Slathered in honey.
Naked.
Who gave a fig about exorbitant soap prices when a man from the future had crawled from the old cow pond? Her life had rearranged itself in the span of minutes. And she couldn’t put it back the way it had been before. A subtle shift filled the air, a crackling energy teeming with uncharted possibilities. It whispered of magic within reach, an unfolding adventure. The hair on her arms rose. For the first time in her life, she could truly say she didn’t have the faintest idea what tomorrow would bring. And she wasn’t sure if the notion was exhilarating or terrifying.
And what sort of name was Tucker Taylor? Perhaps one that was common enough in America. But here? A soft, nervous laugh escaped as she reached the road. He might as well call himself Beasley Weaselwood.
Wind feathered her face as she licked her parched lips, trying to concentrate on the gravel poking into her thin soles. Sheneeded to feel the ground, let it steady the dizziness threatening to spin her heart into her stomach.
Wait.
A new idea took hold. She hadn’t gone stark raving mad and invented the whole thing, right?Impossible.She slid her hand beneath the thick coil of hair and kneaded her tight neck muscles. For starters, mad people don’t worry about being mad. They’d simply accept a time traveler with a shrug and go off making daisy chains.
No need to risk a bruise by pinching herself. She seldom dreamed, and on the rare occasion when she succumbed to reverie while asleep, her dreams involved her teeth falling out or flying around Westminster. Never hitting a time traveler in the face with an apple.
The only viable choice was to entertain the truth of his wild claim and provide assistance in resolving the matter. Georgie’s estate lay just shy of a mile away. Successfully leading Tuck there without incident depended on her ability to conjure appropriate male garb. How was that supposed to happen? A snap of the fingers? Luck?
Movement caught her eye, and she instinctively turned, silently thanking whichever guardian spirit watched over her. Beyond the yellow gate sat a farm—a humble brick abode half covered in ivy and bordered by vibrant flower and vegetable gardens. On a hedgerow near the barn hung linen smocks, a few pairs of darned wool stockings, a neatly patched brown coat, a few plain shirts, and two pairs of breeches. How fortunate it was that the farmer had chosen today as his washing day—these were precisely what she needed.
Except she couldn’t approach the front door and say, “Greetings, sir, delightful summer weather we’re presently enjoying,don’t you think? Now, if you would be so kind, I have an urgent need for your breeches.”
But if she dared to snatch any clothes in broad daylight and was apprehended in the act, she’d end up in front of the local authorities before she could hum “Greensleeves.” Then Mother would lock her in their Mayfair attic out of sheer embarrassment, and Tuck would remain stuck in that stinking swamp until he did turn into a frog.
What to do, what to do?
She thoughtfully nibbled at her inner cheek. She needed a diversion—nothing grand, merely sufficient enough to draw attention away from the hedgerow. Then she’d grab enough clothing to get Tuck dressed for the walk to Georgie’s, where a wardrobe was waiting full of her cousin’s late husband’s clothes. In a few days, she’d return the pilfered items by pretending she’d found them scattered along the roadside.
Was this a good plan? That was open to debate. However, seeing as it was her only plan, it would have to suffice.
She scanned the surroundings, unleashing a too-tight breath. In the chicken coop, a dozen hens pecked and scratched under the watchful eye of a squat rooster, his prolific blue-green tail feathers catching the breeze. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his typical male self-importance. To the left, an old sheepdog snoozed in the barn’s shadow.
No time to hesitate. Any moment someone could appear and her plan would be ruined. Quickly, she ran over, unlatched the coop, seized the nearest hen, and tossed her plump form into the yard. The dog, half-awake, raised a head as a few more hens followed, happily exploring the barnyard and clucking over the long grass.
“Go on,” she hissed to the dog. “Chase them.”
One second passed. And then five more. His tail thumped once. Twice. His mouth opened in a wide yawn.
“Do it, blast you!”
The animal sprang to its paws, erupting into a cacophony of barks. The chickens, startled and in disarray, cackled their panic while the rooster attempted to marshal his harem. After unsuccessfully corralling them, he turned toward the dog with a defiant crow. Lunging forward, Lizzy secured a smock and a pair of breeches as muffled curses erupted from behind the barn. With panic thrumming through her veins, she hurried to the open gate, skillfully rolling the clothes into a tight bundle tucked securely under her arm.
Only a few feet to freedom. But her relief was short-lived.
“Hello there? Miss?” the farmer called, appearing around the side of the barn. “Can I be of service?”
Double blast! Her breakfast nearly emerged as she turned, doing her best to appear composed and only a little curious. “Oh, yes. I was passing by, heard the commotion, and...” And what? Her mind froze.
“No need to be alarmed, it’s just me senile dog making a mess of things as usual.” The farmer had an openhearted grin. No trace of suspicion lurked in his ruddy features.
“Goodness.” She fought the urge to cringe at her overly enthusiastic tone, a feeble attempt to hide the fact that she was currently pilfering from him.
As his eyes assumed a familiar gleam, a wave of relief washed over her. It was the same look she often received from gentlemen who inspected her appearance with a critical eye, scrutinizing every detail from her hair to the size of her nostrils. Within moments, they would come to the conclusion that she was not soremarkable as to evoke insecurity but rather pleasantly agreeable enough for them to relax their guard.
These unimaginative men assumed her life’s goals centered around tending to her family, delighting in a well-kept household, and contemplating the joys of future parenthood. The notion that she might desire to engage in conversations beyond these domestic realms—such as her aspirations to travel the Continent, her writing, or even preferring cats over dogs—appeared to entirely evade their notice. They didn’t seeher; they merely perceived the shell, her outward appearance, oblivious to the wealth of her inner world, vibrant with hopes, dreams, and yearnings. Very well. Let this fellow look too—and see nothing.
She’d misdirect.
Lizzy tossed her head, thankful for the effort she’d put into wrapping her hair into curling papers the previous night, ensuring the aid of a few bouncing ringlets. She fluttered her lashes and allowed her front teeth to latch onto the corner of her bottom lip just so before releasing it with an audible pop. And with that simple act, the farmer’s focus shifted entirely. He ceased to concern himself with the roaming hens, completely ignoring the bundled clothing tucked under her arm.
