Free The Key by Lynsay Sands Page A

remain a maid forever. No without reason, mind ye.”
    Iliana nodded silently, unsure what to say.
    “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 absently 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 inScotland. 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.
    Iliana forced herself to count to ten, an effort to control her temper as she considered
     how to deal with the man. She had known as she had suffered through the stale bread and
     watery stews that he had served for meals over the last three days that she would have to
     do something about him eventually but had put him on her list of priorities between
     cleaning the great hall and whitewashing it. Well, other than a few of the wall hangings,
     which she could clean on nights in front of the fire, the great hall was done. The floors
     had been scrubbed clean, and the trestle table and benches were pristine. She had even
     seen to scrubbing away the smoke and soot on the wall around the fireplace. Now 'twas well
     past time she dealt with the cook.
    He was short, with hair as black as soot, and a body that resembled a barrel. The man was
     round everywhere. Even his cheeks were chubby and florid. Iliana could only think that he
     either ate better fare than he saved everyone else, or his palate was less discerning. He
     certainly lacked in respect and courtesy when it came to his new English lady. He had been
     uncooperative as the devil since she had entered the kitchen to speak with him. First, he
     would not even do her the courtesy of stopping what he was doing to hear her out, and
     second, he kept spitting on the floor by her skirts as she spoke. 'Twas a most disgusting
     habit. Especially in the kitchen while preparing food, she decided, staring down at the
     foamy gobs on