by Alyssa Cole
Tav turned to him. “I like to make weapons. Outdoors at the smithy. Get all sweaty and the like. A wise person once explained to me that the public found that sort of activity appealing. That sharing it online was called a ‘thirst trap.’ You ever make a sword before?”
Johan smiled with devious pride. “No, but I’m an expert at thirst traps. I’ll probably have to take my shirt off in this oppressive Edinburgh heat. It’ll look better on the front page.”
Portia had told Tavish he was a quick learner. He could only hope that this application of her lessons, with Johan’s advice, would go over well. He was a swordmaker. He was a duke. He had a lot to think on, but if he needed to create a version of himself that gave the public what they were after and honed what he wanted them to think of him, he’d forge it himself.
When he glanced up, Johan was already out of his blazer and unbuttoning his shirt, then he paused. “Wait, I’ll disrobe outside, lest we start an entirely different conversation than we intended by leaving the building in a state of undress. The last thing we need right before you’re officially given your title is a rumor that I’ve debauched you.”
“Aye. I don’t need your jealous fans coming at me on top of everything else,” Tav said with a laugh.
Tav cared piss-all about rumors, but there was only one person he wanted debauching him. He had to figure that out, too, and hoped some time hammering away at the forge would help him figure out just how to make it happen.
Chapter 24
Tavish could tell he looked fit in the suit he’d picked out for himself. The journalist seated across from him had given him the eye twice, and Portia wouldn’t meet his gaze as she sat in a chair off to the side. He’d had his hair cut the day before, something the stylist had called “classic but modern” and he’d thought showed too much of his gray; he’d changed his mind when Portia had barely been able to tear her gaze from him as he’d fielded practice questions from her and Jamie and Cheryl.
She was only a few feet away from him as he used that practice in his real interview, but the distance between them had grown over the last few days. Even now, the day before he was due to make his debut before the peerage, he hadn’t figured out how to close the ever-widening gulf.
This is what happens when you don’t check for cracks, he thought miserably. He’d been so busy trying to pretend he didn’t care about longevity that he’d allowed himself to create a flawed product, and now he’d nicked himself hard on it.
“After having toured your armory and the neighborhood you grew up in, it’s abundantly clear that you’ve lived a very different life from most of your fellow peers,” the journalist said in her meticulously smooth voice. It was soothing, familiar; Tav had watched Effie Wilson on telly for years, but now she sat across from him, as if he was someone interesting. There was a twinkle in her eyes, likely caused by the ratings dancing in her head, but she was good at her job and highly professional. Johan had brokered the interview—Tav had never thought about being paid to talk about inheriting money.
“Aye, but I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing. I practice European martial arts and make Scottish weaponry for a living—I obviously understand the appeal of tradition. But sometimes you need to change things up a wee bit. If you base everything on how things worked in the past, then we’d have no innovation and no change.” Christ, I sound like a pretentious git, he thought, but he couldn’t very well get up and walk out of the interview. “I won’t presume to know what Scotland needs, but I can’t possibly do worse than these blue bloods who don’t even know what the average meal is, let alone the average median income.”
He resisted the urge to glance at Portia and focused on Effie, who was wearing the same ambivalent semi-smile she had for most of the interview. He couldn’t tell if he was spouting the most ridiculous tripe she’d ever heard, or she thought him brilliant.
“From what I gather, you aren’t happy with the stance of some of these ‘blue bloods,’ particularly when it comes to immigration. By all appearances, you’re a bit of a crusader for the migrants,” Effie said. Again, he couldn’t tell if she thought this was good or bad.
“I wouldn’t call myself a crusader,” Tav said. “Though if you want to talk about people invading countries and destroying cultures, the Crusades are a good point of conversation. Except no one likes to talk about that because the people doing the invading that time weren’t brown.”
The interviewer smiled tightly. “Ah, quite. But is the migrant question not your cause?”
Tav almost ran his hand over his stubble, now trimmed to acceptable rakish length, but then crossed his hands in his lap and drew his shoulders back instead.
“Well, all right. You know what? I will say I’m a crusader. For basic human rights, and human dignity. But instead of asking me why I’m fighting for people to have access to safety and education and affordable housing, maybe you should be talking to the knobs who don’t want people to have those things.” Tav remembered David, sitting on as close to a throne as he could get and unable to hide his disgust for people running from war and famine and terror. “I mean, honestly what kind of wanker is fine with turning away people in need, or looks down on those they should be lifting up? What an utter fucking tosser must you be to see someone crying out for help and think ‘Right, I’ll kick them in the face with my fancy loafer instead of giving them a hand’?”
Tav’s face was warm and he realized he was bent forward in his seat. He leaned back and took a calming breath before speaking. “I just don’t understand why people hold on to power as hard as the peerage have if not to do something bloody useful with it.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the journalist said. She turned toward the camera designated for her with a warm smile on her face. “And thank you for joining us to meet Tavish Arredondo McKenzie, Duke of Edinburgh, Scotland’s newest duke.”
As soon as the camera’s stopped rolling, actual human emotion suffused Effie’s face, and when she spoke she lost a bit of her posh accent. “Oh, that was fantastic. That last bit? Going to make the perfect teaser.”
Tav felt a mix of pride and embarrassment.
“Ta, I guess.”
“I should be thanking you. I grew up in a neighborhood like Bodotria, you know. Working class, down on its luck. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for the kids to find out their neighbor was a duke. To know that potential was amongst them.”
“I haven’t done anything, though,” Tav said.
“That’s the beautiful thing. Like the rest of the peerage, you’re not expected to work. But unlike them, your existence alone might make a difference for someone.”
Effie and her crew packed up and left, and Tav glanced over at Portia.
Portia smiled up at him. It was a reserved smile, but there was pride in her eyes. “You did great.”
“That was weird,” he said. He tried to shove his fingers through his hair but it was sticky with hair gel. He sighed. “The cameras and the makeup and the smoke she was blowing about my existence making a difference.”
Portia dropped her head back on the sofa so she was looking up at him. “You’ve read Arthurian legend. You get the appeal. Arthur was the chosen one, the one who could pull the sword from the stone. But every kid who’s heard that story from the middle ages until today has thought ‘That could be me.’ And now you’re Arthur. These kids might not want to become a duke, but they know it’s possible.”
Tavish sat beside her on the sofa, leaving a space between them. “Aye. No one ever talks about how Arthur felt holding that sword, though. And I’m not complaining, but it’s a mite heavy at times.”
“Heavy is the hand that wields Caledfwich,” she joked. Tav tried not to remember Pantscalibur. Oddly, it wasn’t the sex he missed the most. That was grand, of course, but he missed the weight of her in his arms. He missed the banter and the openness.
“Portia—”
“My parents offered me a job,” she said. It was like she’d sensed he was about to make an
arse of himself. “A few weeks ago, but I have something lined up for me once the apprenticeship ends.”
About ten different emotions collided in Tavish’s chest but he tried not to show it. “Aye? I was hoping . . .”
Her head whipped in his direction. Her usually expressive brows rested in their natural place, and her deep brown eyes revealed nothing.
“I was hoping we’d have more time to make swords after this mess died down. You only got to make the one.”
She looked down, and though her body didn’t move, Tav felt as if a shield had just been thrown up between them.
“It’s okay,” she said calmly. “You can teach your next apprentice. I’m sure things will be less exciting the second time around, unless you have any other wild family secrets.”
“I fucking hope we don’t,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “And I wasn’t planning on finding another apprentice.”
“You need to. Who’s going to make the swords while you’re off crusading?”
There was melancholy in her voice, and in the space between them on the sofa, and Tav didn’t know how to dispel it. He couldn’t really ask her to stay, could he? She had a job lined up and who in their right mind would give that up to be stuck with a grumpy Scotsman flailing about as he pretended to be something he wasn’t. If she stayed, she’d break from him leaning on her too hard. Worse, she’d grow to resent him and whatever it was between them would slip away.
No.
It was better for things to end like this: fast, easy, and with his heart only marginally battered. He’d get over it soon enough.
“Are you sure, though?” She gave him that inscrutable look again. “About not making any more weapons? I was thinking we could fire up the forge tomorrow morning. I know how important that was to you.”
She shrugged and stood, looking down at him. A faint smile graced her lips. “No, I was just being silly. Besides, it’s not like it’s a skill I’ll need while doing real estate investment.”
She emphasized the last three words, and seemed to be waiting for some response from him.
“Is that the family business then?” he asked.
“Yup. Just some rich assholes buying property in emerging neighborhoods and making a profit by selling at a higher cost.”
Ah. He saw what she was doing now. She looked calm, apart from the challenge in her eyes, but this was a berserker’s move; she was swinging her weapon wildly to keep him away from her. He hadn’t known what her family did. He didn’t know if it was the same as the gentrifying companies ravening through Bodotria. But he did know that she was pushing him away and he needed to respect that, even if he didn’t agree.
“Sounds like loads of fun,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe not what I’d imagined you doing with your life, though.”
“And what did you imagine exactly?”
Tav hadn’t really allowed himself to explore those unlikely paths because given the least leeway, his imagination was off and running. Breakfast in bed, cycling along the docks, sharing dinners and dreams and a shared hope for the future. Tav couldn’t lay that on her. Not when she’d already decided to go.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m sure the job will be grand.”
“I’m going dress shopping with Cheryl. Later.”
“Later,” he mumbled as she walked off.
There was no promise in the word for him any longer because she’d be gone, and soon.
Chapter 25
Portia was a pro at balls, dances, galas, and other synonyms for “rich person excuse to show off,” but she lay on her uncomfortable bed on her scratchy duvet and wished she could just stay at home. The fact that the armory was what she thought of when she thought of “home” now made her slap a hand down on the bed in exasperation. She’d let her impulsiveness get the best of her again, and now she was drowning in a field of popped Tavcorn.
Her phone rang and she squeezed her eyes together.
Great.
“Please just be cool,” she muttered as she picked up the phone. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, baby. Your father’s on the line, too.”
“Is everything okay?” Fear briefly turned her stomach as she remembered being called to the school office and told that Reggie was in the hospital, and that it was very serious.
Her mother heard the panic in her tone. “Nothing to worry about. Everyone’s okay. Well, there is one thing.”
“Marvin Dixon’s daughter is apparently looking for work,” her father cut in. “You know Narisa? Who interned here for three summers in a row?”
Portia didn’t know her . . . because she hadn’t paid attention to what happened at Hobbs Capital until very recently.
“Um, yeah. She was nice.”
“She was, and a really sharp analyst, too,” her dad cut in. “She got let go when her company downsized and had heard about Reggie leaving, so she checked in with us.”
Portia realized she still hadn’t looked through the research her father had sent her weeks ago. It had just . . . completely slipped her mind. She thought of the important/priority matrix she’d learned about from one of the Hot Mess Helper videos. The job research had been nowhere on that matrix, had simply fallen off the edge into the abyss where all of Portia’s forgotten obligations went to die.
“That’s interesting?” Portia had a not-good feeling about this.
“What your father is trying to say is that, after some discussion, we’ve decided to offer the job to Narisa. She always got along great with everyone and worked really hard, and we think she’s a good fit.”
Portia read between the lines: you aren’t a good fit with us, your own family.
She didn’t know why it hit her like a fist around a brick—it was the truth. She hadn’t ever wanted the job. She hadn’t even bothered to look into it. She’d just spent half a session telling Dr. Lewis how the job offer itself had made her feel awful and inadequate, and how she needed to talk to her parents about her possible ADHD diagnosis and how that would affect her career choices. But some small part of her, behind the fear of disappointing her parents, had been surprised and pleased that they’d considered her, without even being informed that a good portion of her mistakes were possibly the result of not knowing how her brain was wired. That, knowing how prone to flightiness and error she was, they’d decided to take a risk. And now they’d rescinded that offer.
It wasn’t surprising; she hadn’t even been able to give them the reassurance of checking in, of providing a start date, of showing enthusiasm. And they’d chosen someone who would make their lives easier instead of harder. That was what would always happen when it came to her.
“All right. I understand. Thanks for letting me know.”
It would be better this way. She wouldn’t mess up the family business, or be a constant reminder to her parents of how unreliable and untalented she was compared to her sister.
Tension grew in her neck and pressure expanded in her sinuses.
“See, I knew she’d be fine with it,” her father said, apparently to her mother. “Your mom saw all that stuff in the press and figured you might as well stay there since you’re all lovey dovey with the duke anyway. Is it true he was spotted ring shopping?”
Oh fuck.
Portia tapped at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes before they could ruin her makeup. How humiliating. It made more sense now; her parents decision to rescind he job offer had been at least partially spurred by the mistaken belief that she had someone else to look after her now. It hadn’t occurred to them that if they didn’t want her around, Tavish wouldn’t either.
“Probably not, but way to ruin the surprise if that was the case,” she said cheerily. “We’re actually heading out to a big event, meeting the Scottish peerage, so I have to go.”
“All right! Have fun, baby!”
Her mother sounded prouder of her than she had in years, and oh did it burn.
There was a knock at the door. “Are you coming to get your nails did,
Portia?” Cheryl asked excitedly. She’d offered to help fix the chips in the manicures they’d given themselves the other day.
“Coming!”
“Okay! Meet you in the parlor!”
Portia dropped her phone, checked her face and dress in the full-length mirror. She had been rejected by Tavish, and her family, but at least she looked like a goddamned princess. She would put on a happy face and pretend everything was all right because this was Tav’s big night and she wasn’t going to ruin it.
PORTIA HAD ALWAYS assumed that riding up to a castle in a queue of carriages would be magical, but she was too nervous to appreciate the fairy tale she was acting out. Each clop of the horses’ hooves as they approached the squat, foreboding building made her stomach flip. Maybe this was what Cinderella had felt like: filled with dread and unable to tell if she was light-headed from nerves or because the bodice on her dress was too tight.
This was different from a fancy fund-raiser or any of the numerous black-tie events she’d attended throughout her life. It was Tavish’s debut, and she needed to make sure it went well. If she got him started on the right foot, perhaps everything else would fall into place.
She pushed away thoughts of Tav flourishing or failing after she left. Of their discussion and how he’d seemed resigned to the fact that she would leave, as if he had no input on the matter. His well-being wouldn’t be on her agenda anymore, and he’d made it clear that his biggest concern was how he’d mishandled her job, not her heart. That was all he saw between them in the end: an apprenticeship. Well, an apprenticeship and some major chemistry and the best sex of her life. But chemistry faded and apprenticeships ended—it wasn’t even a full-time job. Despite that, it had taken over her life.
“This portion of Essexlove was built to repel invaders in 1575,” Portia said when the itchy tension started at the base of her neck. “It was renovated with a more modern look in 1912, though on this side you can still see the high, thin windows to prevent the English from storming the castle.”
