But no. There she stood, hunting for clams. Alone.

As the water filled her hole, it bubbled. At the sign of an escaping clam, she shoveled faster. “Where’d ye go, ye wee beastie?” With a few more scoops, she spotted the clam, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her fingers around the shell right before the slippery mollusk dug deeper. “Ye’re nay spiriting away this day, not from me, ye sprite!”

With a chuckle, she tossed her prize into the basket.

As she straightened, the ghostly sensation she’d felt on her neck returned full force. Gasping, she froze, her knees sinking into the sand.

A man crouched at the edge of the surf, his hands on his thighs, a dagger in one fist. Stark, bloodshot eyes stared at her while he panted through blue lips. Water dripped from his hair and clothing. Blood seeped across his stomach, spreading through the fibers of his shirt.

Clutching her shovel across her body, Divana sprang to her feet and skittered away. “Stay back!”

The man’s eyes widened, though he made not a move. “Fire,” he said, his blue lips quivering.

She glanced back to the bothy, smoke curling above it from the small blaze inside.

“Blanket,” he said, his voice forceful and strained as he staggered closer.

“But—”

“Please,” he bit out sharply, crossing his arms and shivering like seagrass bent sideways by the wind. “I-I’ll nay harm you.”

Divana gaped. She hadn’t spoken to another soul in two years, and now a large, half-drowned, bleeding man appeared from the sea without a boat. But before she thought of something to say, the Highlander set off, weaving and stumbling toward the bothy, his back hunched, water bubbling from his woolen hose.

Gripping her shovel, she followed. Saint Columba, what ought she do? The wee shelter was her only refuge. “Stop! You mustn’t go in there.”

Completely ignoring her, the ragged man continued toward her home, walking like a drunkard.

Aye, it was the only place on Hyskeir one could escape the weather, though the thatch leaked and the wind whistled through the rushes—and on the coldest of winter’s days, the fire did nothing to warm the tiny hovel.

She surged after him, ready to give him a good wallop. “That is me home. Mine, I say!”

The fiend didn’t respond, just pushed inside through the worn sealskin shroud.

Divana stopped and stared. Good heavens, what was she to do now? Where had this barbarian come from? Why was he bleeding? Was he a pirate? By the look of him, he was half crazed. Worse, he’d barged into her home uninvited as if he owned the entire isle.

Regardless of what he’d said, what might he do to her? And why, after two years, couldn’t someone arrive with a blasted boat?

She paced outside the doorway, clutching her beloved shovel.

Should I smack him atop the head? What if I hurt him? What if I killed him?

What if he is a good sort? And how will I ken?