They remained on the crest of the fell until the afternoon sun made long shadows fall eastward from each cairn. If anything, those dark fingers stretching across the grass were more unnerving than the ancient stones themselves. Gemma shivered, just once, yet Mr. Worthington became immediately solicitous. After the cart was turned properly about, Bad Pony was cajoled into his traces by a few more rocklike ginger biscuits. Both animals were happy to finish off the water from the clay bottles, Bad Pony drinking from Gemma's cupped hands, Topknot shying past her to lick from Mr. Worthington's dripping fingers.

Mr. Worthington aided Gemma up the step and into the cart. Their hands clung for a sweet moment.

He had not tried to kiss her again, but that single reckless moment had stirred such a heat inside her that she feared she glowed with it.

She was no timid virgin. She's been married for nearly a decade. The early years had been, if not passionate, at least genuinely satisfying.

I like the feeling of a man's touch. I miss it. I miss the warm shiver when a man's palm slid down the curve of my hip. I miss the taste of a man's skin on my lips.

The memories were only fuel on the glowing ember within her. It flared anew when Mr. Worthington settled next to her on the bench seat of the cart.

She laughed when the cart jerked into motion, feeling giddy and careless, as if she truly was simply a lady on a drive with a handsome fellow — along with one happily panting dog and a pony too tired to be grumpy, eagerly heading home.

We make an odd little family.

Which was a disconcerting thought, but Gemma was so immensely cheered by her lazy day out that she chose to find it amusing instead.

When the cart lurched on the poorly graded lane, Gemma shamelessly clutched at Mr. Worthington's arm and took great pleasure in the feel of his solid muscle beneath her touch.

They rode home this way in lack of words tinged with wonder, glowing with golden evening light slanting over the dale, scented by the vibrant freshness of the cooling air and yes, the ginger-scented dog breath over their shoulders.

When they descended to the level of the river and began to follow the winding road home, night fell as suddenly as a stone. Bad Pony slowed a bit, picking his way, yet still plodded on unceasingly, for he was well aware that at the end of it, he would find his cozy stable, a steaming pail of oat mash and the comforting presence of Mrs. Apples.

Topknot, weary from her day of lurching happily up and down the slopes of the fell, curled into a satisfied dog circle next to the picnic hamper behind the seat.