Page 50 of Irish Rebel
Keeley jerked away bad-temperedly when Brian reached for the pot of blister. “They’re my clothes.”
“So you should have more respect for them. You’ve no business treating a horse in clothes like that. Silk dresses for God’s sake.”
“I’ve got a closetful. We princesses tend to.”
“Nevertheless.” He curled his fingers around the lip of the pot, and under the sick gelding they began a vicious little tug-of-war. He would have laughed, was on the point of it, when he looked at her face and saw that her eyes were wet.
He let go of the pot so abruptly, Keeley fell back on her butt. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I’m applying a non-irritating blister to a knee spavin. Now go away and let me get on with it.”
“There’s no reason to start that up. None at all.” Panic jingled straight to his head, nearly made him dizzy. “This is no place for crying.”
“I’m upset. It’s my stable. I can cry when and where I choose.”
“All right, all right, all right.” Desperately he dug into his pocket for a bandanna. “Here, just blow your nose or something.”
“Just go to hell or something.” Rather grandly, she turned her shoulder on him and continued to apply the blister.
“Keeley, I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure for exactly what, but that wasn’t here nor there. “Dry your eyes now,a grha, and we’ll make this lad comfortable for the night.”
“Don’t take that placating tone with me. I’m not a child or a sick horse.”
Brian dragged his hands through his hair, gave it one good yank. “Which tone would you prefer?”
“An honest one.” Satisfied the blister was properly applied, she rose. “But I’m afraid the derisive one you’ve used since we got here fits that category. In your opinion, I’m spoiled, stubborn and too proud to accept help.”
Though the tears appeared to have passed, he thought it wise to be cautious. “That’s pretty close to the truth,” he agreed, getting to his feet. “But it’s an interesting mixture, and I’ve grown fond of it.”
“I’m not spoiled.”
Brian raised his eyebrows, cocked his head. “Perhaps the word means something different to you Yanks. Seems to me it’s not everyone who could casually ask their father to write a check for five thousand dollars for a sick horse.”
“I’ll pay him back in the morning.”
“I’ve no doubt of it.”
Baffled now, she threw up her hands. “Should I have just left him there, walked away so that idiot Tarmack could find a jockey who would go up on him?”
“No, you did exactly right. But the fact’s the same that you could toss around that kind of money without blinking an eye.”
Brian walked to the gelding’s head to examine his eyes and teeth. It grated on him. He wished it didn’t, as it said little for him that her easy dismissal of money scored his pride.
But it had, at that heated moment at the track, slammed the distance between them right in his face.
“You’re a generous woman, Keeley.”
“But I can afford to be,” she finished.
“True enough.” He ran his hands down the horse’s neck, soothing. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that you are.” Slowly he continued to work his way over the horse. “You’ll have to forgive me—Irish of my class are generally a bit resentful of the gentry. It’s in the blood.”
“The class system’s in your head, Brian.”
That, he thought, wasn’t even worth commenting on. What was, was. His fingers found a small knot. “He’s a bit of an abscess here. We’ll want to bring this to a head.”
They’d bring something else to a head, she decided and moved in so they faced each other over the gelding’s back. “So tell me, how do men of your class deal with taking women of mine to bed?”
His eyes flashed to hers, held. “I’d keep my hands off you if I could.”
