Free Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan

she said. “Yer way of doing things, though, has a great deal of merit. But I’m digressing from what I truly wished to speak with ye about.” Regan paused to take in a deep breath. “I greatly desire to regain my memory as quickly as I can. And, since yer mither has informed me that ye don’t recognize me, and ye know all the folk on yer lands, I can only surmise that I came here from somewhere else.”
    “It would seem so, lass.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “The mystery is why would ye have come so far, on such a miserable night, alone? Were ye fleeing from or toward something or someone?”
    She tried to pierce the blackness of her mind to discover even the tiniest scrap of information that might answer his question—and found nothing. She sighed. “I don’t know. And I want so desperately to know. Even if the truth is horrible, I want to know it. Only then can I begin to change my life. Only then can I live it in mayhap a better way.”
    Tears filled her eyes. She averted her gaze and angrily blinked them away. Had she always been so emotional, she wondered, or was this but a consequence of her injury? Whatever the cause, Regan hated it. She needed to think clearly, objectively, and she was far from being able to do so.
    “It doesn’t matter, lass,” his deep voice came. “All the answers will return in God’s good time. In the meanwhile, what can I do to help ye?”
    Och, but there was such kindness, such concern, in his voice! It made her want to climb into his arms and weep out her fears and frustrations. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Or did she?
    Regan turned back to face the blond-haired man. “When I’m better, mayhap if someone could take me to the edges of yer lands and beyond, mayhap I might finally see things that would be familiar to me. I know it’s an imposition, but I don’t know what else—”
    “Aye, that sounds like a fine idea,” he said, cutting her off. “First, though, I thought to compose a letter to be sent to the clans nearest me, asking if anyone had come to them about a lost daughter or wife. I’d give them yer description and what ye were wearing that night. It might be enough to discover who ye belong to.”
    Gratitude filled her. “Aye, it might. It just might.”
    Balloch’s laird rose then. “It may take some time to receive replies, so best I do so posthaste.” He grinned of a sudden, and once more Regan was caught up in the heart-stopping beauty of him. “Who knows, lass? Ye might be back safe and snug in yer own home sooner than ye think.”

    “So, ye finally managed to find the courage to pay our wee invalid a visit, did ye?” Mathilda Campbell said that evening as they dined. She paused to smile briefly at some comment from one of their guests at table, then took a sip of her wine, set the crystal goblet down, and turned back to eye her son. “Pray, how did it go?”
    Iain chuckled. “Well enough. But then, ye already knew that. If Regan didn’t tell ye, I’m sure Jane did.”
    “Aye, it was Jane,” she admitted with a touch of impatience. “But she was across the room, and so wasn’t privy to the particulars. And I want the particulars, as well ye know.”
    He cut a piece of the roast chicken that was the main course of the evening’s meal, put it in his mouth, then proceeded to chew it slowly. Beside him, Iain could feel his mother fume, the tension building within her like water about to boil. At long last, he swallowed his now well-masticated meat and reached for his own goblet of wine. No sooner had he placed the glass back on the table, however, than his mother grabbed his wrist.
    “Cut another piece of that meat, and yer life’s forfeit,” she muttered in her best maternal warning voice.
    Eyes wide, Iain turned to her. “And what was it we were discussing then? I seem to have had a momentary lapse of memory.”
    “Don’t play games with me, Iain Campbell.” Mathilda glared at him. “Tell me