Had he swum to safety? Or had he met his end?

Damn Jackson Vane to hell!

Kennan thrashed until his head hit a stone, bringing consciousness nearer.

Where am I?

He opened his eyes, barely managing to squint. The bloody rock beneath his head ground into his temple. Not but an arm’s reach was a firepit. Smoke hung in the air above like the breath of a dragon ready to send him to Hades.

Rolling to his back, he stretched his leg and winced. “Ugh.” One of the sharks had tried to eat him alive—right before Kennan had thrust the dagger into the beast’s eye. Only then a miracle had happened. As the shark’s blood turned the water red, the rest of the mongrels swam away nearly faster than they’d attacked.

Rustling came from nearby. “Are ye awake?” asked a woman, her voice soft. Soothing.

He ran his tongue over parched lips while thirst suddenly consumed him. “Aye.”

Above, his doublet, shirt, and woolen hose came into view, hanging from the only crossbeam. And beside him rested his gold brooch with the Cameron crest. Och, he remembered now. The redheaded lass had been alone on the beach digging for clams, her feet bare. She had cowered when she saw him. Hell, he most likely posed a gruesome sight—bloodied and exhausted from his fight both in and out of the water. Kennan moved his fingers to his shoulder and hissed. Pulling his hand away, he examined something green and slimy.

He raised his head. “What’s this?”

The woman leaned over him, looking sleepy eyed and holding a clamshell with the green muck. “I made a seaweed poultice for your wounds.”

Seaweed and salt. Damnation, it stung. “It stinks. Hurts as well.”

“Leave it be. ’Twill keep the pus at bay.”

“You a healer?”

“Not by half.” She shifted her eyes aside. “’Tis a relief to see ye’re awake.”

The bothy hadn’t a single window, and no light shone around the fur covering the doorway. “How long have I been here?”

“Hours. ’Tis almost morn.”

He dropped back and draped his arm over his forehead. “I feel weaker than a bairn.”

“Perhaps ye need a meal,” she said, fetching a pot—her feet still bare. “I’ve boiled some clams. Are ye hungry?”

Kennan wasn’t until she mentioned it, but suddenly he was ravenous. “Aye. Thirsty as well.” He sat up too fast and his head swam while the blanket fell to his waist. The lass had caked the wound across his gut with her wicked remedy, too.

The woman’s inordinately long tresses swept forward as she levered a cast-iron pot to the ground in front of him and sat opposite. He gave the vessel a cursory glance, then peered around the bothy. It might be better than a tent, but the shelter was crude for certain. “Do you live here?”

“Mm-hmm.” She placed a chipped wooden cup in front of him—one that looked like it might be better off tossed in the middens.