He chuckled low in his throat, the sound sliding over her skin. “That’s no the whisky, lass.”
She swallowed. “No?”
“No,” he said, voice rough as velvet. “That’s the effect of a Highlander.”
Chapter six
In Which Gravity Fails, Kilts Rise, and Morals Plummet
Tavish muttered something Gaelic and exasperated and—before she could protest—lifted her clean off the floor.
“Put me down!” Wanton commanded, clutching her notebook to her chest.
“Ye cannae walk straight.”
“I can walk diagonally! It’s experimental!”
This, she decided, must be how empires collapsed—first to physics, then to men in kilts.
He only grunted, striding down the torchlit corridor with maddening steadiness. His arms were iron around her, his chest a furnace. The flickering light made the hall sway like a dream—or possibly a bad equation.
Field Observation 19.0:Being carried by a Highlander produces sensations of warmth, security, and alarming satisfaction. Causation unclear. Repetition advised.
Her head lolled against his shoulder as the torches blurred by. Then she gasped softly, the sound of a woman recalling an urgent theorem. “Wait—mission!”
He glanced down, wary. “What mission?”
“My assignment,” she slurred with solemn dignity. “Protect Tavish MacTease from assassination. Must remove him from harm.”
Before he could question further, she braced her hands against his chest and began pushing with all the determined futility of a tipsy scholar moving a mountain.
He blinked, startled. “What in blazes are ye doin’?”
“Carrying you to safety, of course.”
His brows shot up. “You’recarryin’me?”
“The order of the factors does not affect the product,” she declared serenely. “One of my favorite laws of mathematics, in fact.”
“No one’s tryin’ to kill me, lass—”
She shushed him, finger to his lips. “I’m the brains here."
He blinked. “Which makes me what?”
“The beauty, of course.”
“Saints preserve me,” he muttered and shouldered open the heavy door to her chamber.
Warm firelight spilled over them. The shadows of antlers and stone danced on the walls. He carried her across the threshold like a man resigned to both doom and delight.
He bent to lower her, slow as if testing gravity. Her slippers touched the floor, but he didn’t step back. They were face to face, breath mingling, the fire painting his cheek in gold.
Without thinking, Wanton reached up and brushed her thumb across a smudge of soot on his jaw.
He caught her wrist halfway. “Why are ye doin’ that, lass?”
“Because,” she said softly, “I’m thorough in my protection duties.”
