He could not very well stop breathing.

A flash of motion at treetop height caught both their eyes.

“Look, a red-tailed hawk!” she cried. “Isn’t he beautiful!” Her head and body turned to follow the pale clean-cut shape, ruddy translucent tail feathers almost glowing against the washed blue of the sky, and her hot small hand came down to support herself. Directly on Dag’s aching erection.

His startled recoil was so abrupt, he fell off the horse.

He landed on his back with a breath-stealing thump. Thankfully, she landed atop him and not underneath. Her weight was soft upon him, her breath accelerated by the shock. Her pupils were too wide for this light, and, as she twisted around and thrust out one hand to support herself, her gaze grew fixed upon his mouth.

Yes! Kiss me, do. His hand spasmed, and he laid it out flat and stiff, palm up upon the grass, lest he lunge at her. He moistened his lips. The damp of the grass and the soil began soaking into the back of his shirt and trousers. He could feel every curve of her body, pressed into his, and every curse of her ground. Absent gods, he was halfway to groundlock all by himself…

“Are you all right?” she gasped.

Terror shot through him, wilting his arousal, that the fall might have torn something loose inside her to start her bleeding again like the first day. It would take the better part of hour to carry her back to the farm, and in her current depleted state, she might not survive another such draining.

She scrambled off him and plunked herself ungracefully on the ground, panting.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently in turn.

“I guess so.” She winced a little, but she rubbed her elbow, not her belly.

He sat up and ran his hand through his hair. Fool, fool, blight you, pay attention… ! You might have killed her.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I… thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but it was just a trick of the light. I didn’t mean to shy like a horse.” Which had to be the weakest excuse for an excuse he’d ever uttered.

The mare, in fact, was less shaken than either of them. She had sidestepped as they’d gone over, but now stood peacefully a few yards off, looking at them in mild astonishment. No further excitement seeming forthcoming, she put her head down and nibbled a weed.

“Yes, well, after that mud-man this morning, it’s no wonder you’re jumpy,”

Fawn said kindly. She stared around at the woods in renewed worry, then balanced a hand on his shoulder, pushed herself up, and tried to brush the dirt off her sleeve.

Dag took a few deep breaths, letting his pounding heart slow, then rose as well and went to recapture the mare. A fallen tree a few steps into the woods looked like an adequate mounting block; he led the horse up to it, and Fawn dutifully followed. And if they started this all over again, he feared he would disgrace himself before they ever got to Glassforge.

“To tell the truth,” Dag lied, “my left arm was getting a bit tired. Do you think you could sit behind and hang on pillion style, for a while?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I was so comfortable, I didn’t think it might be awkward for you!” she apologized earnestly.

You have no idea how awkward. He grinned to hide his guilt, and to reassure her, but he was afraid it just came out looking demented.

Up they climbed once more. Fawn settled herself with both dainty feet to one side, and both dainty hands wrapped around his waist in a firm, warm grip.

And all Dag’s stern resolve melted in the unbidden thought: Lower. Lower!

He set his teeth and dug his heels into the blameless mare’s sides to urge her to a brisker walk. Fawn balanced herself, wondering if she laid her head to Dag’s back if she could hear his heartbeat again. She’d thought she’d been recovering well this morning, but the little accident reminded her of how tired she yet was, how quickly the least exertion stole her breath. Dag was more tired than he looked, too, it seemed, judging by his long silences.

She was embarrassed by how close she’d come to trying to kiss him, after their clumsy fall. She’d probably landed an elbow in his gut, and he’d been too kind to say anything. He’d even grinned at her, helping her up. His teeth were a trifle crooked, but nothing to signify, strong and sound, with a fascinating little chip out of one of the front ones. His smile was too fleeting, but it was probably safer for her tattered dignity that his grin was even rarer. If he’d grinned at her so kissably while they were still flat on the grass, instead of giving her that peculiar look—maybe it had been suppressed pain?—she’d likely have disgraced herself altogether.

The nasty name that Sunny had called her during their argument over the baby stuck in her craw. With one mocking word, Sunny had somehow turned all her love-in-intent, her breathless curiosity, her timid daring, into something ugly and vile. He’d been happy enough to kiss her and fondle her in the wheatfield in the dark, and call her his pretty thing; the slur came later. Dubious therefore, but still… was it typical for men to despise the women who gave them the attention they claimed to want? Judging from some of the rude insults she’d heard here and there, maybe so.

She did not want Dag to despise her, to take her for something low. But then, she would never apply the word typical to him.

So… was Dag lonely? Or lucky?

He didn’t seem the lucky sort, somehow.

So how would you know? Her heart felt as if it knew him better than any man, no, any person she’d ever met. The feeling did not stand up to inspection. He could be married, for all he’d said to the contrary. He could have children. He could have children almost as old as her. Or who knew what? He hadn’t said. There was a lot he hadn’t talked of, when she thought about it.

It was just that… what little he’d talked about had seemed so important. As though she’d been dying of thirst, and everyone else had wanted to give her piles of dry gimcrackery, and he’d offered her a cup of plain pure water.

Straightforward. Welcome beyond desire or deserving. Unsettling…

The valley they were riding down opened out, the creek ran away through broad fields, and the farm lane gave onto the straight road at last.

Dag turned the mare left. And whatever opportunity she had just wasted was gone forever.

The straight road was busier today, and grew more so as they neared the town.

Either the removal of the bandit threat had brought more people out on the highway, or it was market day. Or both, Fawn decided. They passed sturdy brick-wagons and goods-wagons drawn by teams of big dray horses pulling hard going out, and rode alongside ones returning, not empty, but loaded with firewood or hitchhiking county folk taking produce and handcrafts to sell.

She caught snatches of cheerful conversation, the girls flirting with the teamsters when no elders rode with them. Farm carts and haywains and yes, even that manure wagon she’d wished for in vain the other day. The scent of coal smoke and woodsmoke came to Fawn’s nose even before they rounded the last curve and the town came into sight.

Nothing about this arrival was like anything she had pictured when she’d started out from home, but at least she’d got here. Something that she’d begun, finally finished. It felt like breaking a curse. Glassforge. At last.