"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.

Ten.

Wherein our duo negotiates the politics of bedclothes.

THEY 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 Durer 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 Durer 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. "Durer 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. Durer 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 Durer has movement in his works. Look at his Martyrdom of the Ten Thousand or any of his Italian watercolors. You cannot say that Durer 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.

"In any case, I'm not disputing the genius of Durer. Only that this painting is a Durer. And I understand why it's been mistaken for one." She latched the bag and placed it on the floor before turning back around. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Jason lay down on the bed, his long body stretching as far as it could go, like a cat settling down before it slept.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he asked. "I'm going to sleep."

"Not there!" she replied, appalled.

His head came up. "If not here, then where?"

"The chair?" she suggested, waving to the stuffed chair she had just cleared free for him.

He simply chuckled. "Not on your life, wifey dear."

"But . . . But . . ." she sputtered.

"Oh for God's sake," he groaned. "I have not slept in an actual bed, or even something resembling a pallet, in over a week. Now this bed may be lumpy and uneven, but it's the best damn thing I've laid eyes on since England. I have absolutely no intention of ravishing you-I am too exhausted to even contemplate it. In fact, I have no intention of getting further undressed than this. But I also have no intention of sleeping in that chair. If you would feel more proper doing so, by all means indulge, and enjoy the cramped back you'll have in the morning."

Winn eyed the chair, then the bed, then Jason, murderously. He sighed.

"If it will make you feel any better, I'll stay above the covers, and you can sleep below."

Her murderous look turned merely dubious. But with a last glance back to the chair (which Winn had to admit, did look remarkably uncomfortable), she stiffened her spine and glided regally over to what was now her side of the bed. He grinned at her as she lay down, then pulled the covers up to practically her nose. And then promptly laughed at herself and pulled the covers back to midchest, and blew out the candle.

And they simply laid there.

Winn closed her eyes, but as tired as she was, every inch of her body was very still aware of the fact that she was sleeping a foot away from another person. Another person of the male persuasion. And even if her mind could accept that he had no intentions toward her, and they were separated by the barrier of clothes and bedclothes alike, her nerves still found it exceedingly awkward.

And he was right. The bed was lumpy. And uneven.

She burrowed deeper into the covers, trying to get warm. Then, she opened one eye and spared a look at Jason. His eyes were closed, the rise and fall of his chest even and deep. He was the picture of comfort and ease, unruffled by his current situation-and Winn had never been more envious in her life.

But before she could fantasize about whacking the somniferous Duke with a pillow, or perhaps engage in any of those childish antics that she'd never had the opportunity to engage in, such as putting his hand in a bowl of water, Jason proved that looks can be deceiving, and spoke.

"For God's sake, woman, I can feel you thinking."

What was she to say? That she was thinking about his nearness, his chest, rising and falling . . . the way his red beard defined his jaw?

"I think we chose the wrong name," she blurted out.

"Cummings?" Jason replied, still not opening his eyes. "Whatever is wrong with it? It's my name after all."

"Precisely. If George manages to follow us this far, he might grow suspicious of a young English couple with, coincidentally, your surname. Lack of title or no."

Jason just stretched again, opened one eye, and placed his hands behind his head in the most annoyingly unconcerned manner. "You chose it-and we cannot change it now in any case." He reached down and patted her on the head patronizingly. "Don't worry-we'll be in Nuremberg soon enough, and you can give my name back to me when I deposit you with your friends."

She swatted his hand away, saying, "Thank you ever so."

He grinned at that and, closing his eyes, settled back down to sleep.

Winn tried to do the same.

Until, of course, Jason spoke again.

"You know," he drawled, "there is one thing I don't understand." He turned his head and met her gaze. "If you've been corresponding with this man in Nuremberg, why not simply take up a pen and paper for your cause? You do seem, mostly, an intelligent, sensible woman. Get your proof from your desk in your library and then your money from Bambridge, and then embark on your adventures. Why the need for this mad journey?"

Whether he knew it or not, Jason was asking her the most fundamental question about Winn Crane. So it was only natural that she would take a moment to answer.

"Because if I didn't go now, I would never leave." She sighed. "I would have stayed in my library."

"Yes, but . . . it'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable for both of us, if you stayed in your library," Jason replied, closing his eyes again and adjusting himself on the mattress.

Winn's brow furrowed as she brought herself up on her elbows.

"So you would have me be retiring, quiet in my country life?" she countered. "All for want of an even mattress?"

His eyes flew open. "Honestly? Maybe."

Her eyes narrowed. "You are the one who insisted on accompanying me. You are free to leave at any time."

"Am I?" he countered. "You are far too dewy-eyed and naive. What have you learned today? That people want to bilk you, they will steer you wrong if it's a benefit to them. A woman traveling alone might as well save time and purchase a ticket for the Turkish harem she'll end up in."

"First of all, we are not traveling anywhere near Turkey," she replied hotly. "And second . . . excuse me, but you can't have it both ways. Either I am a young naive girl, foolishly headstrong, careening into adventure, or a spinster who should not bore the world with her presence but who should instead retire to her library, ever to remain in the background."

She took a deep breath, wanting her argument to be reasoned and not angry-an emotion she was closely venturing into. Odd . . . she so very rarely became angry. Likely a product of exhaustion, she told herself.

"Think of it this way," she continued calmly. "You're thirty, correct? My age. And yet you are just now considering marriage. Considering retirement to a quiet country life." She laughed a little. "It's strange, but of the two of us, you are the one who thinks to retire and I am the one who seeks out the world."

Jason turned on his side, facing her. "That's not really a fair assessment. You have a list of things to do and see and try . . . and so do I. But my list is full of responsibilities. Besides," he continued, "I don't consider marriage an ending, in and of itself."

"Neither do I," she was quick to agree. "But the world has different expectations for us. And I'm well aware of how the world sees me. A spinster, whose life is in a library, who missed my window for happiness by caring more for old men than young ones. My life is over.

"But you, the world sees as young and virile-your life laid out before you. You can do anything you wish. Even if you contemplate marriage, you are just beginning."

"Winn"-Jason sighed wearily-"what are you trying to say?" The desire for sleep seemed to be winning out over the desire for answers. For her, too.

So, as she settled deeper beneath the covers, she made her conclusion softly, simply.

"Why, if we are the same age, am I considered done and you just getting started?"

Two Days Later The docks at Hamburg were as uninteresting to George Bambridge as the docks of London or Dover. Seamen and fishmongers with their cries and rhythms did not delight him the way they did his cousin, and add in the foreign tongue, and George found all the noise just an annoying buzz in his ear. But he had made it: he had tracked her thus far.

The packet from Dover to Calais had been at sea about twenty minutes before George realized Winnifred was missing. Always crowded, the packet seemed that day to be more so, with young men heading out for adventure, their grand tours. Since these were young men of good family, George found it prudent to stop and chat with them-it was only solicitous, after all. George was not one to waste any opportunity to ingratiate himself. He was soon to be a professor at the most prestigious institution in the country. One never knew. One of these young men could be or have been a student. One who could happen to have a parent who was influential with the deans.

They talked for some minutes-and all of the young gentlemen, having recently spent some weeks in London, knew of Miss Winnifred Crane. They mentioned that her expedition's beginning had made that day's Times. George's chest puffed with pride when he explained that he was traveling with her. Maybe this little adventure wasn't so bad an idea after all. Of course, its outcome would be terribly anticlimactic for his cousin and all the people following it in the papers, but if it afforded him the chance to see his name in the Times, perhaps described as an impassioned art historian, and also perhaps, downplaying Winnifred's role in the whole thing . . .

But then the young gentlemen asked if they could meet Miss Crane. George's eyes narrowed at that, his chest giving way to that sinking impression that always accompanied anyone's curiosity in his betrothed. But he smiled and told them she went below decks with her companion, and obliged the young men by moving to fetch her.

However, she wasn't there to be fetched.

"Winn? She was up on deck with you." Totty waved at him. "Can you fetch me my bag from up there?" She pointed to where her valise rested on a high shelf. "All these people bumping into me, I could use a drink."

"Totty, Winnifred is not up on deck," George said, his expression darkening.

Totty's eyebrow went up. "Oh dear. In that case, I really could use a drink."

By the time the entire ship was searched top to bottom, they were too far out to sea to do anything other than complete the journey. Once they landed in Calais, they jumped on the first ship headed back to Dover. After all, once George had discovered she had never boarded the ship, other conclusions fell into place like pieces to a puzzle. She had been lying to him, to everyone the entire time. She was not going to Basel, Switzerland-else misdirection was unnecessary, he would have simply caught up to her there. So the question was, where was she headed?