"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.
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 served 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 the floor.
"Fine," she said at last. "If 'tis too much trouble for you to discuss your duties, I shall find someone else to perform them." She had a bare glimpse of the dismay on his face, then turned to leave the room.
"'Ere now! Ye canna be doin' that! I've done this job all me life, and me father afore me. Ye canna be replacin' me!"
She had his attention at last, it seemed. Pausing at the door, Iliana turned back, feigned surprise on her face. "Certainly I can, Mr. Dunbar."
"Cummin," he muttered resentfully. "Elgin Cummin. Me mother was a Dunbar. Me da married her after he came here to cook."
"Well, Elgin Cummin, yer laird has given me a free hand in putting my new home to rights." Not exactly true, but this was no time to quibble, she thought, her gaze moving grimly over the others in the room now as well, in warning. The kitchen help and a handful of servants, including Giorsal, all stilled under her look. "That means I may release or retain whomever I wish." Her gaze slid back to the cook. "Including you. I had not intended to do so when I entered, but if you will not even discuss the matter with me, I see no alternative but to replace you."
"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."
Her eyebrows rose slightly at his anxiety. It seemed he had taken her at her word and now feared losing his position unless he could supply tasty fare at mealtime. Iliana could not blame him for bland food when he had no spices, but she would not accept stale or leftover meals.
She was about to tell him that, then changed her mind. Let him think her a tough taskmaster. Fear was a great inducement. After she had seen what he was capable of, she would tell him he would never be taken to task for such things.
Turning, she headed for the door. "I shall ask Laird Angus to send someone after the man. Mayhap we can lure him back here for some commerce."
Unfortunately, Angus was not around when she went out to the bailey to search for him. Her gaze moved reluctantly to her husband, who stood talking to the stablemaster. They had been fighting a war of wills for the last three days. It consisted mostly of ignoring each other. She did not look forward to approaching him now, but they desperately needed spices.
Sighing resolutely, she moved toward him. "Husband?" She saw him stiffen; then he turned slowly to peer at her, his face expressionless. Iliana shifted uncomfortably but forced herself to continue. "I...is your father about?"
Duncan had seen his wife come out into the bailey and feared she might approach him. A problem, that. He had no idea how to deal with the wench. She was refusing him his rights as husband, had told him he stank, and was now running willy-nilly over his home, changing and cleaning everything. What was a man to do with a wife like that?
If this was a normal problem, he would most likely have taken it to his father for a pearl or two of wisdom, but in this case he could not. He would be damned if he would let anyone, even his father, know the humiliating fact that he had yet to bed his wife.
As for explaining the contraption she wore, that was a nightmare he wished not even to consider. Besides, his father seemed quite taken with the wench. He certainly seemed pleased that she was setting her hand to running the keep. That outcome was bewildering to Duncan, who had been a mere five years old when his mother had died. Too young to recall what Dunbar had been like in her day. All he knew was that the way it had been the day his bride had arrived was the way it had been for as long as he could recall. It had been good enough for everyone else but was not good enough for his wife, and quite suddenly appeared not good enough for his father either. It was as if his wife had bewitched the man. She had made him smile. And somehow, her very presence had made him decide that Seonaid should marry her Englishman, the same man he had spent both of their lives villifying and calling "Sassenach scum!"