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agreed with him. Iain Campbell, because he was a Campbell, would indeed likely get away with his cowardly attack on Roddy. And a part of her dearly desired revenge. But it wasn’t just because Roddy had died. It was also because she felt she had played a part in his death. If she hadn’t rejected him, run and hid where he couldn’t find her . . .
    Somehow, the act seemed nearly one and the same with whatever she had done long ago to drive away her parents.
    As if summoned by her memories, Roddy’s voice came to Regan, still unsteady from the copious amounts of liquor he had imbibed that night, plaintively calling for her. Calling for her like some wounded child—like a child she had once been—confused and hurt because he had been left alone, and he couldn’t quite comprehend why. If only . . . if only . . .
    Tears welled at the recollection. With a savage effort, she choked them back and forced herself to return to the matter at hand.
    “What ye propose is verra dangerous,” she said. “Even if ye were to succeed, ye could be discovered. And then the Campbells would descend on us like a plague of locusts. All honor aside, is it worth the risk to the clan?”
    “It is to me. And it’s not just for Roddy, ye know. It’s for ye too.”
    “Me?”
    “Aye, sweet lass.” As he spoke, Walter lifted a hand and, with his fingertip, tenderly stroked her cheek. “I know ye well, I do. Yer heart’s aching for Roddy, but it aches as well over yer guilt in sending him out that night.”
    It was as if his finger had suddenly turned to flame. Regan jerked away. “I-I don’t know what ye’re talking about!”
    “Aye, but ye do, lass,” he said, his voice deepening to the thickest honey. “I know what ye did. I heard my brother staggering through the house, calling for ye. He loved ye, he did, and he thought ye’d abandoned him.”
    She turned away from him then. Please, don’t say that. Please, don’t make me remember . . .
    “It wasn’t like that,” Regan whispered, wrapping her arms about her. “I just . . . just wanted to give him time for the whiskey to leave him. He wasn’t himself that night. I don’t know why, but he just wasn’t my Roddy.”
    Hands settled gently on her shoulders. “Wheesht, lass. I know. I only said what I did because I wanted ye to understand why this is so important to me. I wouldn’t do this for any other reason. I’m not a bloodthirsty man. But I also won’t stand by and see what matters most to me ruined.”
    A great weariness crushed down on her. She didn’t know how to sort through this terrible mess anymore. What, indeed, was the right thing to do, and what was wrong? Where was there any fairness in any of it?
    “Do what ye think is right,” Regan said at long last. “Whatever happens, it’s only just.”
    “Aye,” Walter murmured, a strange, oddly triumphant note in his voice. “It’s only just.”

    The attack on Iain Campbell took a time in coming. Walter wasn’t fool enough to ride up to Balloch Castle and demand a battle to the death with the Campbell chief ’s finest warrior. His particular gifts lay in less physical pursuits than sword practice and sweat. Which was well as it should be. As the days, then weeks, passed, Regan had a gradual change of heart and began to hope he’d not hold fast to their plan.
    Finally, Walter’s spies returned with news that the Campbell tanist would depart in two days’ time for a short visit to the nearby town of Fortingall. Walter immediately moved to gather his men for the long-planned ambush.
    By midday, they were armed and ready to depart. Watching them mount up from the front door of Strathyre House, Regan was filled anew with misgiving. Too many times to count in the past weeks, she had reconsidered her acquiescence to Walter’s bloodthirsty plan. If anything went wrong with this undertaking, after all, it wouldn’t bode well for Clan MacLaren.
    He must have seen the uncertain expression on her face. After a few