Using the palm of his hand, Kennan pushed the gun’s muzzle aside. “Leave her be.”

The man thrust his weapon in Kennan’s face. “Tupping her, are ye?”

As Kennan gripped the barrel, it took but a flick of his wrist for him to wrest the damned musket from the bastard’s hands. He whipped the weapon around, moving the butt against his shoulder, only to face four enemy barrels pointed at his eyeballs. It seemed he’d been faced with a similar situation only one month prior.

Corbyn drew his flintlock and aimed it at Divana’s head, the snake. “Return the musket to the sentinel, or I’ll shoot her dead.”

Kennan bared his teeth, shifting the firearm toward the sergeant. He nearly squeezed the trigger. Nearly. But on top of everything else, he didn’t need the redcoats chasing him for murder. “Certainly. If you agree to bring a quill, parchment, and a pot of ink.”

“Word will be sent to your father. Now return the musket before my finger decides to twitch.”

Chapter Seven

Clutching her basket to her chest, Divana stood against the stone wall of the small chamber. It smelled of fish and salt and was as cold as the bothy. Things hadn’t changed on the mainland—the soldiers treated them like vermin. At least on the isle, she’d been safe. “We never should have left Hyskeir.”

Kennan shook the latch. When his efforts proved fruitless, he marched to the window. “We’ll not be here long.”

Divana set her basket on the floor and joined him. “Nay? The sergeant said it would be at least a fortnight afore the doctor comes.”

“Wheesht.” Kennan held up his palm, then pointed down below where Sergeant Corbyn and the dragoons were exiting the mill. Divana clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her gasp.

“Are you truly going to send word to Lochiel?” asked one of the soldiers, his voice muffled through the glass pane.

Corbyn stopped and looked up toward the window—both Kennan and Divana stepped aside. “No bloody chance. If Lochiel discovers we’re holding his son, he’ll have half the fighting men within fifty miles beating down the door.”

“But why are you holding them?” asked the surly sentry who’d provoked him with his bayonet. “Clearly, neither one is ill.”

“Perhaps not, but Kennan Cameron is no saint. Mark me, he’s a Jacobite and so is his backbiting father. Dispatch a retinue to Fort William. I want to know more about our captive before we entertain his release.”

“And the girl?”

“She’s a vagrant—a clear victim of smallpox. I don’t give a rat’s arse what happens to her.”

Ready to scream, Divana drew her fists over her lips as she glanced to Kennan. “I—”

He held up a finger, silencing her.

“Nothing a bath and a decent dress wouldn’t fix,” one of the men below continued. “She’s bonny.”

“Forget the dress.” They all laughed. “A lass like that ought to be naked and across my bed.”

Shaking her head, Divana covered her ears and backed away from the window. “They’re vile,” she whispered while the horrors of being taken captive and dumped on Hyskeir tormented her mind.