“Where’s Runner?” asked Divana.

Lachie Mor thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “He went on ahead—took the mutt with him.”

Kennan held the gamming chair for the lass, forcing himself not to take her hand and help her aboard. “Why?”

“Said Bannock needed a good run.”

Kennan eyed his man. “You never should have let him bring the dog aboard in the first place.”

“Me?” asked Lachie Mor as if he’d known nothing about it.

“Och, let the lad have the wee mongrel. He’s no troub…” Divana’s voice was carried away by the wind and surf while the winch lowered her to the skiff.

The quartermaster snorted. “I reckon Davy’s a great deal more trouble than Bannock.”

Kennan fingered the hilt of his dirk and arched an eyebrow. Why Lachie Mor always chanced to make an offhanded remark about Divana, he had no idea. Once the lass had recovered from her fear of heights, she’d proved a valuable member of the crew. Never in his life would he be able to imagine his sister, Janet, keeping watch in the crow’s nest or swabbing the decks for that matter. Such menial labor just wasn’t done by gentlewomen.

Too right. Before Janet married Robert Grant, Kennan had carried his sister across the muddy street at Inverlochy so her riding habit and boots wouldn’t be soiled. Bless her, Divana would have marched across barefoot and thought nothing of it.

The idea of the redheaded spitfire traipsing through the Highlands with naked toes had him grinning all the way to the shore. Until Divana climbed over the edge of the boat, shoes and stockings in hand, only to have Bannock charge through the water and nearly knock her arse-first into the surf.

Lachie Mor scowled. “Keep your footing and be firm with the dog, lad.”

Kennan climbed out of the boat and steadied Divana by the collar—to help her more than anything, and to keep up appearances. Of course, the daft dog didn’t help matters by running in circles around them, kicking up water. “Runner, put a lead on your bloody stray.”

“Come behind, Bannock,” the boy called, beckoning from the shore.

When finally on dry land, Kennan brushed himself off, somewhat surprised that the dog had obeyed without being told twice.

“You should have left him aboard,” said Mr. MacNeil.

“Enough. He’s here now.” Kennan looked between his two officers. “One in every four buildings in this crumbling town is a tavern or a brothel—too many for us to visit all. I want you to find a chair and mind your own affairs whilst you nurse an ale and listen to the talk.”

“Aye, just like afore,” said Lachie Mor.

“Except…” Kennan gave the quartermaster’s shoulder a shove. “I do not want to hear about being waylaid at a brothel.”

The man’s face fell.

“I mean what I say.” When Runner sniggered, Kennan tweaked his ear. “And you pair will come with me.”

“Me and Bannock?” asked the lad.

“Bloody hell, I don’t give a rat’s arse about the dog—you and Davy. And there’ll be no dawdling in the market.”