“I reckon this coat saved ye.”

There was a jagged cut directly across his shoulder, but the flesh looked like minced meat.

She retrieved the clamshell and blew on the poultice. “I do not reckon this’ll hurt.” Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, she shifted her gaze to his eyes. “But we’ll soon ken if it does, will we not?”

The big Highlander didn’t move as she used her fingers to work the seaweed concoction into the wound on his stomach, being sure to glob it on thick. The mixture didn’t adhere as well to his shoulder and slid to the ground. Divana scooped a handful and held it against his arm for a time, then shifted her gaze to the blanket, beneath which the shark bites needed tending as well.

She felt herself blush as she bared the man’s thigh. Soft brown curls covered his leg from the ankle up his shin and then under his kilt. Though her blood stirred with curiosity, Divana didn’t dare push the wool higher. Heavens, he even had hair on the tops of his toes.

“But that’s nay why I’ve exposed your leg, is it?” she said softly. To stave off her loneliness, she oft hummed a tune, and she did so now—more to slow the questions racing through her mind. Who are you? Where did you come from? What happened to the pirates? And how did you escape the sharks?

All these questions plagued her, but she’d never uncover the answers if her poultice didn’t work. He might grow fevered, and such a thing must not happen. Fevered people died, and Divana knew more about death than most anyone.

She stopped singing and looked at the man’s face. “Ye cannot die. Please…” She set down the clamshell and leaned over his bonny face.

“Live,” she whispered while a haunting chill spread over her skin.

Chapter Three

Everything throbbed. The worst of his misery? The relentless pressure in Kennan’s head, but at least the damned shivers had stopped. He lay on hard ground, a shoulder blade grinding into stone, the smell of earth strong in his nostrils.

Where am I?

He hissed as clashing swords and booming cannons rang in his ears. Grunting, he ground his molars, reliving the fight, yet aware he was no longer aboard the Highland Reel.

God blind me. How many of his men had perished?

I should have been more vigilant. I should have sacrificed myself and my cargo before the battle began.

Damn it all to hell, I should have drowned with the lot of them.

What he wouldn’t give to bring his crewmen back. Every last one. Their lives were worth more than the treasure in the hull. More than his worthless life, for certain. The slice across his midriff burned as he relived the hell, tortured by the terrors from a mere hour of violent battle early that fateful morn. One moment he’d been fighting beside Lachie Mor, and the next, the old sailor had vanished—plummeted to the sea.