Her pulse quickened, and she turned her head sharply. There, at the sidelines, stood Malcolm. Lean. Polished. Sinister. The kind of man who oiled more than rope.
Her jaw set. “Sabotage,” she breathed. “By viscosity.”
She scanned the field for a counteragent. Her gaze landed on a nearby flour sack.
“Excellent. Counter-lubricant located.”
Before logic could intervene, Wanton snatched the sack and sprinted toward the rope. Her tartan flared like a battle flag, and her curls streamed like the tail of a comet.
“Emergency correction of traction variables!” she shouted.
Every man on the field turned.
The next thing Glenravish saw was a blur of kilt, white powder, and manic conviction.
She tore open the flour sack and hurled the contents at the nearest section of rope. A blizzard of fine white dust exploded outward with apocalyptic enthusiasm, coating Tavish’s men from head to kilt.
“By the bleatin’ rams of Glenravish!” one bellowed. “We’re bein’ exorcised!”
Another coughed. “I canna breathe—I taste biscuits!”
Tavish blinked through the cloud, his hair now the shade of moral purity. “Wallflower, what in God’s name—”
“Science!” she cried, dumping another fistful along the line. “Powder absorbs oil, increasing friction! You’re welcome!”
One of Tavish’s teammates, a burly fellow with biceps like beer barrels, let out a strangled cry.
“My eyes! Saints preserve me, I’m blind!”
Wanton froze mid-swipe, hand still on the rope. “Oh dear.”
The man stumbled backward, clutching his face, and promptly released the rope.
Tavish’s team lost tension. The rival side howled in triumph and began to drag them mercilessly toward defeat.
Wanton looked at the flailing man, then at Tavish, then at the screaming crowd. Logic, as always, arrived a heartbeat too late.
Without hesitation, she dashed forward and seized the rope’s front position, planting her boots deep into the mud.
“Lass!” Tavish barked. “That’s the lead spot! Ye’ll be crushed!”
“Nonsense. I’m already statistically flattened.” she said, adjusting her grip. “Lead position merely requires superior leverage and an unshakable grasp of basic physics. Observe.”
She braced herself, legs wide, kilt flapping ominously. The rope groaned between her hands.
“Fascinating texture,” she murmured. “Very coarse. Would benefit from silk lining.”
Wanton felt every muscle come alive in one tremendous pull.
“Excellent! Torque transfer achieved!”
Across the line, the six rival Highlanders glared like ruined fortresses. Their forearms bulged. Their boots dug trenches. Their brows promised violence and possibly a hernia.
Wanton straightened her spine, chin lifted. “Field Observation 26.3: Opposing specimens exhibit excessive glower concentration and competitive snorting. Possibly a mating display.”
“Lass,” Tavish grunted, “ye’d better be pullin’, not takin’ notes!”
“I’m doing both!” she said, tightening her grip. “Multitasking is a modern requirement!”
