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Her father was waiting for them when they trotted back into the yard.
“He’s an excellent horse,” Dante told him. “You and I have terms to discuss. Can you take him for me, Rose?” he asked as he sprang to the ground.
“No problem.” She took charge of the reins. Whatever she thought of Dante as a shameless seducer, when it came to negotiations with her father over a horse, she trusted him implicitly.
“We’ll have that tot of whisky now,” her father enthused as he led the way into the house.
~~o0o~~
“Until the Ceilidh,” Dante told Rose and her father as he got up to leave after what he had to confess was a delicious meal.
“Tonight,” Rose’s father exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically.
“Tonight?” Could a Ceilidh be organized so quickly? This was Ireland, he told himself, where everyone loved a good party.
“The band plays anyway, and the bar’s always packed,” Rose’s father confirmed, as if reading his mind. “We’ll just give a name to it, that’s all.”
Dante shrugged and smiled. “Fine by me. Tonight.” He glanced at Rose. Negotiations had been concluded satisfactorily…for the horse, at least. He held her stare briefly before heading for the door. Rose was next on his agenda. He only had to
look at her to remember everything—how good she tasted, her scent of wildflowers and soap, and how good it felt to sink deep inside her. Slowly, he amended, smiling faintly at the memory. “Seven o’clock?”
“I’ll be ready this time,” she promised, slanting him a look.
She was ready now, he guessed. “No toothbrush,” he warned.
“What’s that?” Rose’s father butted in, cupping his ear.
“Nothing, Pa,” Rose soothed.
“In that case, seven on the dot,” her father added heartily, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.
~~o0o~~
On the dot proved to be something of an exaggeration. When he drove back to the farmhouse that evening, Rose kept them waiting for almost half an hour. He joined her father in pacing up and down.
“Do you like the pub?” Rose’s father asked as they passed each other.
“Very much.” The inn was very comfortable. It was spotlessly clean and far more comfortable than the canvas he often slept beneath on the pampas. He liked the old inn’s quirkiness. It reminded him of Rose. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece as it ticked away the seconds—and had to tell himself not to do so again, as Rose’s father had noticed and was looking more anxious than ever.
“I can’t think what’s keeping her. Shall I give her a call?” he offered.
“No.” He said this as if didn’t want to leap up the stairs, throw her over his knee, and give her a good spanking. “I’m sure she’ll be down soon.”
“Well, you’re a damn sight more confident than I am,” her father commented beneath his breath.
Hearing Rose coming down the stairs, they both turned. When she walked into the room, they fell silent. The scent of the shower gel she’d used was a perfect addition to the vision that was Rose with her newly washed hair floating around her shoulders like a storm cloud. He’d never seen her in a dress before. It was a simple dress with nothing special about it, but she made it special. Formfitting in a soft fabric, in what he supposed could be called aquamarine, it toned perfectly with her jade-green eyes. He couldn’t imagine a top-class designer could have improved upon her choice, and his senses roared as they stared at each other.
“Let’s go, Pa,” she said, walking briskly past him.
The urge to grab her close was almost irresistible.
There was no doubt as to where the party was being held. He heard the noise half a mile down the road. Rose’s father was greeted like a returning hero and ushered to the bar, where several tots of whisky were waiting for him. Dante stood back in the shadows, happy to see the old man being fussed over after his recent difficulties. He soon worked out that everyone in Crackallen could dance or carry a tune. They were all letting it rip, though not necessarily the same tune, or even the same dance. Rose had insisted on buying him a pint of Guinness. Her father had gone to play dominoes with his friends and no doubt make tall stories taller.
Dante’s senses sharpened as Rose approached. She just had a chance to hand over the glass of dry stout when one of the local men asked her to dance. Placing the tall black drink with its thick head of flavorsome cream on a nearby table, Dante cut in.
“Did you have to do that?” Rose complained as he led her away.
“Yes.”
