Some part of him had known this was possible since the moment he’d seen her, mace and all. So he’d been a wanker in the hopes it would keep that distance between them. He should have still been pushing her away, but instead he sat down on an old tree stump and looked at her, willing her to come to him.

Her eyes narrowed and she strutted toward him, all of the stress from earlier in the day gone.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, brow raised. He circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger, giving a slight tug in his direction because she’d shown she liked that and Tav noted what made her happy very carefully these days. She swung her leg over his thigh and straddled him as if it was the natural thing to do. The weight of her against him, and the smell of her, and the press of her hands against his shoulders? That felt natural, too.

“That was fun.” Her eyes were glinting and a dusky blush spread over her cheeks.

“Good. You need some fun in your life,” he said.

“I’ve had my fair share of fun, don’t worry about me.” Another smile, but her eyes had lost a bit of their shine. She was doing that thing, where she parried good things by reminding others—and herself—that she was bad. Bollocks to that.

“Look at me, Portia.” She reluctantly brought her gaze to his. “You’ve been having me do all this stuff so that I can walk into any room and know I belong there. I need you to do the same for me now. Repeat after me.”

“This is silly,” she said, shifting in his lap.

“My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent.” Tav bounced his knees. “Say it.”

“My name is Portia Hobbs, and I’m bloody magnificent,” she muttered.

“I’m smart as fuck, and can do literally anything I put my mind to. Now you say it.”

“I’m smart as fuck and . . .” She trailed off and dropped her gaze. “I feel ridiculous.”

“I’m going to say something so pathetic that I will vehemently deny it if you ask me about it later.” He slipped his hands behind her back and wove his fingers together, resting his hands at the dip of her back.

“Are you secretly a Dr. Phil stan?” she asked, clearly trying to distract him. He didn’t go for the bait.

“I wish you could see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Mine. You can think what you want about yourself, but I’ve two eyes and a brain in my head and the view right now? It’s bloody brilliant.”

He might turn out to be a shite duke. He might spend the rest of his days wishing he’d never found out the truth about his father. But Portia’s gaze popped up to his and her palm came to his cheek and she smiled so brilliantly that Tavish could never regret wearing his heart on his chain mail sleeve.

“Have you forgotten that you’re supposed to be a wanker?” she asked as she rocked forward in his lap.

“I haven’t forgotten, but maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Rubbing off? Is that what you call it here?” She rocked forward again, her hips moving in a sinuous motion beneath his arms. Sensation shivered up Tav’s spine then vibrated against his thigh . . . then vibrated again.

Wait.

Portia huffed, pulled back, dug into her pocket, and tugged out her phone.

“Hm.”

Tav gave her a quizzical look.

“Apparently, we have company,” she said.

“Who is it?” Tav husked.

“Who are they. Someone named Greer? And a guy who showed up with her.”

“Ah. My ex-wife. And her husband, I suppose.” He looked at her closely, gauging her reaction.

Portia made a considering noise. “I haven’t checked the Debrett’s but I’m pretty sure leaving your ex waiting while you dry hump your squire in a fairy wood is just not done, Your Grace.”

There was slight disappointment in her voice, but nothing more, as she stood and began tapping her response.

“Back to reality,” he said.

“Your reality is other people’s fantasy,” she reminded him gently.

Tav knew what his fantasy was and it had just been disturbed.

“Aye? Well, other people need better imaginations.”

Chapter 22

It had been a bit of a day. Portia had gone from bordering on the edge of burnout, to lap grinding in the forest, to sitting awkwardly in the armory’s living room sipping tea with Tavish, his ex-wife, Greer, and Johan, the Prince of Liechtienbourg. She’d come to Scotland for excitement, and she was certainly getting it.

“Well, this is cozy,” Johan said in his deep Franco-Germanic accented voice, pushing a lock of auburn hair from his face. His keen gaze danced between Portia, Greer, and Tav, and then he took a sip of tea.

“Yes. Quite,” Portia said, surprised to find herself a bit flustered. She didn’t get the urge to climb him as she had when she’d first seen Tav, but Johan was kind of attention grabbing.

She’d seen him in tabloids and thought he was okay—too pretty for her taste—but in person he was . . . harshly beautiful? He looked like a fairy prince: tall, lean but muscular, and oozing refinement. Big blue eyes and long lashes and a semi-permanent smirk evened out by a strong jaw, as if he was always faintly amused. She would have mistaken him for a polished aristocrat if she hadn’t seen his ass in the news more than once.