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Heath.”
    She was absolutely right.
    He’d been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.
    Lust flashed through him like liquid heat—a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.
    And not drag her back down, into his arms.
    He wanted her in his bed.
    The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up—and found her looking down at him.
    She frowned and shook her reins. “Come on.” Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.
    Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan’s reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.
    And followed.

Chapter 3

     
    D emon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops—and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but . . . the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.
    So he stood in the thin mist by Carruthers’s side and watched his horses thunder by. The ground shook, the air trembled; the reverberations were as familiar as his heartbeat. The scene was a part of him, and he a part of it—and Flick was in it, too. She flew past, extending The Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon’s breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill—a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.
    The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she’d known, or she wouldn’t have risked the glance. He’d been watching her almost without pause since he’d arrived, just after she’d taken to the Heath.
    Luckily, cursing beneath her breath only reinforced her disguise. But she had to suppress all other signs of agitation so she didn’t communicate her sudden nervousness to The Flynn. She’d always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she’d anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this—this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She’d buried deep the suspicion it had something to do—a great deal to do—with the breath-stealing shock she’d felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon’s expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.
    But riding track with him watching proved a far greater trial than performing for Carruthers alone, despite the fact the old curmudgeon was the most exacting trainer on the Heath. There was a certain sharp assessment in Demon’s blue gaze that was absent from Carruthers’s eyes; as her nervousness grew, she had to wonder if Demon was doing it deliberately—deliberately discomposing her—so she’d make some silly error and give him a reason to send her packing.
    Thankfully, all her years of riding had taught her to hide her feelings well; she and The Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.
    Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins