Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Sixteen

The anvil wedding drew closer with each passing moment. Lizzy had ordered a bath and used more of her precious soap than usual.

Her heart raced, each beat a frantic flutter against her ribs, despite her best efforts to remind herself that this was to

be her one—and only—wedding, a superficial ritual that would ultimately grant her freedom. It didn’t mean anything. But she

couldn’t shake the silly impulse to look pretty for the occasion.

No, not just for the occasion. For him.

She wanted to look pretty for Tuck.

That was why she scrubbed herself until her skin went a rosy pink, cleaned her teeth twice, washed her hair, and sat by the

sunny window brushing it out until it dried in shiny waves. She donned a high-waisted white muslin gown and swept her waves

into a neat twist, wrapping a single ribbon around her hairstyle in a simple bandeau à la Grecque.

She frowned at her reflection in the room’s cracked mirror. Her face was distorted but her eyes matched her blue shawl and

held a hectic brightness.

Never mind.

She would simply stop looking. The expression was nerves. Not from repressed excitement, but from what her family would do when they discovered what she had done. At least they wouldn’t ever learn her husband was an American hockey player from the twenty-first century. That would send Mamma, Mr. Alby, and her brother straight to the grave. It was quite bad enough that she’d be introducing them to Tucker Taylor, a Baltimore dry-goods merchant.

But it wouldn’t be for long.

She left the inn, and Tuck was waiting in front of the blacksmith shop as planned. He’d come back to the room last night and

she’d pretended to be asleep as it took him three tries to get off his boots before he then walked into a wall. It appeared

he’d had quite a lot more than one drink, and when he lay down on the floor—no blanket, no pillow, just a coat under his head—and

began to snore, this day she dreaded couldn’t have come quickly enough.

But the man waiting had on fawn-colored breeches, a royal blue coat, and shiny boots, and didn’t look like a man who’d spent

the evening in his cups. He was beautiful. There wasn’t another word for it. His face and form weren’t cold, remote, and perfect

like one of those Greek statues in the British Museum. Yes, he had impressive height and an angular jaw, but the true secret

of his look hid in the collection of small so-called flaws: a wide mouth, close-set eyes, the odd dark hair on his knuckles,

the pockmark on his cheek, and the broken nose. It made him more accessible, more human somehow.

And infinitely more fascinating.

As she neared, he stuck out his arm, a few buttercups in his hand. “Here.” He offered them awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s a wedding, so I suppose the bride needs to carry flowers.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the posy. A few stems were threatening to snap off, as if he’d been holding them too tightly.

“I like what you did with your hair. You look... nice.”

“Y-you too,” she murmured.

“I clean up okay.” He glanced down and flicked away some invisible lint. “I have the rings as well.” She studied him. His

voice was rougher than normal and he was so pale that his copper-penny eyes almost seemed to glow.

“Are you all right, Mr.Taylor?”

“One rule for this marriage.” He turned to face her fully, holding up a finger. “When we are done with this... event, I

need you to promise not to call me Mr.Taylor ever again.”

“You seem to have a specific dislike that overrides any politeness I intend in the gesture. Does this all truly have to do

with your father?”

“Yes,” he said after a short pause. “I guess it does.”

She waited for him to go on, but that was all he was willing to offer for the moment.

“Very well, Tuck. Are you ready?”

His gaze searched her face. “Are you?”

“Yes.” And as she said the word, she tasted no lie. The realization calmed her. This was what she wanted. “Once we do this,

we can go to London and research a way home for you.”

She might have imagined the glint of disappointment in his eyes, it was there and gone so quickly.

A deep voice boomed from the blacksmith’s doorway. “How long are ye two gonna be standin’ out on the street haverin’?”

They whirled around to see a broad man wearing a leather apron stained with soot and sweat.

He wiped his brow with his hairy forearm before continuing. “Ye’ve come to Gretna Green. Yer here at me shop. I’ve got to put a shoe on a horse afore long, but if you can be quick about it, I’ve got the time.” The blacksmith turned and swaggered back in at such a pace they had no choice but to follow quickly.

The heart of his shop was the forge, a fiery spot where the smith shaped metal on a solid anvil surrounded by an assortment

of mystifying tools. The air smelled of burning coal and heated metal. Finished products lined the shelves—horseshoes, tools,

and intricate ironwork—showcasing his skill. It was a busy but organized space, much like the aura of the man himself.

“First things first.” The blacksmith wiped his sooty hands on his leather apron. “Ye have my payment?”

“Yes, right here.” Tuck handed over a guinea.

The blacksmith gave it a small bite before examining it. “Don’t see many of these anymore.”

Georgie had money stowed away all over her house like some kind of dragon. She didn’t part with much, so it was no surprise

that some of her currency was on the verge of being outdated.

The blacksmith took their names and beckoned them to stand on either side of the anvil before clearing his throat. “Do ye,

Tucker Taylor, and do ye, Elizabeth Wooddash, declare ye wish to be joined in marriage?” He gave them both an expectant look.

“This is the I do part.”

“Oh, right.” Tuck nodded. “I do.”

“I do as well,” Lizzy whispered before immediately wanting to cover her face. As well. Why couldn’t she do the same as Tuck, speak the words loud and confident?

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The only noise was the crackle of the fire.

The blacksmith gave them a look that indicated he was beginning to find them both feeble-minded. “That’s it. Our business

is done. Be fruitful and multiply and all that.”

Within a few seconds, Lizzy was blinking out in the Scottish sunlight, Tuck, her husband, next to her.

“That was quicker than I expected,” he muttered, a trifle dazed.

“Yes, remarkably efficient.”

“All the more time to shoe the horses,” Tuck rejoined, sending them both into peals of laughter before he paused, frowning

slightly. “Shit. I didn’t give you the ring. It was over too quickly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled them out—two

plain gold bands. “Do we just do it here?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Lizzy glanced about the bustling village street. “We should wait,” she decided at once. “I feel as if we’re

already attracting enough attention.” To be sure, most women who passed by gave Tuck a lingering glance. She didn’t want those

same women watching her exchange rings outside of a blacksmith shop. They might think she was desperate. And right now the

only thing she was desperate for was a hot meal. She’d skipped breakfast and needed her belly full so that her brain could

think.

They ordered at the inn and waited, uncertain in each other’s presence.

Lizzy spoke first. “You spent the evening down here, I presume?”

He gave her a blank stare.

“You were, after all, very inebriated last night.”

A whisper of regret crossed his features. “I was, yes. And no. I didn’t stay here. I bought a bottle at the bar and went outside.

I found a hill at the edge of town and sat drinking and looking at the stars. At some point I fell asleep, and when I came

to, sheep surrounded me. I don’t know who was more confused, but I took it as my cue to return.”

“Remember, Mr....” She shook her head, correcting herself. “Tuck. This isn’t real. You aren’t signing your life away to me. Imagine we are two actors in a play.” Her smile went rueful. “A Shakespeare one. Two dirty jokes strung between bits of plot.”

He blinked. “We’re not real.”

She couldn’t tell if he was asking a question or making a statement. So, she decided to answer. “We’re not real,” she repeated

with all the conviction she could muster. Because those kisses last night were the realest things she’d ever known. She still

tasted him on her lips and smelled his scent on her clothing. “But we are legal.”

His lips quirked. “You’re ruthless.”

“I prefer practical.”

“And once you get rid of me, tell me how you see yourself living your best life.”

A serving girl brought out their meals. As she stared into her soup, something deep inside her cracked at the thought of him

leaving. Was this the power of a few kisses? Did some tendrils of connection forge into each other so that the idea of separation

couldn’t be without a whisper of pain? “I—I will live at the Woodlands. I will wake and sleep when I choose, pay visits or

entertain at my liking, and I will try to write a book.”

He cut another piece of chicken. “Why do you hedge?”

She wrinkled her brow.

He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “You said try .” He waved his fork. “A small green wise man once said something to the effect of there is no trying, only doing.”

“Green?”

“Forget it. Just know that one thing you’re missing out on during this time is Yoda.” His expression grew serious. “I want

you to do something for me.” He smiled at the alarm that must have appeared on her face. “Nothing big. It’s quite easy. I

simply want you to repeat these words... ‘I will write a book.’”

“I just said that.”

“No. You said you’d try . Say I will .”

“What nonsense.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, casting her gaze anywhere that wasn’t at him, watching with his intense

expression. “Lizzy. Do it.”

“Fine.” She set her hands on the table and took a breath. “I will write a book.”

“Good girl.”

A hot rush of pleasure coursed through her. Why did she like those two particular words so much? She wasn’t a pet—his or anyone

else’s. But the simple affirmation had an undeniable effect, filling some small corner of her soul that she didn’t know was

missing, a gasping little relief to hear such open praise.

“Now slower, as if you mean every word, like you are making a vow to yourself, to the universe, and to anyone else who might

be listening.”

“I. Will. Write. A. Book.” It was as if she’d studied her whole life to master the art of being invisible, and he was here

demanding she frame a canvas of her ambitions and hang it on the wall for everyone to see.

He noticed. “How does that feel?”

“P-powerful.”

“From now on, every time you say ‘I’ll try to write a book,’ stop and say it again without the try to part. You want the freedom to create your own future. That’s not someone who tries. That is someone who takes action and

can make it happen. That’s why I meant it when I said I want you on my team. Believe in yourself and you’ll be unstoppable.”

It was at that moment, in a dim bar on the Scottish border, that Lizzy realized she’d fallen a little in love with Tucker Taylor. Her husband. Not enough to cause her great danger. Nothing to derail her from their plans. But enough that her heart cracked open a fraction. And that was far more feeling than she’d ever intended. Because for the first time, she believed that maybe she could take on the stories in her vellum notebook and turn them into a real novel.

“I will get you home,” she said, and not only for his benefit. She would get him home for her too—because this crack in her

heart? It was too much. She needed to get it patched up and repaired as soon as possible. All his “good girl” talk aside—flirting

and fun was one matter. Feelings? True sentiment? That was too dangerous. She had a plan, and it was already going to be a

challenge to execute it.

Feelings and freedom did not work hand in hand.

“To achieving our goals, Mrs.Taylor.” He raised a glass.

“My name.” She blinked. “Oh. I’ve lost my name.”

He froze. “I’m sorry, I was teasing. But you don’t ever—”

“Elizabeth!”

Lizzy went very quiet, not bothering to turn. She knew that voice. It was the same condescending tone she’d heard her whole

life. The voice that reminded her that she was a burden, that she was a failure, that if she couldn’t play by the rules, then

the best thing she could do was make herself as small and useful as possible.

“My God, Elizabeth,” a man’s voice ground out. “It really is you.”

She turned slowly, and there was her older brother, Henry. He looked horrible. As if he’d been in a saddle for days. Dark

bruises haunted the hollows under his eyes, eyes that were positively murderous.

“Sister, are you dicked in the nob? What have you done?”