Chapter 8
Chapter eight
In Which the Highlands Prove Perfect, Wanton Proves Wrong, and Tavish Proves Too Distracting
The Great Hall slept like an old lion—quiet, dignified, and lazily dangerous. Moonlight sifted through the tall windows, pooling over stone and shadow. The air smelled of smoke, iron, and the ghosts of too many dinners.
Wanton paced the flagstones, unable to sleep. This thing of protecting a Highlander was harder said than done. What was she expected to do while he was out chasing raiders? He should've taken her. She was sure to protect that gorgeous hide better from there than here.
On her thirty-ninth round, she stopped before the window.
The Highlands stretched in untamed majesty—hills rolling like sleeping beasts beneath a sky too ancient for human approval.
The view was raw, perilous, and entirely disinterested in improvement…
Just like Tavish. Warmth spread through her chest, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with humility.
She had believed him a pile of unenlightened muscle clinging to vintage, but anachronistic notions of honor.
Well, then, time to admit her initial hypothesis had been wrong (the dear reader would have to agree that she did this every once in a while .
.. mistakes). Now she understood that the land and the man were the same—rugged, unreasonable, and, somehow, perfectly complete.
Any attempt to modernize either would be vandalism.
Civilization, she decided, could very well stay on its side of the map.
She clasped her notebook shut, nodded solemnly to the view, and whispered, "You're perfect as you are. Consider yourself peer-reviewed. And I will..." The words seemed foreign to her lips, but she mouthed them anyway. "I'll behave," she promised softly, to no one in particular. "For once."
The candle flickered in doubtful agreement.
Just as she was indulging in her newfound sense of benevolent observer, the door creaked.
Shadows moved.
Two men slipped into the hall.
If the stealth hadn't given them away, then the masks, hunched posture, and general aura of "we're absolutely doing crimes" did.
Wanton ducked behind a chair, clutching her notebook like a shield of virtue.
No interference, Wanton. Observe. Do not engage. Perhaps sneaking about in the dead of night was an ancient Highland courting ritual.
"Quiet, ye fool," one hissed. "The chief wants the Hammer o' Ancestry gone by dawn. Without it, the laird'll have to sell the land."
The other snorted. "Aye, and we'll get our cut o' the English gold."
Her pulse skipped a beat. They were talking about the hammer—the clan's most sacred relic, forged by Tavish's forebears to bash her own ancestors. (In fairness, both sides had displayed admirable enthusiasm for the pastime.)
Wanton pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Breathe. Remain scientific. This is anthropology in motion.
The taller thief nudged the other. "Careful with it. The laird'll nae ken till morning."
They lifted the Hammer of Ancestry from its stand. It was enormous, brutal, magnificent—the very image of cultural overcompensation.
Wanton's fingers twitched. Her moral fiber creaked.
"No interference," she whispered through gritted teeth. "You are an observer. An enlightened, serene observer."
Then the shorter thief chuckled. "Once it's gone, we'll see the mighty MacTease crawl to the English on his knees."
That did it. Her restraint collapsed like a poorly tested bridge.
“Excellent performance, Observational Self,” she muttered. “Forty-two seconds before interference—new data point achieved.”
She erupted from behind the chair like a morally indignant jack-in-the-box, struck her head on the wall sconce, ricocheted off a shield, and stumbled forward in a trajectory best described as unplanned momentum.
She popped into the thieves' line of sight with all the grace of an escaped laboratory specimen who had definitely failed containment.
"Unhand that cultural metaphor, you ruffians!"
While the culprits gaped at her, she exhaled, centered herself, and assumed position.
To the untrained eye, it resembled a ram attempting to lick its own posterior—one arm lifted in aggressive enlightenment, the other shielding what remained of her virtue, spleen, and theoretical frameworks.
"Miss Thistlethorpe, guide my knees," she whispered—words that had preceded many a shriek, one accidental concussion, and the permanent banning of her from the British Museum's winter gala.
Then, to the thieves, she declared with solemn menace:
"Prepare yourselves… for Wallflower-Fu."
The first thief blinked. "...What?"
The second frowned. "Is that contagious?"
They exchanged a nod—the universal Highland signal for Aye, let's rush the tiny woman.
Wanton flipped her bonnet back like a general lowering her visor. "A coordinated attack. How thoughtful."
The first lunged, sword raised. Wanton pivoted on Morag's oversized boots, swung her reticule in a windmill arc, and redirected his momentum with a weaponized eye roll, a perfect Patriarchal Pendulum?.
He flew sideways into Tavish's display of antlers.
CRACK!
Antlers, thief, and fragile male pride rained to the floor in a unified chorus of:
"—OOF—"
"—ACH—"
Field Note 31.1: Defensive redirection successful. Antler integrity: compromised. Dignity: non-existent.
The second thief barreled toward her—but Wanton's blood was up now.
"You'll no' be tellin' me how to think, lass!" he snarled, reaching for her arm.
"Excellent trigger phrase," she said—and unleashed The Torque of Morality Twist?.
Her heel kick—powered by sheer moral superiority—caught him square in the side.
He turned into a spinning top wearing a mask.
He ricocheted off the whisky cabinet, then the wall, then the whisky cabinet again.
THUD—CLANG—GLUGLUGLUG—SHATTER!
Amber liquid and shards flew everywhere.
Field Observation 31.2: Opposition now marinated. Aromatic notes: peat, smoke, impending regret.
Both thieves staggered upright at once, one dripping whisky, the other shedding antlers.
They came for her together.
"Very rude," Wanton muttered, and met them halfway with The Bibliographic Slap?.
Her hand cracked across the first man's cheek with the sound of a library closing on a late fee.
SMACK!
He reeled backward, knocking into a suit of armor.
The helmet toppled off with a hollow DONG and clamped neatly onto his head.
He howled and ran blindly into a pillar.
The second thief grabbed her from behind—big mistake.
"I don't appreciate unsolicited contact," Wanton said sweetly—and performed The Peeping-Tom Paradox?.
She dipped low, feigned retreat, then delivered a decisive knee upward.
THWACK.
He made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a bagpipe having an emotional breakdown.
His hands flew skyward. His knees buckled. His future children vanished from probability.
"Introspection achieved," Wanton noted.
He collapsed face-first into a pile of tartan banners.
Behind her, the armored thief staggered in circles, helmet askew. Not very bright, that one.
The room spun with the scent of smoke, spilled whisky, bruised ego, scorched dignity, and Wanton's triumphant pulse.
She wiped her brow with her singed bonnet.
"Field Observation 25.6," she panted, "Wallflower Fu remains ninety-three percent effective—though spatial consequences require peer review."
She turned triumphantly—
And saw both thieves pushing themselves upright again, wobbling but determined.
She blinked.
"Oh. Highland ruffians possess statistically concerning resilience."
She squared her shoulders, taking stock of her dire variables.
The fire sputtered, her bonnet had entered its afterlife, and the ratio of Wanton-to-thieves was bleak.
Very well then. Time for absurd, irresponsible heroics.
(because until now, the dear reader would have to agree that she had behaved with near-monastic restraint.)
Her gaze fell on the Hammer of Ancestry, glinting in the firelight like destiny's paperweight.
"Right," she whispered, eyes bright. "New approach: divine retribution."
She raced across the hall, skirts flying, seized the handle, and braced her feet.
"This is it," she told herself breathlessly. "The moment I transcend history. I will lift it—smite them—stand triumphant, an avenging Boudica of torque and justice!"
The hammer did not move.
She frowned, readjusted her grip, and tried again, summoning all the fervor of a woman about to enter legend.
The thieves were halfway to her now.
"You might wish to pause," she called over her shoulder. "Just a moment! I am attempting something—quite impressive, actually—if it would only—"
She pulled.
The hammer remained unmoved.
Her spine made a noise like a polite objection.
The thieves advanced another step.
She gave them a shaky smile. "Patience is a virtue! I'm nearly—oh heavens—"
She heaved again, and with an ominous crack, her back locked, and she emitted a noise previously undocumented in scientific literature.
Pain zinged down her spine like insulted lightning.
"Oh," she gasped, frozen mid-smite. "Field Note 25.7: weapon resistant to feminist appropriation."
The thieves broke into a run.
Wanton whimpered, "Could one of you perhaps pause until I regain mobility? It's terribly unsporting to attack during spinal rebellion!"
Just when she was about to face the enemy in a position better suited to childbirth, the doors exploded open.
Tavish strode in, his forearms bare, his countenance furious, the kind that suggested someone had insulted both his clan and his kilt.
The thieves froze. One dropped his dagger. The other crossed himself. Both chose the only sensible tactic in the face of Highland rage: immediate flight.
Once they had escaped via the opened windows, Tavish's gaze swept the hall—the toppled tables, the ripped tapestry, the wounded pride. Then his eyes found her.