Page 39 of Irish Rebel
“Isn’t something I can repeat in polite company.”
She laughed. “That’s what I thought. I’ve got to get the horses inside. Parents will be trickling along soon.”
“Don’t they ever come to watch?”
“Sometimes. Actually I’ve asked them to give us a few weeks so the kids aren’t distracted or tempted to show off. You were a good test audience.”
“Keeley.” He touched her arm as she turned away. “The little boy. Willy. He’s got a tooth he’ll be losing in a couple of days. It’d be nice if someone remembered to put a coin under his pillow.”
Her heart, which had leaped at his touch, quieted. Melted. “He’s with a very good foster family right now. Very nice and caring people. They won’t forget.”
“All right then.”
“Brian.” This time it was her hand on his arm. Despite the curious eyes of her students, she rose to her toes to brush her lips over his cheek. “I have a soft spot for a man who believes in fairies,” she murmured, then walked away to gather her students.
A very soft spot, she thought, for a man with a cocky grin and a kind heart. She opened the terrace doors of her room, stepped out into the night. There was a chill in the air, and a sky so clear the stars flamed like torches. She could smell the flowers, the spice of the first mums, the poignancy of the last of the roses.
A breeze had the leaves whispering.
The three-quarter moon was pale gold, shedding light that gilded the gardens and shimmered over the fields. It seemed she could cup her hands, let that light pour into them and drink it like wine.
How could anyone sleep on so perfect a night?
Slowly she shifted and looked toward Brian’s quarters. Light gleamed in his windows. And her pulse fluttered in her throat.
She told herself if his lights were off, she would close the doors again and try to sleep. But there they were, bright against dark, beckoning.
She closed her eyes on a shiver of anticipation and nerves. She’d prepared herself for this step, this change in her life, in her body. It wasn’t an impulse, it wasn’t reckless. But she felt impulsive. She felt reckless.
She was a grown woman, and the decision was hers.
Quietly she stepped back and closed the doors.
Brian closed the condition book, pressed his fingers to his tired eyes. Like Paddy, he wasn’t quite sure he trusted the computer, but he was willing to fiddle with it a bit. Three times a week he spent an hour trying to figure the damn thing out with the notion that eventually he could use it to generate his charts.
Graphics, they called it, he thought, shifting to give the machine a suspicious glare. Timesaving and efficient, if you believed all the hype. Well, tonight he was too damn tired to spend an hour trying to be timesaving and efficient.
He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. Which had nothing to do with his job, he admitted. And everything to do with his boss’s daughter.
It was a good thing he had that trip to Saratoga coming up, he decided as he pushed away from his desk and rose. A little distance was just what was needed. He didn’t care for this unsteady sensation or this worrying ache around the heart.
He wasn’t the type to fret over a woman, he thought. He enjoyed them, and was happy for them to enjoy him, then each moved on without regrets.
Moving on was always the end plan.
New York, he remembered, was a fair distance away. It should be far enough. As for tonight, he was going to have a shot of whiskey in his tea to help smooth out the edges. Then by God, he was going to sleep if he had to bash himself over the head to accomplish it.
And he wasn’t going to give Keeley another thought.
The knock on the door had him cursing under his breath. Though she’d been doing well, his first worry was that the mare with bronchitis had taken a bad turn. He was already reaching for the boots he’d shed when he called out.
“Come in, it’s open. Is it Lucy then?”
“No, it’s Keeley.” One brow lifted, she stood framed in the door. “But if you’re expecting Lucy, I can go.”
The boots dangled from his fingertips, and those fingertips had gone numb. “Lucy’s a horse,” he managed to say. “She doesn’t often come knocking on my door.”
“Ah, the bronchitis. I thought she was better.”
