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Gypsies for those not of their ilk.
    “Have you forgotten how to ride a horse as well, chal ?” Brock asked with a gleam in his eye. “I can see how yer wincing even as ye stand here, and you can’t have been on horseback long.”
    Will shrugged. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just gotten out of the habit. I had no need to while I rode in lorries and tanks.” He grimaced at the memory. “And the mules that hauled the artillery hated to be ridden. Brock, what’s this word, chal ?”
    Brock’s mobile mouth half smirked at Will. “Aha, so you know a chroí but not chal ?”
    “If I’m not mistaken, they are two different languages.”
    Brock only shrugged his shoulders and grinned. His long-fingered hands sought the buttons of Will’s shirt, but Will reached down to bat them away.
    “No, no. Not now. I have to be at Antrim’s stable in just a bit. I can’t go there looking like I’ve had a roll in the hay, now can I?” Will shook his head even as his body urged him otherwise.
    Brock stepped away from him, and for a moment Will feared the Traveller lad would mount his pony and be away on the wind. Instead, a throaty chuckle came from Brock as his hands went to the string that tied his baggy pants. Slowly, he shed his trousers and then his shirt. Carefully folding them, he bent to stack them neatly on a tussock. He stepped closer, reaching for Will’s buttons once again. Then he paused, waiting.
    Will could barely breathe as he took in the sight of Brock standing in the nip before him. Christ, he was so beautiful. Though slender of build, his shoulders were broad and his chest held a fine sprinkle of hair that left no doubt that he was a man and not a boy. It was thickest around his small, brown nipples and ran down his belly in a thin line to the thatch at his groin.
    At a loss for words, Will barely managed to nod his assent. Soon his clothes were in a neat stack alongside Brock’s. Will leaned forward to kiss him and was surprised to see Brock staring up at him, his blue eyes filled with trepidation. This was the first sign of reticence Will had seen in the brash young man, and he wondered at it.
    To his dismay, Brock sagged to his knees in front of him.
    “No, no,” Will said softly and knelt before him. He reached out and touched Brock’s cheek. “Do not look at me that way, a chroí .”
    Brock’s big eyes widened at Will’s use of the endearment. His mouth gaped open, but no words came out.
    Will pulled him into the circle of his arms. “I admit it. You are that. In one day and night, you are mo ghrá-sa .”
    “My own love,” Brock whispered the translation. He leaned against Will, and together they tumbled down onto the grass.
    They flattened wide patches of meadow grass as they romped and rolled, biting and sucking and, finally, coming together in glorious abandon. Afterward, Brock sprawled bonelessly on top of Will. And though William could feel a thistle sticking into his back, he did not move. Here was peace and contentment. Here was everything he’d ever wanted. Yet, even in this blissful state of being, darkness crept into his mind. There was no way that this would go on past the Traveller’s leave-taking in a week or two. So Will remained very, very still, enduring thistles sticking into his back, holding Brock close, breathing in his scent. Collecting for future reference the cadence of his beating heart.
     
     
    T HE racetrack at Curragh was quiet, and it took Will and Brock very little time to wind their way back to Andrew Antrim’s training stables.
    “Me oh my, if it isn’t William O’Sullivan in the flesh,” Antrim said as he put out a meaty paw and pumped Will’s hand cordially. “I heard you were back. And who do ye have with you? A new stable boy?”
    “Sure.” Will nodded, though behind him he heard a stifled exclamation from Brock. “Show me this new horse my father has purchased, Mr. Antrim,” he said, at the same time managing a wink at Brock.
    “He’s a