Tavish hit first, hard, the breath knocked from him. Wanton landed half atop him, half in the mud, all chaos. Her bonnet somersaulted into oblivion.
For a second, she couldn’t tell which way was up—only that her face was pressed against something warm, solid, and unmistakably male, and that the night smelled of peat, leather, and imminent scandal.
She lifted her head. Moonlight spilled over his face, catching the edge of his jaw, the line of his mouth—lips parted, breath rough. His eyes met hers, wild and impossibly near.
Field Observation 17.1: Prolonged thoracic contact produces alarming synchronization of pulses. Recommend immediate separation—or continued study under controlled conditions.
Then the second arrow sliced the air above them, close enough to tug a strand of her hair. It had the worst sense of timing—impolite as a chaperone in a moment of empirical intimacy. Tavish’s arm locked around her, pulling her down, his voice rough in her ear.
“Stay still.”
She stayed still. Very, very still.
He rolled, pulling her with him behind a boulder as another arrow struck stone with a violent ping.
They waited until the echo of boots faded and only the sound of the wind remained.
Tavish rose slightly, scanning the ridge. The moon caught the edge of his blade as he slid his claymore back into its sheath.
“They want ye killed, lass,” he said quietly, anger tightening every word. “Whoever this is will pay.”
But Wanton wasn’t listening. She was already scribbling furiously in her notebook, curls falling in wild disarray, lips moving with the rhythm of her thoughts.
“Angle thirty degrees from true north,” she muttered, peering over the rock. “Trajectory height consistent with elevated attack position. Crosswinds negligible…”
Her pencil froze. Her eyes widened. “It was meant for you!”
He gave a disbelieving snort. “You’re daft, you ken that?”
“Save the foreplay for later,” she said briskly, still writing. “Preferably when we’re back at the keep and not in mortal peril.”
That stunned him long enough for her to tuck the notebook into her bodice and glance up.
He blinked. “Does that mean ye’ll be stayin’, then?”
“Of course,” she said, as if stating a self-evident equation. “Who else is going to protect you from whoever’s trying to murder you? I will remain in Glenravish as your scientific bodyguard.”
“Saints preserve me,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The sound was half sigh, half surrender. His shoulders rose, then fell—like a man bracing for the inevitable avalanche of Wanton. “I’m doomed.”
She beamed at him, curls glinting in the moonlight, entirely unrepentant. “Statistically speaking,” she murmured, “that depends on the size of your sample.”
He stared—jaw tightening, eyes flicking to her mouth—then looked away sharply, as though common sense had yanked him by the collar.
Field Observation 17.1: Subject exhibits physical signs of denial—rigid spine, tightened jaw, refusal to engage with superior intellect. Further study warranted.
He rose, boots crunching over the gravel, and scanned the ridge. Moonlight slid over the line of his shoulders, the swing of his kilt. Wanton’s gaze followed automatically—purely in the spirit of empirical observation, of course—and lingered longer than was scientifically defensible.
Preliminary Evidence: No underlayers detected.
Field Conclusion: The mystery deepens. Further research inevitable.
When he turned back, she was already scribbling in her notebook.
“Are ye writing about me again?” he demanded.
“Of course not,” she said innocently, “merely about… atmospheric phenomena.”
He groaned, mounted his horse, and held out a hand. “Come, woman. Before ye find another catastrophe to catalogue.”
