Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Four

Lizzy pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks as she rushed toward the village road, in truth scarcely more than a narrow

lane lined by moss-covered stones. A tapestry of wildflowers blanketed the field as oak and birch stood sentinel in the nearby

wood, and yet she barely registered their charms, so at odds with London’s bedlam.

Her heart pounded fiercely, the rhythmic thud echoing in her ears. She half expected someone from the nearby cottages to emerge,

curious about the thunderous noise, as if a regiment were marching through the vicinity. She tugged impatiently at her damp

bodice. Honestly, her corset had a single duty—to lift and separate her bust—but presently it was more occupied with gathering

perspiration. The humid air clung to her skin like a blanket, putting the efficacy of her soap to the test.

She slowed to a walk, panting, trying not to wriggle in discomfort. What if she ended up stinking like a stable while in the

company of one of the most handsome gentlemen she had ever encountered?

Tuck’s cropped hair might be an unusual style, but it suited the bold structure of his features, those narrow-set eyes, the slash of brows, and such straight, bright teeth. And then there was the matter of his size—the bulk of his shoulders, those massive hands with the thick scar banding one knuckle, the ridge of collarbone that revealed itself when he absently tugged at his shirt. A strange sensation coiled in her belly. Really, though, how were anyone’s teeth so white, so perfect?

She pinched her lips together. Could she be more ridiculous? Just this morning, her biggest concern had been the dwindling

state of her soap bar, wrapped in a scrap of silk, infused with lavender and thyme. She hadn’t been sure if she should request

more to be sent from town or if that would incite Mamma to pen a letter on the need for an unmarried woman to demonstrate

frugality so as not to burden others. The idea of enduring that particular lecture felt as enjoyable as dozing off atop a

wasp nest.

Slathered in honey.

Naked.

Who gave a fig about exorbitant soap prices when a man from the future had crawled from the old cow pond? Her life had rearranged

itself in the span of minutes. And she couldn’t put it back the way it had been before. A subtle shift filled the air, a crackling

energy teeming with uncharted possibilities. It whispered of magic within reach, an unfolding adventure. The hair on her arms

rose. For the first time in her life, she could truly say she didn’t have the faintest idea what tomorrow would bring. And

she wasn’t sure if the notion was exhilarating or terrifying.

And what sort of name was Tucker Taylor? Perhaps one that was common enough in America. But here? A soft, nervous laugh escaped

as she reached the road. He might as well call himself Beasley Weaselwood.

Wind feathered her face as she licked her parched lips, trying to concentrate on the gravel poking into her thin soles. She needed to feel the ground, let it steady the dizziness threatening to spin her heart into her stomach.

Wait.

A new idea took hold. She hadn’t gone stark raving mad and invented the whole thing, right? Impossible. She slid her hand beneath the thick coil of hair and kneaded her tight neck muscles. For starters, mad people don’t worry

about being mad. They’d simply accept a time traveler with a shrug and go off making daisy chains.

No need to risk a bruise by pinching herself. She seldom dreamed, and on the rare occasion when she succumbed to reverie while

asleep, her dreams involved her teeth falling out or flying around Westminster. Never hitting a time traveler in the face

with an apple.

The only viable choice was to entertain the truth of his wild claim and provide assistance in resolving the matter. Georgie’s

estate lay just shy of a mile away. Successfully leading Tuck there without incident depended on her ability to conjure appropriate

male garb. How was that supposed to happen? A snap of the fingers? Luck?

Movement caught her eye, and she instinctively turned, silently thanking whichever guardian spirit watched over her. Beyond

the yellow gate sat a farm—a humble brick abode half covered in ivy and bordered by vibrant flower and vegetable gardens.

On a hedgerow near the barn hung linen smocks, a few pairs of darned wool stockings, a neatly patched brown coat, a few plain

shirts, and two pairs of breeches. How fortunate it was that the farmer had chosen today as his washing day—these were precisely

what she needed.

Except she couldn’t approach the front door and say, “Greetings, sir, delightful summer weather we’re presently enjoying, don’t you think? Now, if you would be so kind, I have an urgent need for your breeches.”

But if she dared to snatch any clothes in broad daylight and was apprehended in the act, she’d end up in front of the local

authorities before she could hum “Greensleeves.” Then Mother would lock her in their Mayfair attic out of sheer embarrassment,

and Tuck would remain stuck in that stinking swamp until he did turn into a frog.

What to do, what to do?

She thoughtfully nibbled at her inner cheek. She needed a diversion—nothing grand, merely sufficient enough to draw attention

away from the hedgerow. Then she’d grab enough clothing to get Tuck dressed for the walk to Georgie’s, where a wardrobe was

waiting full of her cousin’s late husband’s clothes. In a few days, she’d return the pilfered items by pretending she’d found

them scattered along the roadside.

Was this a good plan? That was open to debate. However, seeing as it was her only plan, it would have to suffice.

She scanned the surroundings, unleashing a too-tight breath. In the chicken coop, a dozen hens pecked and scratched under

the watchful eye of a squat rooster, his prolific blue-green tail feathers catching the breeze. She resisted the urge to roll

her eyes at his typical male self-importance. To the left, an old sheepdog snoozed in the barn’s shadow.

No time to hesitate. Any moment someone could appear and her plan would be ruined. Quickly, she ran over, unlatched the coop,

seized the nearest hen, and tossed her plump form into the yard. The dog, half-awake, raised a head as a few more hens followed,

happily exploring the barnyard and clucking over the long grass.

“Go on,” she hissed to the dog. “Chase them.”

One second passed. And then five more. His tail thumped once. Twice. His mouth opened in a wide yawn.

“Do it, blast you!”

The animal sprang to its paws, erupting into a cacophony of barks. The chickens, startled and in disarray, cackled their panic

while the rooster attempted to marshal his harem. After unsuccessfully corralling them, he turned toward the dog with a defiant

crow. Lunging forward, Lizzy secured a smock and a pair of breeches as muffled curses erupted from behind the barn. With panic

thrumming through her veins, she hurried to the open gate, skillfully rolling the clothes into a tight bundle tucked securely

under her arm.

Only a few feet to freedom. But her relief was short-lived.

“Hello there? Miss?” the farmer called, appearing around the side of the barn. “Can I be of service?”

Double blast! Her breakfast nearly emerged as she turned, doing her best to appear composed and only a little curious. “Oh,

yes. I was passing by, heard the commotion, and...” And what? Her mind froze.

“No need to be alarmed, it’s just me senile dog making a mess of things as usual.” The farmer had an openhearted grin. No

trace of suspicion lurked in his ruddy features.

“Goodness.” She fought the urge to cringe at her overly enthusiastic tone, a feeble attempt to hide the fact that she was

currently pilfering from him.

As his eyes assumed a familiar gleam, a wave of relief washed over her. It was the same look she often received from gentlemen who inspected her appearance with a critical eye, scrutinizing every detail from her hair to the size of her nostrils. Within moments, they would come to the conclusion that she was not so remarkable as to evoke insecurity but rather pleasantly agreeable enough for them to relax their guard.

These unimaginative men assumed her life’s goals centered around tending to her family, delighting in a well-kept household,

and contemplating the joys of future parenthood. The notion that she might desire to engage in conversations beyond these

domestic realms—such as her aspirations to travel the Continent, her writing, or even preferring cats over dogs—appeared to

entirely evade their notice. They didn’t see her ; they merely perceived the shell, her outward appearance, oblivious to the wealth of her inner world, vibrant with hopes,

dreams, and yearnings. Very well. Let this fellow look too—and see nothing.

She’d misdirect.

Lizzy tossed her head, thankful for the effort she’d put into wrapping her hair into curling papers the previous night, ensuring

the aid of a few bouncing ringlets. She fluttered her lashes and allowed her front teeth to latch onto the corner of her bottom

lip just so before releasing it with an audible pop. And with that simple act, the farmer’s focus shifted entirely. He ceased

to concern himself with the roaming hens, completely ignoring the bundled clothing tucked under her arm.

“I must also confess a little secret.” She changed her voice, elevating its pitch and infusing the words with a breathy, conspiratorial

tone. “I couldn’t resist coming closer to steal a glance at your flowers. They’re lovely. You possess quite a talent in the

garden.”

She secretly swore at her use of the word “steal.” But the farmer’s mouth opened and closed like a fresh-caught trout on a

riverbank.

Thank goodness for dimples.

She hoped that her flushed complexion would contribute to a demure impression. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand, praying it added to the effect. “But I am shy with strangers. I think it best that I now depart.” She allowed a slight quaver to enter her voice. With a small bob, she turned and resumed walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to bolt.

But the ruse worked. He didn’t give chase.

Tonight, curled under her bedclothes, she could ponder the frequency with which men underestimated women. So much so that

one could slip away with stolen goods under their very nose, evading notice, all the while adorned with an inscrutable smile

and employing a soft-spoken manner. However, in the present, there was no room for moral qualms. Descending the hill, retracing

her steps toward the pond, she narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the surroundings. The tranquility appeared almost too flawless—two

blackbirds flitting about, a frog croaking from the shadows. Was he still present? Her pace hastened, and she pursed her lips,

emitting a low whistle.

It took effort to maintain her composure when Tuck emerged at the sound. The firm hold of his jaw eased a fraction, subtle

relief relaxing his features before he intentionally masked the expression. The familiarity of his gesture caught her off

guard, feeling oddly relatable. Concealing her genuine sentiments was a practice she engaged in so frequently that it had

become habitual. It was discomfiting to see the gesture mimicked on another.

“You came back.” His deep voice, carrying the faint twang, resonated with a mix of gratitude and irritation.

Her throat grew tight, words sticking like honey. “Of course. I promised, didn’t I?”

“Good.” Gold ringed his pupils like a sunburst. “Good.” Before she could breathe, he was turning away. “What’s the game plan?”

“First”—she frowned—“this isn’t a game. Second, here.” She advanced, grimacing when her boot heel squelched into the mud.

“You can change into these.”

He unrolled the clothing and went still, unreadable. “No.”

“No?” Confusion swiftly transformed into ire. “ No what, exactly?” Her already thin patience had reached its limit in the past hour. Was he about to act ungracious, even after

she had freed chickens from a coop and dealt with the flirtatious farmer? Tucker Taylor, from his mud wallow, was going to

tell her no?

Indeed not.

“Those aren’t even real pants,” he said. “They’re capris. I’ll look like a joke.”

She didn’t understand all his words, but red flashed behind her narrowed eyes.

“Allow me to be straightforward.” Her gaze flickered disapprovingly over his attire. “We can’t justify your current dress

if we encounter anyone. I understand that these clothing choices lack style or sophistication, but the only joke here will

be you if you’re caught in your current dress. We need to cross two fields and an entire stretch of woods to reach my cousin’s

residence, all the while hoping that no one comes too close as it is. I don’t even have stockings for you.”

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain. She glanced over a shoulder and pinched the bridge of her nose. Dark clouds

loomed. Just their luck.

Except...

Her gloomy thoughts vanished instantly—yes, rain clouds!

It was luck.

With the weather taking a turn for the worse, they’d be less likely to run into anyone else on a pleasure stroll or social

call.

“Sir.” She turned around to face him, not as if he were a handsome stranger or a time traveler but rather a poorly behaved child. “If you want my continued support, I’m going to insist that you don’t waste my time or your air by telling me all the reasons you cannot wear the clothing, and in fact just get on with it. From the look of those clouds, it won’t take long until the rain starts in earnest. We can’t remain.”

“I am not sure how to put these things on,” he grumbled.

Her hands flew to her hips. He might be acting like a baby, but she was not his mother. “If you require coddling, Mr.Taylor,

you’d better look elsewhere. I’m not setting a single foot into that swamp to dress you.”

“Tuck. Tucker.” He glanced up as if he’d surprised himself by the force of his words. “Please. Call me by my name.”

“I’ll call you by whatever name that you so desire if you are sorted within the next two minutes.” But she wouldn’t. Not really.

She couldn’t imagine calling a stranger by their given name.

He blinked before narrowing his eyes slightly. “You don’t take any crap, do you?”

Crap? Her brows furrowed as she tried to recall the meaning of the word. “Like castoffs?” She nodded in dawning comprehension; the

term wasn’t commonly used. “No, I won’t tolerate being treated as inconsequential or having my ideas casually dismissed. I

do not wish to take such crap from anyone if I can help it. You are not a child.” She refused to let her gaze travel the span of his shoulders. Heavens,

they seemed wider than the English Channel.

“No, I’m not.” He scrutinized her in a manner that was so unlike the farmer’s. No focusing on the bounce of her curls, or

the turn of her nose, but trying to push deeper, see further.

She fought the urge to take a step back.

“How old are you?” he asked in that low lilt of his, drawing out the o sound, almost kneading the word.

She never saw the point in women hiding their years. “Seven and twenty. You?”

“Thirty.”

“All the more reason to act your age.” It was impossible to keep the snap from her voice. Probably because she wasn’t sure

if she should swoon or strangle him. Possibly both.

“I’m more of a grow-old-disgracefully kind of guy.”

He disappeared into the weeds, and she resisted the temptation to sneak even a single secret glance. Well, maybe one, but

certainly not more than two.

In no time, his distinctive puffed jacket came flying out, landing in a heap beside her. She quickly grabbed it before it

could get wet. Following suit, a navy-and-white shirt appeared, its long sleeves featuring a peculiar shiny texture. A crown

and the word “Austin” were on the front, while the back declared “13” and “Taylor.” Yet she couldn’t dwell on the specifics

because he emerged from between the reeds... almost naked.