“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.”