The afternoon of the Ren Faire was a good one, with barely any clouds in the sky and the weather butting up against warm. Clusters of flowers and trees bursting with green dotted the park, and the attendees, many of whom were decked out in medieval costumes, were having a grand time taking part in activities like archery, basket weaving, and pottery making.
Tav made a circuit of the festival, where he’d stopped to chat with the various vendors who had set up stalls in the park to hawk their wares—there was mead and ale, homemade toiletries, leather goods, and pottery aplenty. Ahead of him, a person in a full suit of armor who was probably regretting their costume walked stiffly with their companion, who wore a red and yellow striped blanket over their shoulders and sported a horse head mask.
The faire had been growing in popularity over the years; more businesses had begun to showcase their goods and their skills, and more and more cosplayers, or whatever Cheryl called them, had started to take part, gallivanting about as knights, fair maidens, and serfs. He found the costumes amusing, if often ahistorical, but there was nothing funny about one in particular.
Tav saw the moment both the armor’s visor and the horse mask’s muzzle turned toward Bodotria’s booth, and he followed them as they made their way over.
He placed his hand on the hilt of the basket-hilted sword that was sheathed at his side and stopped a little way off from the booth to observe the crowd of onlookers that had gathered round. He felt a bit of pride—none of the other stalls had generated such interest, and there had been people all around every time he’d checked in on Portia. She didn’t need babysitting, as he’d blurted out like a knob. The real problem was as he had suspected; he liked watching her work.
“And even though this could kill a man, it was commonly used for coring apples, chopping vegetables, and other mundane aspects of modern life.” Portia smiled at the crowd while holding out the dubh blade, explaining how they were crafted in medieval times compared to now. Several hands shot up to ask questions when she paused for a breath.
She knew what she was about, that was certain, but he had the sneaking suspicion that her costume was also a draw.
The dress should have been plain. It was a drab puce thing, long-sleeved and with a hem that brushed the ground, hiding her too-posh-to-muck-about-in shoes. But then there was that brown leather corset. Tavish enjoyed a corset-clad woman as much as the next person, but he’d not known the true wonders of the accessory until Portia had stepped into the kitchen that morning, the leather straps pulled tight, pushing her breasts up and together and drawing all of his attention. The low, square-cut neckline of the dress’s loose-fitting top didn’t help.
“Cheryl actually tied this too tightly and she already left,” she’d said sheepishly, turning and looking back over her shoulder. “Can you loosen this for me?”
And that was how Tav had come to know that Portia had a mole on her left shoulder. He also knew the satiny softness of her skin against his fingertips, that she ran rather warm, and how it felt to brush an errant curl away from her neck and see her shiver from his touch. He didn’t need to know any of that. Fucking corsets. The devil’s garment.
He tried not to think about loosening the leather straps, about the tense heat that had seemed to cocoon the both of them. He’d had extremely unprofessional thoughts about the sturdy wooden table and how much weight it could support as his fingers had fumbled thickly with the corset strings, but he’d managed to retie them and send her off with a casual “There we are now.” He still felt jittery and irritable, though; not at her, but at himself and the Fates for throwing her into his path. Years and years without wanting more from a woman and of course the first one he absolutely shouldn’t be interested in had him “ready to risk it all,” as Jamie would say. Tavish already had enough risk in his life.
“She’s doing well,” Cheryl commented as she sidled up beside him. Cheryl’s outfit matched his own—a black leather brigandine with the armory’s name embroidered across the chest over a black fencing jacket with protective plates along the arms. Black fencing pants, calf protectors, and a black fencing mask pushed up atop her pink hair. “Our table has had the biggest crowd all day! Jamie’s Defending the Castle demo had a huge turnout, and most people said they’d loved the promotions Portia posted online and decided to come check it out.”
“Is that so?” Their table did look much nicer than usual, with little bundles of hay artfully arranged in wooden crates holding the products. A few books from Mary’s shop—Arthurian legends, The Three Musketeers, The Lady in the Lake, and something called My So-Called Sword in the Stone—were tucked attractively amongst the products, too.
“Aye. She’s handed out loads of flyers for Jamie’s lessons and coupons for the restaurant, too. And Jamie just had to run back home to get another box of dirks because we sold out. She’s even selling to the snooty mums pushing those bloody giant prams. Telling them to use them for table centerpieces and InstaPhoto shoots and what not.” She sounded both appalled and proud.
Jamie had been on him to reach out to the new clientele moving into the neighborhood, but Tav hadn’t been able to figure out a way to do it without his resentment nearly choking him. He supposed it was easier for Portia . . . she was talking to them from their level. One that was several rungs higher than Tav’s.
He grunted. “It’s a beautiful spring day. People are in a good mood and want to spend their pounds. Plus, she’s a novelty—an American.”
At least a quarter of the questions he’d heard her receive throughout the day were some variety of “Why are you working at a Scottish armory?” which, fair enough, Tav asked himself the same thing.
“Or she’s just good at this,” Cheryl said testily. “Seriously Tav, what’s your problem? I know you’re . . . well, you, but you’re being way too hard on her.”
“I’m hard on everyone,” he said flatly, remembering the way Portia had shivered as his fingertips grazed her nape, and how he’d been tempted to see how she’d react if he replaced his fingertips with his lips. But she hadn’t asked him to, and his mouth belonged nowhere near her smooth warm skin, even if she had.
Like you would have denied her, you bloody liar.
“Not like this, you aren’t.” Cheryl grabbed the hilt of his sword and jerked, and he pulled his gaze away from Portia to glare down at her. She knew as well as anyone that you never messed about with another person’s sword.
Cheryl wasn’t cowed; it seemed his glower wasn’t effective anymore. It had been blunted by Portia’s presence, just like his willpower and common sense.
“Let me get something through that thick skull of yours. Whatever is going on down here”—she tilted her head toward his groin—“shouldn’t affect what’s going on upstairs. If you fancy a shag and it’s making you grumpy, figure that out.” Tav was ready to die from embarrassment, but Cheryl continued. “She didn’t come here to put up with your shite, though, and, in case you haven’t noticed, she’s more sensitive than us who are used to you.”
Tav frowned. It really was that simple: he, an adult, had been almost incapable of civility with his apprentice because he fancied her. He’d used the excuse of her wealth, and her family business, but it was no better than pulling pigtails at recess.
No better? It’s a thousand times worse, you git.
Still, he wasn’t in complete agreement with Cheryl. “Sensitive? Portia’s more than capable of defending herself. Let us not forget how she introduced herself to me.”
“Tavish, you dunderhead. Of course she’s capable of defending herself. Most sensitive people are. Because they have to be. Jamie wouldn’t hurt a fly and you know what’s happened with him.”
Jamie had gotten into a few bad situations over the years, defending himself and others from wankers on the street. During the last one, he’d ended up in cuffs despite having called the police himself—they’d told him he fit the description of someone wanted for burgling. Tav had exploded with anger when he’d shown up on the scene, but Jamie had sat silently on the curb, staring into the distance as the new neighbors walked by, sure he was a hardened criminal.
Tav knew his brother was soft as chantilly beneath his muscled exterior, but people often assumed he had a higher tolerance for ribbing or that nothing bothered him because he rarely complained when it did.
Hm.
Tav grunted and then plucked Cheryl’s hand off his hilt.
“Careful with the inlaid ivory,” he said, pretending to buff the hilt with his sleeve.
“Show-off.”
“And I’ll be careful with erm, other things.”
Cheryl smiled smugly at him.
“Hey, you two!” Mary walked up to them. She was dressed in a Bodotria Books T-shirt and black trousers, but she had metal epaulets from a suit of armor strapped to her shoulders and biceps and carried a streaming banner that read Gettest thou to the bookshoppe: Bodotria Books.
Tav plucked at the banner. “Nice advertising.”
“Ta. It was your apprentice’s idea though, so I should be thanking you. She’s a good one.”
Come to think of it, Tav had noticed the bookshop was looking a bit different. The coffee was certainly better, and it seemed to be busier when he’d walked by this weekend. And hadn’t Portia asked him if she could borrow some of his armor?
“She’s a good one indeed,” Cheryl said pointedly, then elbowed Tav. She always got a bit feisty on exhibition days. “I have to go kick Kevyn’s arse for the crowd now. Don’t forget to come over and fight the bloke from Skymead Armory afterward. Maybe it’ll help you work off that foul mood.”
Sisters-in-law weren’t so bad, Tav supposed.
“Aye, I’ve got to return to my stall,” Mary said. “I was just doing a round, trying to entice people to check out my wares since I don’t have anyone so interesting as you do to lure them in. Later, Tavish!”
Tav made his way around the crowd, feeling the lure that Mary had spoken of as Portia came into his line of sight again. He stepped beside her quietly as she fielded a question about whether fencing or longsword was better for beginners.
“Ah, here we have the chivalrous Sir Tavish, who can tell you more about Bodotria’s lessons.” Portia’s eyes glinted up at him, and her smile was a thing to behold.
She’s enjoying herself.
How many times had he seen that smile fade away after she deflected one of his barbs? Tav’s chest suddenly felt tight, as if his brigandine had shrunk a size.
He remembered that last awful year of marriage with Greer, where neither of them could say the right thing to one another, and every time he’d tried to she’d replied with something caustic or biting, or worse, with indifference.
“Oh, another sword? Wow, looks sharp. I’m off to the office then, as one of us has to be responsible.”
It was a terrible feeling, and though he’d had some more than pleasant interactions with Portia, she’d had to be on the defensive since day one—well, after her initial attack, that is, though even that had been in the service of defending another. It was a stressful way to live, and he knew it.
“Thank you for doing such a fantastic job holding down the fort while I was away performing my knightly duties, Maid Freckles,” he said grandly, bowing to her before turning to the crowd. “Maid Freckles is American, but she has a vast knowledge of Scottish arms and history. We’re very lucky to have her sharing her talents with us for a few months.”
He glanced at her and wished he hadn’t because the shocked pleasure on her face showed him just how much of a knob he’d been for the past few weeks.
“My pleasure, Sir Tavish,” she replied politely with a deep curtsy that nearly interrupted the blood flow to his brain. The rare late spring sunlight highlighted her collarbones and décolletage—her freckles were not restricted to the spray across her nose and cheekbones.
“Is this the result of the apprentice search?” someone in the crowd asked. Tav’s eyes jerked from Portia’s collarbones to a lean, bearded man holding an expensive camera.
“Aye,” he answered carefully.
“Grand!” The man smiled. “I’m from the Bodotria Eagle, the paper that first covered your search for an apprentice.”
“Oh, that’s how I found out about it!” Portia beamed at the reporter, and Tav watched the man’s expression brighten. “My twin sister runs a website, GirlsWithGlasses dot com—that’s GirlsWithGlasses dot com, easy to remember, right? She posted a link to the article in your paper and sent it to me to apply, and here I am.”
“Really?” Tav and the man asked at the same time.
“Yes.” Portia kept her gaze on Tav. “You never asked me how I found you, so I never said anything. I told Jamie though, and Cheryl, since she’s a fan of the site.”
“And you have a twin? And here I was thinking one of you was more than enough trouble.” Tav was joking, but some of the light faded from Portia’s eyes and her smile sagged a bit.
“Oh, she’s nothing like me. Reggie is the good twin.”
She chuckled, but after having seen what Portia looked like when she was actually having fun, he could tell that she was faking it. He thought about how vulnerable she had been, sitting across from him and telling him she needed this apprenticeship, and how his careless words had hit her much harder than he’d intended over the weeks. He had to stop being so careless, dammit.
“Portia—”
“Do you mind if I snap a photo of you two?” the reporter butted in. “Our readers just loved that story and I know they’ll be thrilled to have a follow-up.”
“Oh, of course!” Portia was suddenly bright again, though it still seemed a bit forced. She wrapped one arm around Tav’s waist and brandished a dagger with the other.
He didn’t move. “Erm.”
She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes serious and her brows raised as if she were waiting on something from him. Tav stared.
“Pull out your sword,” she commanded and Tav was certain it was the sexiest thing a woman had ever uttered to him. He did as he was told, carefully, and held it out in front of him as if warding off attackers. She leaned up on her tiptoes, arms holding him more tightly for balance and somehow unaware that her breasts were pressing into his side.
“Turn it so people can see the craftsmanship,” she whispered into his ear. “This is a marketing opportunity. Show that ornate hilt!”
Portia dropped back onto the soles of her boots. Her arm around his waist pulled him closer and he draped his one free arm over her shoulder for lack of anything better to do with it. He tried to smile, but he was sure it was more of a grimace. She was so close, and so soft, and there was that lovely scent of hers again. Plus, she was holding a deadly weapon and her stance wasn’t half bad.
Fuuuuuck, this was a miserable pleasure—learning the feel of her curves pressed against him. Now that his body knew, it wouldn’t soon forget.
The photographer snapped away while grinning from ear to ear, then lowered his camera. “Perfect. Thanks!”
He walked away, already reviewing the images on the digital viewing screen, and Portia released Tav and moved away without a word, tending to the customers as he stood, suddenly too warm in his fighting gear. A few customer’s swarmed around, asking about Tav’s sword and purchasing items and signing up for lessons.
Eventually Kevyn and Cheryl jogged up to the booth.
“Oy! Time for your match with Master Bob!”
Portia whirled around. “Are you going to fight?”
Tav shouldn’t have felt a surge of cockiness at the interest in her expression, but he did. It wasn’t as if he was battling for honor or anything—it was an exhibition. Still . . . He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword in what he knew was a dramatic pose. She’d called him Sir Tavish and he was playing the part. That was it. “Aye, lass.”
Portia glanced at the products on the table and frowned a bit. “Break a leg!”
“If you want to go watch, I can take over for a bit,” Kevyn offered.
Cheryl slipped an arm through Portia’s. “Yes, come watch! Let’s see if Master Bob can get Tav on his knees as quickly as you did!”
Tav shot Cheryl a look, but he was the only one aware her words had more than one meaning.
They made their way to the small clearing where the martial arts exhibition was taking place. A crowd had gathered, and Bob was already in the middle, waving his ridiculous sword around. The older man was a bit of a show-off for Tavish’s tastes, but he was good at what he did and at playing up the theatrical side of their profession.
“McKenzie!” Bob bellowed, pointing his sword in Tav’s direction as he caught sight of him. “Keeping an opponent waiting is an insult, laddie.”
“OMG, I need to get video of this.”
Tav glanced over to find Portia tugging her cell phone out from between her breasts.
“You keep things in there?” he asked in a choked voice, trying not to look there in front of the crowd. He was so taken aback that he couldn’t even be annoyed about her wanting to record him.
“Yes.” She was busy navigating to her camera app. “Most women’s clothing doesn’t have pockets. Titty pockets are a functional adaptation.”
“Ooo, titty pockets,” Cheryl said, ruminating on the descriptor. “I call it my cheb shelf, but I like that, too.”
Master Bob made a sound of impatience. “Are you going to gawk at your lady friend or come to fight, McKenzie? Or are you scared of being paggered?”
There was a rumble in the crowd as everyone registered the playful insult.
“Get him, Master Tav!” a familiar voice called out. Tav looked over to find Syed and some of the students from his lessons cheering him on.
Portia looked up at him, her eyes bright and the record light on her phone blinking, and he almost forgot he wasn’t a knight. He was just a regular bloke who liked making shiny, pointy objects. A bloke who hated being videoed. But maybe he could put on a show for Portia and the weans just this once.
Tav lowered his mask down and stepped into the circle. He slowly pulled his sword out, whipped it back and forth for effect, then pointed it at his opponent.
“Do your worst, Robert.”
The crowd burst out into raucous applause, happy for the show, and Tav remembered that first time he’d watched an exhibition—how it had changed his life. How it had infused him with a sense of joy, as had his own apprenticeship, when he’d finally decided what he wanted to do with his life.
Portia had been right—he hadn’t been enjoying his work lately. With all the worries about money and the building, he was well on his way to being as dissatisfied with swordmaking and teaching as he had been with his office job. But this? This reminded him of everything he loved about the armory, and how fun his line of work could be.
Bob rushed toward him with a roar and Tav launched himself forward too, kicking up dirt behind him as their swords met with a resounding clang.
“I’ll go easy on you laddie,” Bob whispered as he pressed forward with all his weight against his sword. “Don’t want to embarrass you in front of your woman.”
Tav chuckled. He knew Bob was really asking for him to take it easy, but he wouldn’t be rude enough to point that out.
“Thanks, mate. I owe you one,” Tav said, then pushed Bob back and spun away, twirling the sword above his head in a move that would have left him exposed in a real battle but would impress the hell out of Portia.
This was a marketing opportunity after all—even if the line between selling his product to the crowd and himself to Portia had been hopelessly blurred.
It didn’t matter. After this fight, the exhibition would be over and the illusion would fade. But, like infatuation, it was glorious while it lasted.