The chieftain’s face blazed with anger. “Bloody hell, I’ll see to it that demon of a dragoon is dragged before a court martial and hanged for this.”

Divana pursed her lips to stop herself from expressing her opinion. If it were up to her, she’d ensure the sergeant received a good-size rock in the side of the head and forget the court-martial.

Kennan appeared to be sleeping soundly while Mistress Ava stooped over him, running a moistened rag around an angry and puckered wound. “I don’t think the ball went in very far.” She glanced back at Divana. “Have a look at his doublet. It may have saved his shoulder.”

Retrieving the jacket from the floor, she held it up. “’Tis made of thick leather.” She poked her finger through the musket ball hole. “But it went clean through.”

“I always say a heavy leather doublet is as good as armor,” Sir Ewen said.

“More importantly, can you dig the ball out?” asked Lady Lochiel.

“Aye.” Mistress Ava looked across the bed. “But I reckon you ought to wait in your chamber, m’lady. This procedure is not meant to be seen by a gentlewoman such as yourself.”

Her Ladyship turned a tad green. “Of course.”

The healer shifted her attention to the laird. “Would you mind holding your son’s ankles?”

Lochiel moved to the end of the bed while his wife took her leave. “Very well.”

Mistress Ava beckoned Divana. “Stand beside me. Are you ready with the cloths?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

The matron removed a bottle from her basket and unstoppered it. “I’ll first pour a tincture of Saint-John’s-wort over the wound to help stave off infection.”

“He will nay die will he?” Divana asked, gripping the cloths in clenched fists. Kennan had not survived pirates and a shark attack only to succumb to an injury on his own lands.

“Make no bones about it, a musket shot of any sort can turn putrid, but our Kennan is a strong lad.” Mistress Ava’s lips formed a thin line as she returned the bottle to her basket and pulled out a small knife. “Now brace yourself.”

Divana’s stomach squelched, but she swallowed the bile and leaned in with her cloth at the ready, watching the woman’s dagger angle toward Kennan’s mottled flesh. Had Sergeant Corbyn shot him knowing about the missive from Mar and the queen’s pardon?

Kennan had been in such a hurry to charge off to Glasgow. If only he had waited a sennight, this mightn’t have happened. But now, staring at him bleeding on the bed, Divana would give an entire year’s pay to be in his place, to suffer his pain.

She cringed as the knife pierced the skin. Kennan’s eyes flashed open. Bucking like a calf in a castrating pen, he bellowed.

“Easy, son,” growled Lochiel, struggling to restrain the kicking legs.