"Fight for the whole. I can manage the parts-parental love, friendship. I can manage lust."

She looked him dead in the eye when intoning that last word, making Jason think that Winn Crane-bookish, scholarly Winn Crane-knew exactly what she was doing to him. "But I don't know if I am destined to find them all together. Make myself responsible for someone else's happiness. I don't think I'm built for it."

Built for it. Jason wanted to counter, to disagree. To assure her that anyone who cared as diligently for her father and as passionately about her work as she did, indeed had the capacity for love. And the will to fight for it.

But when he opened his mouth for such a speech, he found his throat dry and his courage fleeting. Because one thought flew to the front of his mind. One niggling little thought that displace all others: While he was certain Winn had the strength to fight for what she loved, he didn't know if he did. And he doubted it.

Better to joke. Better to stay on an even keel. Than admit to fears out loud.

"I don't think I could, either," Jason agreed, with a smile. "Try and make one other person happy? Might as well tell me to read all my estates' account books cover to cover. I'm far too lazy and irresponsible an individual," he replied, silently exhaling a sigh of relief. Whether it be the air or the ale, the conversation had become far too close to meaningful, and he was glad for the chance to be a bit jovial. But Winn did not laugh at that bit of sarcasm, as expected. Instead, she looked at him queerly.

"Are you?" she asked.

"Am I what? Lazy? Irresponsible?"

"As . . . self-deprecating as that statement was meant to be, I think you think you are irresponsible and lazy."

Jason didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he bought time with a slow drag on his ale.

"And what do you think?" he asked slowly, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'm not entirely sure. You claim to not know how many stable hands are in your employ, yet you cleaned and maintained those horse stalls today with pride and accuracy. You pretend to have no head for details, but quirk or no, you keep track of your bills. Hell, you read the Historical Society's charter before you joined; I doubt there is one man in a hundred who can say the same.

"You pay lip service to duty," she continued shrewdly, "and don't seem to have any pressing obligations in life beyond your own pleasure, and yet you abandoned those pleasures and comforts to go out of your way to help me. Say what you will, but those are not the acts of the lazy."

Jason was caught for a moment. In her hazel eyes, firelight dancing in their depths, and in the accuracy of her assessment.

"Why did you do it?" she asked. "Why have you been helping me? And don't say it's because Lord Forrester asked you to. I think we both know you have gone above and beyond that particular call of duty."

He could play it off. Shrug casually, make another sad attempt at a joke. But they had breached new ground with their honesty tonight, and Jason . . .

He didn't want it to end.

"Many reasons," he said on a laugh, which did nothing to hide his vulnerability. "I felt a bit guilty. It was my fault your father's letter of introduction got knocked into the fountain."

"No, we lay the blame for that at George's door," she argued, a twinkle coming into her eye.

"And if I hadn't egged you on once you got into the Historical Society's doors, you wouldn't have managed to see Forrester and challenge him into this crazed journey."

"First you blame yourself for hindering me and then for helping me? For giving me something I wanted?" Winn mused. "The workings of the male mind are twisted indeed."

Jason's gaze flicked down to the buttons of her shirt again as he replied, "You have no idea. But . . ."

"But . . . ?"

"I became involved," he explained. "With you. And your scheme, at a very early stage. And I think . . . for once I wanted to be the person to finish something. My sister-she made a comment I don't think she realized would stick with me the way it did."

At her unblinking and rapt gaze, he continued awkwardly. "When I was younger, and my father was falling into ill heath, I wasn't like you. I didn't care for him or help run the estates in his stead. I avoided responsibility altogether."

"But . . . surely you don't avoid it anymore."

"No, I don't, but that was a hard lesson learned. Yet according to my sister, while I no longer abdicate responsibility, I do . . . delegate it. I don't have to pay particularly close attention to my life-I have stewards and secretaries and butlers and gardeners that run the machine. And I could have easily done that with you. I could have left you in Dover and driven away, handing you off to the next person. But, I think some part of me looked for you on the docks, and spotted you on the wrong ship, stayed with you in Hamburg, then Nuremberg, because . . . I didn't want to delegate this. I want to see this through."

He held his breath while she watched him. The fire cast the shadows of those dancing around it, flickering light across her face-giving her expressions that might not be there. One moment she looked pensive, another lost, another powerful-all without changing the set of her mouth, the slight rise of the corner of her brow, the tiny, wicked purse to her mouth.

It was only a moment, bare seconds passing. But later, in the cold air of winter, when Lupburg and Sonnenwende were just a distant memory, Jason would come to recall this moment-the firelight and shadow playing across her features as the moment that he knew.

But it passed, as moments tend to do. This one pleasantly, as Winn's sly smile came back to her face.

"So," she drawled. "I suppose that's one thing we can cross off your list of new things to try."

"What?" he asked, his eyebrow going up, matching her smile.

"Seeing something through."

"But I'm not finished yet," he countered.

"And I'm not finished getting drunk," she said, raising her glass of ale, "yet you've already crossed that one off mine."

"Yes, well"-he laughed, gently pulling her stein back down to their hay table-"feeling the effects of alcohol is something better judged from outside."

"As is nobility," she replied, far more sober than Jason feared he was.

He held her gaze again as the musicians started up a new tune, fast and lively. Her eyes flicked over to the sound, where the drum and violin players were being met by cheers and, of course, more dancing.

"There is something else I would like to cross off my list," Winn said confidingly.

Jason's other eyebrow joined his first, his mind going places they should not, but would not alter from.

"Dancing around a bonfire at a Sonnenwende festival," she breathed.

Jason immediately leaned back, recoiled at the idea, even as she stood and tugged on his hand, trying to pull him out of his seat.

"No, no, no, no," he protested.

"Please?" she begged. "It will be fun."

"I . . . I don't dance, Winn."

"Neither do I. Let's do it."

"Winn-"

"This is not a ballroom. No one is going to force you to remember the steps of the waltz. Which is something I cannot do either, by the way."

Jason threw a glance to the dancers behind her. True, any formality to the dancing had dissolved as the evening had worn on and the thick German beer had flowed with impunity. Now, it was simply an expression of happiness, of tradition, and the summer night.

But still, Jason was not confident that he could manage even that.

Winn must have recognized his hesitance, because she smiled at him, that half smile that held all the world's knowledge, and then leaned down the short distance between his sitting height and her standing. Her face close, so close to his, she whispered in his ear.

"Come now, Your Grace. Do not delegate this responsibility. Just . . . follow my lead."

He felt the warm, soft pressure of her lips against his cheek. Just a peck, a kindness. But it was enough to get his blood moving and his legs propelling him out of his seat.

She winked at him, and whether the alcohol or the night or the length of the day was responsible for his bewitchment, for the transformation of Winn Crane, scholar, into Winn Crane, temptation, he did not care. Because he was happy enough in that moment to trust her, his heart pounding in time to the music, and pulled along by their joined hands . . . and begin to dance.

Seventeen.

Wherein decisions made are acted upon, and fortunes change.

THEY stumbled into the loft of Wurtzer's barn, groping for purchase even as they clung desperately to each other. Lips found lips, hands found hands, and bodies pressed against each other with intention. In the swirling haze of feeling that seemed to blind Winn to everything-including the slumbering horses-everything but Jason, she rejoiced in how she had actually managed to get here, and the bravery it took to do it.

Although the actual, physical act of getting here, to the loft of the barn, was slightly unclear. But then again, her focus had been elsewhere.

They had been dancing. Terribly. The confidence the ale gave her was undermined by her own lack of skill, but then again, it was matched by Jason's, which somehow made everything fun and funny and all right. Other couples danced around them, their steps sure and known, and so, for a minute or so Jason and Winn tried to mimic them. But after bumping into their third couple, they caught each other's eyes and started laughing.

"I told you, I can not dance!" Jason shouted over the music, the fire, the voices.

"I told you, I do not care!" Winn replied. And then, something-be it the ale or the atmosphere, the stars overhead or the company beside her-made Winn feel . . . free. Free to move however her body dictated, to the rhythms of a song played on a horn or a fiddle.

And so she did.

She stepped without knowing where she would step next. Moved without a prescribed idea of what followed after. She twirled, stepped, leaped with more grace than she ever had before. Later, much later, reflection would ascribe her oddly superb balance and lack of fear of falling to the alcohol, but in that moment it felt glorious. She took the ties and pins out of her hair, letting it fall freely, messily down over her shoulders. Her poor, chewed upon hair, she thought-its loose tendrils a desperate temptation to poor Wolfgang the horse, and now . . .

She turned and saw the expression on Jason's face. The way his eyes were following her movements, her hands, her hair . . . now she was a temptation to him.

How strange, how utterly strange to see want in his eyes. A want that she had never seen directed at her, but as basic and recognizable as a smile or a frown or a grimace. Want. Desire.

And he desired her. It made her feel tingly all over. Little pinpricks of fire flushing across her skin, as her body woke up to the idea of being desired. Of being beautiful.

How strange . . . and how powerful.

He followed after her, her jumping steps, her out-of-style but in-time movements, holding to the beat set by fingers plucking strings. They were free of the expectations of society's judgment, free of their own concerns, and for the brief, glorious moments the music afforded, they simply danced.

Soon enough, they were not the only ones who had given up the steps in favor of easy, joyful dancing by the light of the bonfire. Other couples, fueled by happiness and alcohol, mimicked their unknown steps, and the tune played became livelier and the crowd's jubilation matched.

Jason came round, caught her by the waist, causing her to squeak with surprise and delight. Then he took her hands and spun her around, like children did to make themselves dizzy. And dizzy she was indeed-the blinding swirl of feeling mixed with the alcohol to turn the stars into white streaks of paint on a dark canvas, and she had to stop, to steady herself, to catch her breath. And to smile. Tremendously. Deliriously.

She caught Jason looking at her. He was always looking at her.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned, over the music and laughter.

"Nothing like that!" She giggled at the worry in his voice. "I just think we've all suddenly become pagans!"

She indicated the crowd, the hopping, happy dancing, the bonfire that would burn well into the night. But when she turned back, she saw that Jason's gaze had never left her face. It was dark and intense and burning into her skin.

"You know," he said, closing the half-step gulf of space between them, his voice pitched low and honeyed, "I think you're right. I think we are all pagans."

She looked up at him, curiously. Her eyes finding his intent . . . and then with a quick glance down at his lips, allowing it.

He didn't need to be told twice.

This kiss . . . it wasn't the quick press of flesh that had appeased a crowd in Stellzburg. Nor was it the impulsive display of gratitude she had unsettled him with at the Durer House. This kiss . . .

So, this was passion. This was want acted upon, need and hope churned up, groped for, held fast to. His lips pressed into hers with no kindness. And when she finally began to press back, it was with no ease. It was new and exploding in her body and brain, like the time an anonymous Oxford student had let fireworks fly over the Radcliffe Camera: completely unexpected, completely spectacular.

Something you can cross off your list-the thought popped into her brain, causing her to smile sheepishly against his mouth, his beard scratching against her cheek.

It was the smile that did it. When she opened her lips just that bare amount, he wasted no time in swooping in, invading her with his tongue. And suddenly, as she let her tongue dance in unknown steps with his, all of those sensations-those fireworks spectaculars that had taken over her body-felt dim in comparison.

Yes, it was something that she could check off her list. If only she didn't want more.

At that thought, her body went still, shock coursing through her system. Jason felt it, because he pulled back, met her gaze. And held.

And suddenly, Winn knew exactly what it was she wanted to do.

And she decided to do it.

"Come with me," she said, her voice soft and thick. Taking his hand she pulled him away from the bonfire.

"Winn-wait, where are we going?" Jason said, tripping after her, the smile in his voice masked by confusion.

They came to the corner of the village square-away from the voices, the movement, the fire. The cool air coming to touch her reddened cheeks, her skin.

"Winn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten-"

She came up short, forcing Jason to an abrupt stop. Then, with all the bravery the journey, the night, and the ale had unleashed from her soul, she brought his head down to hers and kissed him.

Slowly, deeply. Her hand snaking up around his neck and pressing herself into his body-that body that she had spent night after night sleeping next to but not feeling, until last night, when he held her close, kept her from shivering to death. The body that she had spent hours today watching as he lifted forks of straw, shook out blankets . . . by rolling up his sleeves and unknowingly exposing his strong, capable arms. By lifting and sweating, making his shirt stick to the planes and muscles of his back in the most curiously satisfying way.

As she clung to that back, she lifted her face away from his, to find and hold his gaze.

"Follow me," she breathed, her voice thready and low.

His eyes, dark already in the banked firelight, became charcoal as they changed from astonished to understanding in the barest fraction of a second. He nodded mutely, his face completely stone . . . except for the tiniest smile, awed and knowing, peaking through his beard.

They were a clamor of hands and soft laughter all the way back to the barn. A tumble of rushed footholds and kisses as they made their way up the ladder to the loft. And now . . . now they were a rush of fingers pulling at ties and buttons-those enticing buttons.

Those entrapping buttons, Jason thought as he marveled at their engineering, all the while cursing their existence. He had managed to get one free of its mooring, but that only made him want to get them all free, and damned if his fingers weren't too big and clumsy for their delicacy.

"Stupid . . . buttons," he breathed, while Winn rained soft kisses down on his temple.