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winding hill to Strathyre House, rose from several feet behind her. “Hold up, l-lass. I need to speak with ye.”
    It was Walter. She heaved an inward sigh. Notwithstanding that she didn’t always get along with Roddy’s self-absorbed, eternally calculating younger brother, she was in no mood right now to talk. All Regan wanted to do was retire to her little turret bedchamber, be alone with her thoughts—and especially her regrets—and shed some more tears.
    Still, Walter was grieving too. Perhaps he but wished for a few words of comfort, for assurance that all would someday be right again with the world. Problem was, Regan wasn’t convinced of that herself.
    Nonetheless, she halted and turned to await his arrival. Walter soon drew up at her side.
    His dark brown eyes skimmed her slender form and, as always, Regan couldn’t help but wonder what direction his thoughts were taking. She soon discarded that consideration. No one could ever really be certain what Walter was thinking. To dwell on it was a pointless waste of time.
    He was as tall as his brother had been, but instead of Roddy’s sturdily muscled form, Walter was thin and wiry. His hair was brown, but a drab shade, with none of the glinting highlights of Roddy’s wavy mane. And there was nothing of singular appeal about his face. He was neither handsome nor ugly. The best and worst that could be said of Walter MacLaren was that he was . . . average.
    “Aye?” Regan met his impenetrable gaze with an open, steady one of her own. “What is it?”
    He stepped around to her side and took her by the arm. “As I said, lass. I need to speak with ye—in private. Come,” he said, tugging now on her arm. “I’m thinking the library would be best.”
    Irritation at his suddenly high-handed manner surged through her. Did he think, now that Roddy was gone and he was laird of Strathyre, that he could begin ordering her about? But then, perhaps Walter, who had always stood in Roddy’s shadow, was but unfamiliar with being in a position of authority. She shouldn’t misjudge him so quickly.
    “As ye wish.” She fell into step beside him.
    It wasn’t long before they reached the big tower house and climbed the stairs to the third-floor library. Tucked in one corner off the Great Hall, it was a cozy, if windowless, room, lined with two half shelves of books, a long, high-backed oak settle, and two plainly fashioned wooden benches.
    The room always had a musty, closed-in smell, but Regan didn’t care. Few people frequented the little library, save for a private conversation or meeting, and so she generally—and quite happily—had the place all to herself.
    She entered, and Walter followed, closing the door behind them. Regan walked to the settle, took her seat on one end of its wooden expanse, and quickly smoothed a fold of her most elegant gown, its severe lines of gray wool adorned with but a bit of lace at the edge of the high-collared neck and ends of the long sleeves. It was, at the very least, five or more years out of date compared to the current fashions at Queen Mary’s court. Fine dresses these days, though, came dearly for the now almost penniless Clan MacLaren. Not that it mattered much to her. She had long ago learned to content herself with the everyday dress of a simple clanswoman.
    Only the silver cross, rich with openwork scrolls and flourishes, that she wore constantly about her neck reliably alluded to her higher standing in the Scots’ nobility. At the cross’s center was a tiny hinged compartment for keeping a written prayer close to the heart. It was a parting gift from her mother, and though the script on the enclosed scrap of yellowed parchment was now faded with age, Regan kept it still. As she’d likely do until the end of her days, she imagined, her fingers touching it fleetingly before falling once more to her lap.
    She cocked her head at Walter, who hadn’t yet exited his spot by the door. “Well, what is it? Ye’ve never been