He closed his eyes, trying to fight his reaction, but how was a man supposed to resist a bonny lass kissing him? Especially when she felt so good in his arms? Before he pushed her away, he brushed his lips over her forehead, the mere effort making his heart twist. Bless it, the depth of his affection hadn’t waned in the slightest. Nonetheless, he stiffened and affected a gruff voice. “If you’re planning to impersonate a lad, there’ll be no hugging and kissing, ye ken?”

She dropped her hands to her sides and stood at attention. “Aye, sir.”

“And you’ll climb to the crow’s nest and man your watch.” Only when the weather is fine, bless it.

That lovely, defiant chin ticked up. “I’m nay afraid.”

“And you’ll do my bidding.”

“Haven’t I always done that?”

“You have—barring your presence in my cabin.” His mind riffled through all the reasons this was a bad idea while he pulled the wooden tub out from under his four-poster bed. “Who on the crew might recognize you—that is after we’ve fashioned a disguise?”

“Runner for certain. Lachie Mor, of course. Mayhap Mr. MacNeil—but most everyone else was away in Glasgow. And they were at Achnacarry only a few days. I reckon ye had them all too busy to pay a mind to me—besides, I’ll look far different once I don a disguise.”

“Very well.” Those three he trusted to keep mum—as long as he spoke with them come dawn. He poured the contents of his ewer into the tub, the water barely covering the bottom. “Ye’ll have to wash in seawater. ’Tis what the rest of us use.”

Her entire face blushed. “Wash?”

He sniffed and made a sour face. “I take it you’ve been stowing away near the bilges?”

She nodded, toying with the lace on her kirtle. “Ye’ll promise to turn your back?”

“Promise.” Kennan fetched two of the seawater pails stationed for dousing fires. She still had no idea he’d already seen her bathe—an image that plagued him most nights. Not plagued, exactly, perhaps tortured, befuddled. Nay, Kennan was never befuddled.

“And ye’ll don a shirt this instant,” she demanded—the cheek of her.

“Beg your pardon?” he asked, pouring the water.

“How is a lass supposed to remain thick-skinned when the captain is tending her bath wearing nothing save a plaid tucked about his hips?”

His damned loins stirred. Fie, they more than stirred. There was a bloody tent growing at the front of the wool. Quickly, he pulled a shirt over his head, thankful it was long enough to cover his hips. “You’ve seen my chest before.”

“Aye.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. The sooner he chopped off those distracting tresses, the less alluring she’d be.