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looking into the tackle box. “What are they made from?”

    exclaimed, looking into the tackle box. “What are they made from?”
    “This and that,” Lucy answered. “Bits of wool and down. Hair from a dog or a calf. Feathers.” She plucked a dazzling blue fly from the box and laid it on her palm. “This one I made with peacock feather, and a bit of iridescent shell.”
    “You made these?” Sophia took the peacock-feather lure and held it up to the light for examination.
    “That’s our Lucy,” Toby said, smoothing a lock of hair from his brow.
    “So very clever. So very …”
    “Cunning?” Lucy suggested.
    “Cunning. Exactly so.”
    His nimble smile tugged at Lucy’s heart. That was Toby. Never reproachful, never cross. Was it any wonder she adored him? With a single, effortless word or glance he could put her whole world to rights. To bask in that warm, brown gaze was to feel singled out, special. As though the sun shone for her benefit alone.
    Blushing, she returned her attention to the tackle box. She plucked out a small fly and held it out to Toby between pinched fingers. A plump bit of black wool formed the body, and the tiny wings were fashioned from a single mallard feather.
    “This is what you need,” she said. “A thorn-tree fly. It may be less fancy, but the trout find it irresistible.” She placed it in his outstretched hand, allowing her fingers to glide across his palm.
    Toby’s gaze met hers. His eyes flashed with surprise, and perhaps
    —curiosity?
    “Toby,” she whispered, leaning closer. Daring him to do the same.
    His gaze dropped to her lips, and Lucy waited in breathless agony His gaze dropped to her lips, and Lucy waited in breathless agony until—sweet heaven—his fingers curled tight around hers. So close, so close.
    And then—disaster.
    “Might I have a go?” Sophia turned from her examination of the peacock fly.
    Toby dropped Lucy’s hand. He turned those brown eyes on Sophia, and pink bloomed across her porcelain cheeks. Lucy went cold.
    She’d always known Toby had the power to make her feel special.
    But evidently he made Sophia feel special, too.
    “You wish to try angling, Miss Hathaway?” he asked.
    “Yes, if you will teach me.”
    “I’d be delighted.”
    He helped Sophia to her feet and offered his arm as they walked down the bank. Lucy watched through narrowed eyes as Toby attached the peacock fly to the hook and demonstrated the proper casting technique. He then handed the pole to Sophia, guiding her hands into position. They stood side-by-side, her shoulder pressing against his arm.
    Sophia’s line went taut, and she gave a startled cry as her pole dipped. Toby moved quickly to stand behind her and encircled her in his arms, placing his hands over hers to steady the fishing pole.
    Lucy jumped to her feet. She could not bear to watch this—this display any longer. She turned away, walked a few paces, and then turned back in the next moment. Sophia recast her line under Toby’s guidance. She hung on his every word and copied his movements, gazing up at him with rapt attention. Lucy rolled her movements, gazing up at him with rapt attention. Lucy rolled her eyes, but Toby appeared—gratified. Pleased. Taller.
    What was it about helplessness men found so attractive? She supposed they must enjoy the illusion of superiority. Well, Lucy did not feel the least bit helpless or inferior, and her pride rebelled against the notion of feigning either state.
    Oh, but she was going to do it anyway.
    She took up a spare fishing rod and baited the hook with a thorn-tree fly. Jeremy observed her with a smug expression, which she pointedly ignored. She stepped gingerly onto a slender peninsula of rocky riverbed and cast the line into her favorite spot—a slight bend in the stream, where the waters gathered in a deep pool before braving the course of small rapids downstream. The pool’s calm surface gave no hint of the fallen tree that she knew lurked beneath the