Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Read Free Book Online Page A

And he , who wanted with all his heart to find such a woman, had yet to do so.
    Not that the women weren’t there for him. He just couldn’t seem to discover the soul mate he sought in the bevy of eager but largely empty-headed beauties who came his way. He was yet a man in his prime, though, and his mother and Anne frequently assured him there was still hope.
    In the meanwhile, naught was accomplished in mournful thoughts or pointless worrying. There was work to be done, and lots of it. He had best—
    A fist rapped smartly at his door.
    “Aye?” Iain called.
    “It’s Charlie, m’lord. There’s a problem downstairs. Seems one of the crofters was out chasing down a runaway cow and came upon this woman . . .”
    Frowning in puzzlement, Iain strode immediately to the door. “Aye?” he asked when he had opened it to confront the older man. “And what of this woman? Is she dead or injured?”
    “Och, aye. She’s injured, and no mistake. Angus found her lying beside her horse, who was grazing quite peacefully. The lass’s foot was still caught in a stirrup.” Charlie stepped aside and motioned for him to go ahead of him. “Angus thinks she was dragged a goodly distance, and she looks in a verra bad way.”
    “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,