Chapter twelve
In Which the Rope Tightens, the Plot Thickens, and the Laird Hardens
The kilt, Wanton decided, was less a garment than a moral trial. Yards upon yards of tartan intent on strangling her waist while granting scandalous liberty to every breeze within a five-mile radius.
“Field Observation 26.0,” she murmured, clutching the pleats as the Highland wind roared gleefully across the moor. “Traditional attire exhibits superior ventilation, though at the cost of modesty and, potentially, dignity.”
By the time she reached the field, the entire glen had gathered—men, women, bairns, dogs, and the occasional confused goose. Banners snapped against the wind. The air rang with drums, bagpipes, and the unmistakable tension of finale energy.
This was it. The last event of the Glenravish Highland Games. The one that would decide honour, pride, and—apparently—property rights.
Two teams stood poised on either side of a long, thick rope that stretched across a muddy divide. The center was marked by a white line and flanked by stakes.
The rules, as Wanton had dutifully recorded in her notes, were straightforward:
Two teams pull. The first to drag the other across the line wins. Entirely dependent on torque, muscle, and a will to dominate that centuries of evolution had done nothing to temper.
On the right, Tavish MacTease stood at the head of his clan—bare forearms glinting with effort.
Wanton scribbled furiously.
Field Hypothesis 26.1: Subject displays ideal physical symmetry. Further measurement required—preferably with calipers and privacy.
His men looked equally determined and equally enormous, forming a living chain of plaid, sinew, and testosterone.
On the opposite side, the rival team—Clan MacNab—assembled like a wall of suspicious beef.
Six men, all chest and no mercy, scowled beneath identical brows heavy enough to shade small livestock. Their tartan gleamed an aggressive red, their boots already sunk deep into the mud as though preparing to bury the opposition in it.
One of the MacNabs cracked his neck and spat into the dirt with the solemnity of a sacrament. Another patted the rope affectionately, murmuring something that sounded like “She’s a good lass, this one,” which Wanton chose to interpret as a sign of early animism.
“Fascinating,” she whispered. “Pre-industrial spirituality meets upper-body obsession.”
Wanton crouched at the sidelines, notebook balanced on her knees, heart beating faster than was academically advisable.
The judge raised his arm.
The crowd held its breath.
A drumbeat rolled through the air.
The rope drew tight, muscles flexed, and the collective grunt of two dozen Highlanders reverberated through the glen like a mating call to gravity itself.
Wanton’s pencil slipped from her fingers. Her lungs forgot their instructions.“Good heavens,” she breathed. “A spontaneous alignment of torque, tension, and… moral instability.”
The men strained, boots digging into the mud. Tavish’s shoulders rolled, his forearms knotted like sculpted equations. Wanton felt herself sway forward in pure academic admiration. Her position offered an unparalleled view of Highland exertion in its natural habitat.
“Field Observation 26.8,” she panted, “the male gluteus maximus exhibits superior elasticity under stress. Potential as renewable energy source: high.”
But then Tavish’s line began to shift, inch by inch, toward the white boundary. Their boots slid. Their grunts grew desperate.
Wanton gasped. “According to my calculations, the sum of masculine exertion multiplied by clan loyalty and adjusted for gravitational pull should produce victory, not slippage!”
She edged closer, muttering numbers under her breath.
“Power equals work over time, testosterone equals torque squared—no, that’s not right—ah, but if friction decreases, then resistance—oh no.”
Her eyes narrowed. The sunlight caught something along the rope. The fibers gleamed with an oily sheen.
