Chapter 4
Chapter four
In Which Our Heroine Resigns from Research, Reconsiders, and Reenters Mortal Peril
The Highland moon was so large it felt like an emotional overshare, entirely lacking in British moderation. It loomed above the glen, illuminating every regret Wanton had attempted to pack discreetly into her cart.
The rams trudged along the narrow road with the solemn dignity of creatures who had lost faith in leadership. Their hooves clopped mournfully over the stones, the sound syncing with the steady tick of her self-reproach.
She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Allergies, clearly. The Highlands were full of heather, midges, and consequences.
She adjusted the reins with grim resolve, the leather creaking like dissent.
Freedom, she decided, was vastly overrated.
Left unchecked, it led to wind in one’s curls, uncertainty in one’s future, and entirely too much visibility of male knees.
Still, as her cart wobbled down the path toward exile, she couldn’t quite shake the thought that the Highlanders, barbaric as they were, seemed… lighter. Unfenced.
Field Observation 16.0: Excess moisture about the ocular region indicates an allergic reaction to disappointment.
Her notebook lay open on her lap, though she couldn’t bring herself to write the words hovering in her head: The hypothesis was wrong. Torque and testosterone—false correlation. Catastrophic results. Perhaps she had lost her edge. Or perhaps, she thought miserably, she had collided with it.
Still, she straightened her shoulders. It was best to leave before she ruined anything else—or anyone else. “The variables here,” she muttered, “are unmanageable.”
She glanced back toward Glenravish, now a smudge of smoke and memory behind her. “Good riddance,” she lied politely to the moon.
Euclid snorted.
“Don’t judge me,” she warned him. “You’ve seen my equations.”
The cart wobbled down the rutted path. Wind sighed through the heather, cool against her cheeks. It felt almost like comfort until the faint thunder of hooves reached her ears.
She looked over her shoulder.
A dark shape emerged from the mist—horse, rider, authority incarnate. The moon caught the curve of his jaw, the flash of the kilt, the gleam of purpose. For one suspended heartbeat, her resolve wavered. Even her regrets sat up straighter.
Tavish MacTease.
“Oh splendid,” she muttered. “The control group has followed me.”
For a treacherous moment, her scientific curiosity flared. How, precisely, did one ride at such velocity while attired in a garment so—structurally liberal? Did centrifugal force assist, or merely endanger?
She stifled the thought immediately, pressing her lips together. No. She was no longer in that line of study.
He reined in beside the cart, eyes storm-dark and entirely unamused. “Where in God’s name are ye goin’?”
“Forward,” she said brightly. “That direction seemed least judgmental.”
“Ye cannae travel alone at night.”
Field Observation 16.2: Prolonged exposure to Scottish burr produces a measurable softening of female resolve. Further experimentation required, preferably unsupervised.
“I can, and demonstrably am.”
“There are wolves.”
“Excellent. I’ve been meaning to test the acoustics of howls in open valleys.”
“There are brigands.”
“Brigands,” Wanton repeated bleakly. “From the Latin briga—I assume—meaning ‘men who mistake confidence for camouflage.’ Very well. Let them come. I am a practitioner of Wallflower-Fu.”
He frowned. “What in hell’s name is Wallflower-Fu?”
“It’s a highly specialized discipline designed to subdue unwanted advances, fragile egos, and, on occasion, invading forces. My instructor at the British Museum once felled a Prussian colonel with nothing but a stiff knee and a stinging footnote.”
Tavish stared. “...I don’t need to know.”
“Probably for the best,” she agreed. “The syllabus alone is considered a weapon.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, a sound that could have bent trees. “You’ll die o’ hunger.”
She rummaged in her satchel and produced a tin. “Nonsense. I have biscuits. And optimism. Endless supplies. Of biscuits. My optimist is running short.”
Tavish swung off his horse in one fluid motion. Moonlight caught on his hair, his kilt, his temper. He looked too large for the night.
Before Wanton could object, he strode to the cart, placed one boot on the wheel, and vaulted in beside her. The wood creaked as he pushed past and took the driver’s perch as though the vehicle—and possibly the entire Highlands—belonged to him.
“Sir!” Wanton gasped, clutching her notebook. “I did not authorize this display of uninvited proximity and aggressive competence!”
He pressed his hip against her. “Move over before ye fall off the bench.”
She bristled. “Your spatial intrusion is statistically alarming!”
Field Note 16.4: Unexpected occupation of personal conveyance may cause elevated pulse, loss of authority, and unhelpful admiration of subject’s shoulder-to-hip ratio.
She became acutely aware that they were seated side by side—entirely too side by side. His kilt had ridden higher, revealing several disquieting inches of sun-bronzed thigh.
“Oh mercy of Newton,” she whispered under her breath. No visible sign of structural underpinnings whatsoever.
Supplemental Observation: Apparent absence of under-layers may compromise observer’s composure. Immediate mental redirection recommended—preferably toward cold equations and colder climates.
He gripped the reins of her cart. “Enough. Ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”
She drew herself up, chin proud, curls defiant.
“I may not subscribe to the local dress code, sir—one prefers to keep one’s thighs out of meteorological discussions—but that does not mean I don’t appreciate the concept of freedom.
In fact,” she added with scientific precision, “scientific freedom requires mobility.”
“Hospitality requires ye stay put.”
“Sir, not even Napoleon himself managed to keep me confined to a drawing room. I have research to conduct and adventures to engage, and—”
A calloused finger pressed against her lips.
The gesture stole the rest of her sentence—and most of her air.
He leaned in, voice low enough to stir every syllable against her skin. “Ye speak too much, Flùr na cuthach.”
Her eyes widened. The Gaelic rolled through her like velvet thunder.
Field Observation 16.6: Application of fingertip to oral region results in total linguistic paralysis and elevated heart rate. Possible aphrodisiac properties of Gaelic required further investigation.
She swallowed hard. “What does that even mean?”
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Something hissed past Tavish’s ear and buried itself in the cart with a deadly thunk.
An arrow quivered in the wood, its shadow long and silver under the moonlight. Tavish’s head turned toward it with the calm precision of a man who’d faced it before. Wanton’s turned with the horrified curiosity of a woman who absolutely should not.
Time stretched—one heartbeat, two—until instinct overtook analysis.
“Down, you large and statistically valuable specimen!” she cried, and threw herself at him.
The world exploded into motion. The cart tilted; her notebook flew; his curse split the air. They toppled sideways off the seat, crashing into the road in a spray of dirt and starlight.
Tavish hit first, hard, the breath knocked from him. Wanton landed half atop him, half in the mud, all chaos. Her bonnet somersaulted into oblivion.
For a second, she couldn’t tell which way was up—only that her face was pressed against something warm, solid, and unmistakably male, and that the night smelled of peat, leather, and imminent scandal.
She lifted her head. Moonlight spilled over his face, catching the edge of his jaw, the line of his mouth—lips parted, breath rough. His eyes met hers, wild and impossibly near.
Field Observation 17.1: Prolonged thoracic contact produces alarming synchronization of pulses. Recommend immediate separation—or continued study under controlled conditions.
Then the second arrow sliced the air above them, close enough to tug a strand of her hair. It had the worst sense of timing—impolite as a chaperone in a moment of empirical intimacy. Tavish’s arm locked around her, pulling her down, his voice rough in her ear.
“Stay still.”
She stayed still. Very, very still.
He rolled, pulling her with him behind a boulder as another arrow struck stone with a violent ping.
They waited until the echo of boots faded and only the sound of the wind remained.
Tavish rose slightly, scanning the ridge. The moon caught the edge of his blade as he slid his claymore back into its sheath.
“They want ye killed, lass,” he said quietly, anger tightening every word. “Whoever this is will pay.”
But Wanton wasn’t listening. She was already scribbling furiously in her notebook, curls falling in wild disarray, lips moving with the rhythm of her thoughts.
“Angle thirty degrees from true north,” she muttered, peering over the rock. “Trajectory height consistent with elevated attack position. Crosswinds negligible…”
Her pencil froze. Her eyes widened. “It was meant for you!”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “You’re daft, you ken that?”
“Save the foreplay for later,” she said briskly, still writing. “Preferably when we’re back at the keep and not in mortal peril.”
That stunned him long enough for her to tuck the notebook into her bodice and glance up.
He blinked. “Does that mean ye’ll be stayin’, then?”
“Of course,” she said, as if stating a self-evident equation. “Who else is going to protect you from whoever’s trying to murder you? I will remain in Glenravish as your scientific bodyguard.”
“Saints preserve me,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The sound was half sigh, half surrender. His shoulders rose, then fell—like a man bracing for the inevitable avalanche of Wanton. “I’m doomed.”
She beamed at him, curls glinting in the moonlight, entirely unrepentant. “Statistically speaking,” she murmured, “that depends on the size of your sample.”
He stared—jaw tightening, eyes flicking to her mouth—then looked away sharply, as though common sense had yanked him by the collar.
Field Observation 17.1: Subject exhibits physical signs of denial—rigid spine, tightened jaw, refusal to engage with superior intellect. Further study warranted.
He rose, boots crunching over the gravel, and scanned the ridge. Moonlight slid over the line of his shoulders, the swing of his kilt. Wanton’s gaze followed automatically—purely in the spirit of empirical observation, of course—and lingered longer than was scientifically defensible.
Preliminary Evidence: No underlayers detected.
Field Conclusion: The mystery deepens. Further research inevitable.
When he turned back, she was already scribbling in her notebook.
“Are ye writing about me again?” he demanded.
“Of course not,” she said innocently, “merely about… atmospheric phenomena.”
He groaned, mounted his horse, and held out a hand. “Come, woman. Before ye find another catastrophe to catalogue.”
Wanton clasped his hand, allowing herself to be lifted up beside him.
Field Note 17.0: Survival likelihood increases by eighty-three percent when accompanied by statistically handsome variables. Addendum: Freedom, it appears, rides bare-thighed.