by Amy Jarecki
Had he swum to safety? Or had he met his end?
Damn Jackson Vane to hell!
Kennan thrashed until his head hit a stone, bringing consciousness nearer.
Where am I?
He opened his eyes, barely managing to squint. The bloody rock beneath his head ground into his temple. Not but an arm’s reach was a firepit. Smoke hung in the air above like the breath of a dragon ready to send him to Hades.
Rolling to his back, he stretched his leg and winced. “Ugh.” One of the sharks had tried to eat him alive—right before Kennan had thrust the dagger into the beast’s eye. Only then a miracle had happened. As the shark’s blood turned the water red, the rest of the mongrels swam away nearly faster than they’d attacked.
Rustling came from nearby. “Are ye awake?” asked a woman, her voice soft. Soothing.
He ran his tongue over parched lips while thirst suddenly consumed him. “Aye.”
Above, his doublet, shirt, and woolen hose came into view, hanging from the only crossbeam. And beside him rested his gold brooch with the Cameron crest. Och, he remembered now. The redheaded lass had been alone on the beach digging for clams, her feet bare. She had cowered when she saw him. Hell, he most likely posed a gruesome sight—bloodied and exhausted from his fight both in and out of the water. Kennan moved his fingers to his shoulder and hissed. Pulling his hand away, he examined something green and slimy.
He raised his head. “What’s this?”
The woman leaned over him, looking sleepy eyed and holding a clamshell with the green muck. “I made a seaweed poultice for your wounds.”
Seaweed and salt. Damnation, it stung. “It stinks. Hurts as well.”
“Leave it be. ’Twill keep the pus at bay.”
“You a healer?”
“Not by half.” She shifted her eyes aside. “’Tis a relief to see ye’re awake.”
The bothy hadn’t a single window, and no light shone around the fur covering the doorway. “How long have I been here?”
“Hours. ’Tis almost morn.”
He dropped back and draped his arm over his forehead. “I feel weaker than a bairn.”
“Perhaps ye need a meal,” she said, fetching a pot—her feet still bare. “I’ve boiled some clams. Are ye hungry?”
Kennan wasn’t until she mentioned it, but suddenly he was ravenous. “Aye. Thirsty as well.” He sat up too fast and his head swam while the blanket fell to his waist. The lass had caked the wound across his gut with her wicked remedy, too.
The woman’s inordinately long tresses swept forward as she levered a cast-iron pot to the ground in front of him and sat opposite. He gave the vessel a cursory glance, then peered around the bothy. It might be better than a tent, but the shelter was crude for certain. “Do you live here?”
“Mm-hmm.” She placed a chipped wooden cup in front of him—one that looked like it might be better off tossed in the middens.
“Anyone else?”
She looked up, her eyes intense and blue as sky. Her fiery red hair was mussed, still needing a good brushing, same as it had on the shore. Her skin appeared windblown with rosy cheeks. Pockmarks riddled the right side of her chin. But the fear in her shocking blue eyes made his breath stop.
He took a long drink of water, then cleared his throat. “Forgive me. My name is Kennan…Sir Kennan Cameron.”
“Saint Columba’s bones.” Her gaze grew more intense with her unseemly oath. “Ye’re a knight?”
“I am, though my rank did nothing to prevent me from being in this predicament at the moment.” He took another drink of water, letting the sweetness flow over his tongue. “And you? What is your name?”
“Divana…Campbell.”
That figured. Not only had he washed ashore onto some godforsaken island, he’d happened upon a bloody Campbell. “What is this place?”
“Hyskeir.”
He closed his eyes and pictured his map of western Scotland. “A speck…west of Rùm?”
“Aye.”
“I thought this place was too barren to support humanity.”
“It is.”
“But you’re here.”
“Only me.”
“How the blazes did you end up all the way out on a wee Hebridean isle alone?”
“’Tis a long story. One I care not to relay.” Divana pushed the pot toward him. “Now eat afore the clams turn cold.”
Kennan took an opened shell and tore off the meat with his teeth. The single bite increased his hunger and he devoured five more.
The lass stared as if she’d never seen a man before. Or a barbarian. He didn’t need a mirror to know he posed a grisly sight.
Wiping the juice dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand, he examined her as well. The light from a tallow candle in a seashell flickered across her face. Even her unkempt hair looked like polished copper. The lass had a spark in her eyes—the look of a fighter. If she had been surviving alone on a wee isle, he didn’t doubt her spirit.
“You wouldn’t have a flagon of whisky sitting about?” he asked.
She snorted, loudly. “Whisky? Are ye daft?”
“Mayhap I am.” Taking another clam, he again glanced about the crude shelter. Made of stone, it was cave-like with a thatched roof, the crossbeam so low, he’d needed to stoop when he stepped inside. Along the far wall was a pallet with eider duck feathers strewn everywhere.
Nothing about this woman or her circumstances made sense. “Do you have a boat?”
She reached for a clam and pointed it from wall to wall. “If I did, I would not be living here, now would I?”
“Nay?” Kennan licked his lips. “Then why are you?”
She scraped off the meat, licked her lips, and rocked back, her face taking on a shadow that spoke of fear, horror, and something else.
Sadness.
Aye, that was it. This woman carried a heavy burden. “Ye ask too many questions.”
“That’s what a person does when he wants to come to know someone better.” Kennan tugged his shirt down from the beam above. Finding it dry, he pulled it over his head, making the wound across his belly sear and the ache in his shoulder practically blind him. Trying not to show any sign of discomfort, he ran his hands through his salt-encrusted hair. Dear God, he must look a fright. Perhaps if he made an attempt to appear more presentable, the lass might be willing to explain what the devil had happened to her. He tied the shirt’s laces, though his neckcloth had fallen off sometime between the battle on the ship and the fight with the sharks.
“Forgive me. I was thoughtless to address you without a shirt.” He ought to have put on his doublet as well, but the thought of shrugging into damp leather made him hesitate. The shirt had been bloody painful enough.
Divana drew a hand to her chest and smiled—a quite lovely smile, as if she was truly taken aback by his attempt at thoughtfulness. Most women Kennan knew would have already given him a good chiding about his lack of manners, especially his sister.
Kennan cleared his throat. “Now tell me, where do you hail from, lass?”
“Connel.”
Campbell lands—that made sense. “And where’s your kin?”
“Gone.”
“Still in Connel?”
“Nay. They’re in heaven.”
“All of them?”
“Aye. Ma, Da, me wee brother, Eann.”
He eyed her as he ate another clam. “What happened?”
Wiping her hand across her nose, she looked to the ground. “Th- they sent us here to die.”
Kennan gaped at her while a sickly lump dropped to his stomach. What? He shoved away the wooden cup. He’d heard tell of clans sending away their kin to protect the others. “Smallpox?” he whispered, scarcely able to utter the word. Where had he bloody landed?
She didn’t look up, shame written across her face. “Two years past.”
“God on the cross!” He pushed to his feet, hitting his head on the damned beam. Stars darted through his vision while he tried
to shake off his dizziness. “You brought me into a den of death?”
Divana stood as well. A good two heads shorter, the lass thrust her fists on to her hips. “Ye marched in here afore ye were invited—I told ye not to go inside, but ye wouldn’t listen to the likes of me, now would ye?”
Kennan tried to focus on her face, but the damned blow to his head rendered him as dizzy as a mad ewe. How much blood had he lost? He reached for the beam but missed, managing to stumble toward the lass with his hands outstretched. “Why in Hades did you not stop me?” he asked, his voice cracking as he staggered to keep himself from falling on his face.
The wench skittered away, grabbing her blasted shovel. “I kent ye were a scoundrel! Stay back or I’ll thwack ye.”
He almost laughed. He would have if his knees weren’t about to buckle, or worse, he wasn’t about to contract smallpox and die. But no self-respecting Highlander would let a slip of a lass threaten him with a shovel. “You ken I’d seize that damned spade from your fingertips if you gave it a swing.”
She took another step away, putting her back against the wall. “Ye would never!”
“You think not?” Even riddled with wounds, his knees wobbling and weak, a wee lass wouldn’t pose a challenge.
“But ye said ye’re a knight. That means ye live by a code of chivalry—ye’re a queen’s man.”
Indeed, Kennan lived by a code of chivalry, but he’d never call himself a queen’s man. He took a step toward the doorway, but his head swam so much, he was forced to brace himself on the wall. God save him, he was in no shape to go anywhere. “How long ago did your kin pass?”
“I told ye two years. It has been ages.”
Had enough time lapsed to clear the sickness from the isle? If it hadn’t, he was already as good as dead. Weaving like a drunkard, he bent toward her and examined the scars on her chin. “You were inflicted, were you not?”
“Aye, but it didn’t kill me.”
“And now? Are you well?”
“The rash and fever has nay returned.”
It hadn’t returned? She’d survived.
What were his chances? After he’d watched his men die, he deserved to fall ill and succumb to smallpox on this godforsaken isle.
His head spun faster as Kennan tried to think.
He was weak—too weak to attempt to swim to Rùm. Worse, the cold would kill any man before he made it halfway. Without a boat, a treacherous swim was his only option. He looked the ginger-haired lass over from head to toe. If the dread speckled monster still lingered in this place, his chances were grim. Blood streamed from the cut on his abdomen and pooled on his shirt again—blood mixed with Divana’s deep green poultice. What an untenable state of affairs. If smallpox didn’t slay him, his festering wounds most likely would do the job.
Chapter Four
Snowflakes splattered Divana’s face when she popped her head out the sealskin doorway. Ugh. Another blustery March morn had arrived. At least the snow rarely amounted to much on the isle, though the chill made things miserable. Ducking back inside, she clutched her moth-eaten arisaid about her shoulders. The Highlander still slumbered, covered by her best blanket. The other two were threadbare, but better than nothing.
After she wrapped one over her head and shoulders, she moved to Sir Kennan’s pallet and tapped his foot. ’Twas a shame his shoes didn’t make it during his swim, else she might have borrowed them to allay the cold, even if his feet were much larger.
“Are ye awake?” she asked softly. He’d slept two full days, this being the third. He ought to have had enough sleep by now, and the longer he slept the more worried she grew.
When he didn’t stir, she stooped and felt his forehead. Thank heavens he wasn’t running a fever, though he had a bit of a knot where he’d smacked his head on the crossbeam. Better yet, there were no signs of red spots, either.
Perhaps the threat of infection was gone. That would make sense. If this man didn’t contract smallpox in this very place where Ma, Da, and her wee brother had suffered and died, then Divana could be certain the dread sickness was gone for good.
But why hadn’t Sir Kennan stirred? Her gaze shifted to his abdomen. The bleeding had stopped, but she’d best make another poultice for his wounds.
She smoothed her fingers over the stubble on his jaw and chin. It was blond, not red like her father’s had been. The light color of his beard contrasted with his hair. With one finger, she drew a line across his mustache. The beard softened the angles of his face, but Divana wavered as to whether it made him look friendlier or more menacing. He needed to open his eyes. Then she’d know.
“Please wake. I’m ever so worried about ye, and I’ve nay the skills to set ye to rights.” She hadn’t been able to save her kin—and it frightened her to her toes to think Sir Kennan mightn’t survive as well. And because she was all but useless as a healer.
If only they weren’t stranded on this godforsaken isle, she might actually be of some help to the poor man. All she managed was to dribble water into his mouth and apply seaweed poultices. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands. “Dear Jesus, if ye have not forgotten me, please, please, please save Sir Kennan. I cannot survive another death. I haven’t been acquainted with him but for a short time, but in me heart I ken he’s a good man—and he said he wouldn’t harm me. And I believe him. I do. Please…do not let him die.”
She opened her eyes, a wee bit blurry with tears. Blinking them away, she smoothed the back of her hand over his forehead just like her ma had done to her when she’d first taken ill. Through her worry, she managed a sad smile. “Can ye believe it? There’s a real live knight in me bothy—a Cameron, no less.”
Aye, in the Highlands, the name Cameron was nearly as feared as Campbell. Though even Divana knew their clans had always feuded through the ages. Presently, Campbells sided with the crown, and Camerons were suspected of being staunch Jacobites. Though Divana cared not for any it. Whoever sat on the throne in London had never affected her one way or the other. Who gave a fig about clan feuds and forays now? Truth be told, now that she was no longer afraid of Sir Kennan, it was nice to have someone here—someone to care for.
Sighing, she pulled the blanket up to his chin and looked toward the doorway. One thing about living on a barren skerry like Hyskeir, simply finding enough food to stay alive was a daily chore. During the past two autumns, Divana had harvested salt from the rocks and dried enough eider duck meat to see her through the winter, but her stores were gone now. So were the ducks until a few days past. She’d spied a flock dallying about, and soon half the shore would be overrun by them…and there would be eggs as well.
Clutching her blanket taut beneath her chin, she collected her slingshot and headed out into the blustery cold. Her feet—wide, calloused, and unseemly—always bore the brunt of the cold. But she’d never owned a pair of shoes. Aye, she’d seen Sir Kennan look at them, and had turned her toes inward while her cheeks had burned something awful. What a fright she must pose to a man like Cameron. Her dress was torn at the elbows and stained, though she did wash it whenever it was warm enough to do so. She owned one petticoat, and that was in tatters. Thank heavens it was hidden beneath her skirt.
The island was so small, it took little time to walk to the end and back. On the east side were craggy rocks that were difficult to traverse, and on the west was a beach where the eider ducks nested. Seals as well. Some wayward traveler must have killed a seal and stayed in the bothy before she’d arrived, because sealskin covered the doorway—very warm sealskin. If only she had a musket or a bow and arrow, she might try for a seal. Then she’d have a warm fur to wrap around her shoulders in winter—lots of meat and fat to put up as well.
But Divana shuddered at the thought of killing a seal. How could she do it? Or even think of such a thing? She didn’t much like killing ducks, either. And she wouldn’t if she had any other choice.
At the south of the island was a small cove, but Sir Kennan had come ashore in the north—right
near the bothy—one of the best spots for hunting clams when the tide was low.
She stopped atop the lea of seagrass and searched the western shore. Ah, yes, more ducks had arrived and, by the squawking overhead, more were soon to be nesting. She crept very slowly until she reached an enormous rock she used as a duck blind. Plucking a fist-size stone from the ground, she loaded her slingshot. Then she moved at a snail’s pace to peer around the rock.
Not but twenty paces down the incline, a female sat alone.
“Lord, bless the wee creature,” Divana whispered under her breath. With a flick of her wrist, she wound up her slingshot. One circle, two, three!
* * *
Kennan opened his eyes after the lass left the bothy. He’d stirred when she brushed her fingers over his beard. And though he’d heard her whispered prayers, his mind hadn’t let him come fully awake—not until she was gone.
His mouth parched and his entire body feeling as if it weighed fifty stone, he willed himself to sit upright. The movement restarted the pounding in his skull, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his temples to quash it. When he stretched, the wound across his belly burned. Aye, the shoulder and leg stung as well, but he’d been asleep too long—abed too long.
At his side, Divana had left the chipped cup filled with water. He picked it up and drank. The water tasted better than he’d had in a long time—as if from a Highland spring. He used the last of it to splash his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. This time, he was mindful of the crossbeam when he stood.
His doublet was dry, though the leather stiff. When he shrugged into it, his shoulder burned like he’d been sliced open with a dull blade. He leaned against the wall to steady his breath and will away the pain.
I’m growing bloody soft.
This was no time to lie low and lick his wounds. He owed it to his men to make Jackson Vane pay for every lost member of the Highland Reel’s crew—Vane and miserable Dubois. I should have run my dirk across that Frenchman’s throat when I had the chance in Versailles.