“I’ll discuss it with ye. Discussin’ is good.” There was a desperate look about the man now. Iliana was not terribly surprised. Being head cook carried a certain amount of prestige and a lot of benefits with it. Besides, the man would have been trained in it and little else. Iliana’s only concern now was how rigorous that training might or might not have been.

“Can you cook?” The question was blunt and to the point, puffing up the cook’s chest with ruffled pride.

“Aye. Me da was the best cook in all Scotland. Lady Muireall said so, and he trained me in all he kenned.”

“Did he teach you to serve stale bread and dry, hard cheese to your laird?”

His chest deflated somewhat, shame upon his face now. “Nay.”

“Hmm.” Iliana eyed him solemnly. “Then I will not expect it again. What did you plan for sup tonight?” She had already spied the contents of the cauldron simmering over the fire. It looked to be a repeat of the stew that had been served every night since her arrival: a rather thin and tasteless gruel.

The cook’s gaze moved to the cauldron, worry puckering his brow, then he peered at her helplessly. “We have no spices.”

Her brows rose at that. “None at all?”

“Nay. Laird Angus did not replace his wife as chatelaine on her death.”

Iliana was not surprised at this news; she had come to that conclusion herself by the state of things. “Is there not even an herb garden?”

“Lady Muireall used to have one, but it went to rot and ruin when she died.”

“I see.” Iliana shifted where she stood, her mind working over a solution to the problem. She would have to have a look at the garden at once. ’Twas June. Spices would have to be planted soon if she would gain anything from them. Spices were too expensive for her to purchase those that they could grow themselves. Still, some would have to be purchased. “When does the spiceman come around?”

“He doesn’t. He stopped acomin’ years ago. Laird Angus was never around to purchase from him.”

She was frowning over that when Giorsal piped up, “He passed by here this morn. I heard one of the men reportin’ it to the laird. He crossed our land on the way to Innes.”

“Innes?”

“The McInnes holdins. They be our neighbors,” the cook explained, worry on his face. “He will not be around fer months again after this trip. He has a wide circuit to make and only passes this way four times a year. I canna make tasty fare if I have no spices.”