DONALD, ASTRIDE A STRAPPING GREY, slowed from a gallop to a canter as they entered the woodland. He rode well, handling the stallion with a quiet mastery without being showy about it. Beside him, Margaret’s surprised delight at his sudden appearance out of the blue had given way to a definite apprehension. This was Donald, her friend, she reminded herself, but he didn’t look like the man she imagined when she read his letters. It wasn’t only the loss of the beard; it was his smile, she decided, which had not been the chaste smile of an old friend. And the way he had kissed her hand. More perturbingly the effect that kiss had had on her senses.

As they neared the waterfall she slanted him another glance, only to find that he was doing the same. Their gazes met and the world tilted and realigned itself, for in that brief moment there was no mistaking what had passed between them.

Donald dismounted. Nervously, Margaret slid off Pennygael, who led the way to the pool, the grey following her. The fresh-fallen leaves were gold, chestnut, and burnished amber underfoot. The sun glinted down on the cascade, making diamonds of the curtain of water as it crashed into the pool. “Isn’t it entrancing?” she asked, joining him.

“Breath-taking,” he agreed, turning towards her. “But I personally prefer this view.”

She read his intention clearly in his eyes as he reached for her, and she made no attempt to evade him as he pulled her into his arms. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted him to. Alarm bells were clanging, but only faintly as she tilted her face to his. He smelled of shaving soap and wet wool, and his coat was damp with the spray from the waterfall. She lifted her hand to his cheek and felt his sharp intake of breath at her touch.

“Margaret,” he said, his voice both rough and gentle at the same time.

The roaring of the waterfall became a roaring in her ears as their lips met. There was no slow, tender preliminary to this kiss, only a clamouring need. Donald’s arms tightened around her, and heat flooded her body as she clung to him, urging him to deepen the kiss, though he needed little encouragement, muttering her name and pulling her closer. They kissed. Deep, starving kisses, adult kisses, their tongues tangling, hands clutching and clinging. Only as they stumbled, precariously close to the edge of the pool, did they stop, coming shakily to their senses.

Donald swore under his breath, an odd smile on his face. “I had intended the kiss to follow the speech, not the other way around.”

Too late, far too late, Margaret realised what he meant. No matter what she felt for him, no matter that she had already made her feelings very clear, she wasn’t ready for that. “Donald . . .”