Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
In Which the Rope Tightens, the Plot Thickens, and the Laird Hardens
The kilt, Wanton decided, was less a garment than a moral trial. Yards upon yards of tartan intent on strangling her waist while granting scandalous liberty to every breeze within a five-mile radius.
By the time she reached the field, the entire glen had gathered—men, women, bairns, dogs, and the occasional confused goose. Banners snapped against the wind. The air rang with drums, bagpipes, and the unmistakable tension of finale energy.
This was it. The last event of the Glenravish Highland Games. The one that would decide honour, pride, and—apparently—property rights.
Two teams stood poised on either side of a long, thick rope that stretched across a muddy divide. The center was marked by a white line and flanked by stakes.
The rules, as Wanton had dutifully recorded in her notes, were straightforward:
Two teams pull. The first to drag the other across the line wins. Entirely dependent on torque, muscle, and a will to dominate that centuries of evolution had done nothing to temper.
On the right, Tavish MacTease stood at the head of his clan—bare forearms glinting with effort.
Wanton scribbled furiously.
Field Hypothesis 26.1: Subject displays ideal physical symmetry. Further measurement required—preferably with calipers and privacy.
His men looked equally determined and equally enormous, forming a living chain of plaid, sinew, and testosterone.
On the opposite side, the rival team—Clan MacNab—assembled like a wall of suspicious beef.
Six men, all chest and no mercy, scowled beneath identical brows heavy enough to shade small livestock. Their tartan gleamed an aggressive red, their boots already sunk deep into the mud as though preparing to bury the opposition in it.
One of the MacNabs cracked his neck and spat into the dirt with the solemnity of a sacrament. Another patted the rope affectionately, murmuring something that sounded like “She’s a good lass, this one,” which Wanton chose to interpret as a sign of early animism.
“Fascinating,” she whispered. “Pre-industrial spirituality meets upper-body obsession.”
Wanton crouched at the sidelines, notebook balanced on her knees, heart beating faster than was academically advisable.
The judge raised his arm.
The crowd held its breath.
A drumbeat rolled through the air.
The rope drew tight, muscles flexed, and the collective grunt of two dozen Highlanders reverberated through the glen like a mating call to gravity itself.
Wanton’s pencil slipped from her fingers. Her lungs forgot their instructions.“Good heavens,” she breathed. “A spontaneous alignment of torque, tension, and… moral instability.”
The men strained, boots digging into the mud. Tavish’s shoulders rolled, his forearms knotted like sculpted equations. Wanton felt herself sway forward in pure academic admiration. Her position offered an unparalleled view of Highland exertion in its natural habitat.
“Field Observation 26.8,” she panted, “the male gluteus maximus exhibits superior elasticity under stress. Potential as renewable energy source: high.”
But then Tavish’s line began to shift, inch by inch, toward the white boundary. Their boots slid. Their grunts grew desperate.
Wanton gasped. “According to my calculations, the sum of masculine exertion multiplied by clan loyalty and adjusted for gravitational pull should produce victory, not slippage!”
She edged closer, muttering numbers under her breath.
“Power equals work over time, testosterone equals torque squared—no, that’s not right—ah, but if friction decreases, then resistance—oh no.”
Her eyes narrowed. The sunlight caught something along the rope. The fibers gleamed with an oily sheen.
Her pulse quickened, and she turned her head sharply. There, at the sidelines, stood Malcolm. Lean. Polished. Sinister. The kind of man who oiled more than rope.
Her jaw set. “Sabotage,” she breathed. “By viscosity.”
She scanned the field for a counteragent. Her gaze landed on a nearby flour sack.
“Excellent. Counter-lubricant located.”
Before logic could intervene, Wanton snatched the sack and sprinted toward the rope. Her tartan flared like a battle flag, and her curls streamed like the tail of a comet.
“Emergency correction of traction variables!” she shouted.
Every man on the field turned.
The next thing Glenravish saw was a blur of kilt, white powder, and manic conviction.
She tore open the flour sack and hurled the contents at the nearest section of rope. A blizzard of fine white dust exploded outward with apocalyptic enthusiasm, coating Tavish’s men from head to kilt.
“By the bleatin’ rams of Glenravish!” one bellowed. “We’re bein’ exorcised!”
Another coughed. “I canna breathe—I taste biscuits!”
Tavish blinked through the cloud, his hair now the shade of moral purity. “Wallflower, what in God’s name—”
“Science!” she cried, dumping another fistful along the line. “Powder absorbs oil, increasing friction! You’re welcome!”
One of Tavish’s teammates, a burly fellow with biceps like beer barrels, let out a strangled cry.
“My eyes! Saints preserve me, I’m blind!”
Wanton froze mid-swipe, hand still on the rope. “Oh dear.”
The man stumbled backward, clutching his face, and promptly released the rope.
Tavish’s team lost tension. The rival side howled in triumph and began to drag them mercilessly toward defeat.
Wanton looked at the flailing man, then at Tavish, then at the screaming crowd. Logic, as always, arrived a heartbeat too late.
Without hesitation, she dashed forward and seized the rope’s front position, planting her boots deep into the mud.
“Lass!” Tavish barked. “That’s the lead spot! Ye’ll be crushed!”
“Nonsense. I’m already statistically flattened.” she said, adjusting her grip. “Lead position merely requires superior leverage and an unshakable grasp of basic physics. Observe.”
She braced herself, legs wide, kilt flapping ominously. The rope groaned between her hands.
“Fascinating texture,” she murmured. “Very coarse. Would benefit from silk lining.”
Wanton felt every muscle come alive in one tremendous pull.
“Excellent! Torque transfer achieved!”
Across the line, the six rival Highlanders glared like ruined fortresses. Their forearms bulged. Their boots dug trenches. Their brows promised violence and possibly a hernia.
Wanton straightened her spine, chin lifted. “Field Observation 26.3: Opposing specimens exhibit excessive glower concentration and competitive snorting. Possibly a mating display.”
“Lass,” Tavish grunted, “ye’d better be pullin’, not takin’ notes!”
“I’m doing both!” she said, tightening her grip. “Multitasking is a modern requirement!”
She leaned back, pulling with all her might. Her borrowed boots sank deep, creating suction noises that would haunt her dreams.
One of the Macnabs caught her gaze and smirked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Glare all you want, you… you slick brutes,” she muttered, adjusting her grip. “I can handle this with one hand tied behind my independent variables.”
The man snorted, signaling to his team. They heaved.
The rope yanked forward so violently that Wanton pitched ahead, her boots sinking deep into the mud.
“Saints and statistics! They jerked a lady,” she cried, scandalized. “That’s against every code of gentlemanly conduct and possibly Newton’s Third Law!”
She dug her heels in furiously, teeth gritted, curls flying. “Very well! Let’s see how you enjoy being out-tugged by empirical methodology!”
She tried a new stance, lifting one leg experimentally. The rope pressed against her thigh with the sort of intimacy normally reserved for scandal.
Behind her, Tavish groaned. “For the love o’—lass, ye’re makin’ a spectacle!”
Her foot slipped. The rope jerked. She stumbled backward—straight into a boulder of magnificent proportions. Oh, it was Tavish’s chest.
He caught her around the waist. “By God, ye’re chaos wrapped in tartan.”
“I prefer ‘pioneer of applied physics,’” she gasped.
He tried to push her forward, but she clung stubbornly to the rope. “Your stance is incorrect,” she informed him. “You’re distributing mass inefficiently!”
“How d’ye propose I fix it when ye’re in the way?”
“Allow me to demonstrate,” she announced, turning herself around so they stood face to face, their noses inches apart.
“What in hell—” Tavish started, but she’d already thrown her arms around his neck like a determined barnacle. “We’ll pull together.”
Her body pressed flush to his, the rope wedged between them.
“Now,” she ordered, breathless, “thrust backward on my count—one, two—”
“Three,” he growled, pulling with her weight draped across him like an experimental shawl.
They heaved together, bodies straining, feet sliding. The crowd roared. The rope groaned.
Across the line, the rival Highlanders heaved again—the rope jerked, dragging them another inch toward defeat. Mud splashed up her legs, plastering her stockings to her calves.
From across the field, one of the rival Highlanders—that audacious brute with the suspiciously symmetrical beard—grinned at Wanton’s exposed knees and whistled.
“Eyes on the rope, lad, or I’ll throttle ye wi’ it!”
Tavish’s entire body went rigid, and he pulled so hard the rival clan stumbled several steps forward.
She gasped. She had been right all along. “If jealousy increases torque output, then testosterone affect physics!”
Tavish huffed, sweat beading at his temple. “What?”
“Don’t stop! Think furious thoughts! Channel your endocrine potential!”
He made a strangled noise.
Their bodies snapped tight together.
Wanton braced low, knees bent, back pressed to his chest, his arms roped around hers as they both hauled on the line.
And then she felt it.
Solid. Insistent. Highland.
Pressing firmly against her backside.
“Tavish… you shouldn’t have brought a caber to a tug-of-war.”
“That’s not a caber, lass.”
Her breath caught.
Before she could formulate a witty retort—or even a sentence not involving units of measurement—he hauled her closer, their bodies compressed around the rope, her ribs crushed delightfully against the broad, unyielding wall of his chest.
“If I survive—”
“The game?” she asked, winded from sheer pelvic impact.
“No, lass. Not the game,” he said between grunts. “If I survive you—” his hips shifted, caber very much still in play—“we’ll finish what we started last night. Aye?”
She made a sound. It might have been a whimper, or a war cry. Hard to tell with the mud in her boots and the testosterone in her brain.
Her whole body snapped to life. With a cry of “For empirical foreplay!” she hauled the line with everything she had.
The rope jerked, and with it, the Glenravish banner crossed the line. The opposing team toppled like dominos into the mud.
The horn blared.
Cheers exploded.
Wanton gasped, eyes wide.
Field Observation 26.8: Female propulsion may rival testosterone. Further trials enthusiastically encouraged.
Then a clansman grabbed Wanton around the waist and tossed her bodily into the air with a war-whoop.
“Careful, sir!” she cried mid-flight. “This garment was not engineered for vertical propulsion without severe informational exposure!”
Then Tavish hauled her into him like he’d claimed her on the field of battle.
“You survived,” she whispered, giddy.
He leaned in, muddy and achingly gorgeous. “Tonight, lass.”
And Wanton, grinned like the madwoman of science she was.
“Field Hypothesis 27.0: Victory is an aphrodisiac.”