Lachie slapped the cabin boy on the back. “Perhaps, though the losses would be far worse if Runner hadn’t been there with the skiff. We’d have all met our end if not for him.”

“The lad said you sent him down afore Vane attacked,” said Da, rocking back on his heels. “Wise of you.”

Kennan let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank God I did.”

Chapter Nine

Divana had never been inside a grand manse, let alone a castle. When she stepped across the threshold, she was immediately transfixed. The entry alone was enormous. Dark paneling stretched to the ceiling, adorned with portrait after portrait of Kennan’s ancestors. The black-and-white-checked marble floor was immaculate and warm to her toes—mayhap because of the enormous logs burning in the hearth, three of which must have measured at least five feet long apiece.

“There you are, Mistress Barton,” said Her Ladyship, moving toward a woman dressed in black, wearing a white apron and coif. “This is Divana…from Hyskeir. Evidently she’s been tending Sir Kennan whilst he’s been shipwrecked…”

Divana didn’t hear the rest, for directly in front of her was a life-size portrait of Sir Kennan himself—except he didn’t look like the man she’d come to know. He was dressed in full Highland regalia with a sword at his hip, a dirk sheathed to the right of his sporran, and a musket in his hand. His bonnet was adorned with a plume of grouse feathers. The glint in his eye was fierce as he stared into the distance with a hard set to his jaw.

“Miss?”

Divana startled when Mistress Barton touched her elbow.

“You must have had a terrible ordeal.” The housekeeper’s careworn face expressed concern. “Come along, and you can tell me all about it while we set you to rights.”

Divana glanced over her shoulder. Lady Lochiel was gone. The men’s voices resounded from beyond the door, yet nothing seemed real. “’Tis as if I’ve stepped into a fairy story.”

“Aye, there’s something magical about Achnacarry.” Mistress Barton led her through a small doorway and into a narrow corridor painted white. It was stark and nothing like the opulence of the entry. “And once a person enters into service here, they never want to leave.”

“Sir Kennan said I’d make a good maid.”

“Have you any experience?”

“Experience?”

“Folding linens, making beds, dusting, washing, preparing the table, setting fires.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve done all that—have done since I was a wee lass.”

“Wonderful, then I can confidently say that there will be plenty for you to do.”

Without a word of hello, they walked straight through an enormous kitchen where people worked, chopping and washing and turning a spit in a fireplace large enough to stand in. Herbs hug from hooks on the ceiling, and raw chickens lined a table. A rather plump woman holding a cleaver looked up. “Och, what are ye on about now, Mistress Barton, bringing vagrants through my kitchens?”

“This is Divana. She’s been shipwrecked with Sir Kennan,” the housekeeper said over her shoulder, then beckoned with her hand. “Do not fall behind, dear. We’re just passing through.”