As he gazed upon her with glistening eyes, she reached up for another kiss. Grinning, he avoided her mouth and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sleep well, my angel.”

Then with a deep sigh he backed to the pallet and lay down.

“What are ye doing?” She sat up. “That is me bed ye’re on. Ye are the captain. Ye’re supposed to sleep here.”

He pulled a plaid over his shoulders. “There’s no chance in hell I’ll let a woman sleep on the floor whist I languish on a feather mattress.”

“But—”

“Och, lass. You promised to follow orders. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Divana saluted the bed-curtains. “Aye, captain!”

“And one more thing,” he said, stretching up to his table and turning down the lantern.

“Hmm?”

“Remember you’re a lad—and lads do not tempt their captains with wee kisses. Not ever again.”

Divana rolled to her side. His form was dark and shadowy through the blue moonlight shining in from the windows. “What about the other way around?”

“Wheesht!”

Smiling, she dropped to her back and pulled the bedclothes right under her chin. After nights of sleeping in a cramped barrel with rats scurrying about, curling into the downy comfort of Kennan’s mattress was near enough to heavenly. There she was, Divana Campbell, a lass cast out and condemned by her clan, sailing the high seas with Kennan Cameron—the only man she had ever loved.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to convince him to kiss her again…and again…and again.

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

A southwester filled the sails with chilly air while Kennan stood on the quarterdeck, gazing down at the rugged faces of his crew. They hailed from all walks of life, some from Cameron crofts—those men he’d trust with his life. Though roughly half the rest was composed of the gruff and bedraggled newcomers from Glasgow.

They stood at attention, their beards full, the craggy squints to their eyes fixed in place by years of sun, sailing, and whisky. Only the passage of time would ferret out the trustworthy on this voyage—though Kennan doubted he’d ever allow the man on the end too near. They called him Ethan. He was shorter than most, thin, and ornery, though during the trials at Achnacarry, he’d proved skilled with a dirk and sword. Perhaps he’d passed Lachie Mor’s jaundiced eye with his fighting prowess. Nonetheless, Ethan was one to watch.