At the washstand, she poured water from the ewer and doused a cloth, then cooled Kennan’s head with it. “Ye’re going to grow well. I refuse to think otherwise.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, breathing in the masculine scent of him—of the man she’d come to know in the bothy. “Now rest and let your body heal itself. Have not a care. I’ll be here until you wake, mo cridhe.”

Aye, he had become her heart, her courage. And she vowed to be his strength in his hour of need.

God willing, she would move heaven and hell to see her Highlander smile once again.

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Kennan knew he was home. He’d suffered a severe blow to the head once before when he’d fought a band of dragoons while fleeing the Samhain gathering at Inverlochy with his sister. The red-coated bastards had bludgeoned him half to death, and he remembered very little of the incident.

Now, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he again found his memory lacking. If only he were able to wake and to ask what had happened, but there was a terrible pounding at the back of his head and, every time he tried to move, searing pain shot through his shoulder as if someone had prodded him with a red-hot fire poker.

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!”