Follow My Lead (34 page)

“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.

T
HEY 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 Dürer 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.

“Problems?” She smiled against his skin, her hands slipping under his coat at the shoulders and ruthlessly shoving it to the ground, leaving him in his shirt . . . leaving him to wrestle with those damn buttons.

“No—I . . . I just want to feel all of you.”

The next few buttons miraculously came free, enough for him to slip his hand beneath the surface of twill and find skin made of silk. His finger pads and palms, roughened by two weeks of travel and that day’s worth of hard labor, brushed against the skin of her breast, making her gasp at the sensation.

That little noise filled his blood with fire, rushing directly to his groin, making him harder than stone. His body wanted more little noises, more little gasps, more soft, silky skin. He dipped his head to her neck, settling into that sweet crook, while his fingers explored the valley of her breasts, their surprising fullness (really, where had this little slip of a woman been keeping
these
?), finding his way over to her nipple.

That elicited such a gasp, Jason could not help but chuckle against her neck.

“You like that?” he asked huskily, using his other hand to free another button, and yet another.

She nodded sheepishly, her chest still unbearably exposed to him.

“Good,” he said, doing it again, “I want to find out everything you like.”

“Everything?” she asked, her voice barely a squeak.

“Everything,” he said again. “For instance . . .” He put his hand at the back of her neck, the delicate jointure that he had long ago claimed as his own, and began to nibble on her ear, as his thumb stroked lazily against the fine tendons along her neck. “Do you like that?”

He was rewarded by a small hum of agreement and her wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling her to him.

“How about this?” he whispered in her ear, and then pulled at the small ties that held her now-exposed chemise together, exposing her breasts to the cool air. He ducked his head and blew gently on their tips.

“Ha-ah, that feels a little funny.” She giggled but still caressed his shoulders, ran her fingers through his hair.

“What about . . . this?” He ran his hand down her spine, finding her pert bottom and pressing her against his hard length.

“Stop!” she cried, her eyes flying open, suddenly going completely still, completely tense.

“What? Ah . . . yes . . .” Jason sighed, his blood thrumming in protest against every word. But words that had to be said. “Yes, you’re right. Too far . . . We should stop . . . This is likely a bad idea . . . You’ve had too much to drink and I . . .”

But even as his body cried out in agonized disagreement, his mind rationalized his actions. Although they had only had a few beers each, her relative size and inexperience with alcohol made her far more easily influenced than he. This might feel good now—really, incredibly, undeniably better than anything he’d ever felt before in his entire life good—but regrets would come in the morning. He would simply have to stop running his hand up and down the line of her back . . . finding her firm bottom and pressing her to him . . . stop searching out her lips with his . . .

“I didn’t mean stop entirely,” she corrected, her eyes going wide at the mistaken impression. Then, following the line of his hand down to her hip, she veered off course and reached into her pocket, drawing out her precious packet of letters that had been stored there.

“These need a better place, somewhere where they won’t get crushed,” she explained. Then, bending down, allowing a truly mind-bendingly wicked image to pop into Jason’s mind, she took his coat that she had only moments before shoved ruthlessly to the ground. She stood and shook it out, and placed the packet of letters neatly in his breast pocket, next to the toy doll that lived there.

“Considering I had my coin purse lifted from there, I cannot claim that my coat pocket is the safest place.”

“Who is going to lift your coin purse here? Wolfgang?” She smiled and then, stepping away from him—just a few fatal steps but enough to have him regretting the distance—hung his coat from a nail on the wall, generally reserved for pieces of tack.