Wings of Morning (5 page)

“And where is this woman now?”

“In the Great Hall, m’lord.”

“Fetch my mither,” Iain said. “In the meanwhile, I’ll go down to see the lass.”

Charlie nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He then turned on his heel and strode away.

These things happened from time to time, Iain knew. A herdsman was trampled, a maid was kicked while milking a cow, or a rider either fell from his horse or suffered some similar accident.

As he hurried down the corridor and then the broad sweep of stairs leading to the second floor and the Great Hall, Iain chastised himself for not asking Charlie who the woman was and if her family had been notified. But no matter. He knew every clansman and woman who lived on Balloch’s lands. Once he saw her, he’d soon ascertain her identity.

She was lying on a shabby blanket atop one of the trestle tables in the Hall. A small group had gathered around her, their voices low and solemn. They quickly parted, however, when Iain drew near.

A quick appraisal was all he needed to ascertain this woman was indeed in a bad way. Her hair was long and colored a deep chestnut shot with red. It was also tangled, smeared with bits of leaves and a generous coating of mud. Dried blood from a few deep cuts and some nasty abrasions had mingled in several spots with the mud, leaves, and hair.

Her skin was fair and had taken on a pallid cast, in stark contrast to her blue lips. Her nose was short and pert, and appeared the only place on her face not bruised and swollen. The ankle that had likely been caught in the stirrup was canted oddly, and Iain felt certain it was broken. Her long woolen cloak was dirty and torn, as was the gown she wore beneath it.

And he didn’t recognize anything—from her features to her clothing—about her.

From the head of the stairs, Iain heard his mother, accompanied by one of her maidservants, heading their way. He looked about him.

“Gather up the blanket ends and let’s take her upstairs. Gently now,” he was quick to caution when the four burly men proceeded to jerk the woman up rather roughly from the table. “She may be as badly injured within as she is on the outside. We don’t need to make matters worse.”

Mathilda was at his side before they were halfway back across the Great Hall. “Whatever happened to the poor lassie?” she asked, drawing up to walk beside the girl.

“Seems she was injured in being dragged by her horse. I’d hazard a guess she was caught out in that storm last night, and her horse spooked.”

As they entered the entry area and better light, Iain cast a sharper look at the woman. She was indeed a lass, he now realized, no more than twenty. Her frame was slender, and she wasn’t overly tall. Her clothing, he now realized, wasn’t elegant but was well made. She wasn’t likely a crofter’s wife, or even a servant.

His glance met his mother’s. Mathilda arched a questioning brow. Iain shook his head.

“I don’t recognize her.”

“Well, she
is
rather a mess at present. Mayhap when we get her cleaned up, and she wakens . . .”

If
she wakened, Iain thought grimly, sparing the mysterious woman yet another considering glance. She had a large purpling knot on the left side of her head, her clothing was drenched, and her color wasn’t good at all. Chances were strong the woman might well die before they ever discovered her identity.

From a place far removed, the woman woke to an irritating buzzing sound. She grimaced, turned away, and was immediately rewarded with a sharp pain in the side of her head. She turned her head quickly in the opposite direction, and the throbbing, that she now realized had always been there, intensified until she thought her skull would burst.

A moan rose from deep within her and was caught and strangled in the raw, dry depths of her throat. She licked her lips and found them cracked. She swallowed and realized she was parched.

“W-water . . .”

The word escaped as a harsh croak, startling her. That didn’t sound like her—or did it? She suddenly realized she didn’t know.

Indeed, she didn’t know aught, not where she was or what had happened.

“H-help! Help me!” she gasped.

She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. They felt too full, too heavy. Was she blind?

She moved her legs and found her right ankle immobilized in something stiff and hard.

Panic seized her. She tried to push to a sitting position, found her strength insufficient for the task, and flopped back like some helpless babe. A scream clawed its way upward, fighting to break free.

“Wheesht, lass,” a voice came of a sudden from the blackness encompassing her. “It’s all right.
Ye’re
all right. Ye must just give yer poor body time to heal.”

From somewhere to her right, she heard something being dipped in water, then rung out. A cool cloth touched her forehead, then was gently stroked down the side of her face. Heavenly, she thought. Och, but it felt heavenly!

“What . . . what happened?” she whispered. “Am I blind . . . and why does my head throb so?”

“Och, lass, lass,” the voice, a woman’s voice, came again. “Of course ye’re not blind. It’s just that yer wee face is so bruised and swollen that yer eyes cannot open. And, besides a broken ankle, ye’ve a huge knot on the side of yer head where we think ye must’ve struck hard when yer horse ran away with ye. But in time, the swelling will abate and all will be well again.”

The woman sounded kind, motherly even. Somehow, that realization brought on a surge of tears. She felt them slip from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks.

“Now, none of that,” the older woman crooned, wiping away the tears with the damp cloth. “Ye’re safe here, among friends.”

A hand slid beneath her head, and she felt herself lifted slightly from the bed.

“Take a sip of this. It’s something our healer prepared for ye to ease yer pain.”

A cup was pressed to her lips, and a cool liquid flowed into her mouth. She swallowed it down without even tasting it, desperately needing the wetness it provided, if not also the promised pain relief. All too soon, though, the cup was pulled away.

“M-more,” she cried, reaching out blindly to find and grasp the cup. “I’m s-so thirsty!”

“Aye, I’d imagine ye are, lass. But give that swallow or two a few minutes to see how it rests in yer stomach. Then I’ll give ye more.”

As the woman spoke, she ever so carefully lowered her back to rest on the bed. For a while, all was silent. Then the woman spoke again.

“Yer name, lass. If ye’d but tell us who ye be, we could send for yer family. They’d surely be a comfort to ye at such a time.”

Her name . . . Aye, that made sense. Her family would come, and they’d know what to do.

She opened her mouth to speak her name when a terrifying realization struck her. It was indeed worse than she had first imagined. Her mind was blank. She had no memory of a name or a family or even of a past life. It was as if she had never lived.

“I . . . I don’t know!” The cry was wrenched from the depths of her being. “I don’t know my name. I don’t know who my family is. And when I try to remember, everything’s black!”

She reached out, grasping at empty air, seeking to latch on to something—anything—solid and sure. Hands captured hers, held them tight. The human contact seemed the only anchor left her, securing her to the tattered remnants of her rapidly shredding sanity. So she clung to this unknown, unseen woman with all her might and sobbed until she finally slipped back into exhausted, blessed oblivion.

“We’ve a wee problem, lad.”

Brush in hand, Iain turned from his horse. It was early evening, and he had just returned a few minutes ago from his ride out to the drainage ditches. As was his way, he had immediately seen to the care of his horse.

“We do, eh? And what’s the problem this time, Mither? Have vermin been found in the food stores again? Or is someone sneaking down to the cellar to tap off a few more pitcherfuls of wine?”

Mathilda gave a snort of disdain. “As if I couldn’t handle such minor difficulties on my own! Nay, it’s the wee lass. She finally awoke about an hour ago.” She sighed. “Her poor face is so bruised and swollen now she cannot even open her eyes. At first, she imagined she was blind.”

Iain’s heart filled with compassion. “But that problem will surely abate in time. What matters is do ye think she’ll live?”

“Aye, if all goes well and she doesn’t catch a chill from being out all night in the rain, the chances are good. She doesn’t appear to have suffered any internal injuries.” Mathilda paused. “That isn’t the problem I was speaking of, though. The lass has lost her memory. She recalls naught—not who she is or where she came from.”

He grimaced. “Now that
does
pose a difficulty. In time she may well regain her memory—and we can easily care for her here until that occurs—but, in the meanwhile, her family will be frantic, not knowing where she is. Not to mention we haven’t any idea what to call her.”

“I’ve found something on her that might give us a wee clue in that regard.”

His mother extended her closed hand and turned it palm up toward him. In it was a nearly two-inch-long, embellished silver cross on a silver chain. At its center, where the crosspiece met the upright bar, Iain could make out a tiny hinged compartment. He carefully flipped it open to find a scrap of folded parchment in its depths.

“I removed that while we were bathing her,” his mother continued. “Most other times, I’d never have pried into what might well be a private matter, but once I knew she’d no memory, I thought this one time to take a wee liberty in hopes it might tell us something about her.”

He glanced up. “So ye’ve taken out the parchment and read it?”

“Aye. On it was written ‘Dear Lord Jesus, be ever near my beloved daughter Regan.’ ”

Iain frowned. “And do ye think that’s her name then? Regan?”

Mathilda shrugged. “It seems as likely as any. Though she’s young, she’s old enough to be a mither. But why would she be wearing such a prayer, rather than giving it to her own daughter to wear? And the parchment seems well aged, so I’d wager it was written for her when she was but a child.”

“But there was no surname? Nothing else we could use to at least attach her to some neighboring clan?”

“So ye’re convinced, are ye, she’s not a Campbell?”

He shrugged. “Nay, just that she’s not ours. And several clans border us, ye know. She could just as easily be a Menzies, Murray, Moncreiffe, or Stewart. And that’s assuming she hasn’t come from farther 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.