Irish Rebel (18 page)

 Interesting, she thought. "Making a living is a prison?"

 "The need to make one, and still a better one, first and foremost. That's a trap. My father found his leg caught there."

 "Really?" He so rarely mentioned his family. "What does he do?"

 "He's a bank clerk. Day after day sitting in a little cage counting other people's money. What a life."

 "Well, it's not the life for you."

 "Thank God for that. These lads want a bit of a run," he said and kicked Honey into a gallop.

 Keeley hissed in frustration but clicked to her mount to match pace. They'd come back to it, she promised herself. She hadn't learned nearly enough about where the man she intended to marry came from.

 They rode for an hour before heading back to stable the horses and settle in the rest of her stock for the night. He was half hoping she'd ask him over to the house for dinner again, but she turned to him as they left the stables, lifted a brow.

 "Why don't you ask me up for a drink?"

 "A drink? There's not much of a variety, but you're welcome."

 "It's nice to be asked occasionally." Before he could tuck his hand safely in his pocket, she took it, threaded their fingers together. "You have free time now and again yourself," she said easily. "I wonder if you've heard of the concept of dates. Dinner, movies, drives?"

 "I've some experience with them." He glanced at his pickup as they turned toward his quarters. "If you've a yen for a drive, you can climb up into the lorry, but I'd need to shovel it out first."

 She huffed out a breath. "That, Donnelly, wasn't the most romantic of invitations."

 "Secondhand lorries aren't particularly romantic, and I've forgotten where I parked my glass coach."

 "If that's another princess crack—" She broke off, set her teeth. Patience, she reminded herself. She wasn't going to spoil things with an argument. "Never mind. We'll forget the drive." She opened the door herself. "And move straight to dinner."

 He caught the scent as soon as he stepped inside. Something aromatic and spicy that reminded him his stomach was about dead empty.

 "What is it?"

 "What is what?" Then she grinned and sniffed the air. "Oh, what is that? It's chili, one of my specialties. I put it on simmer before my last class."

 "You cooked dinner?"

 "Mmm." Amused, and very satisfied by his shock, she wandered off into the kitchen. "I didn't think you'd mind, and I knew we'd both be hungry by this time." She lifted the lid on a pot, gave it a quick stir while fragrant steam puffed out. "It's the kind of thing you can just leave and eat when you're ready, which is why it appeals to me. Oh, and I brought over a bottle of Merlot, though beer's never wrong with chili if you'd rather."

 "I'm trying to remember the last time someone cooked for me—other than your mother and someone who was related to me."

 Even more pleased, she turned to slide her arms around him. "Haven't any of your many women cooked for you?"

 "Now and then perhaps, but not in recent memory." Because they were alone, he took her hips, brought her closer. "And I certainly remember none that smelled so appetizing."

 "The women? Or the meal?"

 "Both." He lowered his mouth to hers, allowed himself the luxury of sinking in. "And it reminds me I'm next to starving."

 "What do you want first?" She grazed her teeth over his bottom lip. "Me, or the food?"

 "I want you first. And last, it seems."

 "That's handy, because I want you first, too." She drew back. "Why don't we clean up? I could use a shower." Laughing, her hands holding his, she pulled him out of the kitchen.

 She'd brought over a change of clothes as well. It gave Brian a start to see her casually pulling on fresh jeans. Her hair was still wet from the shower they'd shared, her skin rosy from it. And, he noted a bit raw in places because he hadn't shaved.

 But the wild love they'd made under the hot spray in the steamy room wasn't anywhere near as intimate, anywhere near aspersonal somehow as her having a clean sweater laying neatly folded on the foot of his bed.

 She reached for it, then glanced over, catching him staring at her. "What is it?"

 He shook his head. There wasn't a way to explain this sense of panic and delight that lived inside him while he watched her dress. "I've rubbed your skin raw." Reaching out, he traced his fingertips over her collarbone. "I should have shaved. You're so soft." He murmured it, trailing those fingers up over her shoulder. "I don't know how I manage to forget that."

 When she trembled, he looked up into her face. For a moment she saw the need flash back into his eyes, glinting like the edge of a sword. "Now you're cold. Put your sweater on. I've got some ointment."

 The hot edge faded as quickly as it came. It was frustrating, she thought as he rooted into a drawer, that the only time he really broke the tether on his control was when they made love.

 He got out a tube and since she'd yet to put the sweater on, squeezed ointment onto his fingers and began to gently rub it on her abraded skin. She recognized the scent.

 "That's for horses."

 "So?"

 She laughed and let him fuss. "Does this make me your mare now?"

 "No, you're too young and delicate of bone for that. You're still a filly."

 "Are you going to train me, Donnelly?"

 "Oh, you're out of my league, Miss Grant." He glanced up, cocked a brow when he saw her grinning at him. "And what amuses you?"

 "You can't help it can you? You have to tend."

 "I put the marks on you," he muttered as he smoothed on the ointment. "It follows I should see to them."

 She lifted a hand to toy with the ends of his damp, gold-tipped hair. "I like being seen to by a man with a tough mind and a soft heart."

 That soft heart sighed a little, ached a little. But he spoke lightly. "It's no hardship running my fingers over skin like yours." With his eyes on hers, he used the pad of his thumb to spread ointment over the gentle swell of her breast. "Particularly since you don't seem to have a qualm about standing here half naked and letting me."

 "Should I blush and flutter?"

 "You're not the fluttering sort. I like that about you." Satisfied, he capped the tube, then tugged the sweater over her head himself. "But I can't have such a fine piece of God's work catching a chill. There you are." He lifted her hair out of the neck.

 "You don't have a hair dryer."

 "There's air everywhere in here."

 She laughed and dragged her fingers through her damp curls. "It'll have to do. Come on, let's have that wine while I finish up dinner."

 He didn't know much about wine, but his first sip told him it was several steps up from what might be the usual accompaniment to so humble a meal as chili.

 She seemed more at home in his kitchen than he was himself, finding things in drawers he'd yet to open. When she started to dress the salad, he set his glass aside.

 "I'll be back in a minute."

 "A minute's all you've got," she called out. "I'm putting the bread in to warm."

 Since his answer was the slamming of the door, she shrugged and lit the candles she'd set on the little kitchen table. Cozy, she decided. And just romantic enough to suit two practical-minded people who didn't go in for a lot of fussing.

 It was the sort of relaxed, simple meal two people could prepare together at the end of a workday. She intended to see they had more of them, until the man got a clue this is exactly how it was going to be.

 Satisfied, she picked up her wine, toasted herself. "To good strong starts," she murmured and drank.

 Hearing the door open again, she took the bread out of the oven. "We're set in here, and I'm starving."

 She turned to put the basket of bread on the table and saw Brian, and the clutch of mums and zinnias he held in his hand.

 "It seemed to call for them," he said.

 She stared at the cheerful fall blossoms, then up into his face. "You picked me flowers."

 The sheer disbelief in her voice had him moving his shoulders restlessly. "Well, you made me dinner, with wine and candles and the whole of it. Besides, they're your flowers anyway."

 "No, they're not." Drowning in love she set the basket down, waited. "Until you give them to me."

 "I'll never understand why women are so sentimental over posies." He held them out

 "Thank you.'' She closed her eyes, buried her face in them. She wanted to remember the exact fragrance, the exact texture. Then lowering them again, she lifted her mouth to his for a kiss. Rubbed her cheek against his.

 His arms came around her so suddenly, so tightly, she gasped. "Brian? What is it?"

 That gesture, the simple and sweet gesture of cheek against cheek nearly destroyed him. "It's nothing. I just like the way you feel against me when I hold you."

 "Hold me any tighter, I'll be through you."

 "Sorry." He pressed his lips to her forehead to give himself a moment to compose. "I forget my own strength when I'm starving to death."

 "Then sit down and get started. I'll put these in some water."

 "I…" He had to say something and cast around for a topic where he wouldn't stutter or say something that would embarrass them both. "I meant to tell you earlier, I looked up Finnegan's records."

 There, he thought as he sat and began to dish up salad for both of them. Safe ground. "Of course he's registered as Flight of Fancy."

 "Yes, I knew that." She tucked the flowers in a vase, and set them on the table before joining Brian. "Finnegan suits him better, I think."

 "He's yours to call what you like now. His record in his first year of racing was uneven. His blood stock is very decent, but he never came up to potential, and his owners sold him off as a three-year-old."

 "I was going to look up his data. You've saved me the trouble." She broke a hunk of bread in half, offered it. "He has good lines, and he responds well. Even after the abuse he hasn't turned common."

 "The thing is he did considerably better in his third year. Some of his match-ups were uneven, and in my mind he was a bit overraced. I'd have done things differently if I'd been working with him."

 "You do things different, Brian, all around."

 "Ah well. In any case, he went into that claiming race and that's how Tarmack got his hands on him."

 "Bastard," Keeley said so coolly, Brian cocked his head.

 "We won't argue there. I'm thinking you'd be wasting him in your school here. He was born for the track, and that's where he belongs."

 Surprised, she frowned over her salad. "You think he should race?''

 "I think you should consider it. Seriously. He's a thoroughbred, Keeley, bred to run. The need for it's in his blood. It's only that he's been misused and mismanaged. The athelete's inside him, and though your school's a fine thing, it's not enough for him."

 "If he's prone to knee spavins—"

 "You don't know that. It's not a hereditary thing. It was an injury a man was responsible for. You could have your father look him over if you don't think I've got the right of it."

 She considered a moment, sipped her wine. "I certainly trust your judgment, Brian. It's not that. You and I both know that a horse can lose heart under mistreatment. Heart and spirit. I just wouldn't want to push him."

 "Sure, it's up to you."

 "Would you work with him?"

 "I could." He ladled chili into bowls. "But so could you. You know what to do, what to look for."

 She was already shaking her head. "Not for racing. I know my area, and it's not the track. If I consider running him again, I'd want him to have the best."

 "That would be me," he said with such easy arrogance she grinned.

 "Is that a yes?"

 "If your father agrees to having me work your horse on the side, I'm happy to. We'll start him off easy, and see how he goes." He started to leave it at that, then because he thought she'd understand, hoped she would, finished. "It was in his eyes this morning, when you rode him down to the track. It was there. The yearning."

 "I didn't see it." She reached over to touch his hand. "I'm glad you did."

 "It's my job to see it."

 ''It's your gift,'' she corrected. ''Your family must be proud of you." She spoke casually, began to eat again, then stared at him, baffled, when he laughed. "Why is that funny?"

 "Pride wouldn't exactly be part of their general outlook to my way of thinking."

 "Why?"

 "People can't find pride in what they don't understand. Not all families, Keeley, are as cozy as yours."

 "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. Not only for whatever lack there was in his family feelings, but for deliberately prying.

 "Sure it's not such a matter. We get on all right."

 She meant to let it go, to change the subject, but the words burned inside her. "If they're not proud of you, then they're stupid." When he stared, his next bite of chili halfway to his mouth, she shrugged. "I'm sorry, but they are."

 Watching her, he started to eat again. Her eyes were snapping, her cheeks flushed, her jaw set. Why the woman was fuming, he realized. "Darling, that's sweet of you to say, but—"

 "It's not. It's rude, but I meant it." Snatching up the wine bottle, she topped off both of their glasses. "You have a real talent, and you've earned a strong reputation—or you damn well wouldn't be here at Royal Meadows. What's not to be proud of?" she demanded, with even more heat. "Your father, of all people, should understand."

 "Why?"

 Her mouth dropped open. "He's the one who introduced you to horses."

 "To the track. It wasn't the horses for my father," Brian told her. He was so fascinated by her reaction it didn't occur to him that he was having an in-depth conversation about his family. Something he absolutely never did.

 "They were a kind of vehicle. He admired them, certainly. But it was the wagering, the rush of gambling that called to him. Likely still does. That and the chance to take a few pulls from the flask in his pocket without my mother's silent and deadly disapproval. I told you, Keeley, he's a bank clerk."