“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.”