to allow me an hour or two with ye. It’ll soon be time for the midday meal, and I thought that afterwards ye might enjoy a wee ride. It’s past time ye begin reusing yer riding muscles, or ye’ll find our impending journey rather unpleasant for the first day or so.”

Regan giggled. “Aye, I imagine I would at that.”

They reached the garden gate and paused while Iain slid the bolt and pushed open the little door. Then, after another pause while he closed and bolted the gate behind them, they set out down the flagstone footpath.

The garden was large, consisting of herb and vegetable beds near the back door leading to the kitchen. A waist-high boxwood hedge delineated the herb and vegetable portion from the flower gardens, in which they now walked. Purple clematis climbed high wooden trellises behind fragrant lavender bushes. Deep, purple-pink bell heather grew among bright yellow broom bushes and silver green artemisia. Cobalt blue bachelor buttons nestled among white lilies and daisies. It was the myriad rosebushes, filling the two opposite

sides of the garden, however, that always caught and held Regan’s attention.

As soon as she reached the first roses, she slipped her hand from Iain’s arm and knelt to cup one of the light crimson blooms. She inhaled deeply of its sweet fragrance.

“Do ye know aught of roses, lass?”

She glanced up at Iain standing there smiling down at her. “Verra little, I’m sorry to say. Wherever I came from, we must not have raised them.”

“Well, that particular rose is what is considered a Gallica rose,” he said. “Romans and Greeks used to grow them, so of course they’re verra ancient. And that particular one is known as the Apothecary rose. It can be turned into jellies, powders, and oils, and was believed to cure a multitude of illnesses.”

“Indeed?” With renewed interest, Regan glanced back at the beautiful flower. “I didn’t know roses were so verra useful, aside from making perfumes and as cut flowers.”

“Then now ye know differently. Would ye care to learn about some of the other varieties we’re fortunate to grow here at Balloch?”

“Och, aye!” Accepting Iain’s proffered hand, she climbed back to her feet. “In addition to all yer other considerable talents, I didn’t realize ye were also a gardener.”

He chuckled softly. “I hardly have the time to tend this formidable garden, but when I was a lad, my mither taught me about the roses. She’s the gardener in the family, though even she now has help in the services of a full-time gardener.” He tugged on her hand. “But come, let’s move on to the next variety.

“Mither liked to plant the same types of roses near each other,” Iain said as he drew up next before a bush of particularly striking, crimson and pink-and-white-striped roses with bright golden stamens. “This is also a Gallica rose, called Rosa Mundi. It’s said to be named after Fair Rosamund, the mistress of King Henry II of England.”

He removed his
sgian dubh
, bent, cut a flower free, then handed it to her. “A fair rose for a fair lady.”

She could feel the heat steal into her cheeks but said nothing and accepted the lovely blossom. Lifting it to her nose, Regan breathed in its perfume. Then, because Iain continued to stare at her with a most intense expression, she smiled and, using the rose, pointed past him.

“Are there more? More varieties of roses, I mean?”

For an instant longer, he stared at her. Then, as if rousing himself, he nodded. “Aye. Come along and I’ll show ye.”

They spent another good half hour touring the garden, examining and discussing roses. Regan found it the most delightful experience. She learned of the Damask rose, thought to originate in the Middle East, likely near Damascus, that was brought back to England by the Crusaders and was used for the production of attar of roses in perfumes. And she couldn’t help but be equally taken with the pink and red varieties of those highly fragrant roses, especially with the one Iain called the Autumn Damask, which had a wonderful, exceptionally fragrant wine scent.

“How did ye come to own so many roses?” Regan asked after they had completed a walk around the flower garden and she had learned of yet another variety of roses, the Albas. By now, her hands were full of samples Iain had cut for her. She held a shellpink Maiden’s Blush that had an exceptionally sweet fragrance, a creamy white Alba Semiplena, as well as the Rosa Mundi and an Autumn Damask.

“Well, it began with my grandmither, actually, and my mither learned the art from her when she wed my father and came to live at Balloch. I think, aside from me, they were one of her few comforts living here.”

Regan frowned. “But Balloch’s a wonderful castle. Why would yer mither not find many pleasures—” She cut herself off. “Och, I beg pardon, m’lord. I didn’t mean to pry into something not of my concern.”

His lips went tight for an instant, then he sighed and shook his head. “It’s all right, lass. It’s no secret what kind of man my father was, or that he died trying to steal the clan chieftainship from my cousin, Niall.”

“Och, I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been a great source of pain to both ye and yer mither.”

“To be sure,” he muttered, his expression going dark. Then, as if shaking off the unpleasant memories, he turned back to her and smiled. “But then, we all have our difficulties in life to overcome, don’t we? And what matters is that we don’t let them embitter us or turn us from the Lord and His loving ways.”

At that moment, gazing up at his beautifully hewn face and into eyes that burned with such fierce resolve, Regan thought him the most wonderful man she had ever known. How she knew this, unable as she was to recall all the men of her past life, she couldn’t say, but she knew with an unshakable certainty. And knew at that moment, as well, that she truly was falling in love with him.

Not that she cherished any illusion she was a fitting mate, or that Iain viewed her as aught more than a poor waif whom he, in his tenderhearted kindness, had taken in and intended to help. But she didn’t care. She’d love him from afar and urequited, for she couldn’t help it. What woman could, if ever she had opportunity to know him as she had?