Read Online Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen Morgan
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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
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
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