“Like what?”

It took all the fortitude in her being to ease her hand away from his. “Ye ken.”

The ringing of the smithy shop neared as Kennan headed out the postern gate. Clansmen and women lived in the cottages beyond the castle. The tiny village boasted a smithy, a cobbler, a tailor, and a family that sold herbs—at least according to Fiona.

“I want you to be happy here.”

“Who said I wasn’t happy?”

“But you just told me you wished we’d never left Hyskeir.”

Divana stopped. “That’s because—” She looked to the skies with a tsk of her tongue. Why must he make everything so difficult?

“Because?” he persisted.

“Because when we were alone on the isle I could talk to ye any time I wanted—without causing a stir, without it being improper.” She threw her arms out in an arc. “Here I’m merely a lowly scullery maid, not fit to tie your brogues.”

“Hogwash. You are speaking to me now.” His gaze shifted left and then right. “I do not see a guard hastening toward us with intent to throw you in the tower’s goal.”

“’Tis not what I meant, and ye ken it.” She shoved him in the shoulder for good measure. “Do ye not?”

He frowned, a long breath hissing through his lips. “I’ll speak to my mother about promoting you to housemaid.”

“Och aye, that would endear all the servants to me all the more, especially Fiona, who’s worked for your kin all her life.”

His mouth twisted as he took a step back. “Well then, what is it you want?”

“If ’tis not clear, then I’m nay about to tell ye.” Divana pulled on the latch and stepped into the shop—of course Kennan followed. And thank heavens he did. She had no idea what to say to a cobbler, nor could she afford to pay for shoes—not even with the wages she’d received just yesterday.

The shop smelled of leather, salt, and tallow while a man wearing spectacles looked up from a table, hammer in hand. “Sir Kennan, ’tis always a pleasure to see you.”

Kennan made the introductions, and Divana was instructed to sit in a chair while the cobbler traced around her foot.

Oh, how her insides were twisted in knots. She didn’t mind her work at Achnacarry, and all that came with it—most of what came with it. But more than anything she hated the vast divide that had instantaneously separated her from Kennan Cameron.

As the cobbler measured her foot, her hand slipped to her apron’s pocket and smoothed over the figurine he’d whittled in the driftwood. How she longed to watch him across the fire with no one else about. How she longed to hear his stories of sailing the seas. If only she’d realized how precious those days were, she never would have boarded Sergeant Corbyn’s galley.

“Are you looking forward to the Beltane festivities on the morrow?” asked the cobbler.

“I—” Divana bit her lip and glanced at Kennan.