“I allowed ’er much freedom as she grew up,” he continued. “In truth, ’twas not that I gave ’er freedom so much as I neglected to bother to take ’er in hand. I fear I have neglected much over the years. At any rate, she is poorly prepared for this marriage and would benefit greatly from any wee help ye could give her in learning to be a real lady.”

Iliana stilled as she realized that he was asking her to tutor his daughter in womanly pursuits. The idea was more than daunting. She had seen enough of the girl to know that Seonaid was not simply lacking such skills but completely bereft of them.

“When is the wedding to be?” she asked worriedly.

“Soon as the man can be fetched back here. A month, mayhap.”

“A month?” The words came out on a squeak and Iliana raised her tankard abruptly to her lips for a sip that turned into a gulp that downed half the liquid in her tankard. When she lowered the mug it was to find Angus Dunbar eyeing her with one brow cocked.

“Ye’ve a fair thirst there, lass. ’Tis said our alewife makes the finest ale in Scotland. I daresay ye’d be agreein’ with that?”

“Aye, ’tis fine ale,” she murmured, forcing a smile. Then her gaze fell to the floor and she added under her breath, “’Tis a shame the same cannot be said for the cook’s fare.”

Angus followed her gaze and nodded wryly. “’Tis true the cook has let things slip a might over the years. His da was cook here when Lady Muireall, me late wife, was alive. She kept him on his toes, she did. But after her passing…” He shrugged. “We all let things slide.” He was silent for a moment, his thoughts far away, presumably with his dead wife, then jerked himself out of it and glanced at her. “Mayhap ye could do something to encourage him to improve his offerings?”

“Aye, mayhap I can,” Iliana said firmly, rising to her feet. “In fact, if you will excuse me, I think I will have a word with him right now.” Turning, she marched determinedly toward the kitchens.

“I have never had complaints afore. The laird seems well pleased with me work.”

“He is the one who asked me to speak with you,” Iliana told the man solemnly.

The cook’s only response was to glare at her from beneath his bushy brows and spit on the floor at her feet, barely missing the hem of her gown.