Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Page A

south. Then she could be a Drummond or MacLaren even.”
    “It seems unlikely a lone woman would be traveling that far afield, especially on a night like last.”
    “Aye,” Iain said, “verra unlikely without some verra serious reasons. Nonetheless, we’ve enough other clans close by to make this a difficult undertaking.”
    “Well, there’s no rush in sending out riders to query those clans. It’s enough we’ve some sort of name that might possibly be hers. And, if the use of it doesn’t jog her memory, leastwise we’ll now have something to call her.” Mathilda put out her hand again. He laid the cross and its chain back in her palm. “It’s best I was returning to check on the lass. And to return her cross to her.”
    Iain nodded. “Aye, best that ye do. It may bring her comfort during these first, trying days. Mayhap we should also ask Father John to pay her a visit.”
    “That might be well advised.” She cocked her head. “And what of ye, lad? As laird of Balloch, it’s fitting ye also greet and welcome her to yer home.”
    He had suspected that request was coming. And it was fitting he greet and welcome all guests to their home. Still, Iain was strangely reluctant to do so.
    There was something unsettling about the lass. He had sensed it the instant he had laid eyes upon her, and he didn’t know from whence the feeling came. Mayhap it was just the first shock at seeing the wretched state she was in. Yet over the years he had encountered people in far worse condition, and though sight of their pitiful forms had touched his heart, they hadn’t disturbed him as deeply as she had.
    It was the only reason Iain could find to justify his hesitation at seeing her again. Not that his ever-practical mother would accept such a weak excuse. For the time being, however, Iain wished to keep his true motives private.
    “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,