Free Whispers of Heaven by Candice Proctor

gloved hands coming up to curl in ladylike restraint over the top railing as she watched the magnificent, high-spirited horse and the man who worked it.
    He stood in the center of the paddock, his long legs braced wide, his dark hair fluttered by the wind as he pivoted grace- fully, the longeing rein held lightly in a series of loops across the palm of his left hand. Slowly, he began to draw out the leather with his right hand, his dark, strong-boned face taut with concentration as he urged the big bay stallion from a fast trot into a rolling canter, which took it in a steady circle around and around the man. A skinny, half-grown boy stood beside him, intently following the man's every move.
    He was brutal and lawless, a wild and dangerous rebel of the kind she had been raised both to fear and to despise. Yet the beautiful, evocatively powerful synergy of the man and the beast he controlled stole her breath. For one, unguarded moment, she gave herself up to staring at him, at the artistry of his scarred, long-fingered hands, the curve of his leanly muscled back, the strength of his hard, spread thighs. Then his gaze lifted and for one brief flaring instant their eyes met and held, and the moment spun out of time. She knew an odd tightening in her throat, a squeezing of her chest that left her breathless and light-headed. The relentless, rhythmic pounding of the stallion's hooves seemed to reverberate through her, a primitive, hypnotic beat that thrummed in her blood in a strange evocation of a need only dimly understood.
    Frightened and disturbed, she jerked her gaze away. "I fail to see how this is supposed to teach Finnegan's Luck to stop bucking," she said to Warrick, her voice coming out tart and disapproving.
    Her brother grunted, his gaze still following the stallion. "The man's simply getting to know the horse for now, Jess. He says these things can't be rushed if they're going to be effective."
    "Huh. Why didn't you have Old Tom work with Finnegan's Luck?"
    Warrick glanced down at her, his delicately arched brows drawing together in a puzzled frown. "It was Old Tom who suggested Gallagher. Tom says the man knows what he's doing, and I believe him. Don't you?"
    "Of course. It's just that—"
    The sound of a firm step behind them brought her head around. Turning, she saw Harrison's tall, thin figure striding across the yard toward them. He was wearing an expensive bottle-green riding coat, buckskin breeches, and shiny, knee- high leather boots, and he looked so familiar and safe, with his calm demeanor and proud, confident carriage, that she felt a sensation of relief flood through her at the sight of him. It was as if she'd momentarily found herself drifting into a strange, somehow frightening world, and he'd brought her firmly back to earth.
    "Harrison," she said, stepping forward to hold out both of her hands as he came up to them. "This is a pleasant surprise."
    "Your mother thought I would find you someplace around the stables." Harrison took her hands in his and squeezed them, gently, before letting her go. "She offered to send someone to fetch you, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to come and see for myself this Irish Hunter I've heard so much about."
    "A faux pas, that one," said Warrick idly, his gaze once more following his horse. "I fear you have unwittingly deprived our dear mother of a unique opportunity to pry her daughter away from her outdoor pursuits and thrust her into the drawing room, where all respectable ladies supposedly belong."
    A gleam of amusement lit up Harrison's sober gray eyes. "Yes, I fear I did rather disappoint her. But I reinstated myself in her good graces by promising to bring Jesmond back up to the house with me in time for tea."
    Jessie laughed softly, and Harrison's features relaxed into the slightly crooked smile she'd always found especially endearing. Then his gaze slid past her to the cantering stallion, and he said, "So, this is Finnegan's Luck." Stepping forward, he