During fleeting moments of consciousness, he sensed Divana’s presence. Cool cloths were replaced on his forehead time and again. Sometimes Da’s voice would resonate through the chamber. But mostly the dear lassie’s soothing voice gave him ease.

When she sang a ditty, he’d wanted to open his eyes and smile. “A lusty young smith at his vise stood a-filing…” In Kennan’s mind’s eye, he saw her swaying with the tune on the beach at Hyskeir, her mien carefree and dreamy, her hair billowing in the wind. Perhaps he managed a smile when she held forth about a “buxom young damsel.” He wanted to open his eyes so badly but must have drifted off before the song ended.

When next his consciousness returned, her voice cooed to him again.

“I never thought I’d work in a fine house like Achnacarry,” she said softly as if speaking to herself. “I always thought I’d end up a crofter’s wife like my ma. Wives must know so very many things—making candles and soap, cooking, cleaning, stitching clothes, knitting and darning. I even learned to weave a bit. I think I rather like weaving.”

“I reckon you’d make a fine weaver—you’d be good at anything you set your mind to.” Kennan’s throat sounded dry and hoarse as his eyes opened.

A sharp gasp came from the bedside. “Ye’re awake!”

His tongue ran over chapped lips. There he lay, once again being tended by his redheaded spitfire. How did this state of affairs come to pass? “Water.”

“At once.” She took a cup from the table and gently slid a hand behind his head. “Can ye sit up a wee bit, else I can spoon it into your mouth as I’ve been doing.”

He felt as weak as a bairn, but he managed to clench his muscles, lift his head, and drink. Groaning, he dropped back to the pillow. “How long have I been abed?”

“Three days.”

“Damn.” He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. His thoughts were a complete jumble. Hadn’t he been traveling somewhere? “How the bloody hell did I end up at home?”

“Do ye not remember being shot?” Divana set the cup on the table. “Ye were thrown from your horse as well—sustained quite a nasty bump to the back of your head.”

“Och, that explains the endless throbbing.”

It took a great deal of strength to pull himself up against the headboard, but he bore down and tried not to grunt. “I remember now. The men and I were headed to Glasgow.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “But everything after that is mired in blackness. Tell me, where’s the Lady Heather?”

“Why, Lachie Mor and the men went on to Glasgow to oversee her refitting, just as ye’d planned.”

“No, no, no. There is too much to be done. I must be there as well.” Kennan pushed away the bedclothes and moved his feet over the side of the bed.

The lass jammed her fists into her hips. “Ye’ve been on the brink of death for three days and ye’ll set foot out of that bed over me dead body.”