Irish Hearts (12 page)

CHAPTER 6

Back at the hotel, Adelia accompanied Paddy to his room, having no wish to be alone with her thoughts. Travis walked down the carpeted hall with them, pausing at the doorway as they slipped through.

"I've made reservations for us." His teeth flashed in a grin. "Steve's doing his own celebrating with a little lady who's been dogging his footsteps since the Derby."

"Ah, Travis." Paddy sat down heavily on the bed. "You'll have to do without this tired old man. I'm weary to the bone." He gave a smile and a shake of his head. "I've had all the excitement I can stand for today. I'll play lord of the manor and have my dinner in bed like royalty."

"Uncle Paddy." Adelia moved closer, dropping a hand on his brow. "You're not feeling well. I'll stay with you."

"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 rub gently 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 Lettie was 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."

She brought herself back with a shake of the head, surprised by her own words and uneasy under his glance. She groped for some way to turn the subject. "I only had the farm to concern me; she had the farm and me, and I think I was more trouble than the farm." She smiled, willing him to lighten his features with one of his own. "She told me a time or two I had too loose a grip on my temper, but, of course, I've tightened the hold now."

"Have you?" At last the smile curved his mouth.

"Oh, aye." She gave him a solemn and guileless nod. "I'm a very mild sort of person."

The smile spread to a grin as their meal was set before them. As they ate, conversation drifted into generalities, an easy flow of words, as undemanding and soothing as the wine that accompanied the food.

"Come," he said suddenly and rose. "Dance with me."

Before she could voice agreement or protest, she found herself being led to the dance floor and enfolded in his all too familiar arms. Her first stiffness at the contact melted as she relaxed against him, surrendering herself to his movements and the quiet music. Surely, she decided, allowing both mind and body to float, everyone's entitled to a taste of heaven. Tonight I'm taking mine. Tomorrow will come, all too soon.

The night was magic, as if a fairy had granted her a wish, and the very briefness of it heightened her senses. She tucked all the sights and sensations into a corner of her mind to be treasured and sighed over when day broke the spell.

It was late when they stepped into the warm night, and though Adelia's eyes were heavy, she wished the evening were just beginning. Clinging to the last enchanted minutes, she made no objection when Travis drew her close to his side in the cab.

"Tired, Dee?" he murmured, his lips brushing the top of her head so lightly she was not sure she hadn't imagined it.

"No," she said on a sigh, thinking how right her head felt cushioned against his shoulder.

He laughed softly, his voice slow and warm, and his fingers stroked through the silk of her hair until her mind drifted into the world of half-dreams.

"Dee?" She heard her name but, loath to rouse herself from the heavenly comfort, she made a small murmur of protest. "We're back," Travis announced, lifting her chin with his finger.

"Back?" Her heavy lids opened, and she stared at the face so close to hers, dreams and reality mixed into confusion.

"At the hotel," he explained, brushing tumbled hair back from her face.

"Oh." She sat up, realizing the dream was over.

He was silent on the elevator ride to their floor, and Adelia used the time to regain her grip on reality. They moved to her door, and Travis removed her key from his pocket to unlock it as she raised her head to thank him. The smile she meant to accompany her thanks faded as she met his eyes. The concentrated, steady look caused her to step backward, only to find herself trapped against the doorframe, while he closed the distance without seeming to move at all. His hand slipped beneath the curtain of her hair, while he caressed her neck in a slow, lazy motion. They gazed silently at each other; then, very slowly, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was as soft as a summer breeze, unlike the others he had given and ultimately more devastating. She clung to the lapels of his jacket, trying to steady her world, but soon gave up all such efforts and moved her arms to encircle his neck, rising on her toes to meet him demand for demand.

His lips moved to trail along her face, brushing easily along cheeks and closed lids as if savoring the taste. Trembling heat was replaced by a new and poignant languor, a weak giddiness induced by a far more potent potion than champagne. Her hands moved to tangle in his hair as her body melted to his, submitting to whatever he would ask, willing to give whatever he would take.

She felt his hunger when his mouth took hers again, the hardness of his body as he pressed her more urgently against him, and with a moan of pleasure at the new demand, she drew him yet closer. The longing to be possessed, insistent and clamorous, raged through her like fire. She strained against him, her heart throbbing and echoing in her ears as she felt him devour what was offered, then demand more.

Abruptly he released her mouth, his hand moving to brush against her cheek and linger a moment, and she closed her eyes again, inviting his lips to claim hers.

"Goodnight, Dee," he murmured, and, giving her a nudge into the room, he closed the door between them.

Adelia stared at the smooth, empty panel, bringing her hands to burning cheeks. Stunned both by her unprecedented actions and by the sudden rejection, she found it impossible to move. She had offered, and he had refused. Even in her inexperience, she knew her willingness could not have been mistaken for anything other than full surrender. But he had not wanted her, not completely. Her own standards had dissolved in his arms, but he had walked away and left her alone. And how else could it be? she asked herself, shutting eyes tight on threatening moisture. I could never be anything to him but a groom for his horses.

Someone who amuses him from time to time. He was only being kind to me, trying to show me a pleasant evening. She trembled once. I should be content with that and stop searching for what can never be mine. Glancing down at the soft folds of her dress, Adelia reminded herself she was not Cinderella, and in any case it was long past midnight.

They boarded the plane the next morning in a warm, light drizzle. Again, reporters hounded them. Adelia scurried up the ramp, leaving the men to deal with them. Shaking raindrops from her hair and her cream-colored skirt, she pressed her face to a window and watched Travis disengage himself from the press.

During the flight, she skimmed through a magazine, reluctant to enter into conversation. Travis's attitude toward her that morning had been casual, friendly, and vaguely preoccupied, and the stirring need in her that lingered from their previous evening made it a strain for her to mirror his mood.

When he disappeared into the forward cabin with Steve, she let out a deep breath and began to pace the lounge. What am I to do? she asked herself desperately. How can I control the way he makes me feel? I'll be making a fool of myself over him; he's bound to see the way I love him. Then he'll be feeling sorry for me, and I couldn't stand that. I'll just have to find a way to keep more distance between us.

Her gaze wandered over to her uncle, all thoughts of her problem fleeing her mind as she observed the unhealthy cast to his normally ruddy skin.

"Uncle Paddy." She moved to him, cupping his face in her hands and studying him carefully. "You're not well. What is it?"

"Nothing, Dee." The strain in his voice drew her brows together. "I'm just tired."

"You're like ice." She knelt down in front of him so that their faces were level. "You see a doctor the minute we get home. It won't be long now. I'll fetch you a cover and a cup of tea."

"Now, Dee, I'm just feeling my age." He stopped and grimaced in pain.

"What is it?" she demanded, hands already searching to comfort. "Where are you hurting?"

"Just a twinge." The words came out in jerks before he began to gasp for air.

"Uncle Paddy! Merciful heaven, Uncle Paddy!" She clutched at him as he collapsed, falling forward out of the chair and into her arms.

She was not even aware that she shouted for Travis over and over, desperately, helplessly, as she lowered her uncle onto the floor. But suddenly he was there, brushing her hands aside, his head lowering to the stocky chest.