Johan smiled with devious pride. “No, but I’m an expert at thirst traps. I’ll probably have to take my shirt off in this oppressive Edinburgh heat. It’ll look better on the front page.”

Portia had told Tavish he was a quick learner. He could only hope that this application of her lessons, with Johan’s advice, would go over well. He was a swordmaker. He was a duke. He had a lot to think on, but if he needed to create a version of himself that gave the public what they were after and honed what he wanted them to think of him, he’d forge it himself.

When he glanced up, Johan was already out of his blazer and unbuttoning his shirt, then he paused. “Wait, I’ll disrobe outside, lest we start an entirely different conversation than we intended by leaving the building in a state of undress. The last thing we need right before you’re officially given your title is a rumor that I’ve debauched you.”

“Aye. I don’t need your jealous fans coming at me on top of everything else,” Tav said with a laugh.

Tav cared piss-all about rumors, but there was only one person he wanted debauching him. He had to figure that out, too, and hoped some time hammering away at the forge would help him figure out just how to make it happen.

Chapter 24

Tavish could tell he looked fit in the suit he’d picked out for himself. The journalist seated across from him had given him the eye twice, and Portia wouldn’t meet his gaze as she sat in a chair off to the side. He’d had his hair cut the day before, something the stylist had called “classic but modern” and he’d thought showed too much of his gray; he’d changed his mind when Portia had barely been able to tear her gaze from him as he’d fielded practice questions from her and Jamie and Cheryl.

She was only a few feet away from him as he used that practice in his real interview, but the distance between them had grown over the last few days. Even now, the day before he was due to make his debut before the peerage, he hadn’t figured out how to close the ever-widening gulf.

This is what happens when you don’t check for cracks, he thought miserably. He’d been so busy trying to pretend he didn’t care about longevity that he’d allowed himself to create a flawed product, and now he’d nicked himself hard on it.

“After having toured your armory and the neighborhood you grew up in, it’s abundantly clear that you’ve lived a very different life from most of your fellow peers,” the journalist said in her meticulously smooth voice. It was soothing, familiar; Tav had watched Effie Wilson on telly for years, but now she sat across from him, as if he was someone interesting. There was a twinkle in her eyes, likely caused by the ratings dancing in her head, but she was good at her job and highly professional. Johan had brokered the interview—Tav had never thought about being paid to talk about inheriting money.

“Aye, but I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing. I practice European martial arts and make Scottish weaponry for a living—I obviously understand the appeal of tradition. But sometimes you need to change things up a wee bit. If you base everything on how things worked in the past, then we’d have no innovation and no change.” Christ, I sound like a pretentious git, he thought, but he couldn’t very well get up and walk out of the interview. “I won’t presume to know what Scotland needs, but I can’t possibly do worse than these blue bloods who don’t even know what the average meal is, let alone the average median income.”

He resisted the urge to glance at Portia and focused on Effie, who was wearing the same ambivalent semi-smile she had for most of the interview. He couldn’t tell if he was spouting the most ridiculous tripe she’d ever heard, or she thought him brilliant.

“From what I gather, you aren’t happy with the stance of some of these ‘blue bloods,’ particularly when it comes to immigration. By all appearances, you’re a bit of a crusader for the migrants,” Effie said. Again, he couldn’t tell if she thought this was good or bad.

“I wouldn’t call myself a crusader,” Tav said. “Though if you want to talk about people invading countries and destroying cultures, the Crusades are a good point of conversation. Except no one likes to talk about that because the people doing the invading that time weren’t brown.”

The interviewer smiled tightly. “Ah, quite. But is the migrant question not your cause?”

Tav almost ran his hand over his stubble, now trimmed to acceptable rakish length, but then crossed his hands in his lap and drew his shoulders back instead.

“Well, all right. You know what? I will say I’m a crusader. For basic human rights, and human dignity. But instead of asking me why I’m fighting for people to have access to safety and education and affordable housing, maybe you should be talking to the knobs who don’t want people to have those things.” Tav remembered David, sitting on as close to a throne as he could get and unable to hide his disgust for people running from war and famine and terror. “I mean, honestly what kind of wanker is fine with turning away people in need, or looks down on those they should be lifting up? What an utter fucking tosser must you be to see someone crying out for help and think ‘Right, I’ll kick them in the face with my fancy loafer instead of giving them a hand’?”

Tav’s face was warm and he realized he was bent forward in his seat. He leaned back and took a calming breath before speaking. “I just don’t understand why people hold on to power as hard as the peerage have if not to do something bloody useful with it.”