“Aye,” he replied, setting to work by the light of a tallow candle as if he’d said everything there was on the topic.

But Divana needed to learn more. “What happened?”

He pursed his lips and inclined the dagger as if he were carving something very intricate. “You do not want to hear it.”

Another reason she hadn’t asked about his past was because his conversation was empty and haunted, just like this one. He didn’t want to talk about the ordeal. She wove the reeds for a time, chewing the inside of her cheek before she regarded him across the fire. “If someone comes and takes us off this isle, where will ye go?”

“Home to begin with.”

“What’s it like?”

The grin returned as he held out the figurine—taking shape and looking like a person. “Achnacarry is a village and a fortress, built by my ancestors to protect and defend Clan Cameron.”

“Are ye related to the clan chief?”

“He’s my da.”

The basket slipped in her fingertips. She’d been taking care of the son of a chieftain? And there she sat in tatters. What must he think of her? “Good heavens. A knight and the son of a chieftain?” she said, unable to hide the wonder in her voice. “Do ye have many brothers and sisters?”

“Two younger brothers who are in St Andrews at university, a sister who married the laird of Clan Grant, and a wee half brother who’s only two.”

Divana grasped another reed and wove it through the tines even faster. “Then ye’re the heir?” she whispered.

He scraped his knife, a roll of driftwood curling from the blade. “Last I checked, though the Great Lochiel may reconsider when he discovers I’ve not only lost my ship and my crew, I’ve lost most of my bloody fortune.”

“Oh, dear.”

He tossed the figurine toward the firepit, but it bounced on a rock and landed at Divana’s feet. She picked it up and held it to the light. He’d been carving a woman with long skirts and hair. “This is good.”

Saying nothing, he stabbed the knife into a driftwood log.

Bless it, no matter where Divana tried to steer the conversation, it seemed to make him more distant. She set the figurine beside her. “At least ye have kin to return to.”

A grimace crossed his face as if her words had delivered a slap. “Forgive me. The ordeal that landed you on this isle must have been harrowing, indeed.”

She hated to think on it. Perhaps that’s why she’d let Sir Kennan be and hadn’t pestered him. Still, the sickly churning of her insides brought by his words made prickly heat spread down her arms. “Aye,” she whispered. It seemed it was her turn to grow quiet.

“Death is never pretty.”

The threat of tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Watching your kin die rips your heart out and throws it to the sea forever.”

He was quiet for a time, then took a deep breath. “Pray tell, what is your age?”