Dag took a few deep breaths, letting his pounding heart slow, then rose as well and went to recapture the mare. A fallen tree a few steps into the woods looked like an adequate mounting block; he led the horse up to it, and Fawn dutifully followed. And if they started this all over again, he feared he would disgrace himself before they ever got to Glassforge.

“To tell the truth,” Dag lied, “my left arm was getting a bit tired. Do you think you could sit behind and hang on pillion style, for a while?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I was so comfortable, I didn’t think it might be awkward for you!” she apologized earnestly.

You have no idea how awkward. He grinned to hide his guilt, and to reassure her, but he was afraid it just came out looking demented.

Up they climbed once more. Fawn settled herself with both dainty feet to one side, and both dainty hands wrapped around his waist in a firm, warm grip.

And all Dag’s stern resolve melted in the unbidden thought: Lower. Lower!

He set his teeth and dug his heels into the blameless mare’s sides to urge her to a brisker walk.

Fawn balanced herself, wondering if she laid her head to Dag’s back if she could hear his heartbeat again. She’d thought she’d been recovering well this morning, but the little accident reminded her of how tired she yet was, how quickly the least exertion stole her breath. Dag was more tired than he looked, too, it seemed, judging by his long silences.

She was embarrassed by how close she’d come to trying to kiss him, after their clumsy fall. She’d probably landed an elbow in his gut, and he’d been too kind to say anything. He’d even grinned at her, helping her up. His teeth were a trifle crooked, but nothing to signify, strong and sound, with a fascinating little chip out of one of the front ones. His smile was too fleeting, but it was probably safer for her tattered dignity that his grin was even rarer. If he’d grinned at her so kissably while they were still flat on the grass, instead of giving her that peculiar look—maybe it had been suppressed pain?—she’d likely have disgraced herself altogether.

The nasty name that Sunny had called her during their argument over the baby stuck in her craw. With one mocking word, Sunny had somehow turned all her love-in-intent, her breathless curiosity, her timid daring, into something ugly and vile. He’d been happy enough to kiss her and fondle her in the wheatfield in the dark, and call her his pretty thing; the slur came later. Dubious therefore, but still…was it typical for men to despise the women who gave them the attention they claimed to want? Judging from some of the rude insults she’d heard here and there, maybe so.