The stars came out above and the mist rose below to curl hazy fingers around the cart wheels and the pony's fetlocks. Gemma had the uncanny notion that they rode through a dream world, a private and secret country of their very own.

She let her head drop to Mr. Worthington's solid shoulder and half closed her eyes. She felt carefree as she once had, full of plans and potential, daring and careless and immortal.

At that moment, she could have driven forever at his side, discovering this new and magical world together. Her most secret self felt open, as if all her cares had lightened, being shared.

Had she ever felt so free?

LYSANDER, IN HIS TURN, felt everything. His skin prickled with awareness, his vision seemed sharper. The intensity of his long-benumbed senses dizzied him.

Had he never before experienced the silken air of a spring evening? Had he never before heard the creak of wood and iron and the rolling of cart wheels on a rocky road? The worn leather of the reins between his fingers became warm and supple in his hands and he felt it.

The wall that Gemma had slowly and patiently undermined had lost all integrity, crumbling faster throughout the day, the mortar flaked away by the purity of the air, the foundation shattered by the peaceful vistas, and then—

The entire barrier incinerated to windswept dust by the kiss.

He'd kissed a woman before, but it was only a means to an end, the first step of many.

Gemma's kiss had been a single unmatched moment in time. He had begun his life when her lips touched his. He had flown when he'd dared to kiss her back. He had floated down to stand with his feet firmly, finally, planted on the ground when she'd drawn back with the stroke of her fingertips on his cheek as she'd slipped her hand from his hair.

Oh, here I am.

I am here.

With her.

THE NEXT MORNING GEMMA, stood in the kitchen looking down at the brown-glazed pottery bowl that sat on the table, heaped full of eggs. A downy feather stuck to one of the shells and she watched it flutter as she breathed.

She had fallen asleep last night still enfolded in a sweet haze, swept away by a beautiful day and a marvelous kiss. This morning before she'd even opened her eyes, the voice in her head spoke, the one that always reminded her that she wasn't an actual doctor.

You kissed your patient.

Shock and shame engulfed her at once. Patient. Lysander Worthington was a deeply troubled man, a damaged soul! And she had flirted as irresponsibly as a reckless girl. How could she have done such an foolish thing?

And what on earth was she to do now?

There was only one thing to be done. She must be very clear with him. She'd been unprofessional and they must return their relationship to a much less familiar level.