Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Page A

most certainly is.” Regan smiled. The time hadn’t yet come when they must be parted, and she realized, with a start, that particular fear had gained great import over the past month. “It sounds a wonderful plan, m’lord.”
    Some emotion flickered in his deep blue eyes. He offered her his arm. “Come. We’ve lingered overlong in this less than aromatic place. Would ye favor me with a short walk in the gardens?”
    Regan laughed then. “Och, I wouldn’t say the stables lack in aroma, m’lord. Just mayhap not the most pleasant of aromas.” She took his arm. “But a wee walk in the gardens would be wonderful. The roses are in full bloom now, ye know.”
    “I noticed that just the other day,” Iain said as he began to escort her from the stable. “I go for days at a time so busy that I observe almost naught of the gentler aspects of Balloch. And then I reach a point when my heart and mind scream out for a bit of respite, and I make myself take a day or two away from the more burdensome tasks of being a laird.”
    “Such as today?”
    “Aye, such as today.” He shot her a quick glance, then looked back to the path leading to the rock-wall-enclosed garden. “And I’d like verra much to share a part of it with ye, if ye’ve no pressing duties.”
    “Yer mither and I were planning on spending the afternoon embroidering that tapestry she’s making.”
    Iain chuckled. “Somehow, I think I can prevail upon her to allow me an hour or two with ye. It’ll soon be time for the midday meal, and I thought that afterwards ye might enjoy a wee ride. It’s past time ye begin reusing yer riding muscles, or ye’ll find our impending journey rather unpleasant for the first day or so.”
    Regan giggled. “Aye, I imagine I would at that.”
    They reached the garden gate and paused while Iain slid the bolt and pushed open the little door. Then, after another pause while he closed and bolted the gate behind them, they set out down the flagstone footpath.
    The garden was large, consisting of herb and vegetable beds near the back door leading to the kitchen. A waist-high boxwood hedge delineated the herb and vegetable portion from the flower gardens, in which they now walked. Purple clematis climbed high wooden trellises behind fragrant lavender bushes. Deep, purple-pink bell heather grew among bright yellow broom bushes and silver green artemisia. Cobalt blue bachelor buttons nestled among white lilies and daisies. It was the myriad rosebushes, filling the two opposite
    sides of the garden, however, that always caught and held Regan’s attention.
    As soon as she reached the first roses, she slipped her hand from Iain’s arm and knelt to cup one of the light crimson blooms. She inhaled deeply of its sweet fragrance.
    “Do ye know aught of roses, lass?”
    She glanced up at Iain standing there smiling down at her. “Verra little, I’m sorry to say. Wherever I came from, we must not have raised them.”
    “Well, that particular rose is what is considered a Gallica rose,” he said. “Romans and Greeks used to grow them, so of course they’re verra ancient. And that particular one is known as the Apothecary rose. It can be turned into jellies, powders, and oils, and was believed to cure a multitude of illnesses.”
    “Indeed?” With renewed interest, Regan glanced back at the beautiful flower. “I didn’t know roses were so verra useful, aside from making perfumes and as cut flowers.”
    “Then now ye know differently. Would ye care to learn about some of the other varieties we’re fortunate to grow here at Balloch?”
    “Och, aye!” Accepting Iain’s proffered hand, she climbed back to her feet. “In addition to all yer other considerable talents, I didn’t realize ye were also a gardener.”
    He chuckled softly. “I hardly have the time to tend this formidable garden, but when I was a lad, my mither taught me about the roses. She’s the gardener in the family, though even she now has help in the services