Right now, however, revenge had naught but take a rear seat to the problem at hand. There was no time to waste being detained in quarantine by a sergeant hell-bent on proving himself.

With a strong westerly wind, the sailing didn’t take more than an hour. Kennan and Divana were forced to disembark at the points of bayonets while the townsfolk looked on as if the castaways were common thieves. Mallaig was no more than a small fishing village, dotted with cottages and one sizable warehouse hewn of stone, used for smoking and salting fish. And it came as no surprise to Kennan when the bastards led them there.

A narrow, muddied road came from the west into town, following the shoreline. He knew it well enough—had ridden to Mallaig once with his da when he was a lad, but he’d sailed past the sleepy village more times than he could count.

Once inside the warehouse, he blinked rapidly to adjust his vision to the dim light. It smelled of pungent fish with a more pleasant overtone of hickory smoke. Divana coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. They walked past a row of women salting fish. Above, two men worked in the tower where the haddock were drying, suspended from wooden poles. Thus far, there were no other redcoats in sight.

“Turn right,” Sergeant Corbyn barked. “Then up the steps.”

The spiral stairs were narrow, and Kennan crouched to avoid hitting his head. They emptied onto a landing open to the tower on one side with naught but a rail to prevent someone from falling.

Divana stepped beside Kennan, her fingers lightly brushing the back of his arm. “This place smells awful,” she whispered.

“You’ll be retained in here,” said Corbyn, opening the door to an empty room that looked like it might have once been used for storage.

Kennan didn’t budge. “How long do you intend to hold us?”

“It will be a fortnight before the physician is back in these parts.”

Divana clutched Kennan’s arm. “Two weeks? Are ye not taking things a bit far? We’re nay criminals.”

“She’s right,” he said. “How many times must I say, if we were afflicted with the dread sickness, we’d already be dead.”

Corbyn rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Orders from my lieutenant are not negotiable, and you’ll stay here until you’ve been cleared by a proper physician.”

Kennan’s mind raced. He didn’t have time to rot in a smelly warehouse while Jackson Vane sailed farther from Scotland. Damn, he was so close to home he could taste it. “I’d like to send word to my father, Lochiel. Let him know I’m still breathing.”

A dragoon shoved him toward the minuscule chamber. “You’re full of requests, are you not?”

“Thinks he’s Lochiel himself,” griped another.

Divana tightened her grip on Kennan’s arm. “He’s the heir, and ye’re treating him like a petty thief.”

The sailor smirked, tapping her with the flat edge of his bayonet. “You’d best watch yourself, wench.”