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horse under his hand. He turned to her but only caught the glimpse of a buttercup yellow shirt as she disappeared into the tack room, leaving behind a whiff of her scent, flowery and fresh against the raw stable air.
    There was more to Catie Darcy than that haughty, rich-kid mask behind which she hid. Having been around horses all of his life, he understood that what a creature appeared to be outwardly wasn’t necessarily a peek at the soul. His father had taught him this. Since he was old enough to pull up to a fence rail, Sean had watched the man break horses, and whether it was an aggressive stallion or an overly shy mare, Seamus Kelly could reach into their core and drive to the surface the noble animal within. “Horses are no different than people, Seany,” his father said often. “They all have a story to tell if only someone will take the time to listen properly.”
    But Sean hadn’t come to Pemberley to figure out what lay within Catie Darcy. She wasn’t his problem. She had family enough, and Aunt Rose certainly had a strong affection for the girl. All he had to do was teach her to trot and canter, collect his university tuition, and catch a ferry back to Ireland in six weeks. He gave the aging gelding a parting pat and went to saddle his horse.
    When Catie arrived at the stable, Sean Kelly was affectionately rubbing her father’s beloved Abastor, a horse in his last few seasons of life, but still a fine-looking animal. Abastor was thoroughly enjoying the extra attention and Sean Kelly’s gentle voice, but his words were unfamiliar to Catie. She had studied French and Latin; this was neither. Gaelic, she thought, the Irish language once forbidden by the government in order to create British subjects amongst the Irish population. Like the Darcys’ antiques, jewels, and silver, the language had obviously been carefully preserved and protected and, even in the face of adversity, passed down through generations of Kellys. Although the words were not familiar they felt calming, like the easy flow of a fairy tale or lullaby. She opened her mouth to ask him their meaning but stopped short, deciding instead to fetch her riding hat, crop, and gloves. Why was it, she thought a little bitterly as she stepped into the warm, musty smelling tack room, that every bit of oppression suffered in the last few centuries had been at the hands of her bloody English ancestors?
    When she returned, he was standing there with a large smile on his face. “Hello, Miss Catie.” He spoke in a pleasant tone that matched the smile. “Are you ready to begin?”
    “Sure.” She nodded, glad to see he wasn’t one to hold grudges. She hadn’t been sure what her reception might be after that morning.
    “Right, which horse is yours, then?” He raised one questioning eyebrow and looked down at her.
    Catie gazed up into his face, but before she could answer, she found herself struck by a set of blue eyes that seemed to glow below his thatch of onyx hair. Really staring into them for the first time, she saw they were different from the steel blue color of Ben’s, which gave you an instant awareness of his charge. No, the cerulean orbs of Sean Kelly were feral-like and sparkled with a free spirit . . .
    “Miss Catie?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Catie!”
    “C-Chloe, the grey mare,” she said, the words tumbling awkwardly out of her mouth. She knew she had been staring at him, and her cheeks grew hot. Not daring to meet his eyes again, she turned to Clancy and asked sharply, “Why has Chloe not been saddled yet?”
    “Been a bit short-handed today, miss, but she’ll be ready at once.”
    “Yes, see that she is.” The flash of humiliation had faded, but her voice held its purpose.
    “Yes, miss,” Clancy replied, casting Sean an apprising glance.
    Catie busied herself with her hat straps to keep from looking at Sean Kelly again, and didn’t see the meaningful look he gave her.
    Once Clancy brought Chloe around to the