Her Highlander savior filled the doorway like a particularly judgmental monument to virility, kilt unruffled, expressiongrimly heroic. His gaze travelled over her as though evaluating the precise damage civilization had just wrought upon his glen.
She sat up straighter. “Hello there. Splendid torque application earlier.”
His brow furrowed. “Ye’ve words for what happened?”
“Of course. I’m a scientist. Everything requires words.”
He folded his arms, the motion so broad it seemed to rearrange the furniture. “Who are ye, and where d’ye hail from?”
“London,” she said proudly, as though confessing to a noble affliction.
His expression didn’t change. “Aye. I can smell the fences.”
Wanton sat up straighter, smoothing her skirts with the air of a woman attending a morning call rather than a post-catastrophic interrogation. “I'm Wanton Wallflower,” she said crisply, “Fellow of the Self-Funded Society for the Advancement of Experimental Science.”
She reached into her reticule and produced a slightly damp calling card, embossed in earnest italics:
Miss Wanton Wallflower, Natural Philosopher (Occasional Explosions Expected).
She offered it with two fingers and impeccable poise.
The Highlander took the card as if it might bite, squinted at it, and snorted. “Self-funded, aye? I believe that part.”
Wanton blinked. “One must maintain independence of thought—and finances—when advancing the frontiers of knowledge.”
He made no move to return the courtesy. She waited. And waited longer. It occurred to her that Highlanders perhaps had not yet discovered the civilized custom of exchanging names upon introduction.
“Might I ask,” she said sweetly, “the name of my saviour?”
Silence. The fire crackled. Somewhere, a log collapsed in sympathy.
Perhaps, she thought, he simply hadn’t understood. She rummaged in her reticule again and triumphantly produced a small Gaelic phrasebook.
Consulting the page, she attempted what she hoped was a fluent address. “Mo thaing, gaisgeach nam fèidh!”
His eyebrows shot up. “Ye just called me a ‘heroic stag of questionable parentage.’”
“Oh dear.” She flipped a page. “That can’t be right.”
“It’s close enough,” he muttered. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Now tell me what ye’re doin’ in my lands.”
Wanton brightened, delighted. “Your lands? Oh! Then you must be the famous Tavish MacTease.”
One of his brows lifted, the only sign of vanity the man seemed willing to admit.
Wanton clasped her damp hands. “Laird of Glenravish, undefeated in the Highland hammer throw, the man who once chased off an entire detachment of English soldiers armed only with a caber and poor pronunciation.” A linguistic victory, if not a tactical one…
His mouth twitched. “Ye’ve been readin’ nonsense.”
“Primary sources,” she corrected. “One must always verify one’s data. I am thrilled to meet such a specimen of applied physics.”
Tavish blinked slowly, as though translating from a dialect of madness. “Aye. An honour I can scarce return. Now—why are ye here, wrapped in my plaid, instead o’ in a madhouse back in England where ye belong?”
“So that is your plaid!” she gasped. “I suspected as much when I woke. It’s… surprisingly breathable. I can feel my moral boundaries evaporating.”
The woman snorted. “Aye, lass. That’s what freedom feels like.”
The Highlander stared at her for a long, silent moment, then muttered something under his breath that she sincerely hoped was a Highland blessing. “Estate your business, ma’am.”
