Irish Rebel (2 page)

 "You've got plenty for both of us." Sarah hopped up. "Now I'm going to go out and see if I can lure the Irish hunk onto the dance floor. I just bet he's got great moves."

 "Oh, yeah," Keeley muttered when her sister swung out the door. "I bet he does."

 Not, of course, that she was the least bit interested.

 At the moment she wasn't particularly interested in men, period. She had her work, she had the farm, she had her family. The combination kept her busy, involved and happy. Socializing was fine, she mused. An interesting companion over dinner, great. An occasional date for the theater or a function, dandy.

 Anything more, well, she was just too busy to bother. If that made her an ice princess, so what? She'd leave the heart melting to Sarah. But, she decided as she rose, if their father hired Donnelly, she was keeping an eye on him and her guileless sister over the next week.

 She'd barely taken two steps out of the lounge when Chad appeared at her side again, asking for a dance. Because the ice princess crack was still on her mind, she offered him a smile warm enough to dazzle his eyes and let him draw her into his arms.

 Brian didn't mind dancing with Sarah. It would be a pitiful man who couldn't enjoy a few moments of holding a pretty young girl in his arms and listening to her bubble over about whatever came into her head.

 She was a sweetheart as far as he was concerned, miraculously unspoiled and friendly as a puppy. After ten minutes, he knew she intended to study equine medicine, loved Irish music, broke her arm falling out of a tree when she was eight, and that she was an innate and charming flirt.

 It was a pure pleasure to dance with Adelia Grant, to hear his own country in her voice and feel the easy welcome of it.

 He'd heard the stories, of course, of how she'd come to America, and Royal Meadows, to stay with her uncle Patrick Cunnane, who was trainer in those days for Travis Grant. It was said she'd been hired on as a groom as she had her uncle's gift with horses.

 But guiding the small, elegant woman around the dance floor, Brian dismissed the stories as so much pixie dust. He couldn't imagine this woman ever mucking out a stall—any more than he could picture her pretty daughters doing so.

 The socializing hadn't been so bad, he acknowledged, and he couldn't say he minded the food, though a man would do better with a good beef sandwich. Still it was plentiful, even if you did have to pick your way through half of it to get to something recognizable.

 But despite the evening not being quite the ordeal he'd imagined it would be, he was glad when Travis suggested they get some air.

 "You've a lovely family, Mr. Grant."

 "Yes, I do. And a loud one. I hope you still have your hearing left after dancing with Sarah."

 Brian grinned, but he was cautious. "She's charming—and ambitious. Veterinary medicine's a challenging field, and especially when you specialize in horses."

 "She's never wanted anything else. She went through stages, of course," Travis continued as they walked down a wide white stone path. "Ballerina, astronaut, rock star. But under it all, she always wanted to be a vet. I'm going to miss her, and Patrick, when they leave for college next week. Your family will miss you, I imagine, if you stay in America."

 "I've been coming and going for some time. If I settle in America, it won't be a problem."

 "My wife misses Ireland," Travis murmured. "A part of her's still there, no matter how deep she's dug her roots here. I understand that. But…" He paused and in the backwash of light studied Brian's face. "When I take on a trainer, I expect his mind, and his heart, to be in Royal Meadows."

 "That's understood, Mr. Grant."

 "You've moved around quite a bit, Brian," Travis added. "Two years, occasionally three at one organization, then you switch."

 "True enough." Eyes level, Brian nodded. "You could say I haven't found the place that wants to hold me longer than that. But while I'm where I am, that farm, those horses, have all my attention and loyalty."

 "So I'm told. The boots I'm looking to fill are big. No one's managed to fill them to my satisfaction since Paddy Cunnane retired. He suggested I take a look at you."

 "I'm flattered."

 "You should be." Travis was pleased to see nothing more than mild interest on Brian's face. He appreciated a man who could hold his own thoughts. "I'd like you to come by the farm when you're settled."

 "I'm settled enough. I prefer moving right along if it's all the same to you."

 "It is."

 "Fine. I'll come 'round tomorrow, for the morning workout, and have a look at how you do things, Mr. Grant. After I've seen what you have, and you've heard what I'd have in mind to do about it, we'll know if it works for both of us. Will that suit you?"

 Cocky young son of a bitch, Travis thought, but didn't smile. He, too, knew how to hold his thoughts. "It suits me fine. Come on back inside. I'll buy you a beer."

 "Thanks just the same, but I think I'll go on back to my hotel. Dawn comes early."

 "I'll see you tomorrow." Travis held out a hand, shook Brian's briskly. "I'll look forward to it."

 "So will I."

 Alone, Brian took out a slim cigar, lighted it, then blew out a long stream of smoke.

 Paddy Cunnane had recommended him? The idea of it had both nerves and pleasure stirring in his gut. He'd told Travis he'd been flattered, but in truth, he'd been staggered. In the racing world, that was a name spoken of with reverence.

 Paddy Cunnane trained champions the way others ate breakfast—with habitual regularity.

 He'd seen the man a few times over the course of years, and had spoken to him once. But even with a well-fed ego, Brian had never thought that Paddy Cunnane had taken notice of him.

 Travis Grant wanted someone to fill Paddy's boots. Well, Brian Donnelly couldn't and wouldn't do that. But he'd damn well make his mark with his own, and he'd make sure that would be good enough for anyone.

 Tomorrow morning they would see what they would see.

 He started down the path again when the light and shadows in front of him shifted briefly. Glancing over, he saw Keeley come out of the glass doors and walk across a flagstone terrace.

 Look at her, Brian thought, so cool and solitary and perfect. She was made for moonlight, he decided. Or perhaps it was made for her. What breeze there was fluttered the layers of the filmy blue dress she wore as she crossed over to sniff at the flowers that grew out of a big stone urn in colors of rust and butter.

 On impulse, he snapped off one of the late-blooming roses from its bush, and strode onto the terrace. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. Irritation flickered first in her eyes, so quickly here and gone he might have missed it if he hadn't been so focused on her. Then it was smoothed away, coated over with a thin sheen of cool politeness.

 "Mr. Donnelly."

 "Miss Grant," he said in the same formal tone, then held out the rose. "Those there are a bit too humble for the likes of you. This suits better."

 "Really?" She took the rose because it would have been rude not to, but neither looked at it nor lifted it to sniff. "I like simple flowers. But thank you for the thought. Are you enjoying your evening?"

 "I enjoyed meeting your family."

 Because he sounded sincere she unbent enough to smile. "You haven't met them all yet."

 "Your brother in college."

 "Brady, yes, but there's my aunt and uncle. Erin and Burke Logan, and their three children, from the neighboring Three Aces farm."

 "I've heard of the Logans, yes. Seen them 'round the tracks a time or two in Ireland. Don't they come to functions here?"

 "Often, but they're away just now. If you stay in the area, you'll see quite a bit of them."

 "And you? Do you still live at home?"

 "Yes." She shifted, glanced back toward the light. "That's why it's home."

 Which was where she wanted to be right now, she realized. Home. The thought of going back inside that overwarm and overcrowded room seemed unbearable.

 "The music's better from a distance."

 "Hmm?" She didn't bother to look at him, wished only that he would go away and give her back her moment of solitude.

 "The music," Brian repeated. "It's better when you can barely hear it."

 Because she agreed, wholeheartedly, she laughed. "Better yet when you can't hear it at all."

 It was the laugh that did it. There'd been warmth then. The way smoke brought warmth even as it clogged your brain. He reached for her before he let himself think. "I don't know about that."

 She went rigid. Not with a jerk as many women would, he noted, but by standing so absolutely still she stiffened every muscle.

 "What are you doing?"

 The words dripped ice, and left him no choice but to tighten his grip on her waist. Pride rammed against pride and the result was solid steel. "Dancing. You do dance, I saw you. And this is a better spot for it than in there, where you're jammed elbow to ass, don't you think?"

 Perhaps she agreed. Perhaps she was even amused. Still, she was accustomed to being asked, not just grabbed. "I came out here to get away from the dancing."

 "You didn't, no. You came out to get away from the crowd."

 She moved with him because to do otherwise was too much like an embrace. And Sarah had been right, he had some lovely moves. Her heels brought her gaze level with his mouth. She'd been right, she decided. Entirely too sensuous. Deliberately she tilted her head back until their eyes met.

 "How long have you been working with horses?" It was a safe topic, she thought, and an expected one.

 "All my life, one way or another. And you? Are you one for riding, or just for looking from a distance?"

 "I can ride." The question irritated her, and nearly had her tossing her collection of blue ribbons and medals in his face. "Relocating, if you do, would mean a big change for you. Job, country, culture."

 "I like a challenge." Something about the way he said it, about the way his hand was spread over her back had her eyes narrowing.

 "Those that do often wander off looking for the next when the challenge is met. It's a game, lacking substance or commitment. I think more of people who build something worthwhile where they are."

 Because it was no more than the truth, it shouldn't have stung. But it did. "As your parents have."

 "Yes."

 "It's easy isn't it, to have that sensibility when you've never had to build something from the ground up with nothing but your own hands and wits?"

 "That may be, but I respect someone who digs in for the long haul more than the one who jumps from opportunity to opportunity—or challenge."

 "And that's what you think I'm doing here?"

 "I couldn't say." She moved her shoulder, a graceful little shrug. "I don't know you."

 "No, you don't. But you think you do. The rover with his eye on the prize, and stable dirt under his nails no matter how he scrubs at them. And less than beneath your notice."

 Surprised, not just by the words but the heat under them, she started to step back, would have stepped back, but he held her in place. As if, she thought, he had the right to.

 "That's ridiculous. Unfair and untrue."

 "Doesn't matter, to either of us." He wouldn't let it matter to him. Wouldn't let her matter, though holding her had made him ache with ideas that couldn't take root.

 "If your father offers me the job, and I take it, I doubt we'll be running in the same circles, or dancing the same dance, once I'm an employee."

 There was anger there, she noted, just behind the vivid green of his eyes. "Mr. Donnelly, you're mistaken about me, my family, and how my parents run their farm. Mistaken, and insulting."

 He raised his eyebrows. "Are you cold or just angry?"

 "What do you mean?"

 "You're trembling."

 "It's chilly." She bit off the words, annoyed that he'd upset her enough to have it show. "I'm going back in."

 "As you like." He eased away, but kept her hand in his, then angled his head when she tugged at it. "Even the stable boy learns manners," he murmured and walked her to the door. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Grant. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

 He knew it could cost him the offer of the job, but he couldn't resist seeing if there was any fire behind that wall of ice. So he lifted her hand, and with his eyes still on hers, brushed his lips over her knuckles. Back, forth, then back again.

 The fire, one violent flash of it, sparked. And there it simmered while she yanked her hand free, turned her back on him and walked back into the polished crowd and perfumed air.

 Chapter Two

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 Dawn at the shedrow was one of the magic times, when fog was eating its way along the ground and the light was a paler, purer gray. Music was in the jingle of harness, the dull thud of boot and hoof as grooms, handlers and horses went about their business. The perfume was horses, hay and summer.