Irish Rebel

by Nora Roberts

  "I'll get that." He moved in behind her, handily trapping her between his body and the counter. Closed his hand over hers on the cup.

  She could smell the shower on him, feel the heat of it. And her mouth went dry.

  "I decided I don't care to forget it."

  She had to concentrate on regulating her breathing. "I beg your pardon?"

  "And that I'm not going to let you forget it, either."

  She needed to swallow, but her throat wouldn't cooperate. "We agreed—"

  "No, we didn't." He brought the cup down, set it aside. "We agreed we didn't want this." The ponytail she wore left a lovely curve of her neck bare. He nuzzled there. "And I'd say there's been an unspoken agreement that despite that, we want each other."

  The firestorm was back, a burst at the base of her neck that showered heat down her spine. "We don't know each other."

  "I know how you taste." He nipped lightly at flesh. "And feel, and smell. I see your face in my mind whether I want to or not." He spun her around, and his eyes were dark and restless. "Why should you have a choice when I don't?"

  His mouth crushed down on hers, a hot and dangerous thrill. With his hands gripped in her hair, he pressed his body to hers.

  And this time she felt as much anger as passion in the embrace. Now, wrapped around the thrill, was a thin snake of fear. The combination was unbearably exciting.

  "I'm not ready for this." She struggled back. "I'm not ready for this. Can you understand?"

  "No.'' But he understood what he saw in her eyes. He'd frightened her, and he'd no right to do so. "But then again, I don't want to." So he backed away. "Your mother said I was a patient man. I can be, under some circumstances. I'll wait, because you'll come to me. There's something alive between us, so when you're ready, you'll come to me."

  "There's a thin line between confidence and arrogance, Brian. Watch your step," she suggested as she started for the door.

  "I missed you."

  Her hand closed over the knob, but she couldn't turn it. "You know all the angles," she murmured.

  "That may be true. But still I missed you. Thanks for the tea."

  She sighed. "You're welcome," she said, and left him.

  Chapter Five

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  Bad Betty had more than earned her name. She didn't just make trouble, she looked for it. Nothing seemed to please her more than nipping at grooms. Unless it was kicking exercise boys. She chased other yearlings when out in pasture, then reared and kicked and snorted bad-temperedly when it was time to be stabled for the night.

  For all those reasons, and more, Brian adored her.

  There was a communal sigh of relief in the shedrow when he opted to deal with her personally. She tested him, and though she rarely got by Brian's guard he had an impressive rainbow of bruises with her name on them.

  There were mutters that she was a man-eater, but Brian knew better. She was a rebel. And she was a winner. It was only a matter of teaching her how to start winning without damaging that wild spirit.

  On the longe line he circled her into a walk while she pretended to ignore him. Still, when he spoke to her, her ears twitched, and now and then she sent him a sidelong glance. And days of hard work were rewarded when he lengthened the line and she broke into a canter.

  "Ah, that's the way. What a beauty you are." He'd liked to have captured that moment—the gorgeous filly cantering gracefully in a circle, while green hills rolled up to a blue sky.

  It would make a picture, and look to some like a frolic. But those who knew would see this moment—a racehorse learning to take commands from signals transmitted through her mouth—was another step toward the finish line.

  He saw one more thing as he looked at her, as he studied lines and form and that unmistakable gleam in her eyes.

  He saw his destiny.

  "We'll go, you and I," he said quietly. "We were meant to go together. Rebels we are, or so people say who can't see where we're headed. We've races to win, don't we?"

  He shortened the line, and she dropped into a trot. Shortened it still further and her gait changed to a walk. Sweat gleamed on her coat, trickled down his back. Summer wasn't just clinging to September. It was pummeling it.

  They ignored the heat, and watched each other.

  Again and again he used the line to signal her as she circled, and all the while he praised her.

  Watching was irresistible. She had work to do, chores piled up. But if she couldn't take a few moments out on a brilliant September day to watch a little magic, what was the point?

  She leaned on the paddock fence, enjoying the view as Brian put Betty through her paces. Her father had been right in hiring him, she thought. There was a connection between man and horse that was stronger, and even more tangible than the line between them. She could feel it. Amusement, affection, challenge.

  This wasn't something that could be taught. It simply was.

  She knew Brian took time for every weanling on the farm when he wasn't out of town at a race. That wasn't an easy task in an operation as large as Royal Meadows. But it was the kind of touch that made a difference. A smart and caring horseman knew that the more a horse was handled, touched, communicated with during its youth, the better it would respond to later training.

  "Looks good, doesn't she?" Brian said as he let out the line for one last canter.

  "Very. You've made considerable progress with her."

  "We've made progress with each other, haven't wea ghra . She's ready to feel a rider on her."

  Knowing Betty's reputation, Keeley tucked her tongue in her cheek. "And who are you bribing—or threatening—to get up on her?"

  Gradually Brian shortened the line, and Betty moved into an even trot. "Want the job?"

  "I have a job, thanks." But it was tempting.

  Brian knew when a seed planted needed to be left alone to sprout. "Well, she'll have her first weight on her tomorrow morning." He shortened the line again, moving Betty toward him, and both of them toward Keeley.

  He liked the look of her there against the fence, with her hair as glossy as the filly's coat, and her eyes as cautious. "This one won't be placid and eager to please. But she'll come 'round, won't you,maverneen ?"

  He stroked the filly's neck, and she sniffed at the pouch on his belt, then turned her head away.

  "She wants to let me know she doesn't care that I've apples in here. No, doesn't matter a bit to her." He looped the line around the fence and took an apple and his knife from his pocket. Idly he cut it in half. "Maybe I'll just offer this token to this other pretty lady here."

  He held out the apple to Keeley, and Betty gave him a solid rap with her head that rammed him into the fence. "Now she wants my attention. Would you like some of this then?"

  He shifted, held the apple out. Betty nipped it from his palm with dignified delicacy. "She loves me."

  "She loves your apples," Keeley commented.

  "Oh, it's not just that. See here." Before Keeley could evade—could think to—he cupped a hand at the back of her neck, pulled her close and rubbed his lips provocatively over hers.

  Betty huffed out a breath and butted him.

  "You see?" Brian let his teeth graze lightly before he released Keeley. "Jealous. She doesn't care to have me give my affection to another woman."

  "Next time kiss her and save yourself a bruise."

  "It was worth it. On both counts."

  "Horses are more easily charmed than women, Donnelly." She plucked the apple out of his hand, bit in. "I just like your apples," she told him, and strolled away.

  "That one's as contrary as you are." He nuzzled Betty's cheek as he watched Keeley walk to her stables. "What is it that makes me find contrary females so appealing?"

  She hadn't meant to go down to the yearling stalls. Really. It was just that she was up early, her own morning chores were done. And she was curious. When she stepped inside the stables, out of the soft gray dawn, th
e first thing she heard was Brian's voice.

  It made her smile. At least the exasperation in it made her smile.

  "Come on now, Jim, you lost the draw. You can't be welshing on me."

  "I'm not. I'm gearing up."

  The young exercise boy was gritting his teeth and rolling his shoulders when Keeley stepped up to the box. "Good morning. I heard you drew the short straw, Jim."

  "Yeah, just my luck." He shot a mournful look at Betty. "This one wants to eat me."

  "Chew you up and spit you out more like," Brian said in disgust. "You're just giving her cause now by letting her know she intimidates you. You'll go down in history today—the first weight the next winner of the Triple Crown feels on her back."

  As if reacting to the prediction, Betty snorted, tried to dance as Brian firmed his grip on the shortened reins. And Jim's eyes went big as moons in a pale face.

  "I'll do it." Keeley wasn't sure if it was the challenge of it, or compassion for the terrified boy. "If it's an historic moment, it should be a Grant up on a Royal Meadows champion." She smiled at Jim as she said it. "Let me have the jacket and hat."

  "You sure?" With more hope than shame, Jim looked from Keeley to Brian.

  "She's the boss. In a manner of speaking," Brian told him. "Your loss here, Jim."

  "I'll take the loss and save all my skin." A little too eagerly, he started out of the box. As if sensing her opening, Betty bunched, kicked out. Swearing, Brian shoved Jim aside with his shoulder and took the hoof in the ribs.

  The air went blue, and every curse was in an undertone that only added impact. Without a second thought, Keeley moved into the box and laid her hand over his on the reins to help control the filly.

  A thousand pounds of horse fought to plunge. Keeley felt the heat from her, and from Brian when their bodies bumped together. "How bad did she get you?"

  "Not as bad as she'd like." But enough, he thought, to steal his breath and have the pain shooting up until he saw stars dancing.

  He tossed the hair out of his eyes, blinked at the sweat stinging in them and muscled the filly down.

  "Man, Bri, I'm sorry."

  "You should have more sense than to turn your back on a skittish filly," Brian snapped out. "Next time I'll let her take a shot at your head. Go on out. She knows she's bested you. Stand back," he ordered Keeley in the same cold tone of command, then he jerked the reins just enough to bring Betty's head down.

  "So this is how it's to be? You want all the temper and none of the glory? Am I wasting my time with you? Maybe you don't want to run. We'll just wait until you come into season and bring a stallion in to mount you, and set you out to pasture to breed. Then you'll never know, will you, what it is to win."

  Just outside the box, Keeley slipped on the padded jacket and hat. And waited. There was a line of damp down the back of his shirt, his hair was a wild tangle of brown and gold. Muscles rippled in his arms, and his boots were scarred and filthy.

  He looked, she decided, exactly how a horseman should look. Powerful. Confident. And just arrogant enough to believe he could win over an animal more than five times his weight.

  He kept talking, but he'd switched to Gaelic now. Slowly, the rhythm of the words smoothed out, and warmed. Almost like a song, they played in the air, rising, falling. Mesmerizing.

  The filly stood quiet now, her dark brown eyes focused on Brian's green ones.

  Seduced, Keeley thought. She was watching a kind of seduction. She'll do anything for him, Keeley realized. Who wouldn't if he touched you that way, looked at you that way, used his voice on you that way?

  "Come in here," he told Keeley. "Let her get your scent. Touch her so she can feel you."

  "I know how it's done," she murmured. Though she'd never seen it done quite like this.

  She slipped into the stall, ran her hands gently over Betty's neck, her side. She felt the muscles quiver under her hand, but the filly looked at nothing and no one but Brian.