Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
In Which Chivalry Triumphs and Modesty Takes a Fatal Blow
The cheers still rang in her ears when Wanton saw movement in the periphery.
Malcolm.
Lean, black-haired, black-hearted, and halfway to escape. He moved through the crowd like an oil slick given human form, boots shining, shoulders tight.
Her eyes narrowed. Even from a distance, she could tell his boots glistened suspiciously. The gleam of guilt.
Wanton jabbed her finger toward him. “Stop that man! He’s glistening with guilt and petroleum!”
Malcolm froze. Tavish’s expression hardened, and he strode forward through the crowd, the motion effortless and full of command. Flour ghosted off his shoulders like divine smoke.
Malcolm sneered, eyes flicking toward Wanton. “The lass ruined your Games, cousin. And ye’d believe her over blood?”
Murmurs rippled through the clansmen.
Tavish’s eyes did not leave Malcolm’s. “Say it plain. Did ye tamper wi’ the rope?”
Malcolm’s jaw worked. Then he shrugged. “Why should I deny it? You’re a fool, Tavish. Sell the land. Take the gold. The English will come either way.”
Gasps swept the field. Even the bagpipes hiccupped.
Tavish’s voice dropped to a growl that vibrated through the ground. “You’d sell Glenravish—the bones o’ our fathers—for coin?”
“I’d sell it for survival,” Malcolm said coldly. “You’ll die with your pride and your sheep, cousin.”
Wanton pressed her hand to her mouth.
Tavish’s hand went to his sword. “Then fight for it.”
Steel sang. The sound rolled across the glen—sharp, pure, ancestral.
Malcolm’s grin widened. “Gladly.”
They circled each other. The sun turned their blades to molten streaks.
Wanton’s heart thudded in her ribs.
This was terrible. Barbaric. Entirely unacceptable in a civilized society.
Men, she firmly believed, should find less violent means of conflict resolution—perhaps a vigorous debate, or a competitive bake.
And yet…
Her pulse quickened as Tavish lunged, muscles flexing.
Field Observation 29.0: Despite moral opposition to violence, observer displays acute physiological enthusiasm during displays of muscular heroism.
Possible explanation: latent hypocrisy. Or hormones.
She gripped her notebook tighter, whispering to herself, “Violence is wrong. Entirely wrong. Unless he wins. In which case, justice prevails.”
Malcolm feinted. Tavish blocked, turned, drove him back with a strike that made the crowd gasp.
And, on a less noble note, she very much wanted to see Malcolm’s smug face introduced to the ground at high velocity.
Then—Malcolm faltered. Tavish seized the moment. One strike, swift and final.Malcolm stumbled, hitting the ground hard. Tavish’s blade was at his throat in the next breath.
The crowd went silent. Even the wind waited.
“Glenravish stays whole,” Tavish said quietly, fury controlled to a blade’s edge. “And ye—are done.”
Malcolm spat at his boots. “You’ll regret this.”
“I’ll live wi’ it,” Tavish said. He lowered his sword. “Ye’re no’ worth the blood.”
He turned to his men. “Take him away.”
A roar broke through the hush—cheers, bagpipes, the triumphant beat of drums.
Wanton sagged, relief flooding her limbs.
Her gaze found Tavish. He stood in the middle of the field, chest heaving.
Just then, a wind swept the glen. Tavish’s kilt caught it. The plaid fluttered, then lifted…
And there it was. Frontal data confirmation. Undeniable. Unfiltered. Highland and…hanging.
Wanton froze. Every rational thought fled. Her mouth opened, then closed.
He smirked. “Ye’ve yer answer then.”
She fanned herself weakly with her notebook. “Field Observation 29.0: Empirical confirmation achieved. There is something (a lot of something) under a Highlander’s kilt. Further study unnecessary but highly desirable.”
Tavish laughed. And Wanton knew, with the perfect clarity of science and sin, that her next experiment would be catastrophic.