The island was so small, it took little time to walk to the end and back. On the east side were craggy rocks that were difficult to traverse, and on the west was a beach where the eider ducks nested. Seals as well. Some wayward traveler must have killed a seal and stayed in the bothy before she’d arrived, because sealskin covered the doorway—very warm sealskin. If only she had a musket or a bow and arrow, she might try for a seal. Then she’d have a warm fur to wrap around her shoulders in winter—lots of meat and fat to put up as well.

But Divana shuddered at the thought of killing a seal. How could she do it? Or even think of such a thing? She didn’t much like killing ducks, either. And she wouldn’t if she had any other choice.

At the south of the island was a small cove, but Sir Kennan had come ashore in the north—right near the bothy—one of the best spots for hunting clams when the tide was low.

She stopped atop the lea of seagrass and searched the western shore. Ah, yes, more ducks had arrived and, by the squawking overhead, more were soon to be nesting. She crept very slowly until she reached an enormous rock she used as a duck blind. Plucking a fist-size stone from the ground, she loaded her slingshot. Then she moved at a snail’s pace to peer around the rock.

Not but twenty paces down the incline, a female sat alone.

“Lord, bless the wee creature,” Divana whispered under her breath. With a flick of her wrist, she wound up her slingshot. One circle, two, three!

* * *

Kennan opened his eyes after the lass left the bothy. He’d stirred when she brushed her fingers over his beard. And though he’d heard her whispered prayers, his mind hadn’t let him come fully awake—not until she was gone.

His mouth parched and his entire body feeling as if it weighed fifty stone, he willed himself to sit upright. The movement restarted the pounding in his skull, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his temples to quash it. When he stretched, the wound across his belly burned. Aye, the shoulder and leg stung as well, but he’d been asleep too long—abed too long.

At his side, Divana had left the chipped cup filled with water. He picked it up and drank. The water tasted better than he’d had in a long time—as if from a Highland spring. He used the last of it to splash his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. This time, he was mindful of the crossbeam when he stood.

His doublet was dry, though the leather stiff. When he shrugged into it, his shoulder burned like he’d been sliced open with a dull blade. He leaned against the wall to steady his breath and will away the pain.

I’m growing bloody soft.

This was no time to lie low and lick his wounds. He owed it to his men to make Jackson Vane pay for every lost member of the Highland Reel’s crew—Vane and miserable Dubois. I should have run my dirk across that Frenchman’s throat when I had the chance in Versailles.