Follow My Lead (20 page)

Well, she simply wouldn’t allow it, she thought as a barmaid brought over their drinks—a half glass of beer for her, a full pint for Jason. Not being terribly familiar with beer, she slowly took a sip of the stuff. The weight of it made her grimace, and the foam that touched her nose made her laugh. Automatically she looked up. No one noticed her unexpected giggling.

Left by herself in the taproom, Winn took the opportunity to look around her. It was the first time in many weeks that she had been alone, even for the barest moments. No George hovering, no people in London fawning over the newest, latest discovery of Phillippa Worth. Oh, Jason had left her alone on board the
Seestern
, but in truth she had been as hovered and watched over by the Schmidts as she had been by others back in London.

Alone was Winn’s natural state. As she had acted as her father’s faithful assistant and caretaker, the deans of the colleges, with a wink and a nod, and letting her gender slip their minds, had allowed her access to the Bodleian Library, Christ Church, and other collections. And perhaps, when she’d found what her father was looking for, she would look for her own pleasure . . . Thus she’d had hours upon hours left to her own devices, all by herself in a library, losing herself in books. She was a natural observer.

But the library never let her observe anything like this.

The taproom of the Stellzburg Inn was full of
life
. Life that had eluded Winn up until this time. The energy and excitement that she sought. Travelers, mostly men, and mostly strangers to one another, were drinking, laughing. The innkeeper, his wife, and their servers threaded themselves through the crowd, delivering drinks and food with smiles, and sometimes a wry comment that made the customers laugh.

But it was all perfectly aboveboard. Respectable even.

Somewhat disappointing, that.

“For a minute there you looked blissfully happy, so how is it I rejoin you and you’re wearing a frown?” Jason asked as he returned to the table. “Er . . . you have foam on your nose.”

“Oh!” Winn said as she turned bright red. Jason reached in his pocket but came up empty.

“Damn,” he said, handing her a cloth napkin from their table. “I keep forgetting these are not my own clothes and my handkerchiefs are not where I expect them to be. No, you missed.” He indicated her face. She wiped again but must have missed the offending foam again, because Jason took the napkin from her hand and, cupping her chin, wiped the end of her nose gently. “There, you’re perfect. Now, why were you scowling before?”

“I was?” she asked, her face remarkably hot. Must be the beer, she decided. “Oh, I was reflecting.”

“Reflecting?” he asked, bemused. “On what, pray tell?”

“That reality rarely lives up to expectations.” At his quizzical expression, she continued. “I thought the taproom of an inn would be . . . bawdier. More like a public house.”

Jason turned completely still. “You’ve been to a public house?”

“No, but I’ve seen illustrations,” she argued. “Someone playing a fast fiddle in the corner, barmaids with their breasts spilling out. Also, I would like to have some illusions preserved. But here we are in the German countryside, and I have not even seen one pair of lederhosen,” she finished mournfully.

Jason threw back his head in laughter, his deep-throated guffaws drawing the attention that Winn’s hesitant giggle had not.

“Expectations are a heavy lot. Perhaps we can find you some lederhosen in Nuremberg. But for now, just be happy that we are amongst actual Germans.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyebrow going up.

“Because they are logical enough to bring us—and charge us for—only one and a half plates of food.” He smiled.

“Thank you,” she replied with a nod of acknowledgement. And it was not some few minutes later that the innkeeper himself brought over their food—smelling so good and buttery that Winn for a few seconds considered that maybe she could have made use of a full plate.

“Danke,”
she said to the innkeeper in anticipation of being served her eagerly awaited meal. Jason casually put his arm around her back, some proprietary instinct letting the innkeeper know they were indeed coupled.

“Bitte.”
The innkeeper smiled back at them. Strange, for the first time since they had met, the innkeeper’s stern countenance had fled, lending him a sort of elfin charm. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves, yes?” he continued in English, still holding the food on his tray.

“Yes,” “Very much,” she and Jason replied in turn.

“Four days married.” The innkeeper shook his head with a smile.

“Five tomorrow,” Jason said. “That tray looks terribly heavy,” he continued, practically salivating—for which Winn could not blame him. “You should set it down . . .”

But the innkeeper was lost in his own line of thought to even consider placing the tray of food in front of two famished customers. “I remember when I was four days married! My wife—she was so young and lovely we did not emerge from our rooms for the whole week!”

“Er, right,” Winn piped up. “But we were a bit hungry, you see . . . from all the . . . staying in. So if you could—”

Then the innkeeper turned and addressed the whole room in his booming voice in German. The room gave a solid cheer and then began clapping in time, chanting the same word. The last one the innkeeper had said to them:
“Kuss.”

“What on earth?” Winn asked, utterly confused.

“He told the room we are newlyweds,” Jason whispered to her and then hesitated. “And then he said that . . . oh, just follow my lead.”

And he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even kind. It was his mouth pressed up against hers for a hale and hearty smack. But it was enough to have the room erupting in cheers. And it was enough to knock the wind right out of her.

Jason released her mouth and greeted the room with a cheer of his own and a raised glass, which he promptly downed. Winn, more than a little confused, turned her eyes to the innkeeper and saw in them the shrewd glint of the skeptic. It had been a test. He’d had the room egg them into kissing to test the boundaries of their comfort—the Snorer’s testimony had not wholly convinced him. But the kiss apparently had, because the innkeeper put down the tray of food and said with a smile, “
Tschuss.
Enjoy your meal. You will be hungrier at breakfast, I know.”

And as the innkeeper left them alone, to the toasting and cheers of the entire room, the buzzing in Winn’s ears died, and she dully realized she had another new experience to tick off her list of new things to try: being kissed in public.

She was certain she had jumped over several things meant to lead up to it.

“That was close,” Jason whispered, his eyes on his plate. Then they flicked over to hers. “Can I entice you to take my carrots? I’ve never been able to stand the things. In the spirit of making use of every penny, of course.”

“Ah . . . certainly,” she replied, her mind catching up to the present. “And what is your stance on turnips?”

“Decidedly pro.”

“Excellent, then please make use of mine.” She breathed easier. Much simpler of course to talk of things of benign interest—turnips and carrots—than to give in to this impulse to lose all composure. To smile or giggle—or panic. Because of course, Jason did not seem prone to smiling, giggling, or panicking. On the contrary, he seemed relaxed, jovial even, as he exchanged his carrots for her turnips.

Then again, Jason had the distinct advantage over her. Not because he might be better versed at kissing someone in public taprooms than she. No, his single-minded focus was expected of his gender. From the lowliest cretin to the most educated, erudite genius, man becomes utterly transfixed when hungry and confronted with food.

But as Jason dug into his meal, and Winn stared bewilderedly at hers, a single thought crossed her mind.

Maybe faking a marriage had been a risky proposition after all.

T
HEY retired shortly after emptying their plates, to the cheers and good wishes of the room. Winn was a shade of red previously unknown to the human eye as she walked quickly out of the room with her head down, while Jason waved to the crowd, even shaking hands with a few of the more intoxicated gentlemen.

When they reached their little room, Winn relished the silence, for as long as it lasted.

Which, with Jason there, wasn’t very long.

“I thought the innkeeper had us for a second.” Jason smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. “You know what I think almost gave us away?” One boot hit the ground, followed by the other in loud thuds. “When I went and asked to have a small plate fixed for you. I may have insinuated that I was unfamiliar with your eating habits. And the innkeeper’s wife said that any man four days married knows exactly how much his wife eats. Although, the innkeeper’s wife is a bit stout, I think she might have aimed that comment at her husband and not me, but it certainly made his ears perk up.”

He removed his jacket next and placed it to the side. “You did very well playing the blushing bride, by the by.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “But I don’t think you needed to play the bridegroom so . . . jovially.”

His head came up. “I was simply playing along. With a ruse of
your
chosing.”

Her hands came up. “True.”

“It’s not as if I intended to kiss you. The innkeeper practically demanded it. And if other men want to shake my hand in congratulations, I couldn’t stop them, now could I?”

“I said you’re right,” she countered, coming off the door.

“Oh,” he stuttered. “I am?”

She kept silent, simply quirked an eyebrow at him, and went to the chair, where her portmanteau sat. Opening it, she searched for the flannel nightdress amidst her few necessary belongings, pulling out objects in her way. She could feel his eyes on her back the whole time.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so very rare I hear those words coming from a female mouth, could you perhaps say them again?” he said, a grin in his voice. Then, the grin fled. “Winnifred, what is that?”

She turned to him, the object of his attention in her hands. “That is the Adam and Eve painting.”

He leapt off the bed, took the one and a half steps across the room to her, and grabbed the frameless canvas out of her hands. “Did you . . . did you
steal
this? How? Good God, does Forrester know?”

“I didn’t steal it—it’s a reproduction. For reference. And of course Lord Forrester knows; he’s the one who had it made for me.” She shot a wry look at him. “And if you had been paying attention, you would have noticed that it’s three-quarters the size of the original. Full sized, small though it is, would not fit in my suitcase.”

As he handled the painting, she went back to her portmanteau and pulled out her flannel nightdress. As she maneuvered herself behind the small, sturdy screen in the corner, she called out.

“And please, don’t call me Winnifred. I prefer Winn.”

“You do?” his disembodied voice replied. “But I heard Bambridge—”

“I know,” she countered from behind the screen. “He’s the only one who refuses to call me Winn. I think he dislikes the idea of a name and verb being one and the same. Especially for a female.”

“True, you should limit yourselves to adjectives—or nouns, perhaps.” He replied, a smile in his voice. “Prudence.”

“Violet.”

“Sunny.”

She emerged from behind the screen nervously. Although nervousness was ridiculous. She was covered neck to toe, and for good measure, had kept her chemise on under the nightdress, as well as her stockings. And as it turned out, nervousness was unnecessary as well—Jason did not look up from the painting in his hands.

“I simply do not see it, Winn,” he said at last. “It looks like a Dürer to me.”

“But there are some tells that point to a different artist.”

“Like what?” Jason asked, holding out the portrait for her. “Show me.”

“Well, first of all, it’s unsigned. And Dürer had a very distinctive monogram.” A capital “D” swallowed by a large, flat “A.” It was a mathematical, symbolic signature—and wholly recognizable.

“That means very little,” he countered. “Dürer did not sign all his works. Some of the triptychs and his earlier portraiture.”

She shook her head. “Usually the signature can be found if one looks closely enough—and those that bear no signature are generally found to be unfinished works. But, all right,” she conceded. Then, standing closely next to him, her cheek almost touching his arm, she allowed her finger to trace the lines of Eve’s form. “Look at the fluidity of form, the movement. Dürer suggests movement but not action. Here, you can practically feel Eve pulling on the apple from the tree.”

She pointed to the figure, trying to show him what she meant, but when she looked up, Jason’s eyes were not studying the painting. Instead, they rested on her. But he quickly darted his gaze back to the painting in his hands. “Ah . . . but Dürer has movement in his works. Look at his
Martyrdom of the Ten Thousand
or any of his Italian watercolors. You cannot say that Dürer was not a painter of magnificent breath, a portrait artist whose rendition of hair alone marks him as . . . why are you looking at me like that?”

She couldn’t help it, she was smiling at him. “You actually have studied, haven’t you?”

An eyebrow went up, even as he blushed at the compliment. “More like your father’s lectures left a deep impression.”

They held for a moment. Nothing more than the barest tick of a clock, but one where his eyes met hers and they were unable to do anything other than stay as they were. But then, the earth spun on its axis, and movement became necessary.

They each took a step back. Winn took the picture from his hands and turned away, stuffing it back into her bag.