He pushed himself a bit harder as he ran.

Tav wasn’t a playboy, but he wasn’t a monk either. He’d married young, tried to make it work, and failing that, stuck to what he knew best: weaponry and fighting. He had a good time with women he met at the pub, or the occasional longer-term acquaintance, but he preferred it when the only call he had to answer was the singing of metal against metal.

A woman had once told him he was like the weapons he made: cold, sharp, and designed to repel those who got too close. Tav had gotten a laugh out of that, but any blade lost its edge over time, and no metal was invulnerable if you heated it enough.

Tav lifted his knees a bit higher as he ran, upping the intensity as he passed a dog walker wrangling four large, wet dogs who were none too happy to be outdoors. One leapt after him, sniffing, and Tav grimaced at the visual, since that was how he felt when Portia was in his proximity.

His reaction to his apprentice didn’t make sense. He’d gone years without this . . . whatever it was that made him feel like a grumpy beast skulking around his castle. At meals, it was a battle to keep from glancing at her across the table. And she was smart, too. Interesting. It seemed like anything he, Jamie, or Cheryl brought up she could either discuss or was excited to learn more about. There had been an excitement in her gaze when he’d spoken about Excalibur, a hunger to know more where Tav was usually met with boredom. If Tav had been intent on diving into disaster, he wouldn’t have hurried out of the kitchen. He didn’t know how he’d face that hunger—not for him, but for his knowledge—when he had to train her, and survive it with his wits intact.

What is it about her? Tav couldn’t pinpoint it, and that’s what worried him.

He’d once believed in love and all that tripe—he’d thought what he felt for his ex-wife, Greer, would never fade. He’d thought their connection was something that would grow deeper with time, like the roots of a strong oak that delved deep into the earth. Instead it had been uprooted, and not even by a strong gale. Love had just kind of eroded out from under them while they weren’t looking, and their marriage had come crashing down with the slightest nudge.

Greer had moved on and seemed happy with her life. Tav had his family and his work and his students; that was all the fulfillment he needed, and it didn’t require giving his heart to someone and waiting for the other shoe to drop right onto that vital organ.

But this thing with Portia bothered him. She made him nervous, had him sprung like an old coil that had been rusted down for ages and didn’t know how to restrain itself when it got a spritz of lubrication.

Tav turned the corner, onto his street. He could see the armory in the distance and began pushing himself harder, a last sprint to round off the jog. He’d feel it tomorrow—his old knees would make sure of that—but he needed the burn of muscles and lungs to crowd out the other, deeper burn.

This is madness.

Why were thoughts about a woman he barely knew crowding out matters of more importance? He should be worrying about crumbling walls, the leak in Jamie and Cheryl’s bathroom, the council tax, and the inspection that would point out every repair needed in the place. The local renaissance faire was in two weeks, and he still hadn’t even put an advert in the paper or nailed down a final lineup of students to spar during the exhibitions. Instead, he’d been figuring out why he liked someone when in the end it didn’t matter. Basic decency said Portia was off-limits, and his own rules of engagement said likewise.

He pushed himself hard, past the people milling about in front of Doctor Hu’s with umbrellas, up the stairs and into the armory’s alcove, where he found Portia standing with three older women.

“Oh, so there aren’t any tours then?” one of them asked, sounding put out. It was something that happened every other week or so.

Portia glanced at him, brows lifting as she took in his panting rain-soaked state, and then turned her attention back to the women. “No, but I do think it’s a wonderful idea. It’s something we’re thinking about setting up. Do you want to sign up for the mailing list?”

Tav wasn’t about to turn his home into a tourist trap for strangers, but he gave Portia the benefit of the doubt and assumed that she was just trying to get them to bugger off. Adding them to the mailing list was a good touch, he had to give her that.

The women left, giving Tav a wide berth, and then Portia turned her smile onto him. “Hi.”

“Herm.” Tav wasn’t sure what that sound was even supposed to be, but it was the closest he could come to a greeting. Portia was wearing a T-shirt made of some kind of expensive fabric that managed to be loose and clinging at once. The deep vee exposed her freckled décolletage. Tav wanted to run right back out into the cold rain—Christ, he was the worst kind of creeper.

Greer had once come home agitated and near tears, weeping with anger and shame as she’d told him how her supervisor had leered at her as she’d tried to explain something to him. Tav had thought he wasn’t the kind of man that would let his base desires make a woman uncomfortable. He didn’t want to become that kind of man just because someone he was attracted to now worked with him. Worse, for him.

“Thanks for taking care of them,” he said, his gaze now on her simple black flats.

“No problem,” she said. “Though that wouldn’t be a bad idea. I was actually going to ask you if—”