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and propped the hoof on its toe, her head drooping.
    Not a good sign, that. But before she could reach for Tricksey's leg, Fitz handed her his reins.
    "Now, Tricksey-girl, let's see what ails ye." Gently, firmly, he stroked the mare's silky neck, ran his square hand down her shoulder, her foreleg, knee, cannon bone. Those strong fingers curled around the pastern, and he and the now-contented Tricksey lifted the hoof together.
    Terrible thing, being jealous of one's own innocent and possibly injured horse. But his hand, so strong and kind, sliding across her skin and responding to her every twitch… Heat blossomed low within her and flickered with a resentful flame. If only that were her skin, her twitches. Beryl forced herself to look away.
    But his head turned, too, as if her motion drew his eye. And there it was, that sideways, bold, cocky grin, the one she loved and despised in equal measures, perfectly and odiously visible even though she didn't look directly at him. That delicious heat died away as her shoulders tensed. Here it comes.
    "Just a stone, Tricksey-girl. We'll have that nasty old thing out in no time, you see if we don't." He propped the hoof on his knee, slipped a folding knife from his coat pocket, wedged it between the hoof and his fingers, and drew forth a hook. "Not long now. And we won't say a word, no, not a word , about riders who'd walk such a lovely horse over stones."
    Already she wanted to yell at him, even though this was merely his version of gentle, brotherly-love teasing. She forced her voice to calmness, no matter how she felt. "You cannot imagine that I'd do such a thing deliberately."
    A twist of his wrist, and a small, pale stone thudded away. "We'll keep thoughts of such bad riders to ourselves, Tricksey-girl." He set the hoof down, put away the knife, caught the bridle's chin strap, and rubbed the mare's nose, those delicious fingers curling and stretching about her lips, up her face. Completely seduced, Tricksey closed her eyes, ears falling sideways and hoof now square on the ground. "Because only a really bad rider would do such an awful thing to such a lovely horse."
    She'd not respond, not say a word. But the tension already in her shoulders climbed to the nape of her neck and sank into her spine. Whenever she'd tried giving him the silent treatment before, he'd merely grinned that cocky, sideways grin and continued the teasing.
    Rounder bumped her with his nose, doing his unsubtle masculine best to wheedle a scratch, too. Normally she'd oblige, but not now. Her emotions had been hauled in too many directions too quickly, and she'd only scare the horse. Beryl pushed Rounder's head aside, slid between Fitz and Tricksey, breaking up their love affair, and tossed the reins over the mare's ears. But when she gathered them and turned to Fitz, his grin broadened.
    "Expecting something?"
    She blinked. She'd always been able to depend upon Fitz, always. "A leg up, of course."
    He angled his face away and watched her from his eye's corner. There it was again, that boisterous grin; he wasn't through with her yet. Not hardly. "Yesterday while exercising Rounder, I noticed a hoyden lower her stirrup and scramble up without her groom's assistance. Haven't you ever wanted to try that yourself?"
    Steam gathered in Beryl's head, fading out the shade trees, the horses and riders passing by, the pedestrians with their smug little smiles, as if a fog moved inland from the riverbank and covered them all over, taking them beyond her awareness. Surely he wouldn't abandon her on the ground, helpless to help herself? But he stepped back, hands hanging loosely at his sides, making no move to assist her.
    He would. And her anger brimmed over at the realization. Closely followed by humiliation. Those smug little smiles, all listening and laughing at her without making a sound—
    Fitz had crossed a boundary he'd never before approached. With bystanders watching, listening, grinning at his performance, he was