“Aye. A mouse.” Angus’s voice sounded by his left shoulder.

Slumping in defeat, Duncan turned to peer at his father. “What do ye want?”

Angus raised his eyebrows but smiled slightly despite his son’s irritation. “I was lookin’ fer Gilley here.”

“Well, I’ll leave ye to him then.”

“Nay, I’d ha’e a word with ye as well.”

When Duncan turned back questioningly, Angus gestured toward the men in the bailey. “Have ye a man or two to spare this afternoon?”

“There may be one or two I could do without,” he admitted slowly. Ever since he had turned nineteen his father had been giving him responsibility over Dunbar keep and its people. It had started with a little here and a little there, adding more and more with each passing year until now, he was pretty much in charge of all who served them. Unofficially. Officially, his father was laird and had veto power over any decision Duncan made until he died. In reality, they worked serious decisions out between them, benefiting from Angus’s wisdom and Duncan’s vigor and passion.

“Good, good. Send ’em up to the keep when ye be gettin’ the chance then, hmm?” He smiled at him cheerfully, then turned to Gilley. “Now, about those keys—”

“What be ye needin’ the men in the keep fer?” Duncan interrupted suspiciously. He very rarely saw his father so cheerful. The man had been solemn and grim most of Duncan’s life. At least since his wife, Lady Muireall, had died. In Duncan’s faint memories his mother had been a bolt of sunshine that had made everyone around her happy…including her irascible husband.

“’Tis not me. ’Tis yer wife,” his father told him easily. “She’s made a start on cleanin’ up the great hall. She had the women throw out all the old rushes, then set ’em to as-crubbin’ the stone floor, and she’ll need new rushes to—”

“What the devil was wrong with the old rushes?”

Angus Dunbar raised his eyebrows in slight surprise at his son’s show of temper. “Well, lad, they have been there fer nigh on a year.”

“And would have lasted another year just fine. We always leave the rushes about fer a year or two ere changin’ ’em.”

“Aye, ’tis true that we have let things go a bit—”

“Let things go!” Duncan stared at him in disbelief, feeling suddenly betrayed at the mere suggestion that his wife might actually have something to complain about.

“Aye.” Angus sighed. “The truth is, son, yer mother wid never have put up with the keep being in the state it has been in since ’er death. I fear I let it get so. I fair fell apart when she died. Sank deep into sadness and never pulled meself back out. I neglected the state o’ the keep and even me people—”

“Now, me laird,” Gilley interrupted, but Angus waved him to silence.