Wanton took another sip of tea, gathering her dignity—and what remained of her pulse. “One would think that wearing a kilt would render a subject less… well—” she gestured vaguely toward the door Tavish had thundered through—“less inclined to confinement of any kind. One associates freedom of fabric with freedom of temperament.”
Morag snorted into her shawl. “Oh, lass, dinna judge our laird too harshly. The man’s temper’s the only thing he’s allowed himself to keep.”
Wanton tilted her head, intrigued. “Fascinating. Is it hereditary or situational?”
“These lands o’ Glenravish have been in the MacTease blood since before kings learned manners. But times are turnin’. The English want fences. Enclosures, they call it—tidy wee walls to pen the land and the folk both. Tavish is the only laird left refusin’ to sell.” Morag said grimly, settling herself in the chair opposite.
Wanton blinked. “They want to buy the Highlands? For what purpose—croquet?”
“For profit,” Morag said. “They’d turn hills into pasture, throw the clans off, an’ fill their purses while we watch our homes vanish.”
The fire crackled between them, spitting tiny sparks.
Morag’s voice softened. “That’s why the Games matter. They keep the glen proud. Remind the folk we’re still here, still strong. Lose them, and the people lose heart.”
Wanton stared into the flames. “So this isn’t merely athletic display—it’s… a cultural rebellion disguised as sport. A sociopolitical performance under competitive stress.”
Morag squinted. “It’s what, dear?”
But Wanton hardly heard her. Her mind was already ablaze with righteous conviction and inappropriate enthusiasm.
If English investors thought they could march into the Highlands and tamper with her newly acquired research grounds, they were gravely mistaken. She would defend this endangered ecosystem of torque and testosterone with every instrument in her arsenal—quill, chart, and questionable logic included.
Chapter three
In Which Our Heroine Tests Her Hypothesis, Topples a Highlander, and Nearly Redefines Gravity
By morning, the Highland mist receded like a bashful chaperone, granting Wanton her first clear observation of the Glenravish Games: a seasonal migration of men toward feats of pointless strength and questionable attire.
“A fascinating society,” she murmured, noting the absence of referees, safety measures, or trousers. “All brawn, no bureaucracy. One shudders to think what would happen if they ever discovered parliamentary procedure.”
She tapped her pencil against her chin. If only the gentlemen of London developed the habit of throwing things away—logs, grievances, fragile egos—instead of shoving them up inside, how many heated wars and cold marriages might be prevented?
Field Hypothesis 14.5: Regular emotional exorcise could halve both military expenditure and the national divorce rate.
“Well,” Wanton mused, jotting a star beside the note, “that’s certainly a most valid study—one for another time, perhaps.When I’m less surrounded by flying timber and unchecked masculinity.”
The field stretched before her, crowded with plaid and purpose. Drums pounded, banners snapped, and the scent of roasted meat wrestled valiantly with that of damp wool.
Wanton adjusted her disguise—a borrowed tartan shawl that smelled faintly of onions and mutiny—and crouched behind a stack of barrels with her notebook and brass protractor. The ensemble was completed by a pair of Morag’s boots, vast enough to qualify as small watercraft and only marginally suited for espionage. Each step produced a sound somewhere between a squelch and an accusation.
She peered over the barrels. Everywhere she looked, men were throwing something: hammers, stones, insults. One particularly zealous competitor had already removed his shirt in the name of aerodynamics, a decision Wanton fully supported in the interest of data collection. If only England could bottle all this... masculine volatility. One might heat an entire county on male grievance alone.
Field Observation 15.0: The average Highland arm exhibits torque exceeding that of a small windmill. Muscles appear sentient. Further study required (for science).
While she was having an eyefull of Highland muscle, Tavish, however, was nowhere in sight. That, she told herself, was scientifically advantageous. Observation required emotional neutrality, and his proximity had been shown to interfere with her data integrity.
Preliminary Finding: Within a five-yard radius of Subject MacTease, respiration becomes irregular, pulse exhibits experimental enthusiasm, and all rational hypotheses collapse under field conditions.
She adjusted her bonnet and resumed scribbling equations, taking discreet notes about velocity per grunt. “Power times mass equals—oh, good heavens, that’s a lot of mass.”
The next competitor, a tall brute of a man with shoulders like siege engines, hefted his caber—a log of considerable personality—and prepared to throw.
Wanton tilted her head. “Splendid extension. But the angle—oh dear.”
Her pencil raced across the page, scribbling equations furiously. A few hasty calculations later, she froze.
Trajectory: twenty-eight degrees.
