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.”