“I shall not sleep on these despicable, disgusting—Where are my bed linens?”

Ebba blinked. “Your what?”

“My bed linens!” Iliana snapped. “My mother and I have been preparing for years for the day when I marry. We prepared bed linens, Ebba. Where are they? Surely she sent them with you?”

“Oh, aye.” Setting the yellow gown down, the maid began sorting through the dozen or so chests Lady Wildwood had insisted must go with her daughter to Scotland, despite Lord Greenweld’s protestations. He had not been able to protest overmuch with Lord Rolfe and the bishop there.

“Here they are!” Straightening, she held up a set of soft, pure white linens, their edges hand-embroidered with flowers and peacocks. “Will these do?”

“Aye.” Iliana reached for them, her expression tender as she recalled the many hours she had sat with her mother by the fire working upon them. Sighing, she lifted the material, rubbing it across her cheeks and enjoying its clean softness. Then she closed her eyes, her mind immediately drawing forth a picture of her mother’s face. A knock at the door drove the image away.

“Who is it?” Ebba asked, a nervous shake to her voice.

“Lord Rolfe. ’Tis time.”

Opening her eyes, Iliana met Ebba’s uncertain expression, then sighed and nodded.

“Just a moment!” Ebba called.

Handing her maid the linens, Iliana picked up her veil and covered her face. “Strip the bed and remake it. I will not sleep in filth. Then find some servants to assist you in moving the trunks against the walls.”

“Shall I unpack them?”

“Nay. Not ’til we’ve cleaned this sty up some,” Iliana said grimly, moving to the door. Pausing, she glanced back. “Have a bath brought up. My husband bathes tonight or he does not sleep on those linens.”

She may have no choice regarding marrying the barbarian below, but she could choose how that marriage went, Iliana decided grimly. She would not live like this. He could beat her, throttle her, even kill her, but she would not live like this. She would rather be dead, she thought bleakly, opening the door and moving out to take the arm of a worried-looking Lord Rolfe. He had obviously heard her last words to her maid.

Duncan laughed along with the others at his sister’s jest and tipped his tankard to his mouth, swilling down half its contents before lowering the mug to peer at his bride. She sat at the main table next to his father, the same grim expression gracing her face that had tightened it since coming downstairs on Lord Rolfe’s arm. She had held it throughout the wedding, saying her vows in a dead voice, making it more than to one and all that she was not overjoyed by her fortune.