Follow My Lead (19 page)

“Because I imagine if this list starts with ice cream, then it is as long as the road to Damascus. And I hope that toward the end of this list you have some . . . more interesting items in mind.”

“Ice cream is awfully interesting to someone who has never had it,” she countered. “What items did you think I had on my list?”

And for some reason that made him laugh harder.

And then . . . like sunlight coming through the curtains, she understood. “Oh . . . a list of things I’ve yet to try. And more interesting than ice cream. Very good, Mr. Cummings, you managed to blanket the entire conversation with innuendo. At least in your mind.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” He laughed, unable to help it. “My sister Jane always hated it when I pulled her pigtails—metaphorically—but I couldn’t help it then, either. I don’t think you’ve ever been teased in your entire life.”

“Not often.” She couldn’t help smiling at his juvenile laughter. “And yet somehow you managed. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

“Terribly so.”

And then, she had to laugh, too. And it was as simple as that. The tension, the awkwardness, dispelled with talk of travel and innuendo. She could be easy in his presence, the forced intimacy of their proximity giving way to the beginnings of mutual friendship.

Of course, it could not last.

“Since you have so many items to check off this list of yours, let us hope that good George Bambridge does not catch up to us anytime soon,” Jason commented as he stretched his legs out, settled into a more comfortable position for sleep, and closed his eyes.

George. Heavens, for perhaps two whole minutes, she had managed to not think about George.

“Do you really think he’ll try to follow after us?” she asked, alarmed.

He opened one eye. “After that wager you told me about? Of course he will. Besides, do you honestly think we are going to be that difficult to track? You’re a distinctive-looking English female. Luckily, he doesn’t know I’m on this journey, so he still might think you’re traveling alone, but . . .” But then he shrugged. “But, you know the man better than I do. The real question is, do
you
think he’ll follow after you, Miss Crane?”

She grew silent for some minutes as she pondered his question. Yes, Winn had to acknowledge. Yes, George would. Moreover, he would be able to. He had more funds at his disposal, he spoke the language better than she, and his tendency to eschew book study for taking a weekend hunting trip was about to come in handy.

She had been so stupid! What on earth had made her think she could give him the slip in Dover and that would be the end of it? Her lack of caution was deplorable. Well, no more.

Her eyes fell on the still and trying-to-sleep form of Jason Cummings. Winn, however limited her worldly experience, was not unfamiliar with subterfuge or military tactics. She had read whole books on the subject. And one of the first rules was to use whatever cover was available to you.

“In that case, Mr. Cummings”—she cleared her throat—“I think it perhaps best if you call me by another name. My cousin will be looking for a Winnifred Crane, and as such I should probably no longer use that one.”

He opened his eyes again. “Sounds reasonable.” He shrugged. “What would you prefer? I suppose C. W. Marks is unusable as well. Perhaps a different bird name? Lark? Sparrow?”

“I was thinking”—she bit her lip as she tugged on the locket at her neck—“what about Mrs. Cummings?”

“T
HIS is ridiculous,” Jason claimed under his breath. They waited in the busy, shuffling coaching yard of the Stellzburg Inn. Their coach had stopped for the evening in a small town called, unsurprisingly, Stellzburg, whose sole purpose it seemed was to be a stopping point in between larger cities, and whose size was little more than the coaching yard they stood in. As their driver spoke with the head stableman, greeting him as a friend, and helped him unhitch the horses, he waved his passengers toward the inn’s door, where the innkeeper, a stern-faced and practical-looking man, awaited his newest customers.

“We would do better to say we are brother and sister,” Jason argued in a whisper.

“Maybe if I was six inches taller and had red hair,” Winnifred countered. “Married, we have the benefit of cheaper accommodations, one room instead of two. And George is less likely to question a false married couple than a false brother and sister.”

“Yes, and if anyone ever hears of it, your reputation will be shredded, and mine won’t fare much better.” Jason shook his head.

Winn held her breath as they neared the innkeeper. As Jason was the one who spoke the language fluently, he was the one who ultimately would approach the man. Would he go along with her plan? She could pull him aside and roll her eyes at him, give him what she knew to be sound arguments. That first of all, being as they were so far removed from London, no one would find out. Second, as a woman of thirty, she felt vaguely insulted at the idea that her reputation required protection. She had, after all, been in charge of her own reputation so far, and had done very well with it. And third, his reputation wouldn’t even come up in the conversation.

But, while she had sound logic on her side, Winn knew Jason had the theoretical right of it on several points . . . and some that were not mentioned. That she hadn’t the practice or the nature to pretend to be married. That she was too uneasy to call him by his Christian name. That she wasn’t entirely certain he knew
her
Christian name.

But, as they found themselves in front of their somber innkeeper and soporific fellow traveler, Winnifred smiled and did her best to seem a pleasant, unnoticeable traveler. And she sought, found, and squeezed Jason’s hand.

It was terribly odd, the feeling that she could and should take this man’s hand—a veritable stranger. But up until now, he’d had no qualms about touching her, his hand taking hers in the coach yard in Hamburg, his fingers grazing hers when he gave her money for a bottle of Burgundy—and each time, she was highly aware of the sensation. Maybe he was raised in a more affectionate environment, she thought briefly. Winn had been adored as a child, but her father was not one to express his love for her physically. Hugs and touches, little kisses on the cheek died away when her mother passed. She was not used to being touched.

And yet, she took his hand. And when he looked down at her, she knew he was as surprised as she was.

“And how can I help you?” the stern innkeeper asked in English, no trace of a smile to his face.

While on the one hand, Winn was beyond relieved that he spoke English, she really had to wonder . . . what happened to a little geniality?

“Ah! Good, English!” Jason cried, snapping Winn back to more pertinent things. “We desire accommodations for the night. I am Mr. Cummings.” Then with a glance to Winn, he took a deep breath. “And this is my wife, Mrs. Cummings.”

As he declared them man and wife, Jason removed his hand from Winn’s and placed it on the back of her neck. That small stretch of skin that lay exposed between the nape of her hair and the collar of her dress. Winn couldn’t help it; she jumped.

Just the barest, most fractional jump. But it caught in her blood, making her blush. And making the innkeeper turn suddenly hawkeyed.

“And how long have you been married?” the innkeeper asked, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice (or perhaps, it was merely the German accent that lent suspicion to every syllable).

“Not long,” Jason supplied, his hand pressing ever so gently on her neck, willing her not to jump again, his thumb stroking a stray wisp of hair . . . and making her blush all the deeper.

“Four days,” Winn piped up.

“And still getting used to her new name, you see,” Jason finished, looking down into her face. His smile was for the innkeeper’s benefit, but his eyes bore into hers, begging for . . . something. Her silence? Asking her to relax? Before she was to figure it out, Jason turned his smile back to the innkeeper, and Winn pasted her own smile on and followed suit.

“Mein Herr!”
The innkeeper greeted the other occupant of their carriage, the sleeping, snoring German, who was for the first time since they had become his traveling companions, awake and alert. He embraced the innkeeper like a long lost friend. Their conversation continued at such a rapid pace, and in German, that Winn could not possibly follow it.

“He’s asking how the ride was,” Jason leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Apparently our fellow passenger has to travel these roads several times a year. Now, the innkeeper is asking . . . oh hell.”

There was a pause. Winn watched in frightened anticipation as the rotund snorer they had shared their carriage with eyed them—first Winn and then, speculatively, Jason. Then, turning to the innkeeper, he said a flurry of words that had the innkeeper smiling.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Cummings,” the innkeeper said, turning to them. “Follow me and I’ll show you to a very nice room.”

“What just happened?” Winn asked in a hurried whisper as she trotted to keep up with Jason’s long strides. He saw that she was falling behind and immediately slowed his pace.

“The innkeeper asked if we were truly married.”

Her eyes went wide. “And what did the other man—the snorer—say?”

Jason smirked then. “He said, of course we were married. We bickered the entire ride down, he could barely sleep.”

She smiled then, relief flooding through her body. Jason took her hand again. “Come on. I don’t know about you, but I am dying for a meal and a bath.”

As they hurried after the innkeeper, Winn turned her head and found the eyes of the Snorer (as she had taken to calling him in her head) following them from his seat in the taproom, a large plate of food in front of him and a large pint to match. As she found his gaze, she nodded.

Winn couldn’t be sure. The inn was terribly busy and jostling, people crossing through her vision constantly. But later on, when she remembered this moment long enough to put it to paper, she could swear that the Snorer, over his spaetzle and beer, across a crowded room, had winked at her.

The Stellzburg Inn, for all its accommodation, was found to be one of those roadside stops that charged for every little service. There were no bathtubs to be had—at least not that they could afford. But there was a cool, clean stream fifty yards away, in the woods behind the inn, where Jason promptly submerged himself. A pitcher of hot water was purchased and brought up to the room for Winn, and that was enough for her to wipe away a week’s worth of travel.

It was decided that it was prudent—nay, necessary—to spend the coin to have Jason’s clothes washed and pressed, removing any trace of fish or bird smell. He was lent (for a small fee) some of the innkeeper’s clothes to wear in the meantime.

Jason reported to Winn that he had seen a maid smacking his shirt on a rock while he was swimming. “The finest linen in the world!” he bemoaned, only to be greeted by an eye roll from Winn.

It was decided unnecessary to have a blade and soap brought up so Jason could shave. One bed, two pillows, one blanket . . . all added up to more coin in small increments, but given that these were the only rooms to be had for many miles, there was very little to be done about it.

They went down to the taproom that evening, and engaged in the debate of splitting a plate of sausage and spaetzle.

“There is no possible way that I am going to be satisfied on half a plate of food, Mrs. Cummings,” Jason said pointedly as Winn crossed her arms.

“And there is no way I can possibly finish an entire plate of food, Mr. Cummings,” Winn countered, waving a hand over herself to indicate her smaller stature. “I’ve never eaten very much, and right now it would simply be wasteful.”

“Of course you would eat like a sparrow, too,” Jason grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Winn asked, unable to hear properly in the overloud environs of the taproom.

“Nothing.” Then, as a tray of heavenly smelling sausages was brought out for a nearby table, “I cannot believe that one extra plate of food would bankrupt us,” he whined.

“Spoken like someone who has never worried about money.”

Jason threw up his hands. Well, at the very least, they were making a convincing show of being a couple.

“Let me see what I can convince the cook to give us,” Jason said, patting her shoulder and stepping up from the table. She thought she could hear him grumble as he left, “Now I know how George Bambridge feels.”

When he was gone, she could still feel the impression of his hand on her shoulder. The resonant heat that had passed from his hand through her serviceable twill dress to the skin underneath. She had left her coat in the room—for once the atmosphere was warm enough that she felt easy without it. But the shiver down her spine would have to be owed to something else. It seemed so easy for him to casually throw out little touches like that. So easy for him to unnerve her.