Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Page B

Balloch’s laird was a formidable warrior. Walter fingered the ragged scar on his chin. He had Campbell to thank for that, and all over some peasant wench he had taken a liking to, now six years past. He had been eighteen at the time, and Iain Campbell but a few years older. Both had accompanied their fathers to a gathering of clan chiefs and their lairds at Kilchurn Castle. Walter had found it the most impressive massing of Highland nobility he had ever seen.
    He had also met a particularly bonny lass who was equally as impressive, as impressive as he had imagined she viewed him to be. Yet when he had finally enticed her to leave the others and walk with him into the forest, Walter soon found his advances most forcefully rejected. Mayhap he had let his anger at her teasing ways get the best of him, but she was only a peasant lass, after all.
    Her screams, however, must have alerted others. One moment he was holding the lass close, silencing her with what he thought was a commanding, manly kiss, and the next he was wrenched back and thrown to the ground. When he finally cleared the scattering of stars dancing before him, Walter looked up to see Iain Campbell standing there.
    With a roar, he launched himself at the other man. The battle, unfortunately, was shamefully brief. And then, like some strutting peacock, Campbell offered his arm to the lass and strode off, leaving him lying there with a broken nose, split lip, and gashed chin.
    To this day, Walter’s teeth clenched and his hands fisted whenever he recalled that humiliating incident. He had learned from his mistake, though. In dealing with more physically proficient men like Iain Campbell, one turned to using one’s head instead of one’s brawn. And, when it came to cleverness and cunning, Walter was certain he was now the match and more of that particular Campbell. He’d had plenty of time over the years, after all, to learn and practice those skills close to home.
    All he needed was the right place and opportunity, and he’d have his revenge. A revenge that had grown apace with each and every recollection of what Iain Campbell had done to him, and with each and every time he saw his scar and his permanently misshapen nose. A revenge that combined very nicely with his other plans, plans he had already set into motion and had now but to bring to their sweetest fruition.
    For the first time, as he paused inside the second-floor entry and glanced into the Great Hall, Walter noticed how dark and cold the house seemed. No fire burned in the huge hearth. No candles had been lit, and it was nigh onto dusk.
    He frowned. Regan never let the servants neglect their duties. Something was amiss.
    Striding into the Great Hall, Walter found no one about. He took the stairs and descended to the kitchen. A pot of something rich and savory bubbled on the hearth. A loaf of bread lay on the worktable, covered with a cloth. But there was no one there save Cook, who dozed on a chair in the corner.
    “What’s happened here?” he demanded, roughly grabbing the woman and jerking her awake. “Why’s there no fire in the Great Hall, or any servants but ye in attendance?
    Cook gave a squeak of surprise and leaped up, sending her chair tumbling over. “Och, by the bones of St. Columba!” She blinked in surprise, apparently finally recognizing him. “I-I don’t know, m’lord. Mayhap the other servants thought that, since ye and Regan were both gone, there was no need to hang about. But I, not certain when either of ye’d return, felt it necessary to keep something hot and nourishing ready for ye. Not to mention, there was still wee Molly to feed and all.”
    For an instant, Walter thought he had heard wrong. Regan was gone?
    His grip tightened on Cook’s arm. “What do ye mean, Regan’s gone?”
    “Why, she rode out not long after ye, m’lord. We didn’t know what to think, but she apparently said naught to the servants, for I questioned them all.”
    “And she’s not back