His gaze dropped to her lips, rough voice gone lower. “How thorough?”
Her scientific mind immediately assembled three possible answers, ranked by boldness and risk of social ruin. Before she could offer him one, he kissed her.
The world tilted.
Not metaphorically—though yes, fine, also metaphorically. But physically. Gravity misbehaved. Her thoughts began to evaporate at a frankly alarming rate.
He tasted of smoke and defiance. Of late-night regrets and choices made with one hand on the sword and the other gripping a woman’s hips. His mouth moved over hers like a Highlander at the border—armed, brooding, and perfectly willing to invade. Her mind screamed for decorum; her body filed for independence.
Her fingers found his chest, somewhere beneath the wool and heat, and clung. The man was solid. Unyielding. A Highland stone baked in sun and stubbornness.
He groaned—low, from somewhere deep enough to echo—and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. His palm slid to the small of her back. She arched into it, which seemed to please him. Immensely.
Scientifically speaking, this was now a full-body event.
Her toes curled in her boots.
She made a sound. God help her, a whimper. The kind that would’ve earned a note in Uncle Barth’s “Field Compendium of Female Vocalizations and Their Effects on Male Restraint.”
Then his teeth just barely grazed her bottom lip—
—and she nearly hypothesized right out of her stays.
All hypotheses collapsed.
No. Correction: one remained.
The kilt was not the only thing moving.
And while her academic ethics prevented her from declaring a result without further investigation, her thigh could confirm initial contact of an unmistakably Highland nature.
She drew back a fraction. “That’s… not your claymore, is it?”
His breath hitched, a rough laugh. “No, lass,” he said, voice low, his hand still curled at her waist, thumb now stroking the edge of her ribs. “It isn’t.”
Her gaze flicked downward, entirely of its own accord. “Fascinating,” she murmured. “And your kilt—remarkably unencumbering of, ah… movement. An exemplary design, really. Efficient.”
Tavish made a strangled sound, his hand sliding up her spine, pulling her just a breath closer. “It is damn late and I shouldn’t be kissin’ a drunk madwoman who fantasizes about my kilt.”
She perked up immediately, fingers curling in the wool at his chest. “I don’t fantasize. I hypothesize. There’s a difference.”
“Aye?” he said, mouth curving, nose brushing hers. “And what’s yer current… hypothesis, then?”
“That Highlanders exhibit a consistent absence of foundational undergarments beneath traditional kilt attire; i.e., the sub-kilt layer equals zero,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
Tavish’s brows rose, amusement lighting his eyes.
“Do ye mean to say,” he drawled, “that ye think Highlanders go bare-arsed beneath their kilts?”
Wanton straightened, affronted by his tone. “This is not a matter of jest, sir. It’s a legitimate scientific inquiry. The absence of foundational garments affects torque, aerodynamics, even national morale.”
His grin deepened. “I’m no’ makin’ fun of ye, lass.”
Then his hand moved—down, to the hem of his kilt.
Her breath caught so sharply she nearly swallowed her own sanity.
He lifted it an inch. Then another.
