“You. And your trousers—well, lack thereof.”
His sigh could have moved clouds. “Ye’ll be the death o’ me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not if I can prevent it.”
Before Tavish could question her logic—or her sanity—she spotted something glinting in the nearby shadow: a slight movement, the faint metallic wink of intent. Her pulse leapt.
“Assassin!” she hissed.
And with all the strength of panic and Newton’s first law, she launched herself at Tavish.
He barely had time to swear before she shoved him sideways, straight into a haycart.
They tumbled in a riot of plaid, straw, and bad ideas. Tavish landed first—broad, unyielding, and shaped like the answer to several forbidden questions. Wanton landed on top—small, intent, and far too English to admit how satisfying that felt.
Hay exploded like confetti.
Safety Advisory: the reader should never attempt to fell a Highlander without proper safety equipment, emotional detachment, and a clear escape route. Side effects may include bruised egos, displaced hay, and marriage proposals. Results may vary, but scandal is guaranteed.
For one glorious second, they lay still. Then the cart gave a sinister creak. A wheel shifted. Gravity finally demanded its due.
“Oh dear,” Wanton murmured. “We appear to be in motion.”
“In motion?” Tavish roared. “We’re bloody rolling!”
And roll they did—straight down a Highland slope.
“Next time ye save me, lass, warn me first,” Tavish shouted over the din.
“But then you might resist.” Wanton yelled back, as the wind tore at her curls.
They hit a rut, bounced, and finally stopped in a soft explosion of straw.
They were alive. Mostly upright. And pressed indecently close.
Tavish groaned.
Wanton did not move. Every single nerve had declared a national emergency.
She was sprawled across Tavish MacTease, Laird of Glenravish, Protector of Cabers, and current recipient of her full bodyweight. His chest rose beneath her cheek, each breath brushing her ear with audible restraint. His thigh—his positively herculean thigh—was wedged between hers in a way that would surely merit an annotation in her Appendix of Improper Positions.
Above them: the highland sky.
Around them: hay, abundant and strategically invasive.
Between them: far too little.
Her bonnet was gone. Her dignity had departed at velocity. Her thigh pressed against a Highland region of interest she could no longer ignore.
She lifted her head, intending to formulate a hypothesis.
She met his eyes instead.
They were... amused. Slightly wild. And entirely too focused on her mouth.
“Lass, if ye wanted to tumble me in the hay, you didn’t need to launch a cart down half the glen.”
She blinked. “It was scientifically—”
