Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Twelve

The room resembled a dust bunny orgy, but the sheets, at least, appeared clean. “I think we’ll be fine for tonight, but I

wouldn’t recommend touching or licking anything,” Tuck said, immediately regretting his choice of words.

Lizzy was rummaging through her trunk, focused like a squirrel searching for an acorn. For a moment, it seemed she had missed

his comment entirely, but then she murmured, “And where shall you sleep?”

Her tone was a bit too casual.

She missed nothing.

“I’ll rough it on the floor.” Tuck gestured toward his own leather case with a half shrug. “There’s a coat in there. I’ll

make do. I’m a pro at sleeping anywhere, anytime.”

His teammates had envied that about him; they’d hop on a plane, and he’d be snoring before takeoff. His secret was simple:

he’d close his eyes, take a few deep breaths, and imagine a scene from his childhood. Usually, he pictured rural Michigan,

with rows of faded corn husks in a snow-covered field and a few flurries silently falling. He never shared this image with

anyone; it sounded too bleak to be a believable happy place. But the sense of emptiness always relaxed him, even during treatment.

But right now, Lizzy’s grimace as she surveyed the stain-splotched wood commanded his full focus. “That floor doesn’t look

as though it’s been given a proper scrub since the reign of Queen Anne.”

“Don’t worry. I’d rather have you be comfortable.”

She glanced his way. Her gaze felt like a language he’d once known, leaving him with an unsettling sensation. It was as though,

if he concentrated hard enough, he might decipher the meaning behind her eyes.

“What’s on your mind?” A curl tumbled over her forehead, teasing him, begging to be brushed aside.

“Do you really want to know?”

Her lips parted a fraction. “I think so.”

“Don’t believe everything you think, Pocket Rocket.” The nickname rolled off his tongue. He liked calling her that. He liked

way too much about her. They hadn’t known each other long but already had this rhythm established, a back-and-forth that wasn’t

quite bickering but was closer to a dance. They kept making up the steps, changing the tune, forcing the other to react and

adapt.

“Go on, then. Tell me.” Her voice was tight, a guitar string on the verge of snapping.

“You’ve got pretty eyes.” It wasn’t everything he was thinking, not even close, but it felt like enough for now.

“Is that all?” She tilted her head, an undercurrent of bemusement in her tone.

His laugh took him by surprise, the sound filling the small room. “What more do you want?”

“It’s customary for gentlemen to pay compliments to my eyes,” she observed crisply. “It appears to be one of those pretty

nothings your gender latches onto before admiring my gown, or inquiring about my accomplishments.”

“Are you telling me that I’m basic?” He clutched his chest in mock offense.

“You had a rather interesting expression on your face a moment ago, and it made me curious to learn if there was an interesting

thought to accompany it.” She flicked a speck of dust off her sleeve. “But alas, you’ve dismissed that idea entirely.” Despite

her deadpan tone, those pretty eyes she’d shot him down for complimenting sparkled brightly with mischief.

The game was still on. She was poking and seeing if he’d poke back.

The problem was that if she kept this up, he’d want to do a hell of a lot more than poke. He’d never had a woman hand him

his ass like this; she wasn’t remotely intimidated or trying to impress.

“Okay, fine, give me another chance.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a low purr. “What about this...? Your eyes look

like moons when you smile, little crescent ones.”

She pursed her lips, as if fighting an unwilling smile. “I still stand by my earlier assertion that you shouldn’t trade hockey

for poetry.”

“Well, I might not be a poet, but I’m prepared to sleep on the ground for you. Although if I’m going to be honest, it’s more

for my own selfish reasons.”

“Excuse me?” She bit, just like he knew she would. Two points for him.

“Well, I dunno if I should say it, but I should be honest, right?” He took his time with his shrug, enjoying the way she leaned

in, curious despite herself. “You look like a bit of a blanket hog.”

“A what!” Real outrage entered her voice.

“The kind of person who steals all the blankets.”

“If you must know, I end up kicking most of them off in the night. I get too hot, except for my...” She trailed off, blinking. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Not a chance.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“I should wash up. Long day on the road. And we have another one tomorrow.” She fidgeted a moment before clasping her hands

together. “I’m also starting to get peckish. They must have cheese and bread downstairs.”

“Elizabeth Wooddash, don’t you go changing the subject. Finish the thought—except for...”

“Oh, fine. It’s just a bit of nonsense. I keep my feet covered for the monsters.” Her words spilled out in a breathless rush.

Noting his blank look, she hesitated. “You do know about the monsters, don’t you?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I regret to say that I’m not on a first-name basis with any.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I am seven and twenty and well aware monsters do not truly exist and that such a notion is preposterous.

Yet, when I sleep, I must ensure my feet remain covered, lest one of them should attempt to brush my foot with a clammy finger.”

A visible shudder rippled through her body.

“I see, so if there’s a monster lurking around, that’s how it’s going to want to spend its time? Tickling your bare foot?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She wrinkled her nose. He was beginning to know that expression well, and the two little lines that

appeared between her brows had become his good friends too.

“Well, you can rest easy. If I’m here, there won’t be any monsters. Let those feet fly.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Her eyes narrowed, a challenge lurking within their depths. “You look as though you’re the type

to snore. That could attract them.”

“How do you figure?” Sparring with her was easy, comfortable. It made him feel more like himself than he had in a long time. Strange.

“You’ll begin snoring, and I’m certain the creature will be drawn close, as though you’re beckoning it.”

“Singing the song of its people?”

She nodded sagely.

“Tell you what. You need water and food if you’re going to fight monsters. I’ll go down and get us some dinner.” He pulled

out a few coins Georgie had given him. “I don’t like that I haven’t earned this money.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Lizzy was matter-of-fact. “Georgie is like any person born into money. She doesn’t see its value

the way others might.”

“You weren’t born wealthy?”

“Oh, I was. My family is respectable. But after Papa died, our situation became more precarious, before Mamma remarried. Those

months of dire finances left an impression. And I’ve grown accustomed to hearing that every day I remain unwed is another

day that I’m using up resources that could be directed to my brother.”

“Your parents care about you, though, right?” He couldn’t imagine any parent not being thrilled to have such a strange, feisty

kid.

“It’s not as if my parents had no regard for me. I’m quite sure Mamma does, in her own way. It’s just that she’s never truly

seen me for who I am. I’m not sure she’s capable of it.” Lizzy’s voice softened, a wistful note creeping in. “I’ve been me, the

same me that is standing in front of you, my whole life. Yet, every time she glances my way, it’s as if I’m reflecting something

else back, a thing that’s not measuring up, that’s fundamentally lacking in some way.

“Please don’t look at me like that; it’s nothing to feel bad or sad about. It’s my life. And now that won’t matter, because soon what they’ll see is the ring on my finger, and we’ll be married.” She blanched. “Oh no. The rings! I utterly forgot that we’ll need some.”

“Not to worry. Your cousin remembered. I have them stored away for safekeeping.” In just a few days, he’d be sliding a gold

band onto Lizzy’s finger, binding them together in a way that he didn’t want to dwell on. Better to push those thoughts aside

and focus on current, less-complicated practicalities. “What do you want to eat? Something like stew?”

“Yes, but only if it’s lamb.”

“Okay. That’s specific.”

“Yes.” Her chin lifted. “I know what I like.”

Her words echoed in his mind as he made his way downstairs and into the inn’s courtyard. The pump handle was cool beneath

his palm, the damp metal unyielding as he worked it up and down. A week ago, he’d never have imagined himself here—pumping

water in a world without cars and filled with carriages, dressed in breeches and boots. He’d give a lot for some gray sweats

and a pair of slides.

But there wasn’t room for stress or worry here; he had to focus on the task at hand, which was getting through each moment.

His thoughts drifted back to Lizzy and the certainty in her words: I know what I like. At least he could trust in her, trust the unexpected strength that radiated from her core.

What would that certainty be like in bed?

Images churned through his mind: Lizzy with her thick hair loose and wild, her skirts hiked up around her waist as she straddled

him, sinking onto his hardness. Would she arch her back and roll her hips?

Or maybe she’d want to relinquish control, needing him to grip her hair firmly and guide her down to her knees. Not out of weakness, but trust—toward the liberation that comes from surrendering to give and receive pleasure.

A sudden splash jolted him back to reality, and he realized two facts at once. First, he’d been pumping water into an already

full bucket, creating a puddle at his feet, and second, he was hard.

Fuck. Come on. He wasn’t some horny teenager. He needed to get a grip.

He grabbed the bucket and held it in front of himself, glancing around. Nobody was in sight, but that didn’t mean they weren’t

watching. He ran through some old hockey stats, Bobby Orr’s 1970–71 season—37 goals and 102 assists—or Wayne Gretzky’s 39

goals in 50 games.

Gritting his teeth, and willing his erection to subside, he went into the inn. A quick conversation with the innkeeper yielded

three points of information:

The stew was rabbit, not lamb.

The man had a hell of a time understanding an American accent.

A steak-and-kidney pie didn’t sound all that great, so he went with the chicken option. Hopefully that would suit her.

While one of the keeper’s children took the bucket to transfer the water into two glasses, he waited for the food.

“Pardon me.” He turned to find a raven-haired woman behind him, her painted lips pursed in a knowing smile. “You owe me a

drink, sir.”

He glanced around to ensure she wasn’t talking to someone else. “I think you’ve mistaken me.”

“I was about to take a sip of wine when I noticed you. I’m afraid I immediately spilled my glass.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “What?”

With her height, her lips were almost at his ear when she whispered, “I’m trying to seduce you. Is that agreeable?”

“Ah.” Her red dress. Her makeup. Her practiced aura of seduction. It all clicked into place. Jesus, he was distracted. “You’re

a working girl.”

“Are you hard work?”

“I’m not your target market.” He reached for the tray with the two chicken pies and waters he’d ordered. “And I have to go

bring up dinner to someone, but good luck.”

“Oh, I won’t need it. That naval officer in the corner has been giving me cow’s eyes for a few minutes, but you were more

handsome.” She glanced at the pies. “You have a woman waiting for you?”

“I do,” he said simply. And it was true. He did. “We’re to be married in a few days.”

She tilted her head. “Isn’t she lucky?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“You’re a funny one, Yankee Doodle. I like that. Let me know if you both get bored tonight. I wouldn’t mind joining your party.

My guess is you have a pretty one.” And after a mocking curtsy, she sauntered away.

It had been a minute since he’d been with a woman. At least a year. It wasn’t that he strove for a monk’s existence, but rather

that he struggled to compartmentalize his life in the way his teammates seemed to manage so effectively. His dedication to

studying opponents, rigorous workouts, and constant practice left little room for investing in a relationship. Despite occasional

bouts of loneliness, he loved his work. Nothing was more fun.

But now he was here. Over two hundred years away from the Austin arena. From his teammates. From his routine. From the ice.

He stood outside the attic door, his arms laden with the dinner tray, unsure of how to alert Lizzy to his presence without

startling her or dropping something. Kicking the door was too aggressive.

As if she’d read his thoughts, the door opened, revealing Lizzy standing on the other side.

“I heard you,” she said simply. Her hair was fanned around her shoulders, and her face was pink. She’d changed out of her

dress and was in a long white nightgown.

“Thank you for the water,” she said, taking the glasses from him. “I’m so tired. And so hungry. I can’t decide which I want

to do more, eat or sleep.”

“These chicken pies smell good.” He set them on the table in the corner. “Eat one and then you can crash. You don’t want to

board the coach tomorrow on an empty stomach.”

“Indeed not.” She looked younger—no, that wasn’t it, just more vulnerable. It was strange how something as simple as seeing

her ready for sleep made it feel as if they were crossing a new threshold.

They ate quietly. Too tired for banter, but also, as the dusk turned to night outside the window and she lit the single lamp,

it felt like the bed filled the room, growing at the same rate as the shadows. He washed up quickly, still not quite used

to the fact that toothpaste here came as a powder. Although better not to complain, because at least he had clean teeth, thanks

to the tooth scraper he got at the Woodlands.

He cleared the dishes and brought them downstairs. The offi cer and the lady in red were gone. When he got back to the room, Lizzy was sitting up in bed. There was a chill in the night air, and he could tell that her nipples were hard. It was difficult to think of anything else.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his hand hovering near the lamp, ready to extinguish the soft light.

She shifted, the bed creaking beneath her. “The mattress is not a cloud, but it will do.”

“I’m going to turn the light out now, Lizzy.” He twisted the knob at the base, the wick lowering into the oil. The room dimmed

to darkness.

“Mr.Taylor.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He had to keep his tone even. “It’s okay.”

“Mr.Taylor?” A moment of silence stretched between them. “What if I said you could sleep in the bed?”

His mouth went dry. “I’d say you are polite, but it’s fine, really.”

“What if I insisted?” she inquired.

He didn’t know if it was a challenge, an invitation, or both. “Then I’d say you better call me Tuck or Tucker.”

“Why does it matter so much?”

“Every time you call me Mr.Taylor it makes me feel like my dad,” he said softly. “I’d rather be me.”

“Very well, Tucker.” The sheets rustled softly. “You may join me.”

“I could sleep upside down to you.”

“So, your face would be by my feet?”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “All the better to keep the monsters away, am I right?”

“But then your feet would be by my face.”

“This is true,” he conceded.

“Can’t we sleep side by side like betrothed adults who have three more days of travel together?” A note of practicality entered her tone, weaving through the weariness.

“All right, then.” He unfastened the buttons of his jacket one by one.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking my jacket off,” he answered calmly, continuing the slow, purposeful movement of his hands.

“I trust you shall remain fully clothed?” Her words carried a hint of wariness.

“I already said I could sleep on the floor.”

“I simply require assurance that you will be dressed.”

“All right, all right. I’m keeping my clothing on. Just minus the jacket,” he clarified before easing into the bed beside

her. The narrow mattress forced him to hug the edge to avoid contact. The air separating their bodies was charged like static

electricity.

“After enduring four days of travel, it is possible that we may still find ourselves needing to share a bed occasionally.”

He could smell her soap. It was a flower he recognized but couldn’t put his finger on, and something familiar yet spicy, like

rosemary. “I hadn’t thought about what comes next.” He folded his hands over his stomach, clasping them tightly. It felt like

he was playing the game Nora used to make him do in middle school: light as a feather, stiff as a board.

How was he going to sleep? Every single cell in his body was alert and at attention. His cornfield visualization seemed out of reach. He was too focused on wondering what she was doing. If the proximity affected her as well. He’d had women in his bed. But never like this. For some strange-ass reason, it was hotter to know she was there, so close, and so entirely off limits. If he so much as touched her cheek, it would have the same intent as pushing up her gown, sliding his hand beneath her parted thighs.

His cock jerked, flooding with heat. Shit. Why the fuck was he thinking about her nightgown? How it hid so much. Practically

wrapped her up like a present. Imagining how slow it would be to open each button. The little reward each time he was successful,

another flash of creamy skin. She was probably so soft, so warm, so fucking—

“Are you quite all right?” Her whisper made him start, as if he’d been caught out.

He cleared his throat, praying to whatever god wanted to listen that he didn’t sound hoarse. “I’m falling asleep—why?”

She paused. “Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

Shit. Panic flooded him. She didn’t sense his hard-on, did she?

“You’re really stiff.”

Oh God, she did.

“I’m sorry.” What else could he say? Might as well admit it. Boners happen.

“I perceive your body’s tension. You needn’t worry. I shall refrain from any physical contact,” she reassured him in a calm,

composed manner.

Relief mingled with confusion as the realization dawned. Lizzy wasn’t talking about his hard-on at all. He gave himself a

mental shake.

“That’s a relief,” he muttered, his shoulders relaxing as the adrenaline rush wore off. “I was worried about my honor.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?” Sleepy amusement threaded her words.

“Lizzy.” His tone grew serious, his gaze intense despite the darkness. He didn’t care. He needed her to know he meant this.

“You don’t ever have to worry about me.”