At first, she assumed it was her doing, which struck her as both flattering and scientifically fascinating.
Then she heard voices.
Men’s voices. Close.
“…do it before the final event,” one said. “No mistakes this time.”
“The chief said he wants it quiet. The laird dead, the glen ready to sell.”
Her body was still vibrating with momentum, but her mind screeched into sobriety like a runaway carriage.
Tavish’s hand left her hip, pulling out the dirk from his belt. His expression darkened.
“Stay still.”
The footsteps passed within yards of the cart. One man laughed—a low, ugly sound—and then the voices faded toward the woods.
Only when the silence settled again did Wanton release the breath she’d been holding.
“Well, at least we’ve proven one thing.”
“And what’s that?” he murmured.
“That I was right,” she said, frowning. “You are in danger.”
Field Observation 24.0:Nothing dampens romantic momentum quite like murder conspiracies. Recommend postponing either the seduction or the assassination for optimal results.
Chapter eight
In Which the Highlands Prove Perfect, Wanton Proves Wrong, and Tavish Proves Too Distracting
The Great Hall slept like an old lion—quiet, dignified, and lazily dangerous. Moonlight sifted through the tall windows, pooling over stone and shadow. The air smelled of smoke, iron, and the ghosts of too many dinners.
Wanton paced the flagstones, unable to sleep. This thing of protecting a Highlander was harder said than done. What was she expected to do while he was out chasing raiders? He should've taken her. She was sure to protect that gorgeous hide better from there than here.
On her thirty-ninth round, she stopped before the window. The Highlands stretched in untamed majesty—hills rolling like sleeping beasts beneath a sky too ancient for human approval. The view was raw, perilous, and entirely disinterested in improvement… Just like Tavish. Warmth spread through her chest, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with humility. She had believed him a pileof unenlightened muscle clinging to vintage, but anachronistic notions of honor.
Well, then, time to admit her initial hypothesis had been wrong (the dear reader would have to agree that she did this every once in a while ... mistakes). Now she understood that the land and the man were the same—rugged, unreasonable, and, somehow, perfectly complete. Any attempt to modernize either would be vandalism. Civilization, she decided, could very well stay on its side of the map.
She clasped her notebook shut, nodded solemnly to the view, and whispered, "You're perfect as you are. Consider yourself peer-reviewed. And I will..." The words seemed foreign to her lips, but she mouthed them anyway. "I'll behave," she promised softly, to no one in particular. "For once."
The candle flickered in doubtful agreement.
Just as she was indulging in her newfound sense of benevolent observer, the door creaked.
Shadows moved.
Two men slipped into the hall.
If the stealth hadn't given them away, then the masks, hunched posture, and general aura of "we're absolutely doing crimes" did.
Wanton ducked behind a chair, clutching her notebook like a shield of virtue.
No interference, Wanton. Observe. Do not engage. Perhaps sneaking about in the dead of night was an ancient Highland courting ritual.
"Quiet, ye fool," one hissed. "The chief wants the Hammer o' Ancestry gone by dawn. Without it, the laird'll have to sell the land."
The other snorted. "Aye, and we'll get our cut o' the English gold."
