Struggling to balance the workload of the armory along with duke lessons was tiring as fuck. He’d always made fun of the aristocracy, but Christ he was glad he hadn’t had to spend an entire lifetime bound by these arbitrary rules. Smile like this, laugh like that, toast like this, sit like that. Tav was well and truly knackered, but not as much as he should have been, since Portia was running herself ragged trying to make things go smoothly for him.
“I’ll be right there.” He’d nearly closed the space between them in the hallway when she’d said those words so guilelessly, as if that was something she could offer him simply and without a second thought. It had hurt, because it wasn’t true in the long term. Apprenticeships ended, as did visas. In the meantime, she was doing exactly that. Being there for him.
She’d contacted her princess friend—because of course she hadn’t been joking about that—and found a lawyer perfect for the job of navigating all the aristocratic bullshit and transitioning the title, and all the land and money and prestige associated with it, to Tavish. The mere thought of it made him feel like he’d been kicked in the chest. She’d taken over his emails and begun answering the inquiries that had started to trickle in—Tavish assumed there would be a tidal wave once word really got out. There were the lessons of course, and in her spare time she was still putting the finishing touches on the armory’s website and running the social media.
He’d brought on an apprentice but gotten a force of nature instead.
He finished up his work for the day and headed to Portia’s room, in what had become the norm for them. He’d gone from avoiding his apprentice to spending every free minute with his squire. The flurry of anticipation that built in his stomach as he approached her room had also become the norm. Tav had thought the infatuation would fade away, or that her drills on social interactions and small talk and how to act like a rich git—reminders that she was one—would have turned him off. As with everything when it came to Portia, he’d been wrong.
He remembered how wrong he’d been about her kissing style, how she’d been shy and vulnerable, growing bolder as their tongues tangled. Even with all that had happened in the weeks since she’d arrived, it was that kiss by the forge he couldn’t stop thinking of. His entire world was on the precipice of change. Life as he had known it was about to fall and smash to pieces on the cobblestone below—was in fact already tumbling toward the ground—but he was too busy fixating on the memory of her mouth and her hands and the way she’d moaned . . .
What a tosser you are, Tavish.
He pushed the thoughts away as he raised his hand to knock on the door. There was no response and he waited, then knocked again. Finally, he heard the shuffling of sheets and a groggy “Come in.”
When he stepped into the dim room, the first thing that hit him was how her territory seemed to be marked by smell—a fragile floral scent that told intruders this space was hers now. The second was that she looked . . . well, she was lying across her bed, hair wild, the skirt of her black dress wrinkled and hiked up in precarious folds just above her knees. Her feet dangled off of the edge of the bed, and her heels were still on. It was like walking into a boudoir fantasy until Tav noticed the dark circles under her eyes and how out of it she seemed.
He stalked over to the bed and sat down, ignoring the warning creak emitted by the frame.
“You look like hell,” he said, and no, that wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear judging from the glare she shot him. It was a sleepy glare, bordering on adorable since he could see both of her hands and she wasn’t toting any weapons.
“I feel like shit,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, and not sexy, Kim Cattrall hoarse. Worry tumbled Tav’s stomach.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
“I think I’m just really, really tired.” She shook her head ruefully and wiggled down further into her duvet. “I sat down for a minute, and I passed right out.”
She had taken on so much—much more than could be justified with this talk of apprenticeships and squires. He would pay her, once things were settled and he had the money that was supposedly his by virtue of blood.
“You’re toast, lass. Burnt,” he said. His hand went to her hair, sweeping the curls back and out of her face. “Setting off the damned fire alarm in the kitchen, even though some knob’s taken the battery out.”
She laughed softly.
“I just needed a nap. I’m fine now . . .” She started to sit up and Tav laid his hand heavily on her shoulder to keep her down, and then she flopped back onto the bed and looked up at him with wide eyes.
“Here’s what’s going to happen tonight,” he said, speaking in an exaggeratedly slow tone. “You are going to take a break.”
“I promised to help you,” she said, and Tav felt something in his chest region that was probably similar to what a man run through with a sword felt before he gave up the ghost.
The look in her eyes was dangerous because it was ridiculously pure, despite the fact that he’d spent a good portion of his time around her at between a six and a ten on the wanker-ometer.
“Helping me shouldn’t leave you feeling like shite. You know that, right? And like I said, you look like—”
“Hell. Yes. Got it.” She pulled the duvet up over her head.
“Glad we’re on the same page. So instead of teaching me how to curtsy or hold a damn fork or whatever you had planned for this evening, how about you sleep? Just relax?”
She let out a soft laugh, and shook her head beneath the duvet before pulling the cover back down. This was basic peek-a-boo shite, but Tav couldn’t help the strange spike of happiness when her face was revealed again.
“I don’t think I can go back to sleep now,” she said. She rolled over and picked up her tablet, which was never far from her reach. “It’s cool. I have to—”
Tav plucked the tablet out of her hands and tossed it onto the sofa across the room.
“Careful!” She leapt up and he held his forearm across the front of her, feeling the delicious press of her breasts as she dove for the tablet, which was resting safely atop a knit jumper.
He expected her to pull back, but she didn’t. Her head swiveled toward him, but the soft globes of her breasts rested against his forearm, the weight of them pure temptation. Her eyes were wide and he could feel her heart thudding where he held her. His own heart was giving hers a run for its money because his pulse rushed in his ears, drowning everything out except for the voice shouting Kiss her.
Tav swallowed.
“You’re my squire, aye?” It was a reminder to himself. She’d already said that anything more than that wasn’t on offer, even if her pupils were wide and those lovely pinky-brown lips were parted in anticipation.
“Yes,” she said. The word came out on a wary huff of breath.
“That means this isn’t a one-way street. I get to look out for you, too, remember? I think you need a break tonight and I’m going to have to insist on that.”
Her lashes fluttered. He wanted to feel them against his cheeks as she kissed him.
He couldn’t.
“Oh. Okay.” She leaned back, taking the glorious press of her bosom from his arm.
“I’ll just . . . not do anything then.” She glanced longingly at her tablet and Tav knew if he left her to get sleep she would just jump back into work as soon as the door shut, researching, sending emails, and whatever else she could do from bed.
“Can you be ready to go in half an hour?” he asked.
Her head tilted to the side and Tavish wanted to cup her face in his hands, to run his tongue over the seam of her mouth.
That wouldn’t exactly be restful for her.
“Sure,” she said. “To go where?”
“To have your mind—and your taste buds—blown.”
THE RESTAURANT WAS smaller than Tavish remembered. He hadn’t been in years—the last time had probably been that awful dinner with Greer when he’d sat searching for words that never came and the realization that it was well and truly over had settled on him. But when he’d sat on the edge of Portia’s bed, watching her rationalize how to sneak in some work, he’d had a craving for the taste of home. That he’d wanted her to taste it with him was something he’d worry about another day.
Across the table, she was biting into her fourth empanada, eyes fluttering closed and smile resting on her grease-slick lips.
“This is so good,” she murmured. Bits of the flaky pastry clung to her red-stained lips, and she licked them away.
The restaurant was small and dark and not much to look at, but the chef could make Portia smile and moan in a way Tav wasn’t able to, so it had been the right choice. He’d worried when he led her into the alley, and then down the flight of rickety stairs to the basement, that she might scoff or pull a face. He didn’t know why he kept expecting these things—Portia had never done anything to make him think she’d react in such a way.
Maybe it’s because life would be much easier for you if she did act like the annoying imaginary version of her you conjured up.
“You should taste my mum’s empanadas,” he said. “Makes these taste like deep fried dust.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she said. She stopped and pulled out her phone with her free hand.
“Hey,” he said menacingly. “No working, remember?”
“I’m sending a picture to my friends,” she said, tapping away at the phone with a smile before tucking it away. “Evidence that I am actually taking a night off. You’re not the only one who’s been on my case. Also this deliciousness deserves to be preserved for future generations. One day I can show this picture to my grandchildren.”
Tav smiled.
“The owner of this place is friends with my mum,” he said. “We used to come here all the time when I was younger. Had birthday parties and community events here with other Chileans who’d had to come to Scotland. I thought you might like it.”
“I love it,” she said. She licked at the tip of her thumb, which he was sure wasn’t in any etiquette book, and that made it all the more alluring. When she caught him staring at her, she sheepishly picked up her napkin.
“Do you enjoy the etiquette stuff?” he asked. “I hope so because it’d be a hell of a waste to spend so much time learning and teaching something you didn’t.”
She shrugged. “I’m ambivalent. It’s what my parents thought I was good at. My sister—the smart twin—was more focused on school and I liked artsy stuff and clothes and attention. I was eager to please, while Reggie generally didn’t give a fuck about that as long as she achieved her goals.”
The paint-by-number portrait of Portia’s family situation was getting slowly filled in, but Tav couldn’t quite understand how the woman across from him could be seen as anything less than brilliant.
“So this Reggie is a genius? Because she would have to be pretty fucking intelligent to hold the title of ‘the smart twin’ between the two of you.”
“I know I’m smart. But you know how it is.” Portia shrugged. “My parents sent me for deportment lessons and entered me into local beauty contests.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out that you were a beauty queen, Freckles.” Tav wasn’t exactly surprised, but was still strange to think of Portia parading herself around to be judged. His jibes had hurt her so easily.
She shook her head. “I was a contestant. You have to win to be a queen. But yeah. I had a debut, with the frilly dress and everything, too. I think they were training me to be a good wife since I was so uneven at school and they didn’t think art or hanging on the internet were viable careers. Not their best investment.”
She gave him something between a grin and a grimace. The waiter arrived then with pastel de choclo for her and lomo a lo pobre for him.
“Anything to drink with your meal?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll have another glass of red,” Tavish said.
“And sparkling water with a slice of lime for me,” Portia added. The waiter went off on his way.
“Does it bother you? My drinking?” he asked. “I can just have water, too.”
“No, it’s cool,” she said, cutting into her corn and meat pie. “I can have a drink and be fine. I don’t crave alcohol and I don’t binge drink every time I have it. I decided not to drink because I wanted to see what I’m like when I’m not setting myself up to be a hot mess.”
She shrugged and scooped some of her food onto her fork awkwardly. She was uncomfortable.
“Well, good on you,” he said, but something she’d said snagged annoyingly in his mind. “I don’t know what you were like before, but you’re the furthest thing from a hot mess I’ve seen. Without you I would be completely lost.”
Another shrug. “Without me you wouldn’t be dealing with this to begin with.”
“Portia.”
She shoved a forkful of food in her mouth.
“Portia. Hey, lass.”
She looked up at him, chewing apprehensively, and he folded his hands together and regarded her with as serious an expression as he could muster.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shite at taking compliments?”
Her hand went to her mouth as a squeal of surprised laughter escaped.
“Like really shite. Jesus Christ.” He was rewarded with more laughter.
Her hand was still in front of her mouth, blocking it from view as she finished chewing. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just take the fucking compliment. Do I seem like the type who goes about doling them out to every Tom, Dick, and Mary?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Actually, your dirty little secret is that inside all that armor you’ve outfitted yourself with, you’re a squishy marshmallow.”
Tav growled and shoved the deliciously seasoned steak and chips into his mouth instead of replying. He was used to being described as cold and rude, not squishy for fuck’s sake.
Portia chuckled. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t take a compliment, Lord I-Turned-Down-a-Shitload-of-Cash-Because-David-Insulted-Refugees.”
Tav pushed a chip to the edge of his plate with the tines of his fork. “Do you think I should have accepted his bribe?”
Do you think I don’t have what it takes to be a duke?
“I think you could have, but I really don’t see you as the type to take hush money from an asshole like that, even if it’s the easy thing to do.”
He wanted to ask her just exactly how she saw him because every morning he looked in the mirror and tried to tell himself he was a duke now, an important man, and every morning he failed spectacularly.
“I keep wondering, who the fuck am I? To think I deserve the titles and properties and everything that comes along with this?”
“The fact that you’re even wondering is a good start,” she said, waving her knife in his direction—something he wouldn’t have trusted her with before. “There are people out there who will do anything for money and prestige, even when they already have it. Your reservations are a good sign.”
Tav sighed. “It’s just . . . When I talked to my mum, I was so mad at this Dudgeon prick, but she loved him at some point. And he loved her. He was dedicated to helping the downtrodden, by all accounts. But she said becoming a duke changed him, and not for the better. I can’t stop thinking what if . . .”
He thought again of the sword above the mantelpiece. It had done something to him, knowing his father had commissioned that first big piece. Like he’d been watching from the wings, and had maybe been proud. Had maybe even cared.
“Tavish, you don’t have to become your father,” Portia said. “You’re your own man. And let’s keep it real—you can’t be worse than David. From what I’ve read, he’s spent more time using his new status to pick up women and bash migrants than he has doing anything else.”
“That git was using the title to pull birds? Of course, he was.”
Portia took a sip of water, and trained her gaze on her plate. “I guess that’s one benefit you haven’t taken into account. A duke is not going to have trouble in the dating department.”
Tav didn’t know what to feel about that, mostly because he hadn’t thought of another woman in weeks. He tried to imagine it now, some playboy aristocrat lifestyle where he kicked beautiful women out of his bed every other morning and traded them in for new models. Unfortunately, his mind could only conjure images of Portia, the feel of her mouth against his and the heat of her hands pulling him close. Kicking her out of his bed played no part in that ongoing fantasy, and therein lay his problem.
“So, I’m to be a rake now? Don’t quite know how I feel about that. Raking seems like a lot of work. All that seducing and being charming. You know charm isn’t my strong suit.”
She pursed her lips as she chewed and swallowed.
“You joke, but I’ve already started getting formal inquiries as to whether you’re dating anyone and the news isn’t even fully out yet. A handsome newly minted duke is apparently irresistible, so you’d better figure out your thoughts on the matter soon.” He wanted the words to be flirtatious, but she was still looking everywhere but at his face.
“Is that a general statement or a personal one? The bit about me being irresistible?” he asked. He leaned forward a bit and his knee brushed hers beneath the table.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of how women will react,” she said, avoiding his question. The grimace on her face revealed something else: she had thought of it, and she wasn’t keen on the idea. “When the internet finds out #swordbae is also #dukebae, your DMs are gonna be lit.”
“Well, I don’t know what that last bit means, but I’ve not been thinking about hypothetical women. I’ve been fairly focused on other matters.” He kept his gaze on her, wondering whether the anticipation pooling in his stomach was a one-sided thing. Her brown eyes were wide, gathering the flickering candlelight in their warm depths.
“Did you see the new exhibit at the Medieval Museum?” she asked suddenly. “I know we’ve been busy, but I was thinking I could talk to someone there about doing an exhibit of some of the interesting pieces you have in your collection and on modern swordsmithing. ‘Modern meets Medieval: A return to classic Scots swordmaking’ or something like that.”
Ah. Conversation change. Tav would respect that. She’d already told him she didn’t want anything and this night was about helping her feel better, not an opportunity to force the issue of their clear chemistry.
He shouldn’t have pushed, even though his push had mostly been a steady gaze and a one-track mind. He didn’t drink the rest of his wine. He was sober, but he didn’t want the excuse of lowered inhibitions to let his growing feelings for her slip. His feelings weren’t something else of his for her to manage.
“That sounds brilliant,” he said, settling against the back of his chair. They finished the dinner talking about everything but dukedoms and dating. Portia dragged him down a rabbit hole that led from medieval swords to ancient Etruscan sabers to Byzantine architecture to the basic structure of a web page, and Tav loved every minute of it.
Dating after his marriage had always ranged from “She’s a fun lass” to “this will work for now,” but as they sat eating the food of his childhood and opening up to each other, Tavish felt something come into alignment.
He’d been attracted to Portia before that night. He had grown accustomed to her presence. But the churn of emotions staging a tourney in his rib cage was more than those two things—he wanted her. He was well aware that he couldn’t and shouldn’t but he did, and Christ’s sake was he ever screwed.
“Is there . . . ?” She motioned around her face.
“What?” He tried to pull his focus back instead of staring at her like she was a sword he was grinding.
“Last time you looked at me like that there was something on my face,” she said, pulling out her compact. She dabbed at that red lipstick that miraculously hadn’t budged though they’d just eaten, and Tav watched her finger brush the sensitive skin on her pouty bottom lip.
Over her shoulder he noticed one of the waiters begin to flip chairs over onto tables, the universal sign for “you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”
“We should probably pay.” He stood and she followed him, thankfully not protesting when he paid the tab at the register. He wasn’t trying to be a chauvinist; it was the least he could do to repay her for her help.
“It’s not what I’d call a warm summer night, but it’s not raining. Let’s walk back,” she said once they’d left the alley. The salty scent from the firth was carried by the strong night wind, and she closed her eyes as if savoring it, just as she had with the food. He’d once predicted that she’d be picky, but Portia was a woman who savored trying new things.
They walked and talked, Tavish trying not to think too much about how much he wanted to kiss her. This wasn’t a date, it was . . . a man and a woman who were attracted to each other sharing an excellent meal and conversation.
Oh hell.
“What is that?” she exclaimed when they were nearing their neighborhood. He followed the path from her tapered fingertip to the huge old ship anchored along the waterway. It was painted with stripes and blocks of different colors and patterns all contrasting. “It’s like a drunken Mondrian.”
Tav didn’t know what a sober Mondrian was, but he did know about the ship; he was so used to it, he hardly ever noticed it anymore. “It’s a dazzler. During the Second World War, German U-boats would patrol and sink ships in the bay, but when they saw a ship painted like this against the horizon, they couldn’t make them out. Apparently, the best camouflage was to be bright and beautiful.”
She stood looking at the ship and he stood looking at her, in her red lipstick and red blouse and red-bottomed heels.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and pursed her lips.
“Enough with the Dr. Phil shite,” she said and Tav burst into laughter, jogging to keep up with her as she stalked away. A smile hovered on her lips when he caught up to her, though.
“This is really your first time seeing the dazzler, then? I guess the camouflage really does work well.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t walked much along the water.”
“What have you been doing?” he asked, then pulled a face of mock surprise. “Ah that’s right, solving mysteries and getting my life in order. You’re like an American Mary Poppins, but more smartly dressed. And more—”
She made a scoffing sound. “No—”
Tav turned and stood in front of her, walking backward. “Hey now. You can’t refute a compliment I didn’t give you yet, lass,” he said.
She smirked up at him. “Watch it.”
“Or what?” he asked, and then something metal and cold hit him across the lower back. Portia grabbed him by his belt and tugged him forward.
“Or you fall into the water and meet your death,” she said. “I can’t swim.”
“You can’t drive and you can’t swim?”
“Yup, that’s me. Master of none.” She said it in a breezy tone, but he knew her well enough to understand that she believed that tripe.
“There’s at least one thing you’ve mastered quite well,” he said. Her hand was still on his belt, knuckles pressing into his abdomen.
She rolled her eyes. “What’s that? Annoying you?”
“No. Dazzling.”
She was looking up at him, her delicate brow furrowed and her lips parted as if she might protest. Knowing again that he shouldn’t, Tav leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She made a sound, but it wasn’t one of protest.
“Mpf,” she breathed against his lips, and there was lust and relief and humor all rolled up into that sound, like she’d been waiting for this moment without knowing it, too. She licked into his mouth hungrily and sensation clanged up his spine. Yes, she’d been holding herself back, and now that she wasn’t Tav had no reason to either. Their tongues darted and clashed and bloody hell he hadn’t realized how spot-on his little spiel about delayed gratification had been. He’d waited and denied and fantasized and now that she was in his arms again, it was even better than he remembered or imagined.
Her kiss tasted of the rice dessert they’d eaten, cinnamon sweetness. Her grip tightened on his belt as his hands clenched on her shoulders. Her shirt was silky smooth under his fingertips, but not so much as her tongue as it slid over his. He traced his fingertips over her shoulder blades, then flattened his hands and brushed down, down, until the curves of her ass filled his palms.
“Oh dammit,” she moaned against his mouth, pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m not.” Her gaze was dark, intense and her lips were full and moist. “Look, I think this isn’t going to go away. This thing between us.”
He wondered if by thing she meant “excruciating need to fuck each other senseless.”
“I think not,” he said carefully.
“In fact, I only know one way to get rid of a persistent thing,” she said. Her expression suddenly went shy, her gaze softening as she shifted from foot to foot. “Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
She glared up at him, but it was a vulnerable glare, somehow.
Tav laughed, caressed his hand up her silk-clad back. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to think . . . I didn’t take you to dinner because I expected this to happen.”
“Why did you take me to dinner?” she asked.
Tav wasn’t the smoothest talker, but he could have pulled out some line designed for seduction. He decided to tell the truth instead. “Because I like spending time with you. I like you. And I wanted to make you feel good.”
She suddenly looked away from him, as if she could see out into the darkness where the waves rolled in from along the horizon to slap against the docks. When she met his gaze again, there was challenge in her eyes and her response was sharp. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that chemistry like this never lives up to the hype. I’ve scratched enough itches to know.”
Ah. She’d already told him she wasn’t looking for more. These were her terms and conditions. No more I like yous, then. This was a lark, she was telling him with her careful avoidance of his confession, and although it was something he’d likely regret, he decided he’d just go with the flow. After all, he didn’t want a relationship either. He wasn’t stupid enough to allow his heart to be drawn and quartered a second time.
Just sex. He could do that.
Aye.
“You know, you’re right,” he said. “I’ve scratched a fair few itches myself and never quite felt a need to go back for a second helping.”
It felt wrong, comparing her to past lovers, but that’s how they were playing this. Cool. Casual.
Ach, he was too old for this shite.
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” she said, running her hands over his chest like she’d finally been extended an invitation. It felt bloody good, just that quick, warm press of her palms through his shirt. Tav grasped her hands with his own, stopping their motion.
“Well begging your pardon, but most of my blood isn’t in my brain right now. You’ll deal.”
She giggled. “I’ll deal.” She stepped forward, her right thigh notching between both of his as she pressed against him. The weight of her breasts pushed against his torso, her stomach grazed over his erection, and that delicate scent of hers mixed in with the salty air off the firth. “One and done?” she asked, mischief and lust pushing away the shyness she’d displayed a moment ago.
He wasn’t sure if she was declaring that to be the arrangement or asking whether it was even possible between them, but he didn’t clarify because she was close and desire danced in her eyes and he needed to taste her again.
He caressed her face once, twice, and then molded his lips over hers. He kissed with his eyes open because he wanted to see that freckled nose wrinkle in concentration—and so he could start navigating them back to the armory and not into the firth, though even a dunk in the cold sea wouldn’t cool him down now.
Portia had thrown down a challenge that had nothing to do with class or etiquette or fake posh shite. He didn’t suppose there were rules in Debrett’s for what they were about to do, but all the better. A wild, passionate energy was flowing between them, and Tavish doubted either of them planned on being polite.