At times like these, George wished he'd studied his field more. If he knew more about Durer, he might have some idea about where Winnifred would likely go to track down his papers.

"Well, didn't he paint some in Italy?" Totty offered in an effort to be helpful. "Perhaps she caught a ship to Italy. Which would be wonderful!" She pulled him along the Dover docks to the few Italian ships. "An Italian holiday, warm weather, good wine . . ."

"I don't think so," George replied. "Most ships to Italy leave from the west of the country-Plymouth and the like. We should start with the German ships. After all, Durer was German, wasn't he?"

Thereafter, it wasn't difficult to find the Dover offices of Schmidt und Schmidt Shipping, nor was the copy of the Seestern's passenger manifest with a Miss Crane listed as having purchased a ticket before setting sail at yesterday's tide. And George spared no time or expense booking his own ticket to Hamburg.

Much to his chagrin, neither did Totty.

"For heaven's sake, of course I'm coming," Totty argued when she saw the somewhat disturbed expression on George's face. "What if she's been kidnapped? I'm not about to sit at home and wait for news."

"She hasn't been kidnapped," George replied crossly. "She's gone off on her own, and when I get my hands on her-"

"Which is the other reason I'm coming along," Totty interjected. "As rash as her actions may seem, there is no way I am going to allow you to meet her alone."

"Dammit, Totty," he yelled, "you'll slow me down!"

Totty flinched at his words, and George immediately regretted his show of temper. It was not seemly, not the cultivated, educated gentleman's way, to yell at elderly matrons. But he had been thwarted for so long, and here was the latest example of it.

"I have no intention of slowing you down, George," she said slowly, deliberately. "But I am coming."

And there it was. He was backed into a corner. And when backed into a corner, George was a surly beast. But instead of taking his frustrations out on Totty (or Winnifred, as he truly wished to do), he simply took them out on the ship's railing later in the evening, as they set out to sea.

And now, they were in Hamburg. And finding Winnifred, and where she went, would be as simple as finding the Schmidt und Schmidt offices here. After all, he knew his cousin. When freed of fear, she spoke and acted without caution. She had to have talked to someone. Told them her plans, where she was headed.

Totty might try to talk him into waiting a day, getting some rest at a hotel. But he would not oblige.

He couldn't be more than two days behind her, maybe three.

Eleven.

Wherein our hero takes up fishing as an occupation.

"WINN. Winn, wake up." Jason nudged the sleeping form off his shoulder. She didn't stir immediately; instead, she nestled herself deeper.

Jason didn't blame her. The last two days of carriage travel had been wearying. His suit of clothes, cleaned and pressed just the night before last, was as wrinkled as an old man's face; they had been cooped up and cramped in this carriage for so long.

Needless to say, this was not the manner to which Jason was accustomed to traveling. Normally, if he were to go abroad, letters would be sent out ahead of time to secure passage and the best rooms at the best posting inns available. Those letters would have been affixed with the seal of the Duke of Rayne, and when he arrived, it would have been with servants in his livery, telling the innkeepers and ostlers exactly who he was without him having to say a word.

But now-he has no men in livery attending him. No letters had been sent out in advance on fine paper and paid for at a penny a page. No one assuring the posting houses that the bills would be settled to their satisfaction. He had little more than an old ring on his finger, which to a provincial innkeeper in rural Germany meant much less than the fact that he had very little money.

It was strangely freeing. Simple.

Although what was not simple was pretending to be a married commoner with a new bride on his arm.

Sometime yesterday they crossed into Hesse from Lower Saxony. They had made another stop last evening, at another roadside inn, and repeated the same performance they had in Stellzburg. Although this time they must have been well practiced enough to successfully sell themselves as a married couple, because no one questioned it, no one drew attention to them . . . no one slapped him on the back as they made their way upstairs, which he knew made Winn happy. And once up in the room, there was no negotiating for bed space, no thoughtful conversation. They were too tired for it.

It was in the morning, when he was well rested and clear-eyed, that he came to realize just how disturbing the situation had become.

Yesterday morning, Winn, for all her exhaustion, had again been up before him and banging about the room, trying her best, albeit unsuccessfully, to be quiet. But it wasn't the noise that had alerted him to the day-he had slept too blissfully for that. It was the dent in the mattress. It was Winn-sized and circular, as if she had been curled up in a ball-and it was situated alarmingly close to his own body.

But he did not allow himself to speculate on the positioning of the mattress dent relative to his sleep space, or the fact that he was awoken by her getting up and thus its discovery. But the next morning-that morning-he was confronted with it head on.

Something, some small noise outside woke him briefly before dawn, and Jason discovered something truly shocking: Despite the bedclothes that separated them, somehow his arm had found its way under her head, cradling her in its crook. And she, curled up in a ball at his side, her knees prodding his hip, seeking his heat.

He had been awake from the moment on.

Today they crossed into Bavaria, the principality that housed Nuremberg. They had picked up a few more travelers at this second inn-a mother and her young son. There was very little conversation, as their rotund German Snorer was . . . snoring, and the mother was preoccupied with keeping her son from getting anything sticky on his fingers, and therefore, the whole of the interior of the carriage. Jason had moved next to Winn to protect her (oh, all right, and himself) from said stickiness.

It did not allow for relaxation.

It was odd, but being this close to Winn, her slight frame against his side-as aware and awake as it made him-it was becoming natural for him. When she didn't occupy that space, he was far too aware of the cool air that rushed in and filled it. When they had begun this together, when he had touched her hand in the breakfast room before they reached Dover, the electricity that passed between them was pleasantly shocking. Intriguing, too. After taking her hand in the coaching yard, he had consciously decided to try and touch her again, on the hand, on the back of the neck, wiping beer from the end of her nose, to see if that curious shock that spread through his nerves would still be there.

But now, mere days later, those little jolts, those little touches, they were like a drug to him. Something he needed to have in his system, daily. Something that kept his side warm, and the cool air from invading the space.

He just couldn't stop doing it.

Apparently, even in his sleep.

"Winn," he said a little more sternly, even as his thumb caressed her shoulder. "Winnifred, we're here."

"I told you not to call me that," she mumbled, her eyes blinking open.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he answered wryly. "Besides, I thought you would have been sitting up with your head out the window like a puppy. We've reached Nuremberg."

That brought her head off his shoulder, just as the carriage rumbled to a halt in the coaching yard. The other passengers were eager to disembark, but Winnifred beat them to the door, leaping out with so much passion that she nearly knocked over the young servant who was just setting down blocks for them.

And that cool air rushed in, occupying the space she had just fled.

By the time he reached her side again, she had made it halfway to the coaching yard gate, her feet hitting the cobblestones of Nuremberg's streets with vigor and intensity.

"Forget something?" he drawled, coming to walk beside her.

"Oh, I knew you'd catch up eventually," she said, waving her hand absently as her eyes searched the streets, looking for signs and postings most likely. Trying to find her way.

"I meant this," Jason replied, holding up her portmanteau, the sight of which brought her to an immediate stop.

"Oh my goodness!" she cried, reaching to take the bag from his hands. "I'm such a goose today."

"Why?" he asked, smiling, not releasing the bag to her. Instead it allowed his fingers to knock up against hers, and he wasn't about to let go just yet.

"Forgetting my bag, of course, and . . . falling asleep on you." She blushed, talking faster to cover her embarrassment. "It must be the excitement of the day. You see, I'm finally here! In Nuremberg, and we just have to get to Herr Heider and I can get the letters, and-"

"Yes, most people fall dead asleep when excited," Jason replied, sarcasm dripping, but with a smile. "And let go, woman. I can carry your bag. This way if you drift off in the middle of the street from excitement, you won't drop it and leave it behind."

She raised a skeptical brow at that but let go of the bag, allowing Jason to take control of it.

"Excellent," he said, his eyes darting up to the sides of the buildings that surrounded them. Small placards gave the names of the streets on the corners. "Now, where to?"

"Now we go find Herr Heider," she replied, beginning to walk east.

He fell into step beside her. "And where does Herr Heider live?"

She looked at him askance. "At the Durer House, of course."

Nuremberg (or Nurnberg, to the locals) was a medieval town, with a formal medieval town wall, castle, and all the trappings. It was built along the Pegnitz River, a city made of brown brick and stone. But it was small enough that it could be walked easily, and if one were a particularly good walker, entirely. And Winn's country life and Jason's health made them both quite adept.

They crossed over walking bridges that not only spanned the river but also carried the weight of buildings. It was a clear, blue-sky day. The flowers and trees in full bloom, the townspeople out and conducting business, their voices raised in a cacophony of commerce and life. As they fell into step, Winn and Jason passed a park where ladies of good family strolled under parasols; it was, Winn thought, much like Hyde Park in London, though the strollers' fashions and voices were unquantifiably different than those seen and heard in England. They crossed through the Hauptmarkt at the beautiful cathedral of the Church of Our Lady, the market row after row of stalls of fresh produce, meats from local farmers, and fish from the rivers. And the toys! Winn stopped in her tracks when she saw the clever wooden dolls with mechanical parts that made them clap or walk a few steps when wound.

And Winn's stopping in her tracks had the unfortunate effect of making Jason bump directly into the back of her.

"Oof!" one or both of them cried. Jason caught Winn's arm to keep her steady, then straightened.

Jason recovered himself first. "You know, we can stop and look at the market if you like."

Winn, whose eyes had been trying to take in everything-the movement of the market, the medieval architecture of the buildings-suddenly cast her eyes to the ground.

"No," she replied, "we should be going. There is much to do, I cannot dawdle." Her eyes fell on one of the clockwork toys again. "But it's all so interesting, and . . . different."

"This really is the first foreign city you're experiencing," Jason realized. "We were in Hamburg for barely a few hours, and Stellzburg and the other roadside stops don't even count. Of course you would wish to linger."

"Yes, but I should not," she replied, pulling away, her hand going to the locket at her throat. "I want to see everything, but I can do so later. After . . ."

After she located the necessary letters, of course. After she made her stake in the world. Then she could wander the marketplaces of Nuremberg, Rome, and Timbuktu if she so desired. But . . .

"Come on . . ." His voice a temptation. "Take off your coat. Stay for a bit." And then he smiled at her, that lopsided charm that had eluded him in his youth (or at the very least, been utterly ineffective on Winn) brought forth into full bloom-and damn effective, whether he knew it or not.

"Oh!" she stuttered. "I, ah . . . I wear the coat because I get cold easily-even though it is June, I simply find it more practical to-"

"Yes, having managed to feel your ice blocks of feet through layers of socks and bedclothes for the past two nights, I am aware of your . . . temperature," Jason drawled. "However, I meant 'take off your coat' as a metaphor, for 'stop a moment and enjoy yourself.' "

"Oh." Winn's brows came down. "I knew that."

"Uh-huh. In any case, seems a shame you should have to ignore the beauty of the city the first time around," Jason argued agreeably. "So, how about a compromise? We won't stop, but why don't we walk a little slower?" He offered her his arm, and with a tentative smile, she took it.

"But we are still determined on our course," Winn qualified after a few steps.

"Mrs. Cummings, it couldn't be any other way."

They managed to find their way to the Durer House in the Zisselgasse, but only after taking the not so direct path up toward Nuremberg Castle, which still had its castle walls intact and served as an active market and tourist destination. They might have also stopped for a pastry and cream . . . but only because they were both so famished from the trip. (And perhaps Jason managed to shove three such pastries in his mouth, but that is neither here nor there.) It had only really been a few minutes of a detour, but as they strolled arm and arm up to the Durer House, a five-story timber-framed structure standing proud on the corner of its street, Jason almost immediately regretted it.

Because standing at the entrance to the house was a group of several young gentlemen looking on as a native-speaking man exchanged harsh and angry words through a half door with an older woman, whose steely-eyed glare belied her fluttery hands and blousy manner. The man continued his vehement speech as he tried to pull the bottom half of the door open, while the woman on the inside constantly swatted at his hands.

Winn's fingers gripped Jason's arm, pulling him to a halt.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I don't know . . ." Jason mused. "Excuse me," he called out to the nearest of the young gentlemen, who Jason realized could not have been more than twenty, and self-important enough to make him cringe.

"Ah, thank Christ, someone who speaks English!" the young man cried, drawing the attention of some of his friends. Jason watched wryly as the young man pocketed a small flask. "Do you speak German?" At Jason's nod, he continued. "Can you tell us what on earth our guide is saying?" He waved his hand toward the two arguing Germans. "We paid him to show us the sights, and Henry over there-we're all studying at Cambridge, but he's the only one who really studies-insisted we see this stupid house. And now it seems that this . . . housekeeper won't let us in."

Jason quirked a brow at him. "Well, I . . ."

The young man eyed Jason's wrinkled and Winn's serviceable clothes, and obviously made some sort of decision. "We're taking our grand tour. Do you know what that is?"

"I think so," Jason replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Darling, you know what he means, correct?"

"I believe so," Winn answered, playing along naturally. "Young men travel the Continent and see the world's wonders."

"Yes, well, I'd much rather we see the wonders inside a pub right now," the young man replied. "But Henry won't leave, and we don't understand a word that's being said."

"Should have paid better attention in your language classes," Jason admonished kindly, but was met with a cold glare by the young man.

"Yes, well, I find that being a member of the aristocracy is time-consuming enough. I am Frederick Sutton, son of Baron Sutton?" His supercilious raised brow said that it was a name Jason should recognize. Sadly, he couldn't. "And you, sir? May I ask your . . . profession?"

"A bank clerk," Jason answered, just as Winn said, "Fishmonger."

"I'm a bank clerk who used to work for her father . . . as a fishmonger," Jason quickly amended.

"Fishmonger to bank clerk. That's terribly ambitious of you," Frederick Sutton replied. Then he fished in his pocket and held out a few coins. "Since you are so ambitious a person, perhaps you would be so kind as to translate for us?"

Jason looked at the shillings, then to Winn, who was admirably holding back a smile as she just shrugged. She reached forward, took the coins, and shoved them into the top of her dress. Then, with an alarmingly broad accent, said, "Oh, thank ye, sir. Yer grand. Me pap will never believe we met with a real live baron. Darling, go listen to the Germans and tell us what they say?"

She nudged Jason toward the arguing men, who had kept up a steady stream of undifferentiating conversation this whole time.

"Your guide is saying he'll give the lady a higher cut of the money," Jason drawled. "And the lady, the . . . she says she's the owner of the house . . . is saying there is no way, she will not allow any more guests . . . the last group the guide brought in destroyed . . ." His gaze immediately went to Winn. "They destroyed some papers."

He watched as Winn went desperately pale. Then she straightened her spine and steeled her jaw. Jason almost smiled at her, oddly touched by her resolve. But before he could turn back and follow more of the conversation, it abruptly ended with a "Nein!", a slammed top portion of a door, and the finality of hearing locks turn.

"That seems to be your answer," Jason supplied for young Frederick Sutton.

Frederick gave a sigh of relief. "Finally. Well, lads!" he called to the group. "I think we've had enough education for today."

"But Freddy," replied the one who must be the studious Henry, "we haven't seen anything yet, not the castle, not St. Lorenz Church . . ."

"Education tends a different way, Henry," Frederick answered. "Time to learn about the local varieties of that delicacy known as beer!"

Most of the young men cheered, while Henry moped, "But it's not even ten thirty! Oh all right-but only if it's in a pub with some historical influence . . ." And so, Henry was appeased, and the motley group of young gentlemen went on their way without a glance back at the fishmonger-turned-bank clerk and his wife.

"So what's it like?" Winn asked after the group turned the corner out of sight.

"What's what like?"