Page 26 of Irish Thoroughbred
“Go on with you.” He made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “Fussing like your grandmother used to. It’s tired I am, not sick. The next thing I know you’ll be pouring some strange remedy down my throat or threatening me with a poultice.” He glanced up at Travis with a long-suffering sigh. “She’s a worrisome bundle, lad. Take her off my hands and give these old bones a rest.”
With a nod of masculine understanding, Travis turned to Adelia. “Be ready in forty-five minutes,” he stated simply. “I don’t like to be late.”
“‘Do this, do that,’” she fumed, throwing up her hands. “Never a ‘will you’ or ‘may I.’ I’m not in the stables now, Travis Grant, and I don’t fancy being ordered about.” She tossed back her fiery curls and folded her arms across her chest.
Travis raised a quizzical eyebrow before he moved to the door. “Wear that green thing, Dee. I like it.” He closed the door against any possible further outbursts.
Dee was ready at the appointed time, having been cajoled by her uncle to leave him and celebrate Majesty’s victory. Telling herself she was only going out with the arrogant brute for Paddy’s sake, she zipped herself into the green dress as a knock sounded at her door. Muttering disjointedly about the devil’s own spawn, she swung open the door and glared.
“Good evening, Adelia,” he greeted her, obviously unconcerned by her warlike stance. “You’re looking lovely. Are you ready?”
She glowered at him for another moment, wishing she had something handy to throw at him. Tilting her chin, she stepped into the hall, closing the door with force behind her.
She clung to her stubborn silence as the taxi drove through surging traffic, but Travis remained unperturbed, chatting amiably and pointing out various spots of interest. He was making it very difficult for her to keep her anger on the boil.
Defiance wavered as they entered the restaurant, grander than she could ever have imagined. Wide-eyed, she gazed around her at the sophisticated patrons in their evening dress. She allowed herself to be led unresisting to a quiet corner table, greatly impressed by the elegance of the maitre d’. Softly lit and situated for privacy, the table sat high above the throbbing city, the lights blinking and speeding below a direct contrast to their quiet seclusion. She glanced up as their waiter requested her choice of cocktail, then looked across at Travis with a helpless shake of her head. Smiling, he ordered champagne.
“It’s a shame we couldn’t bring Majesty with us,” she commented, then grinned, animosity forgotten. “He did all the work, and we’re drinking the champagne.”
“I very much doubt he’d appreciate it even if we took him back a bottle. For a Royal steed, he has the taste of a peasant. So”—he paused, allowing his finger to rubgently over her hand as it rested on the cloth—“it’s up to us to drink to his victory. Did you know, Adelia, the candlelight scatters gold through your eyes?”
Surprised by his sudden observation, she merely stared, greatly relieved when the arrival of the champagne saved her from inventing a response.
“Shall we have a toast, Dee?”
Lifting the slender-stemmed glass, she smiled, more at ease. “To Majesty, the winner of the Belmont Stakes.”
His lips curved as he copied her gesture. “To winning.”
“Hungry?” he asked after an interlude of quiet conversation. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Well, it won’t be mutton and potatoes,” she murmured absently, sighing at the strange workings of the world that had shifted her into a new life. Her attention came to a full stop as she glanced over the menu, her eyes lifting to his, wide and astonished.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s robbery, sure as faith; there’s not another word for it!”
He leaned forward, taking both her hands in his and grinning at her anxious expression. “Are you sure there’s no Scots blood in you?” Adelia opened her mouth to retort, highly insulted, but he raised her hands to his lips, causing the words to die before they were born. “Don’t get your Irish up, Dee.” He smiled over their joined hands. “And overlook the prices. I’m able to deal with them.”
She shook her head. “I can’t look at it again—it makes my head spin. I’ll have what you have.”
Chuckling, he ordered the meal and more wine as his hands held hers captive. When they were once more alone, he turned her hands over, examining her palms, ignoring the sharp jerk she made to release herself.
“You’re taking better care of them,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over her skin.
“Aye,” she retorted, embarrassed and resentful. “They’re not quite as bad as a ditchdigger’s these days.”
He raised his eyes to hers, watching her a moment without speaking. “I offended you that night. I’m sorry.” His gentle tone tilted her balance, and she felt the familiar weakness flowing into her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she stammered and shrugged and tugged at her hands again. He ignored both verbal and physical protests.
“You have fascinating hands. I’ve made quite a study of them. Small, exquisite, and totally capable—the three rarely go together. Capable Adelia,” he murmured before his eyes fastened on hers again with an intensity that caught her off guard. “You had a bad time on that farm, didn’t you?”
“I—no. No, we got along.”
“Got along?” he repeated, and she felt his eyes searching her face for the words she was not saying.
“We did what needed to be done.” She spoke lightly, not sure what it was he wanted from her. “Aunt Lettiewas a strong, stubborn woman, and not one to be beaten easily. I often thought it strange how little she was like Da,” she continued, her expression drifting into introspection. “And now I see how little she was like Uncle Paddy, for all she was their sister. Perhaps it was the demands of having to take on me and the farm that left her so little time for the gentler things. Such small things: a kiss goodnight, a word of affection… a child can starve with a full plate.”
