“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.