Iliana caught the word but had little time to worry over it as he opened the door of Dunbar keep and her attention was turned to what was to be her new home. If she had hoped that the inside would show more promise than the outside, she had been sorely mistaken. ’Twas an old building. A set of stairs to her right led up to a second floor where a narrow walkway had three doors leading off of it. Bed chambers, she guessed, turning to survey the great hall. It took up most of the main floor and was a large, dark cave with arrow slits for windows that were too high up for the feeble beams of light they allowed inside to penetrate the gloom in the room. If not for the fire roaring in a large fireplace against the far wall, she doubted she would have been able to see anything.

Which might not have been a bad thing, she thought with dismay, taking it all in. The floor was covered with filthy rushes, the walls were marked and smoke stained, the tapestries that graced them showed the effects of age and neglect, and the trestle tables and benches looked as if they were quite ready to give up the ghost. Iliana was almost afraid to sit on them, and not just because they appeared about to shatter under the least weight, but because they were also stained and splattered with grease and bits of food.

She was appalled. Wildwood, her childhood home, had been run efficiently and well. One could almost eat off the tabletop there. The floors no longer sported rushes, but several rugs that were warmer in winter and softer underfoot. Iliana had never seen the likes of this place and did not know whether to burst into tears or turn and flee. She simply could not live like this, could not manage amid such filth.

“Some ale?” Oblivious of her thoughts, the laird of Dunbar ushered her to the table and pushed her down onto one of those frightful benches. He then reached for a pitcher, straightened, saw that she had risen to her feet again, and frowned slightly as he pushed her back onto the seat with his free hand. “Rest, lass. Ye’ve had a long trip.”

She watched, horrified, as he grabbed a nearby tankard, emptied the dregs of ale that still remained in it out onto the floor, then grabbed up a pitcher, only to scowl. “’Tis empty. Oh, aye, I er…”

The man’s gaze slid enigmatically to his son, who scowled; then Angus started to turn toward the kitchen, only to pause and frown as he saw that Iliana had stood once again. Grunting, he pushed her back down onto the bench before bellowing toward the kitchen door, “Giorsal! Bring me more ale, wench!”