“Of course.” She frowned over her maid’s disapproving expression. “I told you last night, Ebba. I shall not live like this. I will have a clean home, a clean bed, and a clean man in it. If it kills us both,” she added on a mutter as she unlocked the belt.

“Gilley.” Duncan caught the smithy’s arm as he drew abreast of him and urged him to a halt, forcing a stiff smile to his own lips as he did. He had meant to have a word with the man directly on leaving the bedchamber that morn. Howbeit, he had been caught up by one concern or another all morning. Now, when it was nearing midday, he had finally managed to get away long enough to seek out the locksmith. “I would have a word with ye.”

Gilley hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, but yer da is awaitin’ me inside. He wishes another set o’ keys made. Fer yer bride,” he explained when Duncan looked perplexed.

“Why would she be needin’ a set o’ keys?”

“She is chatelaine now,” the man pointed out with surprise.

Duncan grunted over that, then shrugged it aside. “I shall be quick. ’Tis about locks and keys I wished to speak with ye as well. Ye see, I have this lock I need to unlock, but I have no key and kenned mayhap ye could tell me how to do it?”

He blinked. “Well, if ye bring it to me, I can surely do it fer ye.”

Duncan imagined carting Iliana to the locksmith’s hut, setting her on his table, and throwing her skirts over her head to reveal the lock. Nay, ’twas not an option. The tale would reach every corner of the keep ere the nooning meal. Besides, he did not like the idea of having another man’s eyes on his wife’s belt of chastity. Or what it hid.

“Nay. I canna be doin’ that. ’Tis not possible.” He shook his head firmly. “Ye’ll have to be tellin’ me how to do it on me own.”

The locksmith frowned. “I canna be tellin’ ye how, less I be seein’ the lock in question. If ye canna bring it to me, then surely I can be goin’ to it?”

“Nay. Ye canna.” He scowled irritably. “Just tell me how to open locks.”

“If ’twas that easy, everyone would be a locksmith. I canna help ye less I see it.”

“Well…Damn!” Reaching for the sword at his belt, he tugged it from his sheath and used it to draw a rough sketch of the lock in the dirt at their feet. “There,” he said with satisfaction as he finished the picture. “Does that not help ye?”

The locksmith’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What be it?”

“What do ye think ’tis, ye bloody fool! ’Tis the lock.”

Gilley shrugged, unconcerned by the insult. “Looks more like a mouse to me.”