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through the gate the riders allowed their mounts to break into a trot. Sean kept The Count on a short rein to prevent him getting his head down and putting in a buck. He could feel the tenseness of the animal’s back and see the laid-back ears as he waited for an opportunity to misbehave.
    It was a shame, Sean thought, because The Count was sheer poetry to ride. A mass of coordinated muscle and sinew. A four-legged athlete. If he could just find a way to break through the simmering, calculated resentment the horse exhibited and untap all that potential, the animal would be unbeatable.
    It was every trainer’s dream. That one horse born to run faster than his peers. The one who possessed that magical combination of strength, speed, and bloody-minded determination to lead the herd. Trouble was, they were few and far between. But one winner would make him.
    Young Billy drew up beside him at a canter and Sean urged the stallion on. The Count balked and flung up his head in protest, narrowly missing Sean’s nose. Sean cursed and lifted his whip. But he stopped as the first few bars of a melody burst in his head. And again he wondered: had she really been there last night? Or was it just a dream? But the song was real. And he began to sing. The words came to him as if from a hidden spring, bubbling up and pouring out of his mouth.
    And, verse by verse, stride by stride, he felt the black horse begin to relax. When Sean kicked lightly with his heels The Count responded, breaking into a rhythmical canter. Excitement prickled through Sean and he raised his voice a little, and picked up the tempo of the music. Without being asked, The Count accelerated. Faster and faster and faster until the wind took Sean’s breath away and tears caught in the corners of his eyes.
    Effortlessly he lapped the other horses, and caught brief glimpses of the jockeys’ surprised faces.
    After the third mind-blowing lap of the track, Sean reluctantly slowed his song and brought the animal back to a trot and walk. He patted the horse’s steaming neck. ‘Good boy!’ he said gently. The rest of the string waited for him in a huddle by the track.
    â€˜Holy crap, Sean, did you put mustard up his bum?’ asked Billy.
    Sean grinned and shook his head. It was an old trick but not one that he’d ever used. ‘No, he’s just having a good day, I guess.’
    Ginny came rushing over, her cheeks softly flushed and her dark brown eyes glinting with pleasure. ‘Sean, that was bloody incredible! I was so stunned I forgot to time him, but he was just flying!’
    Her happiness was infectious and she was an extremely pretty girl. Sean leant down on impulse and pulled her close. After all, he was only flesh and blood. Her lips met his willingly.
    She laughed and stepped away. ‘What was that song you were singing, Sean?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know. I learned it years ago.’
    â€˜But what language is it?’
    Sean frowned. ‘Sorry?’
    â€˜Well, it wasn’t English, or Gaelic, was it?’ said Ginny.
    Sean was nonplussed. It wasn’t? ‘French,’ he said, that being the first language that popped into his head. But to be honest, he didn’t have a clue.
    As he rode back down to the yard he pondered the whole strange matter. In the end he decided that The Count had just hit his form at last. After all, why shouldn’t he? And the song was just a coincidence. He turned one last time and looked around the familiar mountain range and valley below. But she wasn’t there.

Chapter 14
    Megan was caught between outrage and admiration. Grandad had tucked her up neatly. Very neatly indeed. She went to the stove and put the kettle on, and shot a glance at the visitors who had arrived on dark, as prearranged the night before on the boat.
    Grandad and the Douglas men sat at the table, the remains of a toothsome meal still strewn untidily around them. Douglas Senior had a tumbler of