Chapter 7
Chapter seven
In Which a Haycart Rolls, a Scholar Falls, and the Highlands Rise to the Occasion
Morning in Glenravish arrived with indecent optimism. Sunlight spilled over the glen, exposing the wreckage of the previous day’s Games: broken cabers, bruised egos, and one determined Englishwoman stalking her prey-turned-assignment with a notebook and a purpose.
Tavish strode ahead, issuing instructions to his men, looking far too composed for a Highlander under mortal threat.
Wanton followed at what she called a scientifically safe proximity—roughly two paces behind and three degrees to the left.
Close enough for observation, far enough to deny infatuation.
Field Observation 20.0: Protective protocols require proximity. Very close proximity. For accuracy—and aesthetic verification.
She scribbled notes furiously as Tavish inspected the caber-field. “Angle of approach, twenty-seven degrees… visibility excellent… subject irritatingly fearless…”
He glanced back. “Ye dinna have to follow me, lass.”
“Nonsense. I’m conducting preventive observation of assassination vectors.”
He arched a brow. “Vectors?”
“Precisely. I’ve mapped twenty-three possible lines of attack and two probable weaknesses.”
“Oh aye? Which are they?”
“You. And your trousers—well, lack thereof.”
His sigh could have moved clouds. “Ye’ll be the death o’ me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not if I can prevent it.”
Before Tavish could question her logic—or her sanity—she spotted something glinting in the nearby shadow: a slight movement, the faint metallic wink of intent. Her pulse leapt.
“Assassin!” she hissed.
And with all the strength of panic and Newton’s first law, she launched herself at Tavish.
He barely had time to swear before she shoved him sideways, straight into a haycart.
They tumbled in a riot of plaid, straw, and bad ideas. Tavish landed first—broad, unyielding, and shaped like the answer to several forbidden questions. Wanton landed on top—small, intent, and far too English to admit how satisfying that felt.
Hay exploded like confetti.
Safety Advisory: the reader should never attempt to fell a Highlander without proper safety equipment, emotional detachment, and a clear escape route. Side effects may include bruised egos, displaced hay, and marriage proposals. Results may vary, but scandal is guaranteed.
For one glorious second, they lay still. Then the cart gave a sinister creak. A wheel shifted. Gravity finally demanded its due.
“Oh dear,” Wanton murmured. “We appear to be in motion.”
“In motion?” Tavish roared. “We’re bloody rolling!”
And roll they did—straight down a Highland slope.
“Next time ye save me, lass, warn me first,” Tavish shouted over the din.
“But then you might resist.” Wanton yelled back, as the wind tore at her curls.
They hit a rut, bounced, and finally stopped in a soft explosion of straw.
They were alive. Mostly upright. And pressed indecently close.
Tavish groaned.
Wanton did not move. Every single nerve had declared a national emergency.
She was sprawled across Tavish MacTease, Laird of Glenravish, Protector of Cabers, and current recipient of her full bodyweight.
His chest rose beneath her cheek, each breath brushing her ear with audible restraint.
His thigh—his positively herculean thigh—was wedged between hers in a way that would surely merit an annotation in her Appendix of Improper Positions.
Above them: the highland sky.
Around them: hay, abundant and strategically invasive.
Between them: far too little.
Her bonnet was gone. Her dignity had departed at velocity. Her thigh pressed against a Highland region of interest she could no longer ignore.
She lifted her head, intending to formulate a hypothesis.
She met his eyes instead.
They were... amused. Slightly wild. And entirely too focused on her mouth.
“Lass, if ye wanted to tumble me in the hay, you didn’t need to launch a cart down half the glen.”
She blinked. “It was scientifically—”
He didn’t let her finish.
He kissed her.
Wanton could only held on to his shoulders. This was data collection under extreme conditions. Mouths slanting, hands anchoring, knees nudging apart straw and propriety with brute Highland efficiency.
His lips moved over hers like a storm front rolling across moorland—hot, damp, and utterly devastating. His tongue swept in, a Highland warrior mapping her soft palate, any deeper and he would reach her tonsils.
Wanton moaned. Entirely involuntarily.
Her hands left his shoulders—merciful Newton, what breadth—and slid beneath the collar of his shirt, searching for proof of musculature. She found it. Abundantly.
Tavish growled low in his throat and hitched up her skirts.
Wanton gasped.
His hand paused mid-thigh, fingers curling.
“What the hell,” he cursed, voice rougher than caber bark. “What sort o’ Sassenach torture device is this?”
“It’s not a torture device—it’s progress!” It wasn’t as though everyone had the built-in physics to go about… unencumbered. Some of them—herself included—preferred to keep their most tender variables properly padded.
“Progress,” he muttered, as if she'd personally betrayed his ancestry. “should come wi’ fewer buckles.”
“They were devised for extreme environments,” she babbled, heat flooding every part of her body except where she wanted it most. “Horse bites. Splinters. Chafing.”
He exhaled against her neck.
“Ye’re killin’ me, lass.”
Field Observation 21.2: Highlanders have a surprisingly low tolerance for reinforced drawers.
“In the name of science, can you… undo them?” she asked, breathless.
He looked up, eyes molten. “Oh, I can. But you’ll owe me another tumble for each button.”
Wanton swallowed. “There are eleven.”
“Then clear yer afternoon.”
And then his mouth was on her throat—hot, open, possessive—and his fingers slipped beneath the protective layers with a hiss of fabric and a muttered Gaelic oath she suspected translated to saints preserve me from scholars in armored bloomers.
With a growl so deep it shook through her bones, Tavish shifted his grip, and grabbed her hips.
In one Highland motion, she found herself flat on her back in a bed of golden chaos, skirts rucked up around her hips and Tavish MacTease braced over her like the wrath of very aroused gods.
She would later catalogue this as Highland Maneuver No. 3: The Tactical Inversion.
Historians might credit battlefields for its origin; Wanton suspected the bedroom.
Either way, it demonstrated a mastery of leverage that Newton himself would have blushed to observe.
“Much better,” he murmured, gaze burning down her body.
She arched, her breath catching as his hand found skin.
Her thighs fell apart of their own volition.
Her head lolled back.
Her hands fisted the straw as his fingers completed a successful incursion, locating her center with pleasing accuracy. Oh, for the love of measurable data! The man had a gift for applied geography.
Warmth. Pressure. Contact. Contact. CONTACT.
Her brain detonated.
This was no longer a field study.
This was a Highland invasion.
She gasped sharp enough to merit a footnote.
Field Observation 31.6: Labial contact with Highland fingertips results in immediate neural overload and loss of vocabulary. Repeat trial advised.
His breath was ragged now, matching hers.
He dragged one finger slowly through her center, then circled, gathering slickness with the thoroughness of a man mapping his new favorite country.
“Tavish—”
Groaning, he leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear as his thumb pressed on her clit.
“Soaked already,” he muttered, “and I’ve barely touched ye.”
She nearly levitated.
“It’s perfectly natural,” she blurted. “You see, the female body releases a combination of chemical signals in anticipation of—of heightened physical stimuli. It’s a defense mechanism to reduce—”
Tavish groaned, half in exasperation, half in hunger. “Christ, lass.”
“—friction,” she finished weakly.
He caught her face between his hands, thumbs brushing her jaw. “Ye think too much. Stop explainin’ it and just… feel it.”
Her breath caught. “That’s hardly scientific.”
“Aye,” he said, leaning closer, his lips a hair from hers. “That’s why ye’ll like it.”
Her back arched off the cart as his fingers slid inside.
Saints above. She was going to need a new classification system.
Possibly a new religion.
His rhythm was patient, curling within her, finding places she didn’t know existed—much less responded like that.
Wanton moaned, an involuntary acoustic reflex that could have startled sheep within a one-mile radius.
Cheeks heating, she covered her mouth with her hand.
Tavish chuckled darkly. “Ye can scream, Flùr. I want to hear it.”
Field Note 31.7: Oral encouragement from subject increases pelvic responsiveness by 312%.
He kissed her again, tongue tangling with hers, swallowing her cries as his fingers penetrated her, building pressure, sensation, madness.
She writhed beneath him, hips rocking into his hand, thighs trembling, brain gone to static.
She had opened her mouth to declare the experiment a success when Tavish went rigid above her.
At first, she assumed it was her doing, which struck her as both flattering and scientifically fascinating.
Then she heard voices.
Men’s voices. Close.
“…do it before the final event,” one said. “No mistakes this time.”
“The chief said he wants it quiet. The laird dead, the glen ready to sell.”
Her body was still vibrating with momentum, but her mind screeched into sobriety like a runaway carriage.
Tavish’s hand left her hip, pulling out the dirk from his belt. His expression darkened.
“Stay still.”
The footsteps passed within yards of the cart. One man laughed—a low, ugly sound—and then the voices faded toward the woods.
Only when the silence settled again did Wanton release the breath she’d been holding.
“Well, at least we’ve proven one thing.”
“And what’s that?” he murmured.
“That I was right,” she said, frowning. “You are in danger.”
Field Observation 24.0: Nothing dampens romantic momentum quite like murder conspiracies. Recommend postponing either the seduction or the assassination for optimal results.