She leaned back, pulling with all her might. Her borrowed boots sank deep, creating suction noises that would haunt her dreams.
One of the Macnabs caught her gaze and smirked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Glare all you want, you… you slick brutes,” she muttered, adjusting her grip. “I can handle this with one hand tied behind my independent variables.”
The man snorted, signaling to his team. They heaved.
The rope yanked forward so violently that Wanton pitched ahead, her boots sinking deep into the mud.
“Saints and statistics! They jerked a lady,” she cried, scandalized. “That’s against every code of gentlemanly conduct and possibly Newton’s Third Law!”
She dug her heels in furiously, teeth gritted, curls flying. “Very well! Let’s see how you enjoy being out-tugged by empirical methodology!”
She tried a new stance, lifting one leg experimentally. The rope pressed against her thigh with the sort of intimacy normally reserved for scandal.
Behind her, Tavish groaned. “For the love o’—lass, ye’re makin’ a spectacle!”
Her foot slipped. The rope jerked. She stumbled backward—straight into a boulder of magnificent proportions. Oh, it was Tavish’s chest.
He caught her around the waist. “By God, ye’re chaos wrapped in tartan.”
“I prefer ‘pioneer of applied physics,’” she gasped.
He tried to push her forward, but she clung stubbornly to the rope. “Your stance is incorrect,” she informed him. “You’re distributing mass inefficiently!”
“How d’ye propose I fix it when ye’re in the way?”
“Allow me to demonstrate,” she announced, turning herself around so they stood face to face, their noses inches apart.
“What in hell—” Tavish started, but she’d already thrown her arms around his neck like a determined barnacle. “We’ll pull together.”
Her body pressed flush to his, the rope wedged between them.
“Now,” she ordered, breathless, “thrust backward on my count—one, two—”
“Three,” he growled, pulling with her weight draped across him like an experimental shawl.
They heaved together, bodies straining, feet sliding. The crowd roared. The rope groaned.
Across the line, the rival Highlanders heaved again—the rope jerked, dragging them another inch toward defeat. Mud splashed up her legs, plastering her stockings to her calves.
From across the field, one of the rival Highlanders—that audacious brute with the suspiciously symmetrical beard—grinned at Wanton’s exposed knees and whistled.
“Eyes on the rope, lad, or I’ll throttle ye wi’ it!”
Tavish’s entire body went rigid, and he pulled so hard the rival clan stumbled several steps forward.
She gasped. She had been right all along. “If jealousy increases torque output, then testosterone affect physics!”
Tavish huffed, sweat beading at his temple. “What?”
“Don’t stop! Think furious thoughts! Channel your endocrine potential!”
He made a strangled noise.
Their bodies snapped tight together.
Wanton braced low, knees bent, back pressed to his chest, his arms roped around hers as they both hauled on the line.
