Her pulse flatlined. Her mouth parted. Her knees quivered in place.
She leaned forward—instinctive, urgent, purely in the interest of empirical confirmation, obviously.
And just when she believed verification was within reach, he let the fabric fall back into place.
Her soul fell with it.
He bent close, his hand at the back of her neck, fingers slipping into her curls, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
“I could show ye, Flùr na cuthach,” he murmured, “but then ye’d no’ be able to walk tomorrow—and I’d lose my bodyguard.” His voice was a rough whisper that did impossible things to her equilibrium.
Field Observation 21.0: Subject employs advanced teasing strategies to destabilize observer. Effectiveness: severe, registering a full red alert on the Fluster-to-Fascination Index.
“I could always limp,” she offered helpfully. “I believe I’m rather agile in that gait.”
His mouth crashed to hers—hot, hungry, a groan caught low in his throat as he crushed her against him. Her fingers fisted in his shirt. Her spine arched.
Then he tore himself away and exhaled sharply, half-groan, half-laughter. “Go to sleep, woman.”
He started to step away, but she caught his hand. “Tavish?”
“Aye?”
Her voice softened. “Why is someone trying to kill you?”
He hesitated, the humor leaving his face. When he spoke again, the words were quiet, heavy as stone. “Why indeed. Because I’m the only laird left who hasna sold. The rest took English gold, fenced their land, sent their folk away. I won’t. So long as I draw breath, the glen stays free.”
Free.The word struck her like cold air under warm bloomers—startling, indecent, and entirely invigorating.
The firelight flickered between them. She felt the conviction in his voice—fierce, lonely, noble to the point of madness. He was infuriating, unschooled, and possibly unclothed—and yet, somehow, he carried honor the way she carried theories: everywhere, even when inconvenient.
“Field Observation 19.5,” she whispered, “Subject exhibits catastrophic levels of integrity. Possibly terminal.”
His mouth twitched. “Sleep,Flùr na cuthach.Before I regret that kiss.”
She touched her lips. “Too late. It’s already been peer-reviewed.”
Chapter seven
In Which a Haycart Rolls, a Scholar Falls, and the Highlands Rise to the Occasion
Morning in Glenravish arrived with indecent optimism. Sunlight spilled over the glen, exposing the wreckage of the previous day’s Games: broken cabers, bruised egos, and one determined Englishwoman stalking her prey-turned-assignment with a notebook and a purpose.
Tavish strode ahead, issuing instructions to his men, looking far too composed for a Highlander under mortal threat. Wanton followed at what she called ascientifically safe proximity—roughly two paces behind and three degrees to the left. Close enough for observation, far enough to deny infatuation.
Field Observation 20.0:Protective protocols require proximity. Very close proximity. For accuracy—and aesthetic verification.
She scribbled notes furiously as Tavish inspected the caber-field. “Angle of approach, twenty-seven degrees… visibility excellent… subject irritatingly fearless…”
He glanced back. “Ye dinna have to follow me, lass.”
“Nonsense. I’m conducting preventive observation of assassination vectors.”
He arched a brow. “Vectors?”
“Precisely. I’ve mapped twenty-three possible lines of attack and two probable weaknesses.”
“Oh aye? Which are they?”
