“Say what ye will, Gilley, but ’tis true and well I ken it. I am no sayin’ I did not keep ye all safe. ’S truth, anger was about the only thing likely to get a rise from me. I worked out much anger on many an enemy’s neck and chest with me sword. But when it came to the softer needs, I have not been here. Even fer me own children. Howbeit,” he went on, when both men opened their mouths to argue. “Iliana is here now and wishes to set the place to rights…as yer mother did ere her, and it fair warms me heart a bit. We are lucky to have her.”

Duncan would have had a great deal of difficulty agreeing with that right then but kept his opinion to himself as he turned away. “I’ll send two men fer rushes, but no more.”

“Giorsal.”

“Aye, me lady?” Other than glancing over from where she stood, hands on hips, supervising the women, who were on their hands and knees scrubbing the floor, the servant did not move except to arch an eyebrow in question. Servant or no, there was little doubt that she thought herself the queen bee at Dunbar.

Forcing herself to maintain her patience, Iliana set down the edge of the tapestry she had been helping Ebba with and moved to the woman’s side so that she would not have to yell across the room. Her mother had taught her that there was little authority, let alone dignity, in shrieking from a distance like a fishwife selling her wares. Pausing at the woman’s side, Iliana graced her with a somewhat cool smile, then announced, “Lord Angus is seeing to fresh rushes for the floor, but I thought mayhap something pleasant smelling would be nice to add to them. Mayhap you could take a couple of women and go collect some—”

“Heather.”

Iliana blinked at the interruption. “Heather?”

Pursing her lips, the woman nodded her head with firm certainty. “Aye. ’Tis what ’er ladyship put among the rushes.”

Trying not to grit her teeth, Iliana forced a smile that was even chillier than the first. “That may be so, but I prefer lavender.”

Giorsal shook her head at once. “Lady Muireall always put heather—”

“I am not Lady Muireall,” Iliana snapped coldly, “and I prefer lavender.”

“There is no lavender this far north,” the servant announced.

Iliana sighed in defeat, not needing to see the satisfaction on the other woman’s face to know when she had lost. “I see.”

“There be a muckle o’ heather, though.”

“I am sure there is,” she commented dryly.

“I’ll take the women and go find some.” Barking a word in Gaelic that immediately drew the other women to her side, she led them away without even pretending to await permission.