“Whoa now, Pocket Rocket.” His unexpected touch vanished as quickly as it had come, but the shock of it, combined with hisknowledge of Jane, kept her unstable. Fortunately, he opted not to make a fuss about the physical contact. In her present state of confusion, his lack of acknowledgment regarding the breach of propriety suited her perfectly. She needed a moment to steady her jangled nerves, not be forced to soothe him.
However, as she peered over, he didn’t seem remotely flustered by the contact; rather, he appeared to be pondering something.
“What is it?” She wasn’t miffed that he wasn’t affected by their unexpected embrace. Not at all. In fact, she was feeling much better herself. It must have been a momentary bout of vertigo brought on by the day’s excitement.
“Sorry.” He clicked his tongue, snapping back to attention. “I know I keep using words that you won’t understand. Describing a rocket is tricky. I meant—”
“I know what rockets are.” She bristled. He might come from the future, but that hardly meant she was an unsophisticated rustic. “My stepfather took us to Hyde Park three years ago to watch the fireworks display commemorating King George the Third’s jubilee. Red, gold, green, and blue rockets shot through the sky as the band played, their colors reflecting off Serpentine Lake.”
“Really? Huh. Fireworks,” he muttered almost to himself. “You have those, good to know.” For a moment he looked exactly like what he was... a man lost, far from home or friends.
Lizzy drew a full breath, the scents of rain and wet earth steadying her. The weather had ushered in mist; the forest was ghostly with fog.
“What are all those bumps in the ground over there?” He pointed at low humps of earth set amid gnarled trees, their twisted branches forming a dense green canopy of dappled light.
She crossed her arms, a conscious effort to resist the impulse to reach out for one of his big-boned hands. There was no rational explanation for her sudden desire.
“Those? I’ve heard them referred to as barrows. I’m uncertain of their origins or purpose, but they are quite ancient,” she murmured, her attention divided between his scarred knuckle and a strange inclination to run her tongue over the jagged line.
The mad impulse coursed through her, a cold river of shame containing a trickle of something thick and warm with rose-colored tendrils. She rubbed her forehead as if that could erase the idea. Better to forget he had hands and focus on a subject change. “How are you feeling?” she asked after clearing her throat. “If I were to emerge from a pond into an entirely different era, I’d be quite beside myself.”
“It’s not like I have much of a choice. Plus...” He trailed off with a half shrug. “I gotta be honest. I’m half expecting to wake up any minute. Maybe I knocked myself out on the car wheel. You could be a symptom from one hell of a concussion.”
He’d used that word before. She cocked her head. “What’s a car?”
“Uh.” He opened his mouth and then slammed it closed, lips tight. “Never mind. As wild as it seems, you don’t appear to be a random electrical zap in my brain. And if you’re real, and this situation is actually happening, then it’s probably not a good idea to say much.”
“I beg your pardon?” That pullback demanded a response. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
“It’s dangerous to tell you too much about the future.” Two deep creases appeared between his brows. “I’ve seen enough movies and they always—”
“Moo-vies?” There he went with yet another unfamiliar word.
“Shit. I don’t know how to do this.” He snapped a twig underfoot. Somewhere high above, a squirrel scolded them for destroying the peace. “I don’t want to mess up time or say something I shouldn’t and kick off a chain of events that could unmake the universe or whatever. Can we start walking again? And no talking. I need time to think.”
In spite of her intense temptation to resist, challenge, and extract the future from him—glean whatever insights he might possess—there lingered a chill of unease. He genuinely knew what was to come, not like a fortune teller seeking coins on a city corner.
“Very well.” As they strode along, Lizzy breathed in the earthy smell of the rain and pondered his peculiar words.Car. Movie.However, his unique insights posed their own peril. If others knew about his knowledge, to what extremes might they resort in their attempts to extract it from him? A protective instinct surged within her. She was determined to shield this man, even if he happened to be one of the most imposing individuals she had ever encountered. She’d find a way to keep him safe here in her world.
Everything about Mr.Taylor was a surprise. And she’d had precious few of those in her life. Most days blended into the next like a watercolor scene gone muddy, overmixing until it was impossible to discern individual elements. This morning had given no hint that today would be an exception. She wore her usual purple walking dress and ate her breakfast the same way she always did—with a honey cake, boiled egg, and souchong tea.
Afterward, she would retreat to her room and her lap desk, confronting the blank pages of her notebook. Paradoxically, the surplus of time in the countryside had left her immobilized. Despite the boundless tranquility and quiet that should have provided her with ample time to devote to what felt like her calling,she found herself stumbling in the execution. How could she persuade her family that she deserved a life free to pursue her craft if she couldn’t muster the necessary motivation to fulfill the task at hand?
No, that wasn’t accurate either.
It wasn’t the lack of words or motivation that was daunting. It was the idea of completing something and discovering it wasn’t very good.
And now, to discover that her dear friend was crafting stories that would be remembered far into the future? The notion ignited a spark of envy deep in Lizzy’s heart. She despised it too. If there was anything worse than jealousy, it was feeling that vile emotion toward a dear friend who deserved every ounce of good fortune and success.
“What’s wrong?”
Tuck’s deep voice tugged her back to the here and now, where she was saturated from the rain and her predictable little life had just been upended.
“Have you ever measured your own merit against some elusive standard only to be left with a feeling that you are forever falling short of the mark?”
He made a noncommittal sound, a sort of thoughtful hum that encouraged her to keep going.
“Because I have. Constantly. It’s a stroll through a portrait gallery of perceived shortcomings. Each flaw is framed in gold, reinforcing the notion that no matter my effort, I will never be enough.”
