He removed his shirt and slung it over the fence. Then, drawing his sword, he addressed an oak sparring post with both hands on the hilt. The movement burned a bit, but the work he’d done chopping wood had helped loosen up the sinews some.

He eyed his target and took three breaths through his teeth, willing his inner strength to surface. Bellowing his Gaelic war cry, “Aonaibh Ri Chéile!” Kennan attacked, his blade hissing through the air as he spun in place and struck the solid wood, demanding every thread of power, bone, and sinew he could muster. With the impact, searing pain shot from his hands, up his arms, across his shoulders and neck, reverberating in his head until his skull rattled.

“Ugh!” Kennan grunted as if he’d been punched in the gut.

He glanced over his shoulder at Divana. She released another rock, hitting her target as if her arm were a cannon. Thank God she hadn’t stopped to watch him. The damned oak post was two hands thick and solid as petrified wood. He knew better than to unleash all his strength on a sparring pole hewn of oak. But just thinking about Divana with any other man made him want to unleash his ire on someone or something.

Leveling his blade, he addressed the post again. “I’m a patient man.”

Lunging right, he struck with a side slice, then spun to the left, his sword singing as he cut into the oak—his target a man’s flank. Over his head, he attacked with a death strike to the head. A jab to the gut, driving his blade upward to slice through vitals that would end a man’s life before he hit the deck.

On and on, Kennan fought his demons—his mind racing back to the battle aboard the Highland Reel. No doubt he’d face the same pirates again, and this time he’d fight them to the end. As soon as his crew set sail, they’d practice for hours, honing their strength and their endurance. No army would match them, and no ambush would send him into the sea, fighting bloodthirsty sharks.

“Ye’ve healed a great deal, have ye not?”

Kennan’s gut clenched as he heard Divana’s voice come from behind. He spun and faced her, his weapon high in on guard, out of habit. She took a step away, her hands entwined with the leather slingshot. “Ye look as if ye are about to attack me with your mammoth sword.”

He immediately lowered the weapon. “Forgive me. ’Tis the training. When faced with the need to turn, the swordsman raises his blade—both for safety and to ready himself for an attack.”

“I see.” Her gaze meandered down to his chest, then to the waistband of his kilt, then up to the angry scar on his shoulder. “Is it hurting?”

“Less every day.”