"Bloody hell!" Tavish bellowed, kicking the burning remains toward the entrance.
His plaid caught fire briefly—glorious, heroic, and deeply alarming.
Wanton dove forward, smacking the flames with a cloth until the fire died, leaving only smoke, the stench of scorched wool, and a half-naked laird blinking at her in disbelief.
She coughed, eyes streaming, and announced, "Scientific observation: flammable—but worth preserving."
Field Observation 22.4: Attempted assassination successfully diverted through rapid application of whisky, chaos, and questionable technique. Casualty: her er… research.
Chapter eleven
In Which Our Heroine Discovers That Valor Itches
No matter how Wanton folded, wrapped, or pleaded with it, the tartan refused to resemble anything remotely wearable. It slithered from her grasp like a rebellious equation.
She glared down at it. “This,” she declared to no one in particular, “is not a garment. It’s a philosophical statement.”
Field Observation 23.0: The traditional Highland kilt consists of approximately thirty yards of wool and infinite frustration. Potential weapon of psychological warfare.
She tried again, winding the fabric around her waist.
“Fold, pin, swaddle, and—oh, bother.” The whole thing collapsed into a heap, dragging her dignity with it.
Morag appeared at the door, carrying a tray of oatcakes.
The older woman stopped short. “What in the blazes are ye doin’, lass?”
Wanton, entangled from waist to ankle, lifted her chin. “Preparing for infiltration.”
Morag blinked. “Of what?”
“The enemy ranks. I intend to blend in during the final event. I’m going incognito.”
Morag snorted. “Ye look like a festive parcel.” Morag said dryly, setting the tray aside. “If ye’re to save the laird, best do it before ye strangle yerself.”
Clucking under her breath, Morag began to rewrap the tartan with the brisk authority of a woman who had wrangled worse.
“Here,” she muttered, tugging and folding. “Ye pin it here, pleat there.”
“Ah!” Wanton brightened. “Field Note—”
“No notes. Arms up.”
Wanton obeyed.
When Morag stepped back, Wanton turned toward the small looking glass.
The kilt sat high on her waist, the draped plaid falling over one shoulder, her curls a wild halo against the dark wool. She looked…almost fierce.
Morag nodded, satisfied. “There. A proper Highland lad, if one squints an’ drinks enough whisky.”
Wanton smiled, touched. “Thank you, Morag. For believing in my… improbable methods.”
The older woman’s expression softened. “Ye’ve a good heart, lass. Foolish, loud, an’ English—but good. Just…bring him back alive.”
Wanton squared her shoulders, eyes bright with resolve. “That is precisely the plan.”
Field Observation 23.5: Disguise complete. Hypothesis: Courage increases exponentially when clothed in plaid. Also, tartan scratches, but heroism requires discomfort.
