“I told ye two years. It has been ages.”

Had enough time lapsed to clear the sickness from the isle? If it hadn’t, he was already as good as dead. Weaving like a drunkard, he bent toward her and examined the scars on her chin. “You were inflicted, were you not?”

“Aye, but it didn’t kill me.”

“And now? Are you well?”

“The rash and fever has nay returned.”

It hadn’t returned? She’d survived.

What were his chances? After he’d watched his men die, he deserved to fall ill and succumb to smallpox on this godforsaken isle.

His head spun faster as Kennan tried to think.

He was weak—too weak to attempt to swim to Rùm. Worse, the cold would kill any man before he made it halfway. Without a boat, a treacherous swim was his only option. He looked the ginger-haired lass over from head to toe. If the dread speckled monster still lingered in this place, his chances were grim. Blood streamed from the cut on his abdomen and pooled on his shirt again—blood mixed with Divana’s deep green poultice. What an untenable state of affairs. If smallpox didn’t slay him, his festering wounds most likely would do the job.

Chapter Four

Snowflakes splattered Divana’s face when she popped her head out the sealskin doorway. Ugh. Another blustery March morn had arrived. At least the snow rarely amounted to much on the isle, though the chill made things miserable. Ducking back inside, she clutched her moth-eaten arisaid about her shoulders. The Highlander still slumbered, covered by her best blanket. The other two were threadbare, but better than nothing.

After she wrapped one over her head and shoulders, she moved to Sir Kennan’s pallet and tapped his foot. ’Twas a shame his shoes didn’t make it during his swim, else she might have borrowed them to allay the cold, even if his feet were much larger.

“Are ye awake?” she asked softly. He’d slept two full days, this being the third. He ought to have had enough sleep by now, and the longer he slept the more worried she grew.

When he didn’t stir, she stooped and felt his forehead. Thank heavens he wasn’t running a fever, though he had a bit of a knot where he’d smacked his head on the crossbeam. Better yet, there were no signs of red spots, either.

Perhaps the threat of infection was gone. That would make sense. If this man didn’t contract smallpox in this very place where Ma, Da, and her wee brother had suffered and died, then Divana could be certain the dread sickness was gone for good.

But why hadn’t Sir Kennan stirred? Her gaze shifted to his abdomen. The bleeding had stopped, but she’d best make another poultice for his wounds.

She smoothed her fingers over the stubble on his jaw and chin. It was blond, not red like her father’s had been. The light color of his beard contrasted with his hair. With one finger, she drew a line across his mustache. The beard softened the angles of his face, but Divana wavered as to whether it made him look friendlier or more menacing. He needed to open his eyes. Then she’d know.