Yet her heart sped when she moved closer to him in order to pass through it together. His big body was warm and solid against her side and the heat from him seeped into her very blood, a tingling warmth running through her veins.

The heady, splendid scent of the massed roses sent some long-buried girlish part of her spinning sideways in fanciful thoughts.

A silly, adolescent game to play, to rank a long lifetime by a few striking moments. A vanity, to think that the real world could pivot around tiny stretches of time, no matter how thrillingly tender.

Real life was work, not waltzes, a voice within her reminded her sharply. Day-to-day struggle, while one's house decayed about one and one's face developed a disappointed little crinkle between the brows.

The scent of the roses was so intense, it overwhelmed that troublesome voice most satisfactorily.

Gemma had never loved easily nor lightly, as some girls had. She'd not had her wedding day planned from pre-pubescence, nor — she was quite certain of this! — had she ever pretended to stumble just to let a man catch her in his arms. Until now.

She did it even as the thought crossed her mind. Such a transparently coquettish move!

I blame the roses.

She wasn't at all regretful when Lysander's arm tightened about her. She soaked in every move of his powerful body as he clasped her safely to him until she righted herself.

Then he released her and stepped away, one outspread hand indicating the rest of the shed with shy expectation.

Gemma lost her breath at the vision of a charming, if rustic, ballroom. She felt a sense of wonder as she noted the scoured walls, the floor strewn with fresh, fragrant grass, the benches lining the room and the already groaning refreshments table where a freshly scrubbed Mr. Bing stood by a half-barrel punch bowl, his carved wooden ladle at the ready.

A low musical note hushed the growing crowd. Gemma saw Jem Toms in the corner, tuning his fiddle.

"Ah then, hold your horses, Jem. I've not yet lit up the candle-ear with the spill!" Shepherd Orren stepped forward, holding a long twist of burning paper above his head.

Gemma's eyes widened at the giant wagon wheel, minus a few spokes, hanging horizontally from the central beam. Dozens of candles, fat and thin, tall and short, had been crammed atop it. It was monstrous and frankly Gemma hoped she had enough burn ointment made up for when the candles heated and began to drip hot wax onto the occupants beneath!

Lysander must've felt her go up on her toes with anxiety, for he stepped bravely beneath the now glowing "candle-ear" and spread his arms wide to demonstrate its safety.

"Don't fuss yourself, Missus," Shepherd Orren boomed at her. "Yon lad built deep wells into them candle holders."