A Duke by Default (Reluctant Royals #2)(53)

“All did not go to plan. Well, I won the fight. But the next week the git and a few of his mates saw Jamie walking along the waterfront. Alone. And decided to get some retribution.”

Portia turned and her hand went to his arm. “Tav.”

“Luckily he didn’t get stomped too badly. Blacked eyes. A couple of broken fingers. A gash across the head. Can’t see it with those curls of his.”

He listed the things as if from a distance, and Portia knew exactly why—everything was blurred and manageable from that perspective.

Tav sighed and shook his head. “Do you think Jamie hated me after that?”

“I can’t imagine Jamie hating anyone.”

“Oh, he’s got a mean streak in him. It’s buried deep, and those who’ve tapped it have gotten their due. But he didn’t hate me. He didn’t even blame me.”

“Well, why would he?”

“Because I put those events into motion. There would have been no stomping if I had just ignored the bastards, or had defused the situation instead of trying to be the brave big brother. Mistakes happen, and some a damn sight more serious than accidentally revealing someone is a duke.”

He took another gulp of beer.

For a second, Portia considered that the bartender might have added whiskey to her ginger ale. She felt light-headed and warm and like maybe she wasn’t the biggest fuck-up in the world, which was basically what she’d been chasing at the bottom of happy hour cocktails.

“I really hope you were going to say yes to this,” she said.

“I really hope I was going to as well,” he said. “Only one reason I wouldn’t have.”

“Because you value your privacy and freedom?”

He snorted. “No. Because I’m scared shiteless, lass.”

She burst out laughing and he joined in, his hand on her back pulling her closer to him as the silliness lifted away the dour mood that had surrounded them. She realized then that she had turned completely in her seat and her feet rested on the base of his stool. Her thighs were flanked by his. His hand was on her back, and hers rested on his arm, and their faces were so close . . .

“You know, if I have to do this I’m glad to have you as my squire,” he said. His gaze was intense, the hazel green sliding over her like a velvet cloak.

“Even after this?” she asked.

“The mistake only happened because you were trying to look out for me. Like any squire worth her mettle would.” He plucked a straw from a container on the bar with his free hand and traced it over the curve of her ear, and Portia couldn’t hide the tremble that went through her. “I dub thee, Squire Freckles.”

“I guess this is a step up from an apprentice,” she said, her voice low and her body suddenly warm.

“Yes. A knight places a lot of his trust in his squire.”

“Is that code for ‘a knight gets to boss his squire around’?” she asked.

“Well, yes, but the squire can also make demands. It’s a very intimate relationship.”

Portia’s breath caught in her chest. Was this chivalrous foreplay or what?

Her phone rang then, and she had to force her gaze from his as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello. My name is Francis Baker, secretary to the Duke of Dudgeon. I am calling to request your presence and that of Tavish McKenzie for tea at Holyrood Saturday afternoon.”

“Tea at Holyrood? Saturday afternoon?” Tav was staring at her, so she mustered her best professional voice. “Why yes, His Grace would be delighted.”

There was a pause, as if the woman on the other end was debating whether to challenge the use of that appellation.

“Excellent. I’ll send you an email with the particulars. Make sure you read them or you’ll end up on a tour instead of at our meeting.”

She hung up the phone and Portia followed suit.

“It’s begun, has it?” he asked.

She nodded and he downed the rest of his beer and slid off of his seat. He extended his hand to help her down and held it for the few steps it took to get to the door, before dropping it to pull the wooden door open for her. She didn’t read too much into it—he’d just admitted that he was scared. Friends could do things like hold hands during scary times, and rub each other’s backs, and . . .

“So. Where do we begin?” he asked roughly. He was nervous.

Portia looked up at him.

“With some tiny sandwiches.”





Chapter 15


What are you wearing?”

Tav didn’t have to look at Portia to know that her nose was wrinkled in distaste. He held his arms out to allow her to see the suit in all its glory. It had been her idea to go on a practice run before tea with this royal secretary, and he’d dressed up at her insistence.

She, of course, looked stunning. She wore a simple black dress that looked like something from Breakfast at Tiffany’s and probably cost as much as a ring from Tiffany’s. Her heels were high and made her legs look fantastic, and her hair surrounded her face, the curls sleek and moist. Tav felt even more like a lunkhead, but that was something he would have to get used to.

He tugged at his lapels. “You said to wear my best suit.”

“Tavish.” Yup. Definite nose wrinkling. “This suit is a wrinkled polyester nightmare that’s about a size too small. And what are those?”