You're angry," she said, and stared at the etchings of the hammer. Perhaps she would stay in this position forever, atoning for her wrecking.
He crossed the floor to her side, boots echoing against the stone. "Angry? Lass, I've seen bar brawls wi' less destruction."
Muttering something in Gaelic that sounded suspiciously likeSaints spare me from the mad Sassenach under my roofhe lifted the Hammer of Ancestry as if it weighed no more than a teapot—an act so casually heroic it made her want to throw her thesis at him.
“Why in God’s Highlands are ye bent like a heron trying to lay an egg?”
Wanton winced.
“Because,” she said with dry dignity, “your ancestral weapon is inconsiderately heavy. No one warned me it was forged for men with thighs like architectural supports.”
He blinked. “Ye tried to lift it?”
“I tried to wield it,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. One is foolish. The other is… scientifically ambitious.”
“And which were ye?”
“A visionary tragically betrayed by physics.”
Grunting high enough to alarm nearby wildlife, he rubbed her back in a slow, grounding circle.
"Up ye get," he murmured, and when she swayed, he caught her elbow, guiding her upright with infuriating ease.
She wobbled.
Before she could protest, he steered her toward the couch, a battered piece of furniture that had clearly survived generations of Highland arguments.
Wanton sank down with a groan she would later classify as "scientific." Tavish crouched beside her, his big hands surprisingly gentle as he found the tense spot low on her spine. He pressed his thumb there, and she made a noise she hoped the ancestors could not hear.
The ache vanished in a pulse of heat. "What did you—"
"Learned it from a field surgeon. Works on soldiers and fools who pick fights wi' thieves."
"Fascinating," she managed, voice several notes too high for dignity.
He didn't look at her. Just exhaled hard, and dropped onto the couch beside her. The wood creaked beneath his weight.
"I don't care about the bloody hall. It's seen more fights than the Devil's public house. But you—"
He broke off, voice rough.
"You fought armed men wi' a poker and a bonnet. Saints, ye've no sense o' self-preservation."
Her heart gave a startled flutter. "I thought the hammer mattered."
“It does. But my people matter more. You matter more,” he said, and his gaze caught her.
She did? Wanton inhaled to answer—nothing came out.
Oh dear.
Her nervous system had clearly short-circuited.
A perfectly natural response to blunt-force back trauma.
Absolutely nothing to do with the man in front of her.
"He reached for her hand, rough fingers closing around ink-stained ones. "I thought ye didn't believe in symbols."
