“Well,” she stammered, “statistically speaking, I do have a high rate of prevention.”
He chuckled and reached for her elbow to help her stand.
The touch was brief. Like a rogue spark landing in a warehouse of improperly stored fireworks—illegal, ill-advised, and guaranteed to end in spectacle.
She had opened her mouth to deliver an emotionally distant thank-you and return to her shield when she saw a red line sliding down his forearm.
Blood.
“Oh, good heavens, you’re leaking,” she gasped.
Every defensive hypothesis she’d built in the last twelve hours disintegrated with the efficiency of paper thrust into a forge.
Abandoning all attempts at detachment, she surged closer, notebook forgotten. “Why didn’t you say you were injured? Sit. No—stand still. No—better idea, sit and stand still.”
Field Observation 22.0: On detecting injury, observer’s instincts shift from guarded neutrality to full Florence Nightingale, accompanied by irrational protectiveness, elevated pulse, and inappropriate fondness for the subject’s musculature.
She seized his wrist, already rummaging in her reticule for bandages, carbolic acid, and the moral authority of ten nurses. “You should’ve told me you were bleeding! Honestly, Tavish, this is why men die in wars—they never mention the perforations!”
He blinked at her, stunned. “Lass, it’s a scrape—”
“No arguments,” she said, voice crisp with righteous medical purpose. “I am operating under Florence Protocol. And Florence Protocol outranks lairdly stubbornness by a factor of ten.”
Chapter ten
In Which the Highlander Burns for Her (Literally)
The air in Tavish’s tent smelled of rain, smoke, and male complaint.
Tavish sat on a stool, glowering at the bandage she had not yet applied. Wanton knelt before him with crisp, professional purpose. She had decided—firmly, bravely, foolishly—to avoid any further intimacies of the emotional variety.
For once, she would rely on her restraint.
Herrestraintwas not a virtue so much as a fussy little supervisor lodged somewhere between her ribs, forever straightening its cuffs and insisting on proper boundaries. It believed in distance. In decorum. In not kneeling between the knees of a half-naked Highlander with arms capable of founding new countries.
Wanton inhaled, squared her shoulders.
Restraint adjusted its spectacles and gave an approving nod.
This would go well.
(It would not.)
"Hold still," Wanton ordered, dabbing his wound with carbolic acid.
Tavish hissed through his teeth. "Saints, woman! Are ye cleanin' it or tryin' to pickle me?"
"I am sterilizing the area," she said primly, leaning in with disquieting enthusiasm. "Do stop wriggling. You're behaving like a startled ox."
"I am not wrigglin'," he growled, immediately wriggling.
Wanton planted a firm hand on his shoulder—purely to stabilize the patient, absolutely not to appreciate the breadth and density of Highland musculature. "This would go faster if you cooperated."
Field Observation 23.4: Subject's pain tolerance decreases sharply when confronted with small, stinging things. Hypothesis—gargantuan bravery inversely proportional to wound size.
Tavish growled. "Lass, if ye jab me one more—"
"I'll jab you as much as I like. I won't let sepsis, necrosis, or any of the seventeen avoidable causes of male mortality take you."
