“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 trulyseenme 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 togrip 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.
