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