Bowie shook his head slowly. “Nay. No’ as far as I ken,” he admitted with a frown, and then rallied and added, “But it was no’ me, and the boy is in no shape to ha’e done this,” he said gesturing to Fenella’s body. “So if ’twas no’ either o’ ye, then ye should look to Allen’s mother. She hated Fenella.”
Saidh scowled at the suggestion. “I ken she thought Fenella had somehow brought about Allen’s death, but—”
“Nay. She hated her long ere that,” Bowie informed her. “She blamed her fer no’ being woman enough to change Allen’s ways, and no’ demanding he get her with child. She hated him too fer that. I would no’ be surprised to learn she killed them both.”
“Nay,” Saidh protested. “Aunt Tilda would ne’er harm her own son. She understood and loved Allen.”
“Aye, so long as he let her think he would give her the grandchildren she wanted and was no’ following his inclinations,” Bowie said bitterly. “But when she actually caught us together—” His mouth tightened. “I ha’e never seen such hatred. I thought she’d kill us both right there.”
“She caught ye together?” Greer asked sharply.
“Aye. Right here in this room,” Bowie admitted, glancing around sadly. “Allen moved to this room after the wedding, leaving Fenella to have the master suite.” His gaze returned to Saidh and he added, “As ye suggested, I used the passage to come to him at night. I did that night as well. We were both taken by surprise when his mother barged in.”
Bowie shook his head, his eyes growing dim as if he were seeing that confrontation again in his mind’s eye. “When she started shrieking, Allen suggested I leave, so I gathered me clothes and did. But I stopped in the hall to dress and I heard him tell her to go to hell. He bellowed that he’d married that little bitch Fenella as she’d insisted, but he would ne’er actually consummate the marriage and gi’e her those damned grandchildren she was always harping on about. She’d jest best forget about it, he said, and leave him be or he’d stick her in a hut on the edge o’ the property and she’d ne’er set foot in her beloved castle again.”
Pausing, Bowie sighed and rubbed his forehead and then said almost apologetically, “Allen was no’ normally like that, but I think she’d pushed him to his limits.”
Saidh waved that away. She too would have been upset did someone barge in on her and Greer together. “What did she say?”
“I ne’er heard,” Bowie said unhappily. “I was dressed by then and someone was coming up the stairs, so I slipped away to avoid being seen. I returned to the barracks and paced all night, waiting fer Allen to send fer me, but he ne’er did . . . and then the next morn he was found dead in the loch.”
Saidh and Greer were silent for a moment, absorbing what he’d said, and then Greer made a frustrated sound. Her eyebrows rose as she noted his expression. Something about the story obviously didn’t sit right with him, Saidh realized, and she wondered what it was. She understood when he asked, “Why did she allow ye to stay at MacDonnell after Allen was found dead the next morn? I’d ha’e expected if she was that angry, she’d ha’e sent ye away at once.”
“She did no ken it was me,” he said with a shrug.
Saidh turned to him with amazement. “How could she not?”
“The Drummonds had stopped to rest on their way north to Sinclair, and the MacDonalds were here on some business, and Allen decided to use that as an excuse to hold a masked ball that night,” Bowie explained, and then added with a sad smile, “Allen loved feasts and celebrations.”
“I do no’ see how that would prevent her—” Saidh began with confusion.
“While we were both naked, we were both still wearing our masks,” Bowie explained, flushing slightly. “He liked to do that sort o’ thing too.”
“Oh, I see,” Saidh murmured, but her gaze was on Greer, who was looking at her as if his expression suggested he was imagining making love to her with masks on and nothing else.
“I’d also sooted me hair,” Bowie added. “Me platinum hair is very distinctive, so I rubbed soot in it to make me less recognizable,” he explained when they both turned blank expressions his way. “It was a masked ball, after all. But if I’d no’ sooted me hair, e’eryone would ha’e kenned who I was at once. The game was to see if Allen could find me amongst all the masked men.” He shook his head firmly. “Lady MacDonnell could no’ ha’e kenned it was me with Allen that night. If she had, I would surely be gone, or probably dead like Allen.”
“Ye think she killed him,” Greer said and it wasn’t a question.
Bowie hesitated, but then said, “She was verra angry. In truth I ha’e ne’er seen her like that. She was near crazed with fury. She could ha’e . . .” He didn’t finish the accusation, but fell silent.
“Why did ye no’ tell me yer suspicions when I arrived?” Greer asked sharply.
Bowie looked away unhappily. “I was no’ sure she had killed him. I still am no’ sure. How could she ha’e done it? I mean, Allen had called fer a bath ere I got there and the tub was still there full o’ water. She could ha’e drowned him in that, but then how did she get him to the loch?” he asked helplessly.
When Greer merely shook his head, Bowie added, “And if she did no’ drown him in the tub, but followed him to the loch the next morn and killed him ere he was discovered, how did she manage it? Allen was big and strong. There were no signs o’ injury to the body.” He shrugged helplessly. “So while I suspected it, I could no’ see how she could ha’e done it.” Bowie paused and then added bitterly, “And I could no’ e’en tell anyone why I suspected her without revealing our relationship.”
“Which might ha’e seen ye burned at the stake, or mutilated and hanged as a sodomite,” Saidh said quietly.
Bowie nodded miserably. “Which I suppose will happen anyway now that I’ve confessed all to ye.”
Much to Saidh’s relief, Greer shook his head.
“Nay, Bowie,” he said firmly. “Who ye love is yer business. I’ll no’ go running to the priest or anyone else with tales.”
Bowie looked relieved, but then peered uncertainly at Saidh.