Iliana’s mouth tightened and she tugged her hand off his arm. “Well, then your English wife will tend this Englishman’s wounds,” she snapped irritably, sure they were teasing her, but that this was really no time for it.

“Nay.” He tugged her hand back over his arm. “Yer not English.”

“I am so,” she protested, tugging her hand loose again.

“Nay,” he corrected, pulling her hand firmly over his arm once more. “Yer me wife. Ye wear the plaid. Yer Scot now.”

As Iliana gaped at him, her mother spoke up. “Well, I am English, not married to a Scot or wearing a plaid, so I will tend to him. Bring him to the table.” She moved determinedly forward as she spoke, fully expecting Allistair to obey. And he did, but not until he received a nod from Angus.

Iliana paused long enough to glare at her husband for his behavior, then followed her mother.

Duncan arched an eyebrow at his father. “Now what have I done?”

Shaking his head, Angus slapped his son on the back, urging him to follow the women. “I believe yer wife would appreciate a bit more diplomacy.” When Duncan stared at him blankly, Angus grinned and shrugged. “’Tis something I’ve never bothered to teach ye. But don’t fash yersel’ about it over much. ’Tis something ye’ll gain with age. Or not. ’Tis not really important anyway, but women seem to prefer it.”

Iliana caught the dirty look her mother sent her father-in-law’s way after that statement, but paid it little attention. The Scot Angus had gestured to had come back into the keep, the other man’s body slung across his shoulders like a sack of vegetables. Carrying him to Angus, he pulled the man off his back, dropping him on the floor at his feet.

Wincing as his head struck the hard stone, Iliana left her mother and Gertie tending to the man on the table and moved forward to peer curiously at the dead man’s face. He was a gruesome sight. His face was as pale as a sheet, most of his blood seeming to stain his surcoat. It looked as if he had suffered a rather large, gaping wound to the stomach and chest. Judging by the grimace of pain on his face, death had been slow and painful.

“Is he the one who attacked you in our bed?”

Iliana swallowed thickly. “’Twas dark. I saw little but a silhouette. Still…” Peering down at him again, she frowned slightly. “He does look familiar to me.”

“Ah.”

Iliana peered at her father-in-law and raised her eyebrows at that.

The older man shrugged. “Ye were held at Greenweld, were ye not?”

“Aye.”

“Then ye must have seen him there,” he said simply, then turned to Allistair. “Did ye spy anyone else around?”