Now thrust like you’re trying to disembowel me. Come on! I’m the English marauder come to storm your castle, and those weak-ass jabs aren’t going to stop me!”
Sweat poured down Portia’s neck. The gray silk blouse she’d chosen to wear was soaked through beneath her breasts and down her back; she was sure she looked like a Rorschach test in which one could find the image of a woman who was going to need an Epsom bath soon. At least her jeans were proving they’d been worth the money for the stretchtech/denim blend. Her heels were lined up on the bleachers because she was good in heels, but not that good.
She hadn’t expected to do anything but observe the class; Jamie and his wife Cheryl had been out all day, so they hadn’t been able to go over the parameters of the internship earlier. She’d avoided Tavish as best she could by walking around the neighborhood and checking out coffee shops, trying not to replay her disastrous first morning in Scotland on a humiliating mental loop, then fallen asleep in her room for a few hours. She was dressed more “casual chic” than “CrossFit” when she’d walked into the gymnasium located just off of the courtyard, she’d realized that when Jamie said “come check out my class before we chat” he’d actually meant “come meet my sadistic drill sergeant alter ego.”
Jamie—tall, dark-skinned, with short, glossy curls that made her want to ask what product he used—had pulled her into a welcoming hug, then turned and lined her up with the group of students waiting for the evening’s class to start. She’d thought herself reasonably in shape, but the Defending the Castle boot camp was kicking her ass.
They’d lifted kettle bells in a “pour boiling oil on the bastards scaling the wall” maneuver, then did wall sits in an exercise called “battering ram resistance” just before entering the hand-to-hand combat training. The gray-haired older woman beside Portia was leaning forward and faux-parrying with all her might, but her shirt was dry and her face serene.
“Jab! Jab!” Jamie commanded, his curls bouncing as he cheerfully stabbed imaginary attackers while jogging in place.
Portia’s thighs burned and her arms were getting heavier and heavier, but even so . . . it was kind of fun. She’d tried barre, and yoga, and Pilates, but pretending to ward off attackers fulfilled some primal urge that had apparently been lying dormant within her.
Or maybe this one showed up after you stopped indulging your other primal urges.
Giving up sex had been surprisingly easy. She’d replaced happy hours and hookups with quiet nights with friends and courses on social engineering, marketing, and tech. Then Reggie had sent her the apprenticeship application and Portia had become infatuated with the idea—she’d even uploaded the application days ahead of the deadline instead of at the very last minute, like she usually did. When she’d received the email saying she’d been selected, she’d looked forward to it, thinking she already had her physical longings under wraps. Her vow of celibacy hadn’t been a problem until she was sitting across from Tavish McKenzie.
She’d realized several things at once in his office: (1) She’d been wrong to scoff at the silver fox phenomenon, because Tavish’s salt-and-pepper hair was like the perfect seasoning on a slab of delicious Angus steak. (2) Her diet had definitely been lacking in protein. (3) She had committed to sexual veganism, there was no way in hell she was going to mess up Project: New Portia by sleeping with her boss of all people.
“Don’t you want to protect your castle?” Jamie shouted, doubling the tempo of the imaginary dagger thrusting where he led from the front of the class. “Don’t you, mates?”
A few scattered grunts and roars were his response.
“Fuck off away from me castle!” the woman beside Portia yelled as she kept time with Jamie. Her jabs were vicious but precise, belied by her pleasant smile.
Portia’s castle needed defending. There was some invisible pull between people, woo-woo as it seemed, and years of nightlife adventures had honed her ability to find that connection and see where it led—specifically, whether it was to a bedroom. Or a couch. Or kitchen table. It was a skill that had been invaluable in the late-night campaigns waged in bars across New York City, as she pillaged her way through the singles scene.
Tav had been gruff, combative even, when they’d spoken in his office, but she’d felt the pull so hard that it’d nearly jerked her up onto his desk. This was a game of tug-of-war that she wouldn’t lose, though. She couldn’t. She was in Scotland to learn and grow, to see who she really was, not to fall back into the same patterns she was trying to break.
“What do you get out of these encounters, Portia?”
Portia wheezed and jabbed as she jogged in place. She had no regrets about her sex life; some hookups had been pleasurable, some had been boring, but none of them had amounted to much in the grand scheme of things. She’d drank her fears away, and fucked them away, but the thing about distractions was they didn’t make the real issues go away. It took work to do that, and not the kind of work she wanted to put in with Tavish McKenzie.
She jabbed with her left hand and then her right, her body finding the rhythm even though she’d thought she was ready to drop a minute before.
This was about more than whether or not to give in to fleeting pleasure. It was about proving that she didn’t need a drink, didn’t need a hookup—that she could be good enough without any of the “oh honey, no” accessories of her past. She was fine, or on her way to fine, and she didn’t need any damned sexy-annoying Scotsmen getting in the way of that.
“Protect your castle at all costs,” Jamie shouted encouragingly. “Don’t give up! You can do it!”
“This is my castle!” Portia shouted as she stabbed out with her imaginary dagger. “The drawbridge is up and you can’t come in!”
“That’s it, Portia! Now you’ve got it!” Jamie called out with a bright smile, then lifted a hand up to his brow as if shading his eyes while searching the horizon. “Look! The invaders are running off, the mangy cowards! We’ve won!”
A cheer rang out from the group, and Portia joined them. A sense of victory fueled by endorphins was a powerful feeling, even if the invaders weren’t real. She felt like maybe she could conquer anything, even her own hopeless tangle of flaws. A sudden, embarrassing wash of tears warmed her eyes.
She blinked hard.
“Okay, let’s wind it down now.” Jamie dropped down into a stretch and the students followed suit.
After the class had ended, the students grabbed their bags and began to mill around Jamie. A shock of bright pink hair that Portia recognized as Cheryl barreled through the crowd toward him, standing on her tiptoes and pulling him down into a kiss when she finally reached him. Portia could see both of their smiles and wondered at that. Being so happy to see each other that even the serious mouthwork they were putting on display couldn’t stop them from grinning like fools.
She looked away, pulling out her phone and snapping a sweaty selfie.
First evening of internship! Just finished defending my castle with @JamieMac007 at a @BodotriaArmory boot camp. So much fun! #DefendingYourCastle
She uploaded it to the various social media feeds that catalogued her daily activities. She was planning on asking Jamie to let her take over Bodotria’s social media accounts, which hadn’t been updated for months. The pic would be something she could share later to start beefing up their internet presence.
“You’re the apprentice, then? The American?” The woman who had been working out beside her was now dabbing her face with a towel and looking at Portia appraisingly.
“I am. My name is Portia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand, her finishing school lessons kicking in.
“I’m Mary,” the woman said. “I run the bookshop down the street, Bodotria Books. Not a very imaginative name, I know.”
Portia shrugged lightly. “Hey, it serves its purpose. I know where to go if I need books in Bodotria.”
Mary responded with a friendly smile. “Right. I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you since Tavish always has book orders coming in.”
“Really?” Portia asked, and then realized that was rude, and also that she already had her answer. His office had been jammed with books, though she’d been too concerned with losing her apprenticeship and having to return home with yet another failure stamped on her forehead to pay much attention. That and his eyes, hazel green and arresting, bracketed by crow’s feet. His mouth wasn’t half bad either—wide, just this side of plump. And his hands . . .
What the hell?
Portia cut off her fantasy rundown of Tav’s attributes. He wasn’t a newly acquired statue at a museum that had to be measured and catalogued. He was her boss. He was a jerk. He was off-limits. Fin.
“Oh yes, that boy has always been mad for books, the older the better. I just tracked down a quite rare one he’s been searching for, Techniques of the Consummate Swordsman.” Mary looked proud, as if she’d found a Rembrandt work on the back of a poster-board. “Dates from the mid seventeenth century. Just waiting for it to come in now.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” Portia said politely, although she doubted much pleased Tavish besides glaring at people while brandishing a sharp object.
“He also pays for the books for the children’s book club each month,” Mary said. “He’s a good man, lass. Keep that in mind because sometimes it takes a bit of digging to see that. Good men can be stubborn asses, too.” She nudged Portia with an elbow. “And as far as asses go, he certainly has a fine one.”
Oh. Ohhhhhhhhh.
Mary was trying to play matchmaker. Portia didn’t know how to say “No way in hell” politely, so she just smiled.
“Ah, you’ve noticed, too! Good taste, you.” Another conspiratorial nudge. “Well, you’re always welcome to come by the shop, and you should let me know if you need anything. We have the latest releases for adults and children, the classics, and rare books.”
Portia had been struck by inspiration for a project while walking the halls of the building earlier. The armory was old and beautiful and probably had an interesting history, like any structure that had lasted so long.
“Actually, if you have any books on the history of the neighborhood, I have some plans for the website they might be helpful with,” Portia said. She left out the fact that the plans hadn’t been approved yet, but she was sure Jamie would be supportive of them. He’d seemed really interested in her ideas. That had been one of the reasons she’d been so excited for the apprenticeship—and so put out when she came face-to-face with the surly brick wall that would be her real boss. “I’ve found some stuff about the docks and local guilds, but I was thinking more architectural history.”
Mary looked off to the side, as if going through her mental shop inventory, then nodded. “I have a book or two that might interest you, if you want to come ’round. You should also check the library—they have deeds and newspapers and the like on microfiche.”
“Is it available online?” Portia asked.
“The library is two blocks away, love,” Mary said gently. “Getting out to see the neighborhood wouldn’t hurt for a newcomer, now would it?”
Portia appreciated the woman’s subtle shade too much to be bothered by it.
“Okay, I’m off.” Mary gave Portia’s arm a quick squeeze, then leaned in to whisper, “I know you Americans do things differently, but may I suggest some trousers with more breathability for the next class? Denim causes thrush, dear.”
Portia made another note to self to look up thrush, but nodded her appreciation and waved as Mary strode away. The crowd around Jamie and Cheryl was breaking up, so she headed over to them. She felt a little awkward, and sweaty, but they both seemed nice and Jamie had told her to come find him when the boot camp was over.
“Hey,” Jamie said over Cheryl’s shoulder. “How did you like it?”
“I loved it! It’s such a great concept. I feel like I can crush my enemies and take over the world,” Portia said.
Jamie grinned. “Brilliant! That’s exactly how I want people to feel. I sometimes wonder if I lay it on a bit too thick, so I’m glad to hear that.”
Cheryl turned, eyes going wide when she saw Portia.
“My champion!” She ditched Jamie and ran toward Portia, her ponytail trailing behind her like a streamer. She didn’t lay a giant kiss on Portia, but she did pull her into a hug, which she quickly released her from.
“Oh sorry. I just didn’t get to thank you this morning, or introduce myself. I was too busy fetching the milk and compresses.” She was trying to joke about it, but Portia still cringed at the reminder of her grand entrance that morning. “I’m Cheryl Hu. Partner of Jamie. Tolerator of Tavish.” She beamed up at Portia with a smile so welcoming it made Portia’s throat go rough.
“There’s nothing to thank me for, no worries,” Portia said with a shrug.
“Nothing to thank you for? You thought I was being attacked and you ran in like bloody Eowyn ready to take out the Nazgul, and all. It was grand!”
Portia didn’t know what Cheryl was referring to, but being on the receiving end of the closest human incarnation of Portia had ever seen made her cheeks go warm.
“It was silly,” she said shifting uncomfortably. “I should have realized what was going on instead of just rushing in and ruining your practice. And hurting your boss.”
Classic Portia. Think first, regret later. She twisted her mouth at the memory of how proud she had felt for that one moment before humiliating reality had set it.
Cheryl placed an arm on her shoulder. “Ach, no. Don’t feel too guilty about the mix-up. Tav deserved it, even if he wasn’t really attacking me. Comeuppance for being such a wanker all the time. You’re fine.”
“Well, glad I could do my part in wanker comeuppance delivery,” Portia said, trying to sound normal even though Cheryl’s compliments made her want to stick her head in the ground.
“Is that so?” a deep voice asked, cutting into the conversation.
Portia sighed. Of course, Tavish would sneak up behind her in time to overhear that. She turned to face him, propping her hands on her hips because they suddenly felt large and ungainly and she didn’t know what to do with them.
He’d obviously just come from his workshop, judging from the dirt smudges all over his clothes and exposed skin—the unshowered tradesman look really, really worked for him. He was like a rustic wooden table that grew more attractive from weathering, if tables could be sexy. 13 out of 10, would hit that—if she was hitting anything, which she wasn’t.
“Yes, that’s so,” she retorted.
What? What kind of weak comeback was that?
He was holding her heels, their straps slid over two of his thick fingers, and Portia had no idea why the sight of it prompted a pulse of want in her.
“I suppose this is your heroine pose, for when you’re out impulsively saving strangers,” he said, his dark brows arching upward. “Freckles McGee, vigilante at large.”
His tone was dry, but his gaze slid over her body like a pour of molten metal. She was already sweating, and looks like that didn’t help. Neither did the fact that the sleeves of his Henley shirt were pushed up to the elbow, revealing his veined wrists and forearms.
She reached out and snagged her heels from him, suppressing the shiver that went through her as their fingers brushed. “Yes. I’ve been busy keeping Edinburgh’s streets safe from the likes of the villainous . . . Knife Man.”
Tavish blinked several times. “Knife Man?”
“You had a knife this morning,” she said stubbornly. “You are a man. Knife Man.”
Jamie and Cheryl burst out laughing beside her. Tavish rolled his eyes and wiped his hands against his jeans and she noticed that Thigh Man would have also been a good name for him.
“Jamie, are we going to talk details of my schedule now?” she asked, turning away from Tavish. “Do I get to make a sword soon?”
Jamie looked sheepish. “We’re gonna start off slow, I think. Data entry is almost as fun as swordmaking, right?”
He elbowed Cheryl.
“Totally as good,” Cheryl said cheerily, but shook her head and gave a thumbs-down as soon as Jamie looked away from her.
“It’ll be a wee bit before you’re allowed to work with sharp objects,” Tavish cut in, drawing her attention back to him, though it hadn’t wandered far. “Especially since I’m the one who has to train you for that. Let’s see if you can go a week without doing me bodily harm and then I’ll consider it.”
She had messed up, badly, but she wasn’t down with being infantilized for the next three months because of it.
“A keyboard is a dangerous thing in the right hands, too, you know,” Portia said.
“I agree. Jamie for instance, used a keyboard to place the apprenticeship advert, and look what that got me.” He gestured in her general direction.
Portia faltered; Tav’s verbal jab had hit a soft spot, one that had been hidden under a sea of distractions for years and had only just begun to harden. She had no witty comeback for someone telling her they didn’t want her around. It reinforced what that ugly voice in the back of her head whispered at the most inopportune moments: no one would care if you left and never came back.
“You really are a wanker,” Cheryl said with a tsk, moving closer to Portia. She rested her hand on Portia’s back, not even pulling it away when it landed on a damp sweaty spot.
Jamie came to stand at her other side. “He’s always been like this, you know. I’m pretty sure my first words were ‘Mum, Tav is a right wanker, aye?’ And her reply was, ‘Yes, son. Su hermano is the one true wanker, the wanker to rule them all.’”
Cheryl giggled and Tav rolled his eyes. “Why are you bringing Mum into this? And why are you both surrounding her like I’m the threat? Might I remind you that I was the one attacked today?”
“Do you fancy some dinner, Portia?” Cheryl asked, ignoring Tavish. “I have some Char Siu pork in the slow cooker.”
She kissed her fingertips and threw her hand up to the sky, the universal expression of “this is going to be fucking delicious.”
“Cheryl runs the little restaurant out front, Doctor Hu’s,” Jamie said. “Trust me, you want this dinner.”
Portia had planned to pick up something from the chip shop, aptly named Chip Shop, that she’d spotted down the street, and eat it in her room. Companionship and home-cooked food were unexpected surprises, and pork was clearly the only protein she should be thinking of to satisfy her cravings.
Cheryl bit her lip and fidgeted a bit. “I just thought it would be nice to welcome you properly. I understand if you have other plans, though, or you don’t want to.”
Portia had thought of her apprenticeship from so many different angles, but she hadn’t factored in new friendships. Not really. Actual humans had kind of been hazy peripheral players in her journey, but now Cheryl and Jamie were standing there looking at her expectantly and she realized she’d made a huge miscalculation.
“Dinner would be lovely. Thank you, Cheryl.”
“Yes, yes, it would be,” Tavish said in a mockingly formal voice. “Assuming my place hasn’t been usurped?”
“Of course not,” Cheryl said, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Even wankers need delicious slow-cooked meat.”
“I’ll be there after this lesson, then,” he said, then walked toward the center of the gym. Portia looked away from him and noticed several kids sitting on the bleachers, fencing masks atop their heads.
“All right, young squires. Are you ready for your lessons?” Tav asked in a booming voice.
“Yes, Master Tav!” the kids replied obediently, but many were bouncing in their seats.
“People entrust him with their children?” Portia remembered he’d mentioned a program for kids but seeing it in action was different.
“Aye, Tav has a knack with the wee ones,” Jamie said. He held up his hand beside his waist. “You must be ye high or smaller to enter the ‘gentle Tav’ ride. We’re all out of luck.”
Portia turned back to see the kids were lined up in a row, all holding multicolored lengths of Styrofoam attached to basic wooden hilts out before them. Tav stood watching with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed, but he was smiling.
“We didn’t have much to do, growing up around here, and we got in trouble from time to time. Tav likes trying to keep the kids out of trouble, and all that. Has classes for teens, too.”
“Do you want to wash up before dinner?” Cheryl asked. She plucked at her own ponytail. “I’ve got to deep condition before dinner.”
Portia nodded and followed them out. She heard the children break out into peals of laughter behind her, but didn’t look back. She didn’t need anything that could remind her that Tav was a friendly human being—her imagination was already having a field day without that fuel.
“YOU SURE YOU don’t want a beer? Or a digestif? We have Tia Maria.” Cheryl stood before a cabinet stocked with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes while Jamie hopped up from where they sat around the battered wooden table and jogged to the wailing electric teakettle.
“I’m sure,” Portia said, trying not to be weird about it. Cheryl was better than most hosts in that she didn’t keep pressing until Portia was forced to make up some reason why she wouldn’t have a drink since “I don’t want one” apparently wasn’t good enough.
The kitchen in the armory was large and comfortable in a way that her own at home wasn’t. It had obviously been used well over the years, though it was clean. Portia usually ate out or ordered takeout so hers, done in shades of white and gray, hadn’t been used much. Her parents’ kitchen was always sparkling clean, bright and modern, even though her mom cooked often. The armory’s kitchen was rustic, but not like something you’d see on a home renovation show. The walls were painted a cheery orange and dark wood cabinets lined the walls and floor. It had two fridges, one normal-sized model and one huge industrial steel one, and along one wall was a professional kitchen prep station that served as the home base for Cheryl’s small food stand.
“Tea?” Jamie asked, placing the electric kettle down in the middle of the table. She nodded and accepted the mug he poured for her taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. Her first night in a strange country, after a miserable morning, and she was sharing a delicious meal and talking about how to slay, literally.
“So then I told the kids that they had it all wrong,” Tavish said, pushing his chair back and standing. “They had to grip the hilt like this, plunge up like this, through the opening in the side of the armor, and then twist, like so. That ensures they’ll hit the most vital organs. Theoretically.”
He made some strange jabbing motion that was a swing of his arms followed by a thrust of his hips, and Portia forgot how to swallow, barking out a cough as her swallow of tea tried to go down the wrong pipe.
Jamie and Cheryl laughed as he demonstrated the technique, but Tavish was serious. She could tell by the way his gaze settled on each of them as he spoke, as if willing them to understand why this particular fact was important. She’d sported that same look while escorting her parents around exhibits at the museums and galleries where she’d interned, where they’d respond with tight smiles and “Isn’t that nice?”
She tried to think of what she wished her parents would have asked all those times she’d shared something she cared about with them. What Ledi and Nya asked when she was going on and on about her latest interest.
“How did you get into all of this stuff? The swords and the European martial arts?” she asked, her voice gravelly from fatigue.
He glared at her for a second, either because he thought she was poking fun at him or because he just didn’t like her, then dropped into his seat. “I dunno.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you do.”
“I like swords,” he said, peeling at the label on his beer bottle.
“I like architectural history,” Portia pushed. “That doesn’t explain why I could take you on a tour of this place and point out the tics from each era it was remodeled in. What is your origin story, Knife Man?”
He looked at her for a long time. “Fuck’s sake, you Americans and the Dr. Phil shite.” He took a sip of his beer then sighed in annoyance. “There was a fencing lesson put on by the European martial arts club, the first week of uni. Something for the first years to do other than get pissed and vomit fried pizza. And it was grand! Holding a sword, feeling the weight of the metal in your hand and the shock of a blow up your arm, and knowing that only your skill determined whether you won or lost. I was hooked after that.”
She could imagine him young and bright-eyed, with dark hair and a devilish smile. “Because you won?”
“No, because I lost so badly.” He plucked at the beer label and chuckled gruffly. “I became obsessed with getting good enough to win a competition. I’d always loved reading about knights and medieval history, actually. I started studying old treatises and history books in the university library, collecting information about swordsmanship and swordmaking. I went down a rabbit hole and never quite made my way out, even when the real world came a calling.”
Portia realized that they were both leaning across the table, gazes locked on each other. Tav’s eyes were dark with passion, and even though it wasn’t for her, the fact that he felt so deeply about anything made her stomach do some kind of pirouette.
She leaned back in her seat and cleared her throat. “Interesting.”
“Whoa, bruv, I didn’t know all that,” Jamie said. “I thought it was because you just liked brawling. That’s some real Harry Potter, aye? Did your first sword choose you, like the wand?”
“Again with the Harry Potter shite,” Tavish grumbled, but a smile played at his lips. His full, kissable lips. Portia took a sip of tea and reminded herself that whatever this feeling was would pass. She didn’t do crushes. Usually she saw what she wanted and went for it, aided by a drink or two or five. As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with attraction in a world where both drinking and fucking were off the table. This was her first big test, and Portia had always been the twin that did horribly at tests.
“King Arthur would be more accurate,” Portia pointed out, dragging her thoughts back to the conversation. “The Sword in the Stone. Excalibur.”
“Aye,” Tavish said. He glanced at her. “Though in the original Welsh legend the sword was called Caledfwich. It was known as Calisvol in Middle Cornish, and eventually Latinized to Caliburnus by—”
“Okay, we get it, bruv,” Jamie said. He gave a long-suffering sigh.
Portia was not having the same reaction at all. Her boss acted like a gruff, annoying jerk, but dammit there was something about a man who could casually mention Middle Cornish at dinner conversation without sounding pretentious that Portia found irresistible. It didn’t matter—she would resist.
“What do you think Tav’s patronus would be?” Cheryl asked, grabbing Jamie by the forearm and hopping in her seat.
Jamie sighed. “We’ve already discussed this, love. A honey badger.”
“Oh, that’s riiiight. He’s such a Hufflepuff.”
“A Hufflegruff more like,” Jamie said, hand at his chin as if he were giving the matter real thought.
“All right, all right,” Tavish said, standing again. He feigned annoyance but ran his hand gently over Jamie’s curls as he passed by him, as if his brother were a boy instead of a man almost as large as Tav. The small act made Portia’s chest go tight. It was a protective, possessive movement. She remembered stroking Reggie’s hair in the ICU, partially to give comfort to her sister and partially to assure herself that her sister was still there.
She didn’t know much about Harry Potter shite, as Tav had called it, but Jamie’s patronus would probably be a grumpy Scotsman with a sword.
Tav’s gaze turned to her. “If you find any peas under your mattress tonight you’ll have to deal with it yourself. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and no time for your nonsense, Princess Freckles.”
He downed the last of his beer, tossed the bottle in the recycling bin, and stalked out.
Cheryl and Jamie shot each other looks, but Portia didn’t mind his rudeness. It was a reminder that she wasn’t there to make friends, as the saying went, or at least not with him. The only role Tav would play in Project: New Portia was showing her how to make a blade and, possibly, how to use it. That was dangerous enough.