Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Nine

The clinking and scraping of iron gradually penetrated Tuck’s awareness, pulling him from his deep sleep. He blinked, fixing

his gaze on a crack in the ceiling’s plaster rosettes, his brain registering the pieces of his surroundings like a puzzle

coming together. Nope. He wasn’t in the hospital ready to tell Nora about his vivid dream. His ass was still firmly planted

in 1812.

The room held an unfamiliar scent, a blend of cedar and beeswax underscored with a bit of old-home dampness. Tuck’s gaze wandered

over the four-poster bed, the high ceiling, and the walls painted in two tones, light blue and creamy white. Opposite the

bed, the portrait of the room’s former inhabitant, Edward, stared back from the canvas with an inscrutable expression.

“Thanks for lending me your room, old buddy,” he murmured, wiping sleep from his eyes. Neddy may be gone, but that was just

the tip of the iceberg. Everyone he’d met in the past twenty-four hours? They were all long dead and buried in his time. And

now that included himself. They were a world of ghosts not knowing they were already history.

The great cosmic cycle could cave your head in.

Saluting Neddy, Tuck tossed off the blanket and swung his legs to the side, his bare feet sinking into the soft rug. First, he reached under the mattress and pulled out his phone, turning it on.

No signal.

No shit.

Still, it comforted him to see his screen saver, a Regals team shot from last season. He looked at the guys, the arena. Matty

Vincenza, the backup goaltender, would step up. Coach would have called in an emergency backup too. Maybe a kid from UT Austin.

Did they know he was missing yet over in England? He was out for most of the regular season, but they must have gotten word.

What would they do? Give up his spot? No fucking way.

He powered off his phone and returned it to its hiding spot. Absentmindedly scratching his lower back, he wandered over to

the window. He needed a distraction, so he decided to check what was making that noise outside.

A round-cheeked house servant yanked a chain, pulling a bucket up from the stone well in the middle of the yard. Hence the

clatter of metal. He whistled under his breath. When he returned home, he’d never take indoor plumbing for granted again.

He might even buy his toilet a top-of-the-line bowl brush.

The servant must have sensed his gaze because she turned to glance up. Suddenly aware that he had slept naked, Tuck leapt

back into the safety of the shadows. The last thing he needed was to look like some pervert with a flashing fetish.

The door flew open behind him. “What the hell!” Tucker’s snapped surprise earned him a frown from the gray-haired man who

entered.

He grunted as Tuck clapped his hands over his dick. “Morning, sir.” The male servant inclined his head in a stiff bow. “I’m

here to see you dressed properly.”

Not again.

“Why is this necessary?” Tuck asked. “I’m fine handling it on my own.”

“Not from what I’ve seen,” the servant drawled calmly, striding to a chair to inspect the clothing Tuck had tossed there the

night before. He held up the jacket and clicked his tongue before moving to the wardrobe. “What I witnessed yesterday was

a man in his underthings for all to see, even respectable ladies.”

“I was in pants and a shirt.” After a life of hockey, he was well accustomed to changing in front of others, even the media

when they came through the locker room door hunting for a quote.

“That’s right.” The servant turned with a puzzled look. “No waistcoat. No jacket. No hat. And in front of MissWooddash, for

shame. I don’t know how you Americans behave across the pond, but here?” He made a disapproving sound that seemed to convey

the words You come to this house and try any funny business, I’ll mess you up.

And Tucker approved of that. Here was Lizzy, alone in the country, surrounded by nothing but deep dark woods. A territorial

sensation clenched his gut as he forced logic into his head. The women in this house deserved physical protection, but from

what he could see, they could take care of themselves just fine. Anyone attempting to break in would likely find themselves

fleeing like the burglars in Home Alone .

While this servant was taking his sweet time selecting clothing, Tucker caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His skin

had a natural olive tone, but he’d spent last summer indoors. The chemo port scar on his chest was a visible reminder of why.

His abs were lean, lacking clear definition, sure, but his waist was trim.

Would Lizzy like it?

The thought rattled him like a shot off the crossbar. What did it matter? If she went along with whatever plot was being cooked up by her cousin and her friend, it was to serve her own purposes. Not because of his abs.

“Here we are, sir.” The servant handed him a white linen shirt with a twinge of annoyance. “Don’t stand there looking at it;

put it on.” Tuck took the shirt and pulled it on over his head; it hung to his mid-thighs.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert, but most call me Robbie.”

“Thank you, Robbie. And I think—”

“Please don’t.” Robbie cut him off. “Think, I mean. My job isn’t to chat; it’s to get you dressed so I can see to my other

chores.”

“Are you often sent to dress a guy?”

Robbie looked bewildered. “And why would I be doing that, seeing as we haven’t had a man stay in here since the old master

died? Not even MissWooddash’s brother has visited, and him being a cousin of MissGeorgie too. But we can still do things

properly.”

“Fair enough.” Tuck pulled on the proffered stockings, then underwear, essentially long white leggings. He fastened the top

button and then stepped into the offered breeches.

Tuck had been close to Dixon, the Regals’ equipment manager, who’d held the role for two decades. He anticipated Tuck’s needs,

often before Tuck did. A realization clicked into place. So Robbie here, now reaching for a waistcoat, was like the 1812 version.

Instead of sharpening skates, breaking in sticks, and cleaning jerseys, he was ensuring all these items of clothing were ready

to go.

This was another game, one that would take all his mental concentration and focus. And the stakes were higher. If he lost, he might not only be unable to ever return home, but something worse could happen. People could think he was crazy and lock him in some drafty asylum. Or he could get sick, spike a fever, and that would be it—game over. Worse, his cancer could come back. The thought sent ice water coursing through his veins.

Then what? There wasn’t anything to put him back into remission here. As much as he hated chemo, despised the smell of hospitals,

the thin scratchy fabric of hospital gowns, and the endless blood draws for labs—all of that allowed him to know he’d be okay.

It assured him that he’d kick cancer’s ass and have a setback that would turn into a comeback, not a decline.

“Sir?” Robbie’s brows knit.

“What’s wrong?”

“I asked if you wanted to see the result.”

Tucker reached out and patted the man on the shoulder, realizing as Robbie flinched that casual touch maybe wasn’t the norm

here. While there were some correlations, 1812 was not—and would never be—home.

“When you put this much effort into turning me out? Of course I’ll look. Tell you what, I probably won’t recognize myself.”

Robbie directed him to the mirror, and Tuck didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be “I look like an asshole.” But he kind

of did. At least like a man who’d drink tea with his pinkie outstretched. A regular snob.

But this was the uniform. And he was in the game. He gave an approving nod. “Good.”

“Anything else I can do for you before seeing myself out?”

Tuck ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. “Actually, yeah. One more thing. Where do you keep extra toothbrushes in the

house?”

Robbie blinked. “Sir?”

Tuck’s heart sank as the steward gave a nervous smile. There were more than a few gaps where teeth had once lived. Four, by an initial count.

“Did a dentist pull yours?” Wasn’t a puck or high stick.

“If you’re talking about my teeth, I use my finger and soot every day, but if one gets to aching, I go to the barber, and

he fixes me up all right. The one in Hallow’s Gate is strong. One pull and crack !”

“Back it up. You go to a barber for teeth? I don’t understand.”

“Well, here in the country, we can’t keep a full-time tooth puller employed. That’s for the city. Of course, there could be

the blacksmith.”

The damn blacksmith again. It sounded like those guys could do everything from making a horseshoe to yanking out a rotten

incisor to marrying you in a border town.

“A tooth what?”

Robbie leaned in with a grave face. “Scoundrels that wrench out your afflicted teeth from your very jaw, causing such a torment

as to make a man lose his dignity.”

As the conversation continued, Tuck grew increasingly less certain why he was asking these questions when he suddenly didn’t

want to know the answers. If he was reduced to rubbing ash on his teeth, he might resemble a poorly carved jack-o’-lantern

when he finally returned to the twenty-first century.

At breakfast, he mentioned to Lizzy his conversation with Robbie. Georgie was out with her dogs, and Jane hadn’t come down

yet—Lizzy said Jane tended to sleep late.

“Do you use ash on your teeth too?” he asked.

“No, of course not.” Lizzy wrinkled her nose before clapping a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that. You must

think I’m a dreadful snob.”

“I just want to clean my teeth.”

“I use a method my mother taught me. It’s salt with oven-dried sage crumbled through it.”

“Salt?” He arched a brow, inwardly wincing when she flushed slightly, catching his reaction. “But no fingers?”

“I have a tooth scraper. How do you clean your teeth? They are quite brilliant.”

He hesitated. His teeth looked good, but more than a few weren’t the ones he was born with. Veneers felt like a lot to explain.

She rolled her eyes. “If I learn your mysterious secrets of brushing, will I cause some irreversible twist of fate for the

whole of mankind?”

“When you put it like that? No.” He took another sip of tea. The drink was okay, in a way anything that warm and wet was,

but he’d kill for a protein shake. “We go see a dentist.”

“Den-tist.” She tasted the unfamiliar word.

“It’s a doctor for teeth. And while sometimes people will get one pulled, for the most part, you go to keep them healthy and

in place. There is a team of assistants who clean and polish each individual tooth and a dentist who fixes the harder problems.”

“And so, as people get older, do they keep most of them?”

“Define most ,” he said.

“Half?”

“The majority of people where I’m from keep all their teeth, and if not, you can get a fake one put in.”

Her brows knit. “I’ve seen people collecting teeth in the poorer areas, hoping to resell to the richer classes.”

“That seems wrong,” he said.

“It must feel very different here.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll have a tooth scraper located for you as well. But I also can’t

help but harbor the ongoing feeling that you must be laughing at us.”

“Why?”

“For how simple we must seem. Your world is so different.”

“That it is, yes.”

“Here, now, a woman’s legal identity is absorbed by her husband upon marriage. They cannot own property, enter into contracts,

or control their earnings.”

“Yeah, that’s different in my time.” He sat back in his chair. “Women can own their homes, work in any field, and do whatever

they want with their money.”

“A woman can get a job like a man?”

“Yes.”

Her brows perked up. “And earn the same amount?”

“Well, no, not always.” He swung his gaze to his plate. “Women often don’t get paid the same.”

“That is odd. In America, you have presidents. How many have been women?” she inquired.

“None.”

Her smile dimmed. “Your country was formed in the eighteenth century and you’ve not had a woman rule even one time?”

“I mean, when you put it that way...” He trailed off sheepishly.

“What other way is there?” she challenged. “What about your sports job? Do ladies do it?”

He brightened. “Women play hockey, sure!”

“On your team?” she pressed.

“No, no. I’m with the NHL, the National Hockey League.”

“Made up of men from your nation?”

“Yes. And no. Also, men from Canada. Norway. We have a Russian too.”

“My head is starting to ache.” She rubbed her temples. “Where do women play hockey for work?”

“Most don’t.” He frowned. “There have been some starts and stops to get a female league. There is one now, but not that many cities are in it.”

“So women don’t do sports?”

“Many women play many different sports. But it’s hard to get a lot of sports teams for women to earn a lot of money.”

“Because men don’t want to watch or value them,” she concluded softly.

Shit.

She was right. Her reasoning got to the ugly truth.

And worse, he’d barely thought of it before. He’d known, of course. Everyone knew. But somehow the knowledge was so ingrained—the

unfair dynamics of the two-tier reality of women in sports—that he’d come to accept it as the norm.

And fuck that.

Now he had to be here with this bright, beautiful woman who’d hoped that over time wrongs would be righted, and all he had

to offer was... It’s pretty shitty. And I’ve done nothing to change it.

Shame soured his stomach.

“Hundreds of years in the future and women still can’t enjoy what a man can.” Her laugh was forced, like someone replaced

the real thing with a cheap plastic imitation. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

And the hollowness in her voice—he hated it.

Right now, from what she’d shared, a woman was the property of her husband. And it didn’t seem right that all he could offer

her was that in the twenty-first century at least a woman could work a job that would usually pay her less than a man. Not

much of a reason to take a victory lap. He wanted to say something honest, even if it wasn’t much.

“I’m sorry. And worse, I could have done better. But I’ve been so focused on myself; my goals are big, it’s a competitive world, there’s a long line of guys waiting for me to mess up, so they can take my spot. But it shouldn’t be either-or . It should be both-and .”

“Be both-and ?” Lizzy’s smile pushed through like a tiny flower appearing in a sidewalk crack. “I like how you talk.”

“Glad I amuse you,” he said. “But if me showing up here can make a difference to you? Make it so you can work to become a

writer? To live a life on your terms? To inherit this house? Then I’m going to say yes. Scotland. Gretna Green. Marriage.

Let’s do it.”

“If you are willing to accept, then so am I.”

He wasn’t breathing. The hair on the backs of his forearms had gone extra sensitive.

“But I have a few rules. All are nonnegotiable.” She held up three fingers.

The way she spoke, her voice quiet yet filled with intense focus—it was as if she had gained the power to redirect his blood

straight to his brain, making him hyperaware of every single word.

Talk, idiot.

He cleared his throat, and the sound felt too loud. “Go for it.”

“First, we respect each other’s need for privacy and personal boundaries. We will be traveling together, but not as husband

and wife. Eloping with you shall enrage my family. I prefer to mitigate that by behaving with decorum.”

“Okay, deal. What else you got?”

“Second, social contracts. We will identify and agree on how to address each other in public. We can be unusual, but we must

be convincing.

“Third, we support each of our goals. I assist you in returning home, and you will help me become a widow.”

“Who grieves me terribly,” he murmured wryly.

“Would you like that?” She cocked her head. “To be grieved?”

He frowned. “I’m afraid that’s happening now. My sister—we aren’t close in terms of interests or hobbies—but we get each other.

And it kills me to think she’s worrying. And then there are my parents. I was sick earlier this year. Nothing serious. Well,

it was, but I’m fine now. I just prefer to do the worrying about the people who matter to me and not the other way around.”

She held his gaze. “You are a good man.”

“Sometimes.” He cracked his knuckles. “Thank you.”

“I am honored to pretend-marry you.”

He raised his head. “Thought this was going to be legal.”

“You know what I mean.”

There was a knock on the dining room door. Robbie entered, hat in hand. “Sir? The mistress asked if you’d be available to

come meet her at the stables.”

“I think we are both finished with breakfast?” Lizzy gave Tuck a quick glance. “We can go out together.”

“Sorry, miss.” Robbie twisted his cap. “The mistress said only the gentleman was to come. You’re to begin packing.”

“Very bossy of her.” Lizzy shrugged. “She probably wants to show you something with the dogs, as you mentioned an interest.

I am quite sure she knows she has maximized all my goodwill on the topic.”

Tuck nodded and gave her a convincing smile, even returning her wave as she exited the room.

As soon as her footsteps disappeared down the hall, he squared off with Robbie. “Okay. What’s really going on?”

Robbie dropped the submissive pretense. “Mistress is in with the dogs, but she’s not throwing Goliath a bone. She’s polishing

a pistol. Sorry, sir.”

“That’s all right. It’s about what I was expecting.”

Lizzy was clearly doted on as the younger relative. The gamble that Georgie and Jane were making was considerable. There was the potential this would all work out exactly the way they hoped. But he got it. They were protective. And it was time to face the music.

He walked out into the backyard and nearly into a goose, who honked at him like he was the rude one. “Excuse me,” he muttered.

“In there.” Robbie pointed down toward a small white-painted outbuilding. “And good luck, sir.”

Tuck crossed his arms. “You reckon I’ll need it?”

“Oh, very much.” Robbie’s rapid nods punctuated the sentence.

“Well, cover me,” Tuck quipped. “I’m going in.”

The stables were dark and shadowy compared to the bright morning light outside. Tucker looked around, waiting for his vision

to correct; he heard Georgie rustling around somewhere.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us.” She stepped from the back stall, a massive dog flanking her on either side.

“Jane and I are grateful that you’ve agreed to this wild plot to take our Lizzy and travel to Gretna Green.”

“Jane? Is she here?”

“Of course.”

“Jesus!” Tuck jumped at the soft voice in his ear. He didn’t startle easily, but this had gotten weird. Behind him was Jane

in a dark dress, no cap, no smile. Was she holding a shovel? He glanced down. Yeah. That was a shovel. And a rusty one at

that.

“You leave for Gretna Green tomorrow.” Georgie didn’t acknowledge she was holding a gun. The giant dogs weren’t growling,

but they didn’t have a warm expression either. “We secured you a stagecoach from Salisbury. It’s a long journey.”

“Four nights,” Jane murmured. “Four nights in inns without a chaperone.”

“Easy.” He held up his hands. “I know what you’re thinking...”

“Do you, though?” Jane didn’t move.

Tuck was boxed in between them.

“Is the gun necessary?” he asked Georgie. “If we could just have a reasonable conversation about this Scotland idea—that you both came up with, I might add.”

“This is a dueling pistol.” Georgie turned the weapon over in her hands; it had a smooth wood handle—walnut, maybe—a dark

steel barrel, and intricate silver touches. “It belonged to my father.”

“Used once. In a matter of honor,” Jane said.

“You aren’t from this time,” Georgie said. “We wanted to impress upon you a few things.”

“If you change your mind, and leave Lizzy without marriage, she will be ruined.” Jane’s tone was matter-of-fact. “It signifies

a loss of respectability, social standing, and, for a young woman, the total collapse of other suitable marriage prospects.

And it won’t only affect her. It will affect her parents, her brother, his future wife, their future children.”

“Who, to be sure, we don’t give much care for,” Georgie added. “But Lizzy does.”

“And what Lizzy cares about, we care about.”

“No cold feet,” Tuck said. “I give you my word. I won’t leave Lizzy.”

“And if you do? I imagine you won’t be hard to find. You will make any number of mistakes. People will talk,” Jane said.

“I’ll defend my family’s honor.” Georgie’s fingers tightened on the gun.

“And I’ll bury your body in a grave no one will ever find.” Jane’s sweet, soft voice belied the threat. “Once my good opinion is lost, it is lost forevermore.”

And Tuck had the impression they were absolutely serious.

But so was he.

“I’m not going to leave her. I promise. I swear it on my life. Is that good enough for you?”

“Not quite. Swear on the life of someone who matters to you,” Jane said firmly. “We aren’t more than acquaintances. I know

you enjoy a good boiled potato. I’m rather less certain how much you value your own life.”

His temper began to rise. He understood them wanting to make sure he wasn’t going to be an asshole, but they shouldn’t assume

too much. “You don’t know what I’ve done to stay alive. And I swear it on my sister Nora’s life. I won’t leave Lizzy. We made

a deal. We need each other. I need to figure out how to get home. And, well, she needs me dead. But...” He pointed to the

dueling pistol. “Not for real.”

Georgie locked her gaze with his. “Very well. I trust you, Mr.Taylor.”

“And I also place my faith in you,” Jane declared. “But I must warn you, sir, if you prove false—”

“You shall find yourself in the Great Beyond,” Georgie concluded with a serious tone. “And I dare say, you will find it quite

impossible to return home from there.”

Damn, these ladies were hardcore. But he kinda respected it.

“Once you’ve completed your task, make haste to London,” Georgie instructed. “In the meantime, we’ll research the history

of the pond and other lore in the region. Perhaps we’ll uncover some valuable insights.”

“Very well.” Jane set the shovel against the barn wall. “Since we aren’t consigning you to the grave today, Mr. Taylor, I find myself quite eager to return to my book. My hero is about to make a mess out of everything by declaring his love for my heroine.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when he is still obtuse about women. Are you obtuse about women, Mr.Taylor?”

“I think the women around me would be best equipped to answer that question.”

Georgie barked out a laugh. “I don’t often have a high opinion of your sex. But you might surprise us all.”