Follow My Lead (14 page)

It was good, he thought, as he wandered slowly along the pier. His duty was done, and Miss Crane was launched on the world. He was free. And while some small part of him was melancholy at the thought of this unprotected sparrow being thrust out into the world, another small part was jealous of the adventure she would have.

No, that was not fair. He had already had his European tour, he thought as he sidestepped a rather disgusting looking pile of fish guts, which turned his growling and empty stomach over. What came next for him lay in London, in marriage, in the hard work of running a ducal estate.

Well, best of luck to Miss Crane. If he had not
enjoyed
her company, then at least he’d found it surprising, and the comic stock of players and villains she surrounded herself with, amusing. And with that, he banished any further thought of her from his mind.

Partially because he needed to be concerned with his own future. He looked ahead in time and saw himself finding his mother’s emerald ring in the family jewel safe. Saw himself slipping it on Sarah Forrester’s finger and, soon after, taking an easy, contented stroll down the matrimonial aisle. Saw himself rigorously enjoying what came after a wedding—the time-honored tradition of a wedding night. And the hazy, vision of a calm, quiet life thereafter.

Yes, he allowed himself to forget about Miss Crane, partially for those reasons. But mostly because, as he passed a stall selling hot sticky buns, he realized he was
monumentally
hungry.

He stopped, took in the scent, and nearly ravaged the old lady selling the delightful, sugary treats. He had skipped breakfast, after all. Instead, he contented himself with purchasing half a dozen buns—never having outgrown the propensity to think with his stomach when famished—and the minute he had them in hand, took the first out of the paper wrappings and held it up to his lips.

He didn’t bite. Not at first. But there was something so right about this moment, this one lovely yeasty smell found amid all the horrid dockside odors of fish and foreigners. Representational of him finally finding his path in life? No, he wrinkled his nose. That was far too poetic for so early in the morning. Likely hunger made him wax rhapsodic, and such silliness was easily remedied.

He turned to watch the ships madly loading their cargo and passengers, opened his mouth, and . . .

Something was wrong.

Not with the bun—although he never tasted it. Something must be wrong with his vision, because Jason was certain he was seeing Winnifred Crane, the little sparrow, dart her way up the gangplank of the
wrong
ship.

No, it was hunger that was clouding his vision. It must be. He glanced over to the
Phoenix
, just about to release its moorings. He had deposited Miss Crane there. He was certain of it.

Then why was he equally certain that he saw the petite form of Miss Crane on board this other ship in front of him, clutching her portmanteau and nervously playing with her locket?

The packet of hot, delicious, fragrant, sticky buns was dropped to the ground, and Jason set out at a full run, ducking and weaving his way through the crowds to the ship. He bumped up against a small boy, who gave a quick “Oy!” and then was swatted at by a man whom he presumed was the boy’s father. But he had no time to stop or even shout an apology. He ran up this new ship’s gangplank, not even stopping when he heard the loud, long whistle of the crew chief fire after him.

Had she gotten lost? Turned around in the shuffle of people, or followed the wrong crewman?

On board the ship, pushing his way through the various sailors and crewmen, most of whom jabbered on in a foreign language Jason hadn’t the time to identify, he finally found the small form of the only woman he could see on board.

As he grabbed her by the arm, she turned with a shriek.

Luckily she didn’t hit him.

“Oh!” Miss Crane cried, looking up into his face. “Your Grace, it’s you. Thank goodness. But, why are you on—”

“On . . . the wrong . . . ship . . .” Jason managed in between heaving gasps, bending at the waist. Crikey, had it really been so long since he had taken exercise that he was this out of breath?

“Beg pardon?” she asked, confused. “I couldn’t understand.”

“Does this man bothering you, fräulein?” A burly crewman came over, speaking in what Jason recognized as a Prussian accent as thick as the man’s biceps.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “He’s a friend. But I don’t know what he’s doing here.”

“You’re on the wrong ship!” Jason repeated, though clearly this time. He stood up straight. “This is not the
Phoenix
.”

There was a great deal of commotion around them, men moving to and fro, pulling on this rope and pushing that wheel, but Jason paid no attention. He took Miss Crane by the arm and pulled her through the traffic.

“Totty and Bambridge must be mad looking for you. Come, we can still make it, the
Phoenix
hasn’t cast off yet.” But the little sparrow resisted with all her strength. The Prussian crewman was in protective pursuit, calling, “
Achtung!
Stop!” to gather the attention of his brethren.

“We have to hurry,” Jason cried. “We can still make it, we simply have to move fas—”

But that was all he was destined to hear for a while, because the thick-armed and accented Prussian crewman had caught up to them, making his presence known with a quick blow to the back of Jason’s head.

The soft, rocking motions kept Jason’s eyes closed far longer than they should have. It was a pleasant, drifting sensation, akin to being in the cradle, and as such, he indulged. Mornings should always be like this. He could sleep in, just a few more minutes . . . the warm sun above, the soft pillow under his head . . . although it didn’t feel like his usual feather down pillow. It was soft, yes, but stronger, and radiated its own warmth, like the valley of a lady’s lap.

Jason opened one eye, a bare fraction. And realized, when he saw the brown twill fabric on which he rested his head, that it was indeed a lady’s lap. The sparrow’s.

And just as suddenly, the sounds around him, murmured voices and lapping water, rushed into focus, sharp and painful to his ears.

“He’s coming around,” she said, leaning into his line of vision. “Oh, Your Grace, I was so worried.”

“Why . . . do I keep getting hit around you?” Jason asked blearily.

“I’m so sorry,” she replied as another gentleman leaned into vision. The burly Prussian. “Crewman Reinhardt thought you were abducting me.”

Jason sat up with a bolt, his head reeling from the action, but having just remembered the circumstances he was in, it was necessary.

“Miss Crane—you’re on the wrong ship. This is not the packet to Calais.” He spoke in a rush, his gaze darting from Miss Crane to her German protector. “We have to go. Maybe we can still catch the
Phoenix
. . .”

“I’m afraid we cannot,” she said calmly. “They have already cast off . . . and so have we.”

Jason looked up then. All the commotion, all the movement—the ship had pulled up anchor. That whistle he’d heard, it had not been calling for the watch to stop him from boarding, it had been the signal for the crew to cast off! And suddenly he felt sick, his empty stomach roiling. He stood, bobbled, managed to stumble to the railing, and . . . all he could see was water. And Dover, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Holy hell,” Jason breathed. His mind was racing. “Tell them to turn back.”

“Nein,”
said the crewman, “we would lose a day with the tide.”

“But you’ve got passengers on board the wrong ship!”

“It’s not the wrong ship,” Miss Crane supplied meekly. “At least not for me.”

Jason turned his gaze to her then, his muddled mind striking upon the truth, confusion quickly giving way to clarity. “You lost Totty and George in the crowd and then purchased passage on this ship?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“On purpose.”

“Yes.”

“And, no doubt, given that man’s accent, this ship is not headed to Calais, wherein I would be able to return within the space of a day?”

“I don’t believe it is, no.”

“Miss Crane,” he spoke very carefully, all too aware of the docks getting smaller in the distance, “would you please tell me where this ship is going?”

Winnifred turned to the crewman, who stood righteously by. “Herr Reinhardt—where are we headed, sir?”

“Hamburg,” he replied.

She turned to him with a trepidatious smile. “Hamburg.”

W
INN was certain of a few things in her admittedly sheltered life. She was certain that at four o’clock, England stopped for tea. She was certain that Rembrandt had needed better lighting in his house. She was certain that while she was proficient at darning socks, she would never have talent with the needle necessary to embroider so much as a handkerchief.

Yes, these were things she was certain of.

What she was uncertain of, at the moment, was just exactly how angry a human being could become.

Because Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, was about to explode like the mountain above Pompeii.

“A week? A whole bloody week to get to Hamburg?” he roared, pacing a small section of the deck, unable to move further as he was surrounded by Winn, the captain of the ship, Reinhardt, and a few gawking crewmen, one of whom was translating Jason’s words into German for their entertainment. “You cannot stop at Dunkerque, or even Amsterdam?”

The captain, who luckily spoke very good English, shook his head. “We are due in Hamburg in a week with our shipment or my entire crew will lose half their wages from the company.” He shrugged. “And they would not like to lose half their wages, not even to accommodate a Duke.”

“The crossing is not a whole week, your grace. Six days, actually,” Winn supplied, then when met with the Duke’s dark and furious eyes, wisely stepped back.

“I don’t want to hear from you. Six bloody days—no it’s twice that, because it will take me six days to get back to England. That’s a
fortnight
I’ll be gone. I cannot be gone for a fortnight. I have . . . responsibilities.”

“Then perhaps you should not have stowed away on this ship,” Reinhardt grumbled as the captain nodded.

“I didn’t stow away! There was no stowing of anyone anywhere! If anything, I was abducted!” He turned to the captain. “Perhaps it should occur to your crewmen that they shouldn’t go hitting people about the head without any warning.”

“Sir, I apologize, my man was simply acting in protection of one of our passengers,” the captain said wearily, for perhaps the sixth time. “One of our
paying
passengers.”

Neither Winn nor the Duke missed the implication. “You want me to pay?” His Grace asked, astonished. “For the privilege of being abducted?”

“I am sorry, sir, but the shipping company will keep track of how many passengers disembark. My men’s wages are garnished accordingly.” The captain shot a glance to the men who surrounded them. Winn looked to her left and right—suddenly the terse yet affable men she had met when she boarded changed into an oversized gang, whose muscles showed the hard work they put in every day . . . and whose expressions showed how much they disliked the idea of having their wages garnished.

His Grace must have noticed, too, because he reached for the coin purse in his coat pocket as he said, “I would take issue with this company you work for. It seems an unkind place to be employed.”

“The world is unkind, sir,” the captain replied. “But you are more than welcome to ask that your funds be returned from the company’s offices. In Hamburg.”

His hand emerged from his breast pocket with . . . nothing. He then checked the pockets at his waist, then frantically patted himself down. “Where?” he said to no one in particular. Then announcing to the assembled party, “My coin purse is gone. Someone has stolen it!” He eyed the crowd wildly. “On the docks . . . or when I was unconscious, someone took all my money!”

Before anyone within the crowd could be shocked, appalled, or accused, Winn sighed and stepped forward. “I’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for his ticket.”

She fished in a side pocket of her portmanteau and pulled out the coins he had given her earlier. “Is this sufficient?”

The captain took the money, counted it quickly, and brought his head up with a smile, his entire demeanor changed. “Welcome aboard the
Seestern.
If you have any luggage . . .” His smile faltered somewhat at the mutinous look the Duke gave him. “
Da
, well, please let us know if you require anything. Do the two of you want your berths next to each other?” He waggled his eyebrows and pitched his voice low. But not low enough, because as soon as the translating crewman got through with his work, the men gathered around them sent up a riotous laugh.