Chapter 6
Chapter six
In Which Gravity Fails, Kilts Rise, and Morals Plummet
Tavish muttered something Gaelic and exasperated and—before she could protest— lifted her clean off the floor.
“Put me down!” Wanton commanded, clutching her notebook to her chest.
“Ye cannae walk straight.”
“I can walk diagonally! It’s experimental!”
This, she decided, must be how empires collapsed—first to physics, then to men in kilts.
He only grunted, striding down the torchlit corridor with maddening steadiness. His arms were iron around her, his chest a furnace. The flickering light made the hall sway like a dream—or possibly a bad equation.
Field Observation 19.0: Being carried by a Highlander produces sensations of warmth, security, and alarming satisfaction. Causation unclear. Repetition advised.
Her head lolled against his shoulder as the torches blurred by. Then she gasped softly, the sound of a woman recalling an urgent theorem. “Wait—mission!”
He glanced down, wary. “What mission?”
“My assignment,” she slurred with solemn dignity. “Protect Tavish MacTease from assassination. Must remove him from harm.”
Before he could question further, she braced her hands against his chest and began pushing with all the determined futility of a tipsy scholar moving a mountain.
He blinked, startled. “What in blazes are ye doin’?”
“Carrying you to safety, of course.”
His brows shot up. “You’re carryin’ me?”
“The order of the factors does not affect the product,” she declared serenely. “One of my favorite laws of mathematics, in fact.”
“No one’s tryin’ to kill me, lass—”
She shushed him, finger to his lips. “I’m the brains here."
He blinked. “Which makes me what?”
“The beauty, of course.”
“Saints preserve me,” he muttered and shouldered open the heavy door to her chamber.
Warm firelight spilled over them. The shadows of antlers and stone danced on the walls. He carried her across the threshold like a man resigned to both doom and delight.
He bent to lower her, slow as if testing gravity. Her slippers touched the floor, but he didn’t step back. They were face to face, breath mingling, the fire painting his cheek in gold.
Without thinking, Wanton reached up and brushed her thumb across a smudge of soot on his jaw.
He caught her wrist halfway. “Why are ye doin’ that, lass?”
“Because,” she said softly, “I’m thorough in my protection duties.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, rough voice gone lower. “How thorough?”
Her scientific mind immediately assembled three possible answers, ranked by boldness and risk of social ruin. Before she could offer him one, he kissed her.
The world tilted.
Not metaphorically—though yes, fine, also metaphorically. But physically. Gravity misbehaved. Her thoughts began to evaporate at a frankly alarming rate.
He tasted of smoke and defiance. Of late-night regrets and choices made with one hand on the sword and the other gripping a woman’s hips.
His mouth moved over hers like a Highlander at the border—armed, brooding, and perfectly willing to invade.
Her mind screamed for decorum; her body filed for independence.
Her fingers found his chest, somewhere beneath the wool and heat, and clung. The man was solid. Unyielding. A Highland stone baked in sun and stubbornness.
He groaned—low, from somewhere deep enough to echo—and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. His palm slid to the small of her back. She arched into it, which seemed to please him. Immensely.
Scientifically speaking, this was now a full-body event.
Her toes curled in her boots.
She made a sound. God help her, a whimper. The kind that would’ve earned a note in Uncle Barth’s “Field Compendium of Female Vocalizations and Their Effects on Male Restraint.”
Then his teeth just barely grazed her bottom lip—
—and she nearly hypothesized right out of her stays.
All hypotheses collapsed.
No. Correction: one remained.
The kilt was not the only thing moving.
And while her academic ethics prevented her from declaring a result without further investigation, her thigh could confirm initial contact of an unmistakably Highland nature.
She drew back a fraction. “That’s… not your claymore, is it?”
His breath hitched, a rough laugh. “No, lass,” he said, voice low, his hand still curled at her waist, thumb now stroking the edge of her ribs. “It isn’t.”
Her gaze flicked downward, entirely of its own accord. “Fascinating,” she murmured. “And your kilt—remarkably unencumbering of, ah… movement. An exemplary design, really. Efficient.”
Tavish made a strangled sound, his hand sliding up her spine, pulling her just a breath closer. “It is damn late and I shouldn’t be kissin’ a drunk madwoman who fantasizes about my kilt.”
She perked up immediately, fingers curling in the wool at his chest. “I don’t fantasize. I hypothesize. There’s a difference.”
“Aye?” he said, mouth curving, nose brushing hers. “And what’s yer current… hypothesis, then?”
“That Highlanders exhibit a consistent absence of foundational undergarments beneath traditional kilt attire; i.e., the sub-kilt layer equals zero,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
Tavish’s brows rose, amusement lighting his eyes.
“Do ye mean to say,” he drawled, “that ye think Highlanders go bare-arsed beneath their kilts?”
Wanton straightened, affronted by his tone. “This is not a matter of jest, sir. It’s a legitimate scientific inquiry. The absence of foundational garments affects torque, aerodynamics, even national morale.”
His grin deepened. “I’m no’ makin’ fun of ye, lass.”
Then his hand moved—down, to the hem of his kilt.
Her breath caught so sharply she nearly swallowed her own sanity.
He lifted it an inch. Then another.
Her pulse flatlined. Her mouth parted. Her knees quivered in place.
She leaned forward—instinctive, urgent, purely in the interest of empirical confirmation, obviously.
And just when she believed verification was within reach, he let the fabric fall back into place.
Her soul fell with it.
He bent close, his hand at the back of her neck, fingers slipping into her curls, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
“I could show ye, Flùr na cuthach,” he murmured, “but then ye’d no’ be able to walk tomorrow—and I’d lose my bodyguard.” His voice was a rough whisper that did impossible things to her equilibrium.
Field Observation 21.0: Subject employs advanced teasing strategies to destabilize observer. Effectiveness: severe, registering a full red alert on the Fluster-to-Fascination Index.
“I could always limp,” she offered helpfully. “I believe I’m rather agile in that gait.”
His mouth crashed to hers—hot, hungry, a groan caught low in his throat as he crushed her against him. Her fingers fisted in his shirt. Her spine arched.
Then he tore himself away and exhaled sharply, half-groan, half-laughter. “Go to sleep, woman.”
He started to step away, but she caught his hand. “Tavish?”
“Aye?”
Her voice softened. “Why is someone trying to kill you?”
He hesitated, the humor leaving his face. When he spoke again, the words were quiet, heavy as stone. “Why indeed. Because I’m the only laird left who hasna sold. The rest took English gold, fenced their land, sent their folk away. I won’t. So long as I draw breath, the glen stays free.”
Free. The word struck her like cold air under warm bloomers—startling, indecent, and entirely invigorating.
The firelight flickered between them. She felt the conviction in his voice—fierce, lonely, noble to the point of madness. He was infuriating, unschooled, and possibly unclothed—and yet, somehow, he carried honor the way she carried theories: everywhere, even when inconvenient.
“Field Observation 19.5,” she whispered, “Subject exhibits catastrophic levels of integrity. Possibly terminal.”
His mouth twitched. “Sleep, Flùr na cuthach. Before I regret that kiss.”
She touched her lips. “Too late. It’s already been peer-reviewed.”