“I’m a scholar. You’ll find that the only thing I intend to conquer is torque. I’m here on a research expedition.”
“To destroy half my field?”
“To study the laws of motion under the influence of excessive masculinity.”
He blinked once. “The what?”
“The Highland Games present ideal conditions: flying objects, perspiration, torque,” Wanton said, with the patient authority of a woman explaining gravity to a cabbage. “I will remain here this week to prove that testosterone directly affects physics.”
She straightened her shoulders, girding herself with all the weary grace of civilization preparing to educate the wilderness. “Do not fret, Mr. MacTease. I’m quite used to translating advanced principles for subjects with... less formal exposure to science.”
Tavish’s brows rose. “Subjects?”
“Yes, yes. You’ll hardly feel a thing,” she assured him briskly—though, privately, she suspected those biceps alone could alter the course of small rivers, or at least compromise the accuracy of her data.
His eyes narrowed. “Enough o’ yer experiments and yer English airs. Take yer superiority, shove it in yer cart, and leave Glenravish before nightfall. I’ll have no Sassenach spies sniffin’ about my lands—no matter how bonny they might be.”
Wanton blinked. “You think me pretty?”
“I think ye’re trouble,” he said, turning away. “Goodbye, Flùr na cuthach.”
Her pulse gave a most unladylike skip. There it was again—that peculiar resonance of Gaelic, somewhere between a growl and a lullaby, vibrating directly through the nervous system.
Field Observation 9.0: The Gaelic language appears to exert measurable effects on female metabolism. Heart rate elevated, respiration erratic, moral equilibrium compromised. Further testing required—preferably with repetition of phrase.
She gasped. “What does that mean?”
He ignored her and reached for the door.
“Wait!” she called. “I’m not a spy—well, there was that one time I infiltrated the Royal Society’s annual picnic, but purely for science!”
“Ye broke into a picnic?”
“I prefer to think of it as an unsanctioned peer review.”
The old woman made a strangled sound that might have been laughter. Laird Tavish did not.
“Please mister Tavish. I came all this way. I have to prove my hypothesis.”
“English investors have been sniffin’ round Glenravish, wantin’ to buy the land for their damned fences. And ye appear out o’ nowhere the week o’ the Games? Aye. Spy.”
She smiled brightly. “If I were a spy, I’d be much better dressed. Look at this hem—it’s practically treasonous.”
Wanton pressed on. “Besides, I don’t care about land. That is a fixation of blind moles and hormonally-imbalanced patriarchies. I’m only interested in you.”
The laird’s eyes narrowed. “In me?”
“Scientifically speaking.” Her cheeks heated, but she prodded on. “Your torque was magnificent.”
He stared. She beamed. The air shimmered with mutual disbelief.
The woman—Morag, Wanton decided—set a teacup on the table between them. “Here. Drink this before ye both combust.”
Wanton accepted, inhaling gratefully. “Ah, the universal solvent of tension.” She took a sip.
Tavish turned toward the door. “Finish that and be on your way.”
She froze mid-swallow. Oh no. Evicted already—before she’d conducted a single experiment. That was worse than being rejected by the Royal Society and advised to marry a microscope if she loved research so much.
