Wings of Morning by Kathleen Morgan Page B

of a full-time gardener.” He tugged on her hand. “But come, let’s move on to the next variety.
    “Mither liked to plant the same types of roses near each other,” Iain said as he drew up next before a bush of particularly striking, crimson and pink-and-white-striped roses with bright golden stamens. “This is also a Gallica rose, called Rosa Mundi. It’s said to be named after Fair Rosamund, the mistress of King Henry II of England.”
    He removed his sgian dubh , bent, cut a flower free, then handed it to her. “A fair rose for a fair lady.”
    She could feel the heat steal into her cheeks but said nothing and accepted the lovely blossom. Lifting it to her nose, Regan breathed in its perfume. Then, because Iain continued to stare at her with a most intense expression, she smiled and, using the rose, pointed past him.
    “Are there more? More varieties of roses, I mean?”
    For an instant longer, he stared at her. Then, as if rousing himself, he nodded. “Aye. Come along and I’ll show ye.”
    They spent another good half hour touring the garden, examining and discussing roses. Regan found it the most delightful experience. She learned of the Damask rose, thought to originate in the Middle East, likely near Damascus, that was brought back to England by the Crusaders and was used for the production of attar of roses in perfumes. And she couldn’t help but be equally taken with the pink and red varieties of those highly fragrant roses, especially with the one Iain called the Autumn Damask, which had a wonderful, exceptionally fragrant wine scent.
    “How did ye come to own so many roses?” Regan asked after they had completed a walk around the flower garden and she had learned of yet another variety of roses, the Albas. By now, her hands were full of samples Iain had cut for her. She held a shellpink Maiden’s Blush that had an exceptionally sweet fragrance, a creamy white Alba Semiplena, as well as the Rosa Mundi and an Autumn Damask.
    “Well, it began with my grandmither, actually, and my mither learned the art from her when she wed my father and came to live at Balloch. I think, aside from me, they were one of her few comforts living here.”
    Regan frowned. “But Balloch’s a wonderful castle. Why would yer mither not find many pleasures—” She cut herself off. “Och, I beg pardon, m’lord. I didn’t mean to pry into something not of my concern.”
    His lips went tight for an instant, then he sighed and shook his head. “It’s all right, lass. It’s no secret what kind of man my father was, or that he died trying to steal the clan chieftainship from my cousin, Niall.”
    “Och, I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been a great source of pain to both ye and yer mither.”
    “To be sure,” he muttered, his expression going dark. Then, as if shaking off the unpleasant memories, he turned back to her and smiled. “But then, we all have our difficulties in life to overcome, don’t we? And what matters is that we don’t let them embitter us or turn us from the Lord and His loving ways.”
    At that moment, gazing up at his beautifully hewn face and into eyes that burned with such fierce resolve, Regan thought him the most wonderful man she had ever known. How she knew this, unable as she was to recall all the men of her past life, she couldn’t say, but she knew with an unshakable certainty. And knew at that moment, as well, that she truly was falling in love with him.
    Not that she cherished any illusion she was a fitting mate, or that Iain viewed her as aught more than a poor waif whom he, in his tenderhearted kindness, had taken in and intended to help. But she didn’t care. She’d love him from afar and urequited, for she couldn’t help it. What woman could, if ever she had opportunity to know him as she had?
    “Aye,” Regan softly replied, gazing down once again at the lovely flowers she held. “We all have difficulties to overcome. The Lord grant us all, though, the courage to find