A Duke by Default

by Alyssa Cole

  She would’ve taken it as an insult if she hadn’t seen the way his five-o’clock shadow shifted as a slow smile creased his cheeks. The tension was still there around his eyes, but his hazel gaze was like warm maple syrup, and it poured awareness over her.

  They were alone in the gymnasium, and he was joking with her in that way. This was something she was familiar with—heat cloaked behind humor. Tavish probably didn’t realize it, but he was offering something, something she only had to reach out and take hold of to change things between them.

  Damn, she wanted to, and she felt that want low in her belly and in her breasts and everywhere lust could make itself known in her body. She even felt a strange stirring behind her rib cage, and that was what snapped her into action.

  She yanked the length of foam, trying to gather it along with the rest and put some space between them, but he held on to his end without releasing it. He was studying her.

  “What?” she asked, dropping her gaze to his hand wrapped around the bright purple foam.

  “Did you kill a man or something? Are you on the run from the law?” he asked.

  She snorted. “What kind of questions are those?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what brought you of all people to here of all places. And I notice you didn’t answer.”

  “I’m not on the run and I haven’t killed a man. Yet.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling as if searching her memory. “Wait, are we talking in spirit or body? I’ve committed several spiritual homicides according to my friend.”

  “Your friend the princess?” She looked up at him again to find him smirking.

  “Yes. Ledi isn’t one to mince words.”

  “Spiritual mankiller. I believe it,” he said, and then released his end of the foam noodle. She stumbled back, catching herself, and he grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the exit. “Good thing we Scots are made of hardy stuff. Can you sweep and mop and lock up afterward?”

  With that he was gone.

  Portia pulled out her phone and took a selfie of herself holding the armful of foam noodles, which was quite an accomplishment, and spent the next few moments choosing between filters on InstaPhoto instead of trying to figure out what exactly had just happened between them.

  Chapter 9

  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 tes
tily. “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 o
ther.

  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.”