Free Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Page B

his initial decision to avoid her as much as possible. It was only proper, after all. To show exaggerated interest in a female guest would be unseemly, especially considering her vulnerable state. There was no need to seek her out again, at any rate. With minimal prompting on his part, Iain felt certain his mother would keep him well informed of Regan’s progress.
    Aye, he decided, returning to his meal with renewed appetite, it was all so simple really. He hadn’t anything to worry about.

5
    “M’lord will see ye now,” the manservant said, even as he looked down his long, thin nose at Walter’s less than sumptuous apparel, then opened the door to William Drummond’s private meeting room and motioned him in.
    Gritting his teeth against the impulse to backhand the man for stepping beyond himself in sneering at one of the nobility, however impoverished, Walter strode past him with head held high. The man and his opinions weren’t worth his time or concern. He had bigger fish to fry.
    Across the room, William Drummond was ensconced in a high-backed chair, his feet propped on a padded stool where they warmed before the hearth fire. The eldest of Regan’s uncles, he was an impressively large man, a bit on the corpulent side if the truth be told, and close to fifty, if the generous gray at his temples and frosting in his thick beard were any indication. He was also, and more importantly, the titular chief now of Clan Drummond.
    “Come, come, MacLaren,” the older man said jovially. “Pour yerself a cup of claret over there on the sideboard and come sit with me. It’s yet another miserable day to be out and about, what with this tiresomely incessant rain of late, and ye look as if ye could use something to warm yer innards.”
    Though Walter had no intention of allowing liquor to cloud his mind or spoil the intended purpose of his visit, he supposed one cup of claret wouldn’t do any harm. He quickly poured himself a generous serving and then ambled over to the chair opposite the Drummond and sat. For a time William didn’t press him, but allowed, as was proper hospitality, Walter to drink and warm himself.
    Finally, though, Walter set his cup on the little side table and met the other man’s eyes. “Regan’s been gone for over a week now, and no one seems to know where she is. Has she mayhap come home to her clan then?”
    William’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “Nay, I’ve had no word from her since her letter about Roddy’s death. Has aught happened to the lass?”
    There was a gleam of almost eager anticipation in the other man’s eyes, a feral light that gave Walter pause. He had known for a long while now that William, ever since he had all but assumed total power, had no desire for Regan to return to Drummond lands. Though clan holding most times passed directly to the son and heir, thanks to the ancient law of succession of King Malcolm MacKenneth, if there were no sons, primogeniture did allow for the oldest daughter to become heiress to her father’s estates. And, even if William’s close kinship also gave him some legitimacy to that same claim, it did little to negate the inescapable fact that he was—and had always been—immensely unpopular within his clan.
    Indeed, in this particular case, there were likely pockets of clansmen who’d rush to Regan’s side if and when she chose to assert her own right to this very house and its lands, not to mention the chieftainship. Yet until this moment, Walter hadn’t fully recognized the hatred—and fear—William had for Regan.
    His claim isn’t as strong as he makes it out to be. Nor is his position in the clan as secure as he’d like either.
    He filed the information away for possible future use. First things first. Without Regan, after all, there would never be opportunity to take over Clan Drummond.
    “I’d like to think she’s safe and sound, wherever she may be,” Walter replied. He sighed. “Poor lass. If she isn’t here, and