“It’s a highly specialized discipline designed to subdue unwanted advances, fragile egos, and, on occasion, invading forces. My instructor at the British Museum once felled a Prussian colonel with nothing but a stiff knee and a stinging footnote.”
Tavish stared. “...I don’t need to know.”
“Probably for the best,” she agreed. “The syllabus alone is considered a weapon.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, a sound that could have bent trees. “You’ll die o’ hunger.”
She rummaged in her satchel and produced a tin. “Nonsense. I have biscuits. And optimism. Endless supplies. Of biscuits. My optimist is running short.”
Tavish swung off his horse in one fluid motion. Moonlight caught on his hair, his kilt, his temper. He looked too large for the night.
Before Wanton could object, he strode to the cart, placed one boot on the wheel, and vaulted in beside her. The wood creaked as he pushed past and took the driver’s perch as though the vehicle—and possibly the entire Highlands—belonged to him.
“Sir!” Wanton gasped, clutching her notebook. “I did not authorize this display of uninvited proximity and aggressive competence!”
He pressed his hip against her. “Move over before ye fall off the bench.”
She bristled. “Your spatial intrusion is statistically alarming!”
Field Note 16.4: Unexpected occupation of personal conveyance may cause elevated pulse, loss of authority, and unhelpful admiration of subject’s shoulder-to-hip ratio.
She became acutely aware that they were seated side by side—entirely too side by side. His kilt had ridden higher, revealing several disquieting inches of sun-bronzed thigh.
“Oh mercy of Newton,” she whispered under her breath. No visible sign of structural underpinnings whatsoever.
Supplemental Observation:Apparent absence of under-layers may compromise observer’s composure. Immediate mental redirection recommended—preferably toward cold equations and colder climates.
He gripped the reins of her cart. “Enough. Ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”
She drew herself up, chin proud, curls defiant. “I may not subscribe to the local dress code, sir—one prefers to keep one’s thighs out of meteorological discussions—but that does not mean I don’t appreciate the concept of freedom. In fact,” she added with scientific precision, “scientific freedom requires mobility.”
“Hospitality requires ye stay put.”
“Sir, not even Napoleon himself managed to keep me confined to a drawing room. I have research to conduct and adventures to engage, and—”
A calloused finger pressed against her lips.
The gesture stole the rest of her sentence—and most of her air.
He leaned in, voice low enough to stir every syllable against her skin. “Ye speak too much, Flùr na cuthach.”
Her eyes widened. The Gaelic rolled through her like velvet thunder.
Field Observation 16.6: Application of fingertip to oral region results in total linguistic paralysis and elevated heart rate. Possible aphrodisiac properties of Gaelic required further investigation.
She swallowed hard. “What does that even mean?”
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
Something hissed past Tavish’s ear and buried itself in the cart with a deadly thunk.
An arrow quivered in the wood, its shadow long and silver under the moonlight. Tavish’s head turned toward it with the calm precision of a man who’d faced it before. Wanton’s turned with the horrified curiosity of a woman who absolutely should not.
Time stretched—one heartbeat, two—until instinct overtook analysis.
“Down, you large and statistically valuable specimen!” she cried, and threw herself at him.
The world exploded into motion. The cart tilted; her notebook flew; his curse split the air. They toppled sideways off the seat, crashing into the road in a spray of dirt and starlight.
