The Highlander Takes a Bride (26 page)

“Be gone where?” Greer asked with surprise, rather than answer the question. Although, Saidh supposed his question did that. Greer no longer considered Bowie a suspect. Neither did she.

Bowie shrugged. “I’ll find somewhere. But I’ll leave yer land and ye’ll no’ ha’e to look on me again.”

“The hell ye will,” Greer said sharply. “Ye’re me first, and yer damned good at the job. And ye swore yer fealty to me, Bowie. I expect ye to keep to yer oath and continue to serve me as ye ha’e.”

Bowie closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were a touch glassy, as if he was fighting tears. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “Thank ye, m’laird.”

“There’s nothing to thank me fer,” Greer assured him. “ ’Tis no’ as if I’m offering ye light duty with lots o’ rest. I’m a hard taskmaster, as ye well ken.”

A struggle took place on Bowie’s face, and then he shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips as he said, “Er . . . actually, m’laird, while ye expect hard work and obedience, yer a fair maun. So far I’ve found ye a rather grand laird.”

“Oh.” Greer looked uncomfortable and then said, “Well, that’s because yer a good worker. I’ve no’ had to punish or rail at ye fer laying down on the job.”

“I imagine that’s so, m’laird,” Bowie agreed solemnly.

Greer nodded. “Go oversee the men in the practice field. I would talk with me wife.”

“Aye, m’laird. Thank ye, m’laird,” Bowie bobbed his head and turned to leave them.

Chapter 18

“I
am quite sure he did no’ kill Fenella,” Saidh said the moment the bedchamber door closed behind Bowie.

“I was about to say the verra same thing,” Greer admitted on a weary sigh, and then pointed out, “But that leaves us with Aunt Tilda.”

Saidh grimaced at the suggestion. While Bowie had revealed a whole different side to the woman, it was still difficult to believe Aunt Tilda might want to see her dead. Saidh liked the woman. She also thought Aunt Tilda liked her. And, as far as she knew, she’d never done anything that might anger her.

“I find it hard to believe Aunt Tilda would try to kill ye,” Greer said suddenly, apparently thinking along the same lines. “She seems quite fond o’ ye.”

“Aye,” Saidh said with relief.

“But I also do no’ think Bowie would wish to harm ye, and we ken it was no’ Fenella,” he added. “And now I am wondering about Allen’s death. If she was really so angry that night . . .”

“Just because she was angry, does no’ mean she killed Allen. He was her son,” she pointed out.

“So, Allen drowned by accident and Fenella was ne’er at risk, but was accidentally killed in yer place,” he decided unhappily.

“Perhaps not,” Saidh protested, rankling at the idea of someone wanting to kill her. She pointed out, “Fenella could be difficult. Mayhap she made an enemy or two while here and her death has nothing to do with me misadventures.”

“So ye think that whoever stabbed her knew it was Fenella and did no’ accidentally kill her while attempting to kill you?” he asked dubiously.

Saidh scowled up at him. “Well, ye needn’t make it sound so unlikely. ’Tis no’ as if I’m such a tyrant fer lady that all and sundry would want me dead.”

Greer chuckled at her expression and scooped her up out of the chair and into his arms. He then settled in the chair with her in his lap and kissed her forehead. “That is no’ what I mean at all. But Saidh, ye’ve nearly been crushed by a great huge bit o’ the castle fallin’ on ye, and took an arrow to the chest. Someone is trying to kill ye. Do ye really think ’tis likely that at the same time someone else jest up and decided to kill Fenella?”

Saidh lowered her head, frustration slipping through her, and then admitted, “I do no’ ken. But I came here thinking that Fenella might ha’e been killing her husbands and I was wrong. I do no’ want to start doing the same thing to Aunt Tilda.”

He pulled back to eye her with surprise. “Ye came here because ye thought Fenella might be killing her husbands?”

“Aye,” she admitted, guilt slithering through her. She’d never told him of her part in the death of her cousin’s first husband. She probably should have before agreeing to marry him. He might not take kindly to having a wife who was once a party to covering up a murder.

Greer narrowed his gaze on her expression. “Why did ye think Fenella may ha’e killed her husbands?”

Saidh didn’t really want to tell him, but felt she had to, and after the briefest hesitation, admitted, “Because I kenned that she killed Hammish.”

“What?” he breathed in shock.

Saidh grimaced and then quickly told him the whole story of Fenella’s first marriage, the wedding, the wedding night and the following day. She admitted everything, even her aiding Fenella in covering up the murder of her husband and then her worry on hearing of her cousin’s other short-lived marriages.

When she was done, Saidh eyed Greer anxiously, unsure how he would take what he’d learned. In truth, she feared he would push her away with disgust for helping to cover up Hammish’s death.

“So Fenella stabbed Hammish rather than suffer his abuse,” Greer said finally.

“Aye,” Saidh breathed unhappily.

He was silent for another moment and then pointed out, “The king had the deaths of the MacIvers investigated and it was decided there was no foul play.”

“Aye,” she acknowledged.

“Do ye think she killed them?” he asked.

Saidh hesitated. “At first, I feared she had, and then, after talking to Fenella, I changed me mind. But . . .”

“But?” he prompted when she stopped and frowned over the matter.

“In truth, I do no’ ken,” she admitted, and then added with frustration, “E’ery time I talked to Fenella I came away sure she had no’ harmed any but Hammish. But the bit about the feather bothers me still. It seems to suggest she may ha’e killed the senior MacIver as well. But Fenella swore to me that she had nothing to do with the deaths of her other husbands, and . . .” She paused and threw her hands up with exasperation. “Does it e’en matter anymore? She is dead. If she was killing her husbands, she can do that no more, and if she did no’ kill any but Hammish, then . . . well, she has more than paid fer it in this life.”

“Aye,” Greer agreed solemnly. “But what feather were ye talking about?”

“Oh,” Saidh waved one hand impatiently. “Aunt Tilda was at MacIver for the wedding to the senior MacIver. She was among the women who helped prepare him fer burial when he was found dead the next morn. As she was cleaning him, she found a feather in his mouth and said as how his eyes were bloodshot. She thinks that may be a sign that he was smothered since her bairns had bloodshot eyes too.”

“What?” Greer asked with amazement. “What bairns?”

Saidh frowned at his expression, but then realized he probably had little knowledge of his Aunt’s life ere coming to take up the mantle of laird. He probably didn’t know about the babies she’d lost.

“Aunt Tilda had three children ere Allen,” she explained. “All were smothered in their beds by their wet nurse ere they were out o’ swaddling. Aunt Tilda caught the wet nurse killing the last child, and I suppose the woman was probably hung or something,” Saidh added with a frown. She hadn’t thought to ask what had happened to the wet nurse and Aunt Tilda hadn’t mentioned it. Shrugging that concern away, she added, “But Aunt Tilda said she had noticed how the eyes of each babe were bloodshot after they’d been smothered. She suspected it must be something that happens when a body is smothered and since she’d found that feather and Laird MacIver’s eyes also were bloodshot, she thought perhaps he had been smothered too.” She paused and then added, “Although she also said he was old so his eyes were often bloodshot and rheumy, so Fenella may no’ ha’e killed him. And the feather could ha’e got in his mouth some other way. Although I do no’ ken—”

“Saidh.”

“Hmm?” She gave up trying to work out if Fenella had killed Laird MacIver and glanced to her husband in question.

“Allen was Aunt Tilda’s only child,” Greer said solemnly. “She had a difficult birth and ne’er carried another.”

Her eyes widened, and then narrowed with confusion. “But she said she had three bairns ere him.”

“Nay.” He shook his head firmly, and then added, “Me uncle’s first wife did though, three little lasses who ne’er made it out o’ swaddling. The mother threw herself from a cliff after the third bairn died, killing herself,” he added grimly.

Saidh blinked. “And then he married Tilda?”

“Aye. She comforted him after his wife died; got with child, and me uncle married her. And,” he added, his voice growing hard, “Aunt Tilda was his first wife’s sister. She’d acted as nursemaid to each o’ the bairns who died in swaddling.”

Saidh stared at him blankly, and then muttered, “Ah, hell,” and scrambled off of his lap. All her earlier weakness slipped away as blood began to pound through her body, riding a wave of fury. She started to stride toward the door, and then stopped and turned back to peer at Greer as he got to his feet. “She killed those bairns.”

“I suspect so,” he agreed mildly, and then added to her anger by announcing, “And since Aunt Tilda was the only witness to the death of my uncle’s first wife, her sister, I suspect—”

“She killed her sister too,” Saidh snapped.

Greer nodded. “ ’Tis no’ such a leap that she might kill her own son as well, once she realized he was no’ like to give her what she wanted.”

“Aye,” Saidh muttered and then shook her head with bewilderment. “She seemed like such a nice old lady.”

“Aye,” Greer agreed, walking toward her.

“I liked her. And she told me to call her Aunt Tilda,” Saidh said almost plaintively, and then growing indignant, added, “And all the while she’s been trying to kill me? Why? What did I e’er do to her?”

“I do no’ ken, but I shall find out,” Greer vowed, pausing in front of her.

“
We
shall find out,” she said grimly, turning toward the door again.

“Nay.” Greer scooped her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the door. “I will find out. I want ye nowhere near the woman. Besides, Rory will need to look at yer wound, yer bleeding through yer bandages.”

Saidh glanced down and grimaced when she saw he was right. There was a large red circle over her breast on the pale blue gown. They had reached the door now and Saidh glanced around, intending to open it for him, but there was no need. He gave it one healthy kick and then swiftly stepped back out of the way as someone immediately opened it from the hall.

“Me wife needs—” Greer began

“Dougall will take her,” Aulay interrupted. “And Rory is already in yer room collecting what he needs out o’ his satchel.” Grinning, he added, “We heard everything. Yer doors are fair thin here, MacDonnell.”

“And our sister is loud,” Dougall rumbled as he took Saidh from Greer.

Conran then drawled, “In
all
things. Ye may want to consider that the next time ye’re tupping her.”

Saidh scowled over Dougall’s shoulder at Conran. Not that he even noticed: he and her other brothers were following Greer down the hall toward Aunt Tilda’s room, heads together and jabbering away. Discussing how best to approach Aunt Tilda, she supposed unhappily, and heaved a depressed sigh. She really had liked Aunt Tilda. Her turning out to be such a nasty old murdering cow was more than just a little disappointing.

“Sorry, Saidh,” Dougall said solemnly. “I ken ye liked her.”

“Aye,” she muttered unhappily, and reached to open the door to the master bedchamber for him when he paused in front of it.

Dougall immediately started inside, but only got a step or so past the door when he suddenly grunted, stumbled forward, and then crashed to the floor taking her with him. It all happened so fast, Saidh didn’t even get the chance to cry out. One moment she was in his arms and the next she was hitting the floor with a soft thud and Dougall was coming down on top of her.

Saidh wasn’t sure what hurt worse, her injured shoulder and hip slamming into the hard floor, or Dougall’s weight crashing onto her. But the combination was enough to leave her dazed and in agony.

“Oh dear, that had to hurt.”

Saidh blinked her eyes open at that comment to see that Aunt Tilda was closing the bedchamber door. When the woman then proceeded to bar it, Saidh forced herself to ignore the pain vibrating through her body and began to drag herself determinedly out from under Dougall. She also opened her mouth to shout for help at the same time, but froze when Aunt Tilda turned back from the door and she saw that she had Alpin in front of her.

The boy was awake, but Saidh suspected held upright only by the arm around his throat. He looked as dazed as she felt in that moment.

“No screaming now,” Aunt Tilda said solemnly, producing a knife from the folds of her skirt and pressing it to Alpin’s throat. “We do no’ want the boy to get hurt, do we?”

Saidh closed her mouth and stopped moving.

“Nay, nay. Do get up,” Tilda said at once. “The boys may come running back here any minute to warn yer brothers that I am no’ in me room. If they do, and if we are still here, I fear I shall ha’e to kill young Alpin as yer punishment.”

Saidh scowled at the woman, and then finished dragging herself out from under Dougall and managed to stagger to her feet. It was a difficult task though, and she knew she was swaying on her feet once she gained them.

“To the passage,” Tilda ordered, and then added sharply, “Quickly.”

Saidh glanced to Alpin, and then turned reluctantly and crossed the room to the wall beside the mantel. She spotted Rory on the floor on the far side of the bed as they passed it and supposed Tilda had caught him unawares. She’d probably slipped into the room through the passage and knocked him out. Certainly, she couldn’t have come up the hall without her other brothers seeing her. They’d been waiting there while Saidh and Greer had talked to Bowie.

“Open the passage,” Tilda said when Saidh paused at the wall.

“Where are we going?” Saidh asked as she pressed the stone Alpin had that afternoon. Dear God, it had only been a matter of hours ago, she realized suddenly. It felt like a lifetime ago now.

“Grab the torch inside and light it from the fire,” Tilda instructed, not bothering to answer her question.

Saidh did as she was told, her movements slowed by the pain coursing through her body. She seemed to hurt everywhere, though her shoulder and chest hurt the worst.

“Now in,” Tilda ordered when Saidh had straightened from lighting the torch, and then gave her a shove to get her moving.

Saidh stumbled into the narrow passage and glanced back in time to see Tilda turn from closing the passage door. The knife she held was pressed tight to Alpin’s throat and a line of blood had sprung up under it.

“Move,” Tilda said, her voice cold. “Quickly, child. I would not wish to hurt wee Alpin here to make ye move faster. He’s a good lad. Such good manners and always proper.”

Saidh ground her teeth together, but turned and started along the passage, holding the torch out in front of her to light the way. But she wished she had her sword. Sadly, she hadn’t seen or even thought of her damned sword since waking up in the master bedchamber next to Alpin. What good was having a sword and knowing how to use it if she didn’t carry it with her? she admonished herself silently, and then sighed to herself and turned her attention to more useful concerns, like— “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did ye kill yer own son?” she asked, and really wanted to know the answer.

“Why do ye think? The lad was always a disappointment,” Tilda said grimly. “And after all I did to be able to ha’e him too.”