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She would make good on that promise, if she didn't end up tucked away in some dusty house to warm a man's bed. Unfortunately, it appeared as if the very fabric of the universe was conspiring to make this outcome inevitable.

With a frustrated shriek, she threw her apple core into the bulrushes and then froze, cocking her head. There had been a strange sound. What was that? A duck? A dying duck?

A very large, very dying duck?

Visions of a wretched, thrashing waterfowl flooded her mind, making her skin crawl.

How she loathed ducks.

She scrambled onto her feet and gathered her skirts, straining to peer into the bulrushes as they waved on their tall green stalks, velvety brown seed pods bobbing cheerfully.

Her shoulder blades uncinched a fraction. Never mind. Maybe it had been a trick of the wind. Or some echo from the village. Or...

There it was again.

Blood drained to the tips of her toes.

It didn't sound like a duck. Unless that duck happened to be a groaning man.

"Hello?" She took a tentative step forward, her throat drier than dust. "Is everything all right?" A perfectly ridiculous question. Whoever made the sound was in a murky pond. Of course they weren't all right. Far from it.

She suppressed a frown. Had a farmer drunk too many pints at the Ye Olde King's Head? Or perhaps earlier someone had slipped down the hill, rolling into the water.

No point dithering. She shoved the letter into her bodice and strode forward. If she was in for a penny, might as well make it a pound.

She crept to the shore, swatting back an overzealous dragonfly as her linen boots squelched in the mud, making it impossible to hide her approach. Gooseflesh prickled the backs of her arms, and she resisted the temptation to glance around as if someone might come and save her from this obligation. Never mind. She'd handle this fine. If anything dangerous emerged, she'd... she'd... punch it in the nose. Georgie had been teaching her boxing. Or at least telling her she ought to learn.

Lizzy's breath caught in a sharp exhale as she pushed her arms into the bulrushes, shoving them apart. Her gaze fell, locking with the piercing eyes of a brutal-looking man. The blood smeared across his angular features added a raw, dangerous edge to his appearance that intensified the darkness of his stare as he glared up at her.

"W-what happened?" She got the words out, just, wary but clear.

He pushed himself to a sitting position with obvious effort and dabbed the end of his nose, wincing. "I got hit in the face with a fucking apple."

The accent. That guitar-plucked twang. She'd heard it before in town, but not often.

American.

And gads, he was big. She'd wager once standing he'd rise a head taller than herself, and she was by no means a delicate violet.

Dozens of questions piled up. Why did he crop his hair that short? His jacket was black, but why was the fabric peculiar—too shiny, and very puffy—with strange metal teeth holding it together along a central seam? And his long splayed-out legs were encased in a sturdy-looking cotton dyed a deep blue.

In turn, he gaped at her lavender walking dress, his expression shifting from coolly peeved to incredulous as he raked his intense gaze up, down, and back again. The depth of his focus sent an unexpected shiver through her body. She'd never been the object of such single-minded attention before. The sensation left her feeling strangely vulnerable yet exhilarated, as she resisted the urge to tame her wild hair, ignoring the fact her coif likely rivaled Medusa's. Instead, she held his stare, a silent challenge hanging between them as the palpable tension grew. She counted silently, One... two... three... four...

Beneath the swarthy shadow of stubble peppering his jaw, a muscle twitched, breaking the stillness.

Lizzy blinked first. Unsure why her face was suddenly afire.

"Sir." She paused, swallowing to steady her voice. "Are you sure that you're quite all ri—"

"What are you wearing?" he blurted.