And then she felt it.
Solid. Insistent. Highland.
Pressing firmly against her backside.
“Tavish… you shouldn’t have brought a caber to a tug-of-war.”
“That’s not a caber, lass.”
Her breath caught.
Before she could formulate a witty retort—or even a sentence not involving units of measurement—he hauled her closer, their bodies compressed around the rope, her ribs crushed delightfully against the broad, unyielding wall of his chest.
“If I survive—”
“The game?” she asked, winded from sheer pelvic impact.
“No, lass. Not the game,” he said between grunts. “If I surviveyou—” his hips shifted, caber very much still in play—“we’ll finish what we started last night. Aye?”
She made a sound. It might have been a whimper, or a war cry. Hard to tell with the mud in her boots and the testosterone in her brain.
Her whole body snapped to life. With a cry of “For empirical foreplay!” she hauled the line with everything she had.
The rope jerked, and with it, the Glenravish banner crossed the line. The opposing team toppled like dominos into the mud.
The horn blared.
Cheers exploded.
Wanton gasped, eyes wide.
Field Observation 26.8: Female propulsion may rival testosterone. Further trials enthusiastically encouraged.
Then a clansman grabbed Wanton around the waist and tossed her bodily into the air with a war-whoop.
“Careful, sir!” she cried mid-flight. “This garment was not engineered for vertical propulsion without severe informational exposure!”
Then Tavish hauled her into him like he’dclaimed her on the field of battle.
“You survived,” she whispered, giddy.
He leaned in, muddy and achingly gorgeous. “Tonight, lass.”
And Wanton, grinned like the madwoman of science she was.
“Field Hypothesis 27.0: Victory is an aphrodisiac.”
Chapter thirteen
In Which Chivalry Triumphs and Modesty Takes a Fatal Blow
The cheers still rang in her ears when Wanton saw movement in the periphery.
Malcolm.
Lean, black-haired, black-hearted, and halfway to escape. He moved through the crowd like an oil slick given human form, boots shining, shoulders tight.
Her eyes narrowed. Even from a distance, she could tell his boots glistened suspiciously. The gleam of guilt.
