Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Eighteen

The rain showed no signs of relenting, but Lizzy refused to yield to the elements. She pressed onward, her arms swinging with

purpose as rivulets of water streamed down the back of her neck and into her dress. At her side, Tuck’s long strides easily

kept the pace, his measured steps falling in time with her hurried ones. She didn’t have the faintest notion of where she

was going—she simply needed to move, to escape the weight of expectations that pressed down around her. Soon they were off

any path and making their way through one of the many sheep paddocks on the outskirts of town.

“Henry had no business going to the Woodlands to spy on me,” she seethed, half to Tuck and half to herself. “He may spin a tale about urgently needing to attend to business in Portsmouth, but in reality, his true motive was to discover me in some compromised position. He hopes to use this as another wedge to ingratiate himself to our stepfather and leave me on the edge. It’s not fair and it’s not right, but Hen has done this my entire life. He always schemes to position himself in a favorable manner that places me at a disadvantage. When we were children, my brother would constantly remind me how difficult it was for him to study subjects like numbers, history, divinity, Latin, and so forth. He’d say it was a good thing that I wasn’t a boy, because I could never do it and be successful. Mother and Papa, and then our stepfather, highly valued his education even if he didn’t demonstrate more than average aptitude. They expected me to defer to him as some type of genius.

“Of course, I don’t want to give the impression that I was not afforded any opportunity. Their expectation for me was to be

accomplished. This means my value was connected to how I could embroider, converse in French, play the pianoforte, paint with

watercolors, and exude whatever spell bewitches a man. Unfortunately, I would have probably done better at school. Instead,

I limped along a failure.”

“That’s not true.”

Lizzy looked up at Tuck, her hand on her forehead as if it could shield her from the deluge. Maybe he hadn’t heard her correctly,

as the rain was making a great sound on the field stones. “I don’t indulge in false modesty, sir. If I say I’m not skilled

in an area, I am not skilled in it—”

Before she could protest, he swept her off her feet and began walking. As her back met the trunk of a weeping willow, she

gasped out, “What are you doing?” The dipping, downturned branches formed a small shelter around them, like an enchanted fairy

ring.

Tuck braced her against the tree and stood between her legs, his big hands gripping her bottom as he looked down at her, a

muscle feathering in the place where his jaw met his temple.

“You’re so smart, Lizzy,” he growled. “But sometimes you’re so smart that it also makes you a little stupid.” She shivered

as he dipped his head, his breath warm against her throat. “Trust me, you have no problem bewitching a man.”

Her hands, which had been pushing against his shoulders, did a sudden reversal, even without conscious thought; she was now gripping him, driving him closer.

“All I can think about is doing this to you,” he rasped, skimming his tongue along the curve of her neck before drawing the

skin between his teeth for a soft nip. “This and nothing else.”

His low grunt sent a shock of pleasure coursing between her thighs in hot prickling dots.

He gripped her more thoroughly and jutted into her again with a slow rock, rolling his hips with enough pressure to make her

insides warm.

“Want you.” He rocked again. “I fucking love that you don’t have anything on under this dress. Just you.” His hips canted.

More pressure against that small aching spot she’d recently discovered in the inn. Then, her attention to it had been gentle,

curious, and grew into a frenzy. This methodical grind scoured away her inhibitions and exposed something new, vulnerable,

and intoxicating.

“All I do is want you. I’m your husband, Lizzy. And I’m at your mercy. So don’t tell me what you can’t do. Tell me what you

want, right now, because I’ll give it to you.”

“Release.” Where did that half sob tear from? “Don’t let me think anymore.”

He hiked her skirts to her waist, nudged her legs apart.

“Open for me,” he ordered. And God help her, she did. Was he going to make her his wife in truth here against a willow on

the edge of an out-of-the-way Gretna Green sheep paddock?

But he wasn’t removing his breeches; he sank to his knees in the wet grass. Using his thumbs, he gently parted her cleft and

looked directly into her center.

“Tuck.” In some vaguely sensible corner of her mind, she knew that she should ask him to stop, that she shouldn’t be doing such wicked things anywhere, let alone outdoors, but she’d promised not to lie. And in this cocooned world of stooped green branches, stopping was the very last thing that she wanted.

“Look at this goddamn perfect pink. Fuck, I can see your slick right there in the slit. You’re so wet. Is that all for me?”

Their gazes locked. Despite the cold rain, she burned.

She didn’t know why he kneeled or looked at her like a man starving. “What do you want?” Her question was a half whisper,

half plea.

“To taste you.” He nodded at her exposed center that he still held open. “Can I?”

“D-do people really do such things? It’s not just in books?”

“If they see a pussy like yours? They’d beg to. Do you want me to beg, Lizzy?”

Someday she might want exactly that. But at this moment, she wanted...

She just wanted.

“Do it. Please.”

He pressed his mouth to her center, and everything fractured. Her scalp tingled and she was delirious, fighting and losing

the battle to keep herself upright. His mouth demanded release, rolling over the sensitive bud, and when he groaned, the sound

vibrated to her very core.

She was warm. So warm. Too warm. But she didn’t care. If she was going to burn, she wanted to ignite. Her thighs tensed. Quivering.

When he eased a finger inside, she gasped at the unexpected fullness. He pulled back and stared, his lips shiny from her want.

“Is this too much?” His voice was hoarse.

“More,” she choked out. Somewhere above, or in another world, thunder rumbled.

He curled his finger inside her, and the tension built; her knees threatened to buckle again at the deep fullness, and when

he did the beckoning gesture again, her body obeyed. He kept coaxing, and shivers increased until he gave her a slow, hard

suck and pushed his tongue deep inside.

Time stopped.

A surge of pure sensation set her free. It pounded and pounded and pounded like a wave, but she wasn’t drowning. It was as

if she were flying.

Tuck stood and was holding her face between his big hands. “Lizzy? Lizzy, are you okay?”

The flames within her still burned. She wanted to kiss the palms of his hands and then both of his eyes. But instead, she

simply stared at his concerned face, then rested a hand on her forehead. “Hello there.”

“Jesus.” He lowered her arm and repeated her gesture. “You’re warm.”

She bobbed her head, her thoughts as vague as a dream at dawn. “You set me alight.”

“No, Lizzy.” Worry had eclipsed the desire in his gaze. “I’m serious. I think you’ve spiked a fever.”

The next thing she knew, she found herself in the bed at the inn, though the details were fuzzy. She vaguely recalled Tuck

carrying her on his back. Her memories were like half-formed pictures, with him removing her shoes and arranging pillows.

However, amidst it all, she kept imagining a talking raven at the window, leaving her in a state of mind that hardly suggested

reliability.

She slept in fits and starts, and occasionally there was low talk ing. Tuck. Henry. Once a man she didn’t recognize who lay a warm fabric over her chest—a poultice. The heavy smell of mustard made her nauseous but her head ached too much to move. A cup was held to her lips. She swallowed, coughing when it wasn’t water. It was white wine, which did little to mask a bitter flavor—willow bark. She recognized the taste from Mamma’s small medicinal cabinet, the tinctures and salves she could make if a doctor didn’t need to be called.

Sleep hit hard and fast after. When she woke again, the sun was still shining, but she felt like she’d lost time.

Rubbing her eyes, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Tuck was leaning back in a chair at the side of her bed, staring into

space. His hair wasn’t long enough to be disheveled, but he was pale, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep and framed by violet

half-circles.

“You look about as bad as I felt,” she said, wincing when her voice came out with an unfamiliar deep huskiness.

The chair slammed down with a thud. Before Lizzy could clear her throat, Tuck was leaning over her, hands bracketing either

side of her face.

“You’re awake.”

She yawned. “Yes. I believe my little nap helped. I feel much better.”

“Little nap?” Tuck narrowed his eyes, searching her face. “You slept twenty-four hours. If you weren’t awake in the next five

minutes, I... I didn’t know what I’d do.” He pushed off the bed and bent over, hands splayed on his knees. “I didn’t know,

Lizzy. I didn’t have a plan.”

“You don’t sound yourself.” She stretched. Her body felt warm and relaxed. Besides being a little hungry, she was fine.

“Because I was fucking terrified. I am still fucking terrified. You spiked a fever so fast. By the time I got you back to the inn, you were barely making sense. I tried to get a doctor, but he was out delivering a baby, so they sent me an apot—an apoto—”

“An apothecary?”

“Yeah. Whatever the hell that is.”

She settled back on her pillow, puzzled. “How do you get medicines in your time?”

“The pharmacy—a place where a pharmacist dispenses medicines.”

“Sounds like an apothecary. It’s quite common for them to pay house calls. It happens to me from time to time when I have

one of these spells.”

“Your brother said you’re susceptible to fevers.”

“Yes. During times of stress or great excitement it’s not uncommon for me to become feverish for a day. Strange, isn’t it?

And how did you end up speaking to Henry?”

“I fetched him because I wasn’t sure how sick you were.”

“Did you think you were at my deathbed?”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You got sick so fast. I didn’t have any way to check your temperature. I couldn’t get

you pain relievers or fever reducers down at a grocery store; I felt useless as hell. Then I found the apothecary and the

first thing Henry wanted him to do was to cut your arm open.”

“Henry swears by bloodletting. I’m not as convinced that—”

“I let them know that if anyone cuts my wife under the pretense of healing her, then they would be the ones bleeding.” His

voice was fierce and protective.

“Tuck.” She reached out a hand.

He stared intently at it, his jaw clenched in determination as he reached into his pocket and carefully retrieved their wedding rings. With a sense of solemnity, he pushed hers on in a simple gesture. Then he slid his own into place, sealing their union.

“What on earth?” She blinked at the ring, dazed. Though the physical weight was light, the moment felt heavy with consequence.

They were truly married.

“I feel better having you wear it,” he continued. “I couldn’t help much when you were sick. When I was first told I had cancer?

It sucked. But I had a team of medical professionals. If you get sick here? You get some guy who shows up and wants to bleed

your arm into a bowl. What the fuck?”

“Tuck,” she repeated. “Wearing the rings... What does it mean?”

She wanted him to make sense of this moment. He had a remarkable way of distilling things down to the core of the matter,

and right now she could use a little of his forthrightness.

“It feels stupid, but maybe it can help protect you. I don’t know. I hate that I’ve been so useless.”

Frustration flared. “What if you stopped making this situation about you and listened to the person who was actually sick

and has things to say?”

That certainly caught his notice.

“You’re right.” He dragged the chair back and took her hand between his. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live to annoy you another day.”

“You don’t annoy me. Even if you do, I like it, which defeats the purpose.”

“I remember the smell of mustard.”

“When I wouldn’t let them bleed you, he said he would apply a poultice. All it looked like was a smelly cloth.”

“It would help keep the infection from my lungs.”

“Then he gave you a drink with some kind of bark and laud-a-mon?” He winced. “It felt like I was in some sort of Harry Potter outtake watching someone make potions, when magic isn’t real.”

Who knew what he was rambling about half the time, but she did realize what the apothecarist had given her and why she had

slept so deep and long.

“Bark? That would be willow bark. It brings down fevers. And laudanum is to help bring sleep for rest and healing.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s also called opium.”

His eyes widened. “The doctor gave you opium?”

“It’s very common. I hear friends in London swear that rubbing laudanum on their baby’s gums helps them rest.”

“It’s amazing humans keep surviving.”

“All right, Mr.Everything-Is-Better-in-the-Future. We make do here, and clearly must get plenty of it right for so many of

you to have made it.”

He looked abashed. “Are you really going to be okay?”

She squeezed his hand. “Yes. This happens, like I said. I was so distracted that I forgot to prepare or think of it. But eloping

and Henry appearing. Also preparing to announce the news to my parents. I should have expected my body would react.”

“And you are sure it’s not how...” He looked away. “Nah. Forget it. I’m being stupid.”

“You aren’t at fault here.” She kept the amusement from her voice. He’d think she was making fun of him, but it was nothing

close to that. She found his anxiety that their intimacy might have harmed her rather endearing.

“What you did to me beneath that tree? It burned, yes. But in a different way. And if we do it again, I wouldn’t take laudanum—I’d want to feel every single thing your mouth does.”

He patted her hand, gaze averted.

“Look at me,” she said. He turned slowly, his face a mask. “You didn’t hurt me. You aren’t to blame.”

“I’m to blame because I’m taking you to your parents’ house, and I know they will hurt you there. Henry keeps reminding me

of this.”

“I’ve long become accustomed to the fact that my wishes and my family’s wishes have not been aligned. It shall be unpleasant.

But my life without you? That would be far worse.”

His gaze locked with hers, still unreadable.

“We are helping each other. We’ve become friends, haven’t we?” Even as she spoke the words, they tasted wrong. This wasn’t

a lie—they were friends. It was just avoiding all the other words they were or might be, words that were more confusing and

complicated and better left in the ether.

“Friends.” His voice held the same careful, neutral tone. “Who need each other to achieve our goals.”

“Precisely.”

Why was he still staring like that? And why was she? It was like playing one of those silly parlor games where you wait to

see who will blink first. It wouldn’t be her. She wasn’t going to add to his worries about returning to his home by demanding

his attachment like a spoiled child.

There was an undeniable spark between them, but like a flame, their connection needed tending to grow. If she didn’t actively

pursue it, their bond could remain as it was—a small glowing ember, safe and contained. Nothing dangerous. No one would be

burned by the heat.

They would not play with fire.