Portia opened the copy of Debrett’s she’d picked up from Mary and turned to the section about sending emails to members of the peerage. She had maybe been a bit too hasty with her offer of help to Tavish. She’d hobnobbed with the rich and powerful all of her life, but her mingling with royalty was relatively new, and was via one degree of separation.
She had gotten him into this, though, so she couldn’t let him down. She had spent the past two days with her face stuck into the high society etiquette guide as if she was cramming for a test. In a way, she was—that is, if Tavish decided to pursue his claim to the dukedom.
He still hadn’t decided, or so he’d said, but three days had passed and instead of focusing on invoices and sandpaper orders, her mind kept formulating plans for how to proceed if he decided to go for it. This was exactly what her parents had always scolded her over—already thinking about the next pipe dream before this one has even run its course. But to Portia, what seemed disparate to other people made perfect sense to her. For example, her parents saw her apprenticeship as a lark, instead of a way of testing the years of crafting classes, art history studies, research, and her innate talent at putting other people’s best face forward. If Tav was about to become a royal duke, that was just another way in which she could help.
She ran through the list she’d created in her Brain Basura under the heading “Project: New Duke.” Not entirely original, but if it worked for her it could work for Tav. She had subheadings like “style upgrade,” “dinner etiquette,” “not cursing at people,” but she was currently staring at “contacts.” She couldn’t work on any of those other things—maybe ever—but she could get an email drafted and ready to go. She had to do something. She’d come to Scotland to learn how to make swords, and to put the Bodotria Armory on the map. This was so much more than that.
In the days since she’d told Tavish the news, the immensity of her revelation had had time to sink in. Whatever he decided, her actions had changed the course of his life, completely. Unless they perfected a memory erasing serum sometime in the next week, he couldn’t go back to not knowing he was technically a duke. Whether he acted on it or not, that knowledge would be with him forever, all because of her. Her actions had consequences and she couldn’t fuck up.
“You can’t even manage not to flunk philosophy 101? Do you know how much we’re paying for school? It’s not like you got scholarships like your sister.”
“Dad, I told you I’d do better next semester.”
“Portia, why can’t you manage even a portion of what Reggie is handling? Sometimes I wonder why—”
She closed the Debrett’s for a moment and pressed her hand to her chest, taking deep breaths against the panic. She’d always reached for a drink whenever she’d felt this sick sensation take hold of her. It had been like a more enjoyable version of an IV drip, because once it hit her bloodstream, the tightness in her chest would release and she’d be the fun-loving Portia that people enjoyed being around. Perhaps a bit too fun-loving, as her friend Ledi had tried to gently point out over the years. But it wasn’t until Portia had cut it out of her life that she’d realized it had stopped being fun and started being a coping mechanism, long, long ago.
She inhaled through her nose, then out through her mouth. Breathing through her anxiety would have to suffice for now. She had work to do. Maybe work was just another coping mechanism, but at least it was productive.
She re-opened the Debrett’s to “How to email a royal secretary” and began composing her email. It turned out, there wasn’t exactly a tactful way to say “I am writing on behalf of His Grace’s secret baby,” so she stuck with some approximation of that and attached her evidence.
“Oh my gosh!”
Cheryl burst into the office, the strings of her TARDIS apron flailing behind her and her phone caught in a death grip.
“What’s wrong?” Portia had learned to ask before immediately going for the mace.
“GirlsWithGlasses!!!” Cheryl shouted, performing some strange circular dance routine that was maybe a reenactment of the mating dance of the flamingo. “You wrote about Doctor Hu’s on GirlsWithGlasses! And then your sister shared one of the photos from the social media account you had me create. And then THE LATEST DOCTOR QUOTE-SHARED IT.”
Cheryl’s cheeks were pink and her eyes were glossy with tears as she stuck the phone in Portia’s face.
Hoping I get to make a visit to this dimension, the food looks great.
Portia felt her adrenaline return to baseline, though she was happy that Cheryl was so happy. “That’s awesome! I bet you’ll have an uptick in customers—”
“Customers? Who cares about customers! The Doctor knows who I am and it’s because of you!” She pulled Portia into a hug, which was apparently the culmination of the mating dance. “Thank you! You really are a superhero!”
“No, you’re the hero. Um, the Food Lord, or something. Is that right? Close enough?”
Cheryl let out a peal of laughter and began clapping, and then everything happened in slow motion, or so it would seem to Portia later. The phone in its cute piglet case sliding out of Cheryl’s hand, Portia ducking to the side to avoid a face full of smartphone, the crash as it collided with her laptop.
“Oh no. Oh no, oh no.” Cheryl’s clapping had slowed, but not stopped, and her face was scrunched in horror.
Portia heard the blip sound her computer made when it rebooted, and turned to see the phone resting on the keyboard and the emergency mode reloading bar on the screen.
Fuck.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Christ, that looks like a really expensive computer.” Cheryl was near tears again, but this time they weren’t tears of happiness.
“It is! Which means it should be hard to break, and if it does, it will be easy to fix or replace because I’ve got a warranty. Don’t worry.”
They waited in tense silence as the computer loaded, Portia mostly so she could reassure Cheryl. When it did, everything seemed to be working normally.
“See,” Portia said as the approximately one million tabs in her web browser restored. “Good as new. Nothing to worry about.”
She glanced at the screen then and felt the sick sensation of her heart dropping into her stomach, where it was dissolved by stomach acids, which was likely to be the most pleasant thing that would happen to her that afternoon.
“Shhhhhhhhhhiiiiiit. No.”
“What is it?” Cheryl asked.
Portia simply stared at the subject of the new message at the top of her in-box, and the snippet of the message body.
Automated message: Re: Dukedom of Edinburgh—Thank you for your inquiry. Our general response time is 12–24 hours . . .
There was no way to recall the email. There was no way to take this back.
“Tavish is going to kill me,” she said, dropping into her seat. Worse, he was going to hate her. She could take being run through with a two-hander, probably, but the inevitable disappointment in his face was what would hurt the most. And what if he kicked her out, ended the apprenticeship? She’d return home a failure.
It’s what everyone expects anyway.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“What’s wrong?” Cheryl knelt beside her.
“Fuck. I just messed everything up.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them away. No time to feel sorry for herself. She had more unexpected news for Tavish, and though he didn’t seem to be into baseball, she was fairly certain three strikes and you’re out was a universal rule.
“What do you mean? I’m the one who chucked my phone at your computer!”
A deep voice cut into the conversation. “Cheryl, I thought I told you to keep your phone on a leash after the last time you got excited and put a hole through the kitchen window.” Tav was leaning against the door, a slight smile on his face. The smile faded as he took in Portia’s expression.
“What’s with the eyes?” he asked, making his way into the room. It was a large room, but his presence seemed to crowd everything out. Even Cheryl seemed to sense it, stepping back and away from Portia.
“What about my eyes?” she asked.
“You’re looking at me with those ‘calf stuck in a box’ eyes. What’s the script?”
Oh god, she was really going to have to tell him.
She glanced up at Cheryl. “Cheryl’s phone hit my computer. While I was composing a sensitive email to save in my draft folder.” She took a breath so deep it made her a bit dizzy. “An email was just accidentally sent to the secretary of the Duke of Edinburgh.”
“Get out, Cheryl,” he said, not taking his eyes off of Portia, even as Cheryl brushed past him.
“What do you mean?” he asked. His voice was low and dangerous; it walked the fine line people usually flew past on the way to saying what they really felt about someone.
Portia tried to be professional. She’d messed up and ’fessed up on the job plenty of times. But outing Tav as a duke was slightly different than tweeting inappropriate photos of a statue’s junk when she forgot to switch to her personal account.
“I was trying to be organized, so I composed an email overview of your situation. I wanted to be ready in case you decided to go ahead with this,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly even. “I was just going to keep it in my drafts, but then Cheryl came in and her phone went flying and the computer rebooted and—” She glanced up at him. “I’m so sorry.”
The look on his face was not “calf in a box.” It was “honey badger who just gnawed its leg off to get out of a trap and is now going to beat you senseless with said leg.”
“In other words, the time I was taking to decide whether I wanted to do this has been rendered moot,” he said gravely. “And if I had decided no, that would also be moot.”
She nodded, and noticed the responding tic in his jaw and flare of his nostrils.
“I’m—”
He scrubbed a hand over his scruff. “Yes, you’re sorry. I know.” Tav had said unkinder things to her before. On a scale of one to ten, that jab barely registered. But it was the way he said it—talking past her, not even able to look at her, that made it so hurtful. She would have preferred a string of blistering curse words to that mild acceptance. People only accepted what they saw as inevitable, meaning he’d known it would only be a matter of time before she screwed up.
The lump in her throat grew about three sizes, and not in a joyous Grinch kind of way.
“I was still debating, you know,” he said. “Guess that takes care of that.”
“I can say it was a joke,” she said. “Maybe they won’t even read it. They probably get all kinds of bizarre emails.”
He shrugged. “Mistakes happen.” His gaze lingered a bit too long on her, and she tried not to read any implications into it.
She wanted to apologize again. She wanted to smack her head against the desk. She really, really wanted a drink. She stood.
“I’m gonna go,” she said.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
She grabbed her tablet then put it down.
“Yeah, maybe leave the electronic devices behind before you find another way to wreak havoc on my life.”
That hurt a bit more, but she deserved it. She deserved worse. She didn’t apologize again, she simply headed past him, the pressure of her mistake ballooning to push her out of the room. It pushed her out of the armory, and down the street to the half-empty pub on the corner that she usually passed on the way to Mary’s bookshop. Her body had gone on autopilot, taking her to the only familiar and comforting place in a strange land.
She walked slowly up to the bar and sat down, inhaling the familiar scent of stale alcohol and shattered dreams that permeated bars of a certain age. The place was dark and moody, the long wooden bar old and full of gouges and likely to give any patron a splinter.
She felt a sense of relief that made her ashamed.
“What can I get you, love?” the old man behind the bar asked.
Portia looked over the beers on tap; some she knew and some she hadn’t seen before. She knew that one drink wouldn’t hurt her. But would it be just one? And if it wouldn’t hurt, it certainly wouldn’t help, would it?
Do you need another reason to beat yourself up? More important, do you really need this?
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was Portia Hobbs and she could solve this problem without a dose of liquid courage.
“A ginger ale,” she said, settling on the wobbly bar stool.
“With . . . ?” His furry eyebrows raised.
“A slice of lime.”
He looked confused but set the drink in front of her a moment later, along with a bowl of peanuts.
She stared at the drink and the peanuts, which had been caressed by lord knew how many unwashed fingers. She inhaled the scent of the bar and wondered how hard it would be to get the smell out of her hair and clothing. She glanced up at the soccer game playing on the small flat screen in a corner of the bar and tried to follow the tiny colorful specks as they ran back and forth across the screen. She slowly sipped the flat soda. Anything to avoid thinking about how big of a mistake she’d just made. She was fairly certain her bags would be packed and sitting outside the armory when she returned.
“This seat taken?”
She took in a shuddering breath.
“That depends. It’s reserved for people who don’t know I’m a complete and utter tosser, so you’ll probably have to sit over there.” She pointed across the room.
“I didn’t say I thought you were a tosser,” Tav said, sitting beside her anyway, sideways so that he was facing her and had his back to the rest of the bar. He didn’t touch her, but his presence pressed against her. She’d have to ask Ledi if humans were sensitive to particles being displaced in times of distress.
“It kind of goes without saying this time around.” She took a sip of her ginger ale.
“Are you an alcoholic?” he asked, catching Portia by surprise. She coughed a bit, as the swallow of soda went down the wrong tube. Tav’s big hand came to her back and patted.
“No?” she said. “I was a problem drinker. As in, I drank to escape my problems.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked, then his gaze landed on the bartender. “A Belhaven’s Best for me, thanks.”
“Yeah, but I also became other people’s problem when I drank.” Portia realized Tav’s hand was still on her back. It was just . . . resting there. Like that was normal. And it felt normal, and good and comforting, and all those things she’d been pushing out of her head since their kiss. “I don’t even know why my friends and family put up with me.”
“Probably because humans make mistakes and other humans forgive them.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and he was watching her. “Or not,” she countered.
“You know I thought I was a pessimist, but you’ve got me beat in that department.” His beer arrived, and he took a swig of the dark ale. “This place used to be a dive you know.”
Portia wondered what he considered divey if the bar in its current state didn’t fall under that umbrella.
“One night Jamie and I came here, a bit after he’d turned eighteen. Drinking together like two grown men and all that.” His hand moved absently, rubbing up and down over the small of her back. “Two wankers decided to pick a fight. They didn’t know we were brothers and assumed we were the next closest thing two men could be. Jamie wanted to leave. But I was the big brother, had to show him that I’d handle things, right?”
She met his gaze then. “Your wry expression leads me to believe all didn’t go to plan.”
“All did not go to plan. Well, I won the fight. But the next week the git and a few of his mates saw Jamie walking along the waterfront. Alone. And decided to get some retribution.”
Portia turned and her hand went to his arm. “Tav.”
“Luckily he didn’t get stomped too badly. Blacked eyes. A couple of broken fingers. A gash across the head. Can’t see it with those curls of his.”
He listed the things as if from a distance, and Portia knew exactly why—everything was blurred and manageable from that perspective.
Tav sighed and shook his head. “Do you think Jamie hated me after that?”
“I can’t imagine Jamie hating anyone.”
“Oh, he’s got a mean streak in him. It’s buried deep, and those who’ve tapped it have gotten their due. But he didn’t hate me. He didn’t even blame me.”
“Well, why would he?”
“Because I put those events into motion. There would have been no stomping if I had just ignored the bastards, or had defused the situation instead of trying to be the brave big brother. Mistakes happen, and some a damn sight more serious than accidentally revealing someone is a duke.”
He took another gulp of beer.
For a second, Portia considered that the bartender might have added whiskey to her ginger ale. She felt light-headed and warm and like maybe she wasn’t the biggest fuck-up in the world, which was basically what she’d been chasing at the bottom of happy hour cocktails.
“I really hope you were going to say yes to this,” she said.
“I really hope I was going to as well,” he said. “Only one reason I wouldn’t have.”
“Because you value your privacy and freedom?”
He snorted. “No. Because I’m scared shiteless, lass.”
She burst out laughing and he joined in, his hand on her back pulling her closer to him as the silliness lifted away the dour mood that had surrounded them. She realized then that she had turned completely in her seat and her feet rested on the base of his stool. Her thighs were flanked by his. His hand was on her back, and hers rested on his arm, and their faces were so close . . .
“You know, if I have to do this I’m glad to have you as my squire,” he said. His gaze was intense, the hazel green sliding over her like a velvet cloak.
“Even after this?” she asked.
“The mistake only happened because you were trying to look out for me. Like any squire worth her mettle would.” He plucked a straw from a container on the bar with his free hand and traced it over the curve of her ear, and Portia couldn’t hide the tremble that went through her. “I dub thee, Squire Freckles.”
“I guess this is a step up from an apprentice,” she said, her voice low and her body suddenly warm.
“Yes. A knight places a lot of his trust in his squire.”
“Is that code for ‘a knight gets to boss his squire around’?” she asked.
“Well, yes, but the squire can also make demands. It’s a very intimate relationship.”
Portia’s breath caught in her chest. Was this chivalrous foreplay or what?
Her phone rang then, and she had to force her gaze from his as she answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello. My name is Francis Baker, secretary to the Duke of Dudgeon. I am calling to request your presence and that of Tavish McKenzie for tea at Holyrood Saturday afternoon.”
“Tea at Holyrood? Saturday afternoon?” Tav was staring at her, so she mustered her best professional voice. “Why yes, His Grace would be delighted.”
There was a pause, as if the woman on the other end was debating whether to challenge the use of that appellation.
“Excellent. I’ll send you an email with the particulars. Make sure you read them or you’ll end up on a tour instead of at our meeting.”
She hung up the phone and Portia followed suit.
“It’s begun, has it?” he asked.
She nodded and he downed the rest of his beer and slid off of his seat. He extended his hand to help her down and held it for the few steps it took to get to the door, before dropping it to pull the wooden door open for her. She didn’t read too much into it—he’d just admitted that he was scared. Friends could do things like hold hands during scary times, and rub each other’s backs, and . . .
“So. Where do we begin?” he asked roughly. He was nervous.
Portia looked up at him.
“With some tiny sandwiches.”