He ought to be spitting with ire. He ought to give her a good chiding for disobeying him. Yet, if he weren’t in the middle of the Atlantic, he’d be ever so happy to see her. He sauntered forward, rubbing his fingertips. If only the quartermaster weren’t standing like a slavering bulldog, Kennan might pull the woman into his arms and forget her defiance. But right now he had to be a captain to his men first. “What the blazes are you doing aboard my ship, lassie?” he demanded.

Divana glanced at Lachie, who gave her elbow a shove. “Go on. May as well have out with it.”

Before she spoke, her gaze slipped to Kennan’s chest. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip while her eyes dipped lower before meandering back up to his face. She’d seen him without a shirt before, but if he knew anything about women, she’d just undressed him without uttering a word. He gulped as she stared into his eyes without so much as a flinch.

And she looked so damned self-righteous. Did she not know he’d be within his rights to hang her for stowing away? Cleary not by the purse of her lips, the arch of a single, saucy eyebrow.

“Who in all of Scotland do ye think ye are forcing me to bide me time at Achnacarry whilst you sail away on the high seas for Lord kens how long?” She jammed her fists into her hips. God, she was bonny when angry. “And after I sat by your sickbed without a lick of sleep night after night. Twice, mind ye!”

Hadn’t he explained it clearly enough? Females didn’t go to sea with a ship full of randy sailors. “Women do not sail on merchant ships—not unless they’re—” Paying passengers.

“Why not?”

Lachie Mor smirked. “On account the lads will start behaving like stags during the rut.”

Slicing his hand through the air to demand silence, Kennan shifted his attention to the quartermaster. “Who else kens she’s aboard?”

“Only me.” When the old man thwacked Divana’s shoulder, Kennan’s blood boiled. “Aye, lass?”

Then Lachie swallowed his grin when she elbowed him back, the spitfire. “Aye.”

“Leave us,” Kennan said.

As the quartermaster closed the door behind him, Kennan pulled out a chair from his walnut dining table and gestured for Divana to sit. God’s bones, she smelled like the bilges.

“I’m nay going back to Scotland.”

He’d already considered calling into port at Bermuda and paying for a transport to take her home. In fact, he still might. “At Achnacarry you have plenty to eat, you have shelter and the protection of Clan Cameron. I kent you’d be well cared for there.”

“What is all that without ye?”

“Good Lord, Divana. Many women—no, all women bide their time at home whilst their men are a-sea.”