“Sir Kennan!” Lachie Mor shouted.

Wiping her eyes, Divana refused to cry in front of him. She was free to make her own decisions? What if what she wanted was not possible? The only man she had ever loved, the man who had protected her and freed her from her island prison, was leaving. Worse, he was telling her to move on with her life.

“Go. Ye are needed,” she said, turning and fleeing.

“Divana!” Kennan called after her.

“Bless it,” Lachie boomed. “How many sheep are we to take aboard?”

Clapping her hands over her ears, Divana didn’t want to hear it. She wanted to run away and forget she’d ever met Kennan Cameron even though the Highlander was burned onto her memory forever—his kindness, his friendly banter, the caring way he’d taught her to wield a sword.

By the time she stopped, her slice of shortbread had disappeared and she was well away from the bustle, standing among dozens of barrels. Most were already sealed, but the one beside her was completely empty. Her stomach squeezed as she checked over each shoulder. Many of the men had shifted their attention to loading the livestock onto a wagon—and it appeared the sheep weren’t about to go without a fight. On the way up the ramp, a lamb jumped through a gap in a makeshift fence. With frantic bleating, the lamb’s mother knocked the barrier down as she leapt from the ramp, leading the way for the rest of the flock while sailors scattered to round them up.

Within the blink of an eye, Divana raced into the keep and ran up the winding stairs until she reached her chamber. She spread a thick plaid on the bed and tossed the few items she’d collected since arriving at Achnacarry—a comb, flint, a candle, a spare shift, a brush for her teeth, a drying cloth, slingshot, and the most precious item of all, the carving Kennan had whittled on Hyskeir. Swiftly she folded in the sides and made a roll.

After tiptoeing to the kitchen larder, she took an old grain sack and swiped a loaf of bread, a handful of dried meat, some bannocks, and two bottles of watered wine. Tucking everything under her arm, she stood at the corner of the doorway and waited until the corridor was clear. Only then did she rush out to the bathhouse, where she propped her back against the wall and stood, pretending she wasn’t catching her breath, trying to appear as if it were an ordinary spring day. Thank heavens the men were still rounding up the mob of sheep.

Divana looked toward the barrels—they hadn’t yet been touched—and nary a soul was near them.