"You! You are finally, finally, worried about something, and it's him?"

"He's a child."

"He's a native speaker who actually has some idea what he's doing and where he's going! And yet you worry about him." Jason began to advance on Winn in small, methodical steps. Even in the middle of the road, with every direction to run, she couldn't escape him. It had taken two weeks of travel, but he was finally, legitimately angry, and this conversation was long overdue.

"Now, I've seen you pull at your locket in a worrying way as you try to figure out your next move, I've seen you process through a thousand emotions, but I have never heard anything close to concern in your voice.

"No, you are too focused on your mission to think to worry-not only about me, and I have sacrificed a ridiculous amount to be here, but for yourself. But you would worry about this small boy! The only one of us who has a destination and knows how to get there. The boy will be fine!"

Winn stiffened her spine, her eyes flaring wide in indignation. "As I have told you before, you don't need to be here-I do not need you to escort me across the Continent!"

"Oh yes, you bloody do!" Jason crowed. "And that's the most frightening part of this whole thing. I know for a fact I am not the world's best protector, but if I weren't here, I cannot imagine what you would do or where you would be right now-you don't speak the language, you don't know when someone is bilking you . . . you never think, Winn. Oh, you think about your paintings and your letters and the history you learned from books, but you are never . . . practical!"

"You think to lecture me on practicality?" Winn scoffed. "You, who ran willy-nilly onto a ship that was setting sail for ports unknown?"

"Yes, because you are the one who ran willy-nilly onto a carriage heading for Vienna of all places! Would you care to finally tell me why you did that?"

"Happily," she spat back, her hand gingerly digging into her pocket and pulling out the letters she had showed him so proudly just that morning. "Because you said I needed more definitive proof-you said I had better pray that there were more letters about the painting. And since George invaded the Durer House, we couldn't go back there . . . so, it occurred to me that there would be other letters-in Vienna."

Jason quirked an eyebrow, a cynical invitation for her to explain further.

"These letters"-she gently waved them in his direction-"when they start talking about Lutheranism, there is a mention of attending services at Stephansdom-St. Stephen's Cathedral, in Vienna. That's where the artist who painted the Adam and Eve lived. That's where we would find the other half of this correspondence-letters written in Durer's own hand."

"Wonderful," Jason drawled, clapping his hands slowly. "No, no, don't look so peevish, I actually commend your reasoning. It's wholly sound. Except for a few things."

"Such as?" Winn's brow went up.

"Such as, if these letters from Durer exist in the first place, there is no guarantee that the family of Maria F., whomever she is, has kept them for the last three hundred years. And if they did-don't you think letters written by Master Durer would have come to light sooner?"

"Possibly not-after all, the Adam and Eve painting was not discovered until fifty years ago, and then ascribed to Durer mistakenly . . ." Winn argued, her confidence beginning to waver.

"But your reasoning," Jason continued, heedless of her argument, "does not explain why the hell we had to run from Nuremberg immediately! Leaving behind your bag, which had your clothes, your copy of the painting, and all our money!"

"Because!" Winn shot back. "George was there! He managed to find us already-we had to move!"

"But George would not always be there," Jason yelled. "He would have left eventually. Nuremberg is a big town; we could have found a place to hide for the afternoon and come back in the night and gotten our things before haring out of town as if being chased by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!"

"He would have found us." Winn shook her head. "And if he didn't, he would have managed to get Frau Heider eating out of the palm of his hand-the minute we turned up there, she would have notified him. You don't know him at all."

"You're right, I don't know him-but I know enough to feel sorry for him," Jason retaliated. He knew, when he saw the shock of pain in her eyes, that this-not maligning her common sense or her plans to find the accompanying letters-was the bridge too far, but he couldn't stop himself. It just felt too good, too right to vent his spleen in this manner, that he plowed through any objection the small voice of his good sense might have had.

"That's right, George Bambridge, I feel sorry for him. Because of you. You: tiny, little, five-foot-nothing Winnifred Crane, have been playing him for a fool. Of course he followed you here-if he knows you at all, the way I am getting to know you, he probably lost his mind with worry thinking of you traveling across the Continent alone. But the blasted thing is, if you'd had, at any point in the last fifteen years, the guts to mention to George that you no longer wished to marry him, you could have avoided this mess altogether!"

And that was the point at which Winn slapped him.

Over the course of their acquaintance, Jason had been hit accidentally by her hand, and hit purposefully multiple times by many other people. But he'd never felt the sting quite so harshly as when Winnifred Crane put the full weight of her five-foot-nothing fury behind her intentions.

It wasn't the hand that hurt, nor the reddening impression that it left on the side of his unshaven face. It was the tears welling in her eyes, threatening to fall down her cheeks.

Jason could only stare, could only rein in the emotions that had been running out of control for the last few minutes. The last few weeks. His breath came in jerky gulps as his hand went to his burning cheek. Her breathing was the opposite-not erratic, but deep, furious, and controlled.

"You think I do not know I am in a mess of my own making?" she said quietly. "I'm well aware. But I am happy to report, it is a mess that no longer concerns you."

And with that, she straightened her spine, in that Winnsome manner, and began to march down the road, in the direction their abandoning carriage had rumbled not ten minutes earlier.

"Winn . . . Winn, wait . . . Where do you think you're going?" Jason called after her.

"Vienna!" she retorted.

She didn't turn around as she spoke. So she didn't see Jason rub his cheek gently, and with a resolved sigh to the heavens, begin to take stiff, painful steps after her.

Fourteen.

Wherein our duo contemplates misperception.

THE sun was setting in the west, casting Winn's shadow long before her as she set out on her path toward Vienna. She could hear the shuffling footsteps of Jason behind her. He kept a safe distance, about twenty paces-close enough that he could keep an easy eye on her, but far enough that if she happened to decide to strike him again, he would have time to set up defenses.

Not that she cared that he was following behind her. As she intended to keep her distance, he would, she concluded, eventually grow tired of seeing her backside, and when they reached some sort of civilization, he would see the futility of following her further. She was setting out on the rest of this journey alone, and intended to complete it that way. Alone.

Nor did she care that she had, for the first time in her life, willingly struck someone. He had deserved it, utterly and completely. How could someone-how could Jason-who had practically begged to accompany her on her adventure, decide now to call her gutless and of all things, impractical?

Gutless. It had been the scariest act of her life to set out on this journey. To leave the comfort of the known in Oxford and the friendship of Totty, and march resolutely toward her own independence. And to rest that independence on something as frighteningly flimsy as a wager . . .

A niggling voice, tiny and persistent, in the back of her mind reminded her that Jason's gutless comment was in reference to her treatment of George. And the little voice transformed itself into a pebble of guilt, annoyingly stuck in some crevice and impossible to rid herself of. But she would not allow herself to think of that now. She had to hold on to what righteous anger she had. It was what was forcing one foot to fall in front of the other.

The truth was, while "gutless" made her seethe, "impractical" at least had the ability to make her snort with laughter. Impractical. Out of the two of them, which one had some idea of the value of a shilling? Which one got his pocket picked on the docks of Dover, making Winn take on the burden of his expenses (no matter what little money his hawked items contributed)? Which one had at least planned on this adventure and secretly undertook weeks of research on how best to accomplish it, while the other decided to come along as little more than an afterthought, as if he simply decided that this week, instead of running his estates or sitting in the House of Lords, he'd rather frolic across Bavaria?

True, she had been impractical enough to leave her bag at the Durer House with Frau Heider, but at least she was lucky enough to have the necessary letters in her pocket. And at least, she thought with a small shiver as the sun dipped below the horizon, her dress was warm, and her boots sturdy and durable. And since she had her anger to warm her blood, she didn't even miss her thick wool coat-also left back at the Durer House, in the care of Frau Heider. She almost snuck a peak behind her, to see if Jason was shivering in his now well-worn, summer-weight coat.

Almost.

She kept walking. Two more hours, maybe three, before she was tired enough to think of stopping for the evening. They had passed very little in the way of shelter in the intervening hours, and been passed by very few in the way of carriages.

The one time she managed to get a vehicle to stop for her-a horse and cart loaded with summer wheat to use as feed for farm animals-she was mollified into admitting that she had nothing in the way of funds. When the driver of the cart (a much kinder, more sober-looking man than the previous) had glanced down at her gold locket, she blanched and clasped it, her hesitation just enough for the driver to shake his head and snick his horses back into a trot. All the while Jason had been looking on, having shortened the gap between them to about ten paces.

She stepped more briskly after that, determined to restore their original distance.

But now, as the chill of night settled over the land and Winn struggled to keep her feet moving and her eyes open, she had determined she must stop. But where? They seemed to be fairly far from a town or a village or even the farmhouse of whomever owned the endless fields they were walking past. She was so far from everything . . . and so very, very tired. Her anger had been burnt hollow about an hour ago, leaving her emotionally and physically spent. All she had to do was rest somewhere. And, as her eyes drifted off the road, over the field dotted with piles of yet-to-be-baled hay, this was as good a place as any.

Resolutely, she stepped off the road, into the field beyond. She heard Jason's footsteps-they did not hesitate to follow her, no startled shuffling questioning her motives. If one could read expressions in footsteps, Winn could almost swear that his gave echoes of relief. But as she approached a particular pile of hay, she turned and glared at him, the first time she had looked at him since her slap vibrated across the German countryside. It was a warning, and one Jason was smart enough to heed. He removed himself to the closest hay bale to hers and promptly set about pulling down an amount of straw, making himself a bed of the stuff. Winn, watching out of the corner of her eye, followed suit.

When she laid her head down, Winn looked up at the thankfully cloudless sky, lit with stars as bright as diamonds. The moon was barely half; it would develop into its full self in little more than a week. And when it did, it would blanket the sky with its stark light, overpowering the stars, making them less impressive, less vast.

But now, with the Milky Way above her, billions upon billions of points of light swirling in their own cosmos, Winn could only feel small, and alone.

This was the first time in her life she was sleeping outside. She should have relished the experience, viewed it with a sense of adventure. Sleeping in hay under the stars! How marvelous! Something new to be checked off her list! But the truth was, it was the first time that things had been dire enough to warrant it. She shivered slightly, as it was less comfortable than she had imagined. Her mistakes had led them to this place. What other mistakes was she making, or going to make?

This was the first moment in her whole journey that Winn did not know what came next. Where a hint of doubt made its way through her confidence. What if there were no letters to be found in Vienna? What if they could not even discover the identity of Maria F.?

No, not they, she admonished herself. I. She was continuing this journey alone. After all, she had intended to do the whole of it alone, and she had started out that way.

But that wasn't true, she thought. She had spent approximately three minutes of this trip without Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, involved in some respect. Hell, it was the first time in a week she was even sleeping alone.

A pit of ice dropped in her stomach, making her shiver harder against the chill of the night. It was curious. As an only child, she had never had to share her bed with anyone. She was used to sleeping alone, but to feel so keenly the void that separated her from Jason after only . . . five days? Was it really only five days?

It felt like he had been there forever, his presence infiltrating every aspect of her life. Sleeping in his clothes on top of the covers while she slept beneath. His hand falling gently on the back of her neck. She had never sought his touches, but now that she was without them, she felt as if the tide of her body had ebbed out to sea, and could only pray for the return to shore. At some point, without knowing how she arrived there, Winn had become addicted to Jason's touch.

Disconcerting, to say the least.

But it was no matter-not anymore. As she told herself again and again, as she shivered against the night and burrowed into her pile of hay, she was by herself from here on. After all, even once this mission was complete, she intended to follow her own path. One that did not include a Duke, a peer of the realm. She was fighting for her independence tooth and nail, and she would not allow anything, not even the curious effect Jason Cummings's touch had on her, to get in her way.

All she had to do, right now, was get through this night. All she had to do was fall asleep and when she woke up, start walking again. She would worry about hunger when she felt its pangs. She would worry about money when it became necessary. Right now, all she had to do was sleep.

If only it hadn't become so cold!

Where was her coat? Oh, maybe she should have risked George and gone back to the house-if only for the warmth of that thick coat. She shivered and burrowed, shivered and burrowed. Just sleep, Winn told herself. When you are asleep, you won't feel the cold as much. And the sun will be up and shining soon enough . . . Just sleep . . .

Suddenly, softly, she felt warmth against the line of her back, wrapping itself around her. Or rather, wrapping himself around her.

"What are you doing?" Winn whispered through chattering teeth. "Get off me. Go away."

"Your anger isn't keeping you warm enough," Jason replied in her ear, his own teeth clacking ever so slightly. "And I'm not going to let you freeze to death to spite me. You can still despise me in the morning."

Winn thought over her options for a moment. She could kick him away, get up, move to the next hay bale, or start walking down the road again, guided by the paltry half moon.

But he was so warm.

"I'm still going to Vienna alone," Winn finally said, her head coming to rest in the cradle his arm provided.

"Duly noted," Jason replied, his beard scratching against the top of her head.

And as Winn stopped shivering and relaxed into his warmth, she felt her despair fall away, and she fell to sleep like a stone.

The next morning, with dawn breaking over the sky and warming their skin, they began their silent journey. But this time, Jason was in step beside Winn.

However, the silence that governed their mouths did not apply to their stomachs. About an hour into their walking, the morning air was rent by the most horrible gurgle coming from the vague area of Jason's midsection.

Winnifred sent him a silent glare.

"Apologies," Jason grumbled. "Haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday."

"I thought you had a sandwich," Winn accused, forgetfully breaking her self-imposed moratorium on speech. When Jason only looked at her strangely, she rolled her eyes and explained, "Yesterday, when I found you in the square? You were coming out of a shop with a package, which I thought to be some sort of food, since you seem to require feeding every hour on the hour. Don't tell me you ate it already." She sighed with disappointment.

"Oh," Jason replied, realizing. "That wasn't food."

"You spent our money on something other than food?" Winn's eyes went wide, her head falling into her hands. "Jason, and you called me impractical."

"It wasn't our money. It was the few coins Frederick Sutton threw at me," Jason replied peevishly, rummaging in his coat pocket and coming out with the small package wrapped in brown paper. "And it may be impractical, but it was for you," he mumbled, and held out the package to her.

Winn's head came up. "For me?" She delicately took the package, which she could see now was far too small and oblong to be a sandwich. One touch and Winn could tell it was fragile.

As she unwrapped it gently, Jason watched her face carefully. "I figured everyone needs a souvenir to remind them of their first trip abroad."

It was a doll. One of the small wooden dolls that stood upright and had clockwork parts that allowed it to move its head side to side, its arms up and down. It had been one of the dolls she had admired, however briefly, when they took their initial stroll through Nuremberg to find the Durer House, however many short days ago.

And the doll was, laudably, painted as though it were dressed in lederhosen.

A small, stunned smile painted Winn's face in wonder. She wound the small key on its back, watched as the toy jerkily moved its arms and head, an oddly stationary dance meant to delight children. And apparently Winn herself, because she could not help but feel something inside of her click into place, her own inner clockwork kicking to life, and all she could feel was warmth bubbling up inside her. And it was due to this little doll. How it had survived the events of yesterday and last evening, she had no idea, but she could not help but be overjoyed that it had.

"Thank you," she managed to say shyly, her eyes flicking up to Jason's face-who was trying awfully hard to not look overly invested in her reaction.

"Well," he replied gruffly, "like I said, it wasn't expensive. Nor was it my money, technically."

"Then, thank you, Frederick Sutton," she replied.

Unable to say anything else on the subject, and unsure of any other course of action, they began walking again. They fell back into their silence, and Winn could not help but be acutely aware of it. The day was crisp and clear, undeniable in its beauty, but every breeze was punctuated by the sound of Jason's feet falling on dirt next to hers, his pace kept even with her obviously shorter one. She couldn't help but also be entirely too concerned with where his hand fell at his side, swinging lightly . . . if he swung it a hair wider, his knuckles would graze hers . . .

Not that she wanted him to, of course. She crossed her arms over herself, putting her hand out of harm's way. She was still chewing over his accusations from the day before, and her reaction to them. If it had been anyone other than Jason . . . if, for example, Totty had expressed concerns over her actions, would she have reacted the way she did? Would she have become as deeply incensed as she did?

"And that's another thing," Jason's voice broke through the silent walk and Winn's own thoughts. Upon seeing her raised brows, he continued haltingly. "Speaking of Frederick Sutton, that is. When we met him, you said I had been exactly like him."

"I . . . I didn't mean to offend-" she began, but he held up a hand.

"I know you didn't, and it didn't. Mostly because it was untrue. When I was Frederick Sutton's age, I wasn't like him. I was like his friend Henry."

"Henry . . ." Winn's brain relived the encounter. "The one who actually wanted to see the Durer House?"

"But was easily dissuaded and then persuaded into mischief," Jason concluded. "In some ways, I think I would have rather been Frederick. At least he didn't make a pretense of his intentions."

Winn came to a stop, turning to face Jason. "But I said that days ago. You can't have been thinking of it all this time."

Jason shrugged. "It has been bothering me. I wanted to clear it up."

"Oh," Winn replied. And then, as they resumed their walking, "As long as we are clearing up misconceptions, there is something that has been bothering me."

Jason then quirked his brow and nodded for her to continue.

"I'm not five-foot nothing," she declared. Then, with a concessionary grumble, "I'm five-foot-one."

"Oh," Jason replied in kind. And then, he couldn't help it. He began laughing. A small chuckle that was all Winn needed in way of an apology. And perhaps, when she joined in laughing, too, he would know she apologized as well.

They resumed walking, continued chuckling, right up until Jason's stomach growled again, adding a third voice to their wordless conversation.