Her mind whirred. Think, Wanton!
She glanced from the laird’s retreating figure—musculature rivaling minor deities—to the steaming cup in her hands. Tea. Civilization’s final defense against despair.
What leverage did she have? Nothing but observation, deduction, and a half-boiled beverage.
She ransacked her memory for something she’d read in her Visitor’s Guide to the Highlands…
Bagpipes are not a mating call? No, irrelevant.
Kilts should never be ironed while occupied? Also unhelpful.
And then—aha!—there it was, just below “How to Survive Men in Kilts Without Killing Your Reputation (or Dying of Curiosity).”
Highland Hospitality.
Her eyes widened. The ancient law! A sacred social contract between host and guest.
She straightened, heart racing. “Wait!” she blurted, just as he reached the threshold.
He turned, slow and wary. “Aye?”
She raised her cup triumphantly. “I’ve drunk under your roof!”
He blinked. “What?”
“Tea,” she explained, brandishing it like evidence in court. “Hot, aromatic, legally binding tea. According to the ancient customs of Highland Hospitality, you cannot evict me. I am, in fact, your guest!”
Tavish stared at her as though she’d just declared herself Queen Mary. “Ye’re mad.”
Morag, bless her loyal heart, nodded gravely from the fireside. “She’s right, laird. Once a guest’s shared your bread or your brew, you canna turn them out. Would shame the glen.”
“Saints preserve me,” Tavish muttered.
Wanton brightened. “So it’s settled! I’ll remain until my research concludes. Perfect conditions—subject available, control group pending.”
He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve a death wish, woman.”
“Not at all,” she said serenely. “Just an insatiable curiosity.”
He muttered something Gaelic that Morag translated with a sigh. “He says he’ll regret this till his dying day.”
Wanton smiled, utterly radiant. “Splendid! That should give me adequate time for data collection.”
He crossed the room and stopped directly before her.
“Ye might stay,” he said, voice low, “if ye’ve a mind to. But hear me, Sassenach—if I catch ye meddlin’ in the Games, the land, or the folk of Glenravish, I’ll evict ye myself.”
His gaze dropped, brief and scorching, to the teacup still trembling in her hands. “Hospitality or no.”
Then he straightened, turned on his heel, and strode out, the door shutting behind him like the punctuation of a thunderclap.
Wanton watched him go, because it seemed a waste of eyesight not to. The kilt moved as he walked—bold, swinging, and outrageously confident. It wasn’t so much a garment as a declaration: This is freedom, and it has thighs.
Field Observation 12.0: The Highland male employs fabric not for concealment, but for defiance. A culture so comfortable with exposure might indeed have nothing to hide—except, perhaps, its feelings toward trousers.
She fanned herself with her damp calling card. “Remarkable,” she murmured. “The subject exhibits superior stride, minimal remorse, and a distressing influence on pulse rate.”
Morag gave a dry chuckle. “Aye. That’s the polite version.”
