In less than a minute, she was alone.
Field Observation 15.0: Disapproval from subjects of study produces acute chest compression, increased ocular humidity, and an irrational desire to be liked. Further analysis postponed due to mortification.
Chapter four
In Which Our Heroine Resigns from Research, Reconsiders, and Reenters Mortal Peril
The Highland moon was so large it felt like an emotional overshare, entirely lacking in British moderation. It loomed above the glen, illuminating every regret Wanton had attempted to pack discreetly into her cart.
The rams trudged along the narrow road with the solemn dignity of creatures who had lost faith in leadership. Their hooves clopped mournfully over the stones, the sound syncing with the steady tick of her self-reproach.
She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.Allergies,clearly. The Highlands were full of heather, midges, and consequences. She adjusted the reins with grim resolve, the leather creaking like dissent. Freedom, she decided, was vastly overrated. Left unchecked, it led to wind in one’s curls, uncertainty in one’s future, and entirely too much visibility of male knees. Still, as her cart wobbled down the path toward exile, she couldn’t quite shake the thought that the Highlanders, barbaric as they were, seemed… lighter. Unfenced.
Field Observation 16.0:Excess moisture about the ocular region indicates an allergic reaction to disappointment.
Her notebook lay open on her lap, though she couldn’t bring herself to write the words hovering in her head:The hypothesis was wrong.Torque and testosterone—false correlation. Catastrophic results. Perhaps she had lost her edge. Or perhaps, she thought miserably, she had collided with it.
Still, she straightened her shoulders. It was best to leave before she ruined anything else—or anyone else. “The variables here,” she muttered, “are unmanageable.”
She glanced back toward Glenravish, now a smudge of smoke and memory behind her. “Good riddance,” she lied politely to the moon.
Euclid snorted.
“Don’t judge me,” she warned him. “You’ve seen my equations.”
The cart wobbled down the rutted path. Wind sighed through the heather, cool against her cheeks. It felt almost like comfort until the faint thunder of hooves reached her ears.
She looked over her shoulder.
A dark shape emerged from the mist—horse, rider, authority incarnate. The moon caught the curve of his jaw, the flash of the kilt, the gleam of purpose. For one suspended heartbeat, her resolve wavered. Even her regrets sat up straighter.
Tavish MacTease.
“Oh splendid,” she muttered. “The control group has followed me.”
For a treacherous moment, her scientific curiosity flared. How, precisely, did one ride at such velocity while attired in a garment so—structurally liberal? Did centrifugal force assist, or merely endanger?
She stifled the thought immediately, pressing her lips together. No. She was no longer in that line of study.
He reined in beside the cart, eyes storm-dark and entirely unamused. “Where in God’s name are ye goin’?”
“Forward,” she said brightly. “That direction seemed least judgmental.”
“Ye cannae travel alone at night.”
Field Observation 16.2:Prolonged exposure to Scottish burr produces a measurable softening of female resolve. Further experimentation required, preferably unsupervised.
“I can, and demonstrably am.”
“There are wolves.”
“Excellent. I’ve been meaning to test the acoustics of howls in open valleys.”
“There are brigands.”
“Brigands,” Wanton repeated bleakly. “From the Latin briga—I assume—meaning ‘men who mistake confidence for camouflage.’ Very well. Let them come. I am a practitioner of Wallflower-Fu.”
He frowned. “What in hell’s name is Wallflower-Fu?”
