“Gosh, isn’t it nice out?”

The blacksmith’s eyes crinkle as he smiles down at me. It’s still a rare expression on him, and every time I win one of his smiles I feel like running a victory lap, a flag trailing behind me.

“I like it even better with you here.”

His smile fades. Oh.

Is that not a nice thing to say to someone? Am I being weird? Maybe I’m pressuring him. Maybe he doesn’t want me getting any wild ideas.

I mean, it’s not like I’m expecting him to get down on one knee for me or anything, just because I dropped to my knees for him. A man like Rhys, an independent, successful man who’s good at his craft and can make his own way… well, what use would he have for me?

“Cariad?” Rhys frowns down at me, tugging me to a halt. “What’s wrong? You just wilted before my eyes.”

I shrug, casting around us for something to say. We’ve stopped beside an iron age hill fort, a scattering of huge stones submerged in the scrubby grass. A faint echo of a long gone time.

Did they go blackberry picking? Surely they did. I shove a berry in my mouth now, tart juice bursting over my tongue, stealing a few moments to think as I chew.

“Gwen,” Rhys warns. My skin prickles. I love that low, commanding tone, but he undercuts himself slightly by rummaging in my basket as he scowls. The berries look so tiny in his grip—even the swollen, ripest ones.

I watch a purple berry disappear behind his lips.

“Gwen.”

I pluck at the front of my gray sweater, letting cool air swirl beneath to chill my flushed skin. “I’m fine.”

Rhys stares at me for a long moment, then grunts and shrugs off his jacket. He lays it down in the grass like a makeshift blanket, then waves me down to lie on it.

I go, heart thundering. What am I going to do, say no? I’d rather cut out my own tongue.

The world tilts, and then he’s standing over me, impossibly tall. Two crows dance on the air currents somewhere far over his head.

When Rhys Evans kneels between my legs, my heart leaps into my throat. That’s why I can’t speak, why I can barely swallow, and all I can do is squeak as he gently pushes my sweater up to my neck.

“Fuck.” He makes a pleased, rumbly sound, gray eyes scanning the bared skin of my stomach, no sign of displeasure at all at my moles and freckles and extra padding. Then my bra goes next, pushed gently above my breasts, freeing my nipples to the chill air.

My wicker basket creaks as Rhys dips a hand in there again, drawing out a swollen purple berry. He holds it next to my nipple, turning the berry slowly between finger and thumb as he watches my pink flesh harden. Jumping to attention for him.

“What do you think?” I grit out. Desperate for his approval.