“Close your mouth, Grayson. And no, you’ve no right to be testing these waters, Murphy Muldoon.”

He watched her, murmuring a thanks when Rogan set fresh drinks on the table. “You’ve an objection to me getting to know your sister, Maggie Mae?”

Eyes bright and sharp, she leaned forward. “I’ve an objection to seeing you walking toward the end of a cliff that you’ll surely fall off. She’s not one of us, and she’s not going to be interested in a west county farmer, no matter how pretty he is.”

Murphy said nothing for a moment, knowing Maggie would be simmering with impatience as he took out a cigarette, contemplated it, lighted it, drew in the first drag. “It’s kind of you to worry about me, Maggie. But it’s my cliff, and my fall.”

“If you think I’m going to sit by while you make an ass of yourself and get your heart tromped on in the bargain, you’re mistaken.”

“It’s none of your business, Margaret Mary,” Rogan said and had his wife’s wrath spewing on him.

“None of mine? Damn if it isn’t. I’ve known this soft-headed fool all of his life, and loved him, though God knows why. And this Yank wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me and Brianna.”

“The Yank’s your sister,” Gray commented. “Which means she’s probably as prickly and stubborn as you.”

Before Maggie could bare her teeth at that, Murphy was holding up a hand. “She’s the right of it. It’s your business, Maggie, as I’m your friend and she’s your sister. But it’s more my business.”

The hint of steel under the quiet tone had her temper defusing and her worry leaping. “Murphy, she’ll be going back soon where she came from.”

“Not if I can persuade her otherwise.”

She grabbed his hands now, as if the contact would transfer some sense into him. “You don’t even know her.”

“Some things you know before it’s reasonable.” He linked his fingers with hers, for the bond there was deep and strong. “I’ve waited for her, Maggie, and here she is. That’s it for me.”

Because she could see the unarguable certainty of it in his eyes, she closed her own. “You’ve lost your mind. I can’t get it back for you.”

“You can’t, no. Not even you.”

She only sighed. “All right then, when you’ve had your fall and lay broken at the bottom, I’ll come around and nurse your wounds. I want to take Liam home now, Sweeney.” She rose, bundling the sleeping boy into her arms. “I won’t ask you to talk sense to him,” she added to Gray. “Men don’t see past a comely face.”

When she turned, she saw that Shannon had come out of the rest room and been waylaid by the Conroys. She sent Shannon a hard look, was answered in kind, then strode out of the pub with her son.

“They’ve got more in common than either one of them realizes.” Gray watched Shannon stare at the pub door before giving her attention back to the old couple.

“It’s the common ground that’s between them as much as under their own feet.”

Gray nodded before looking back at Murphy. “Are you stuck on that comely face, Murphy?”

More out of habit than design, Murphy fiddled out a tune. “That’s part of it.” His lips curved, but the look in his eyes was distant and deep. “It’s the face I’ve been waiting to see again.”

She wasn’t going to let Maggie get under her skin. Shannon promised herself that as she readied for bed later that night. The woman had set detectives on her, had her researched and reported, and now that she’d tried to be open minded enough to meet with the Concannons face-to-face, Maggie treated her like an intruder.

Well, she was staying as long as she damn well pleased. A couple of weeks, Shannon mused. Three at the outside. No one was going to chase her away with cold looks and abrasive comments. Margaret Mary Concannon was going to come to realize that America bred tougher nuts to crack.

And the farmer wasn’t going to spook her, either. Charm and good looks weren’t weapons that worried her. She’d known plenty of charming, good-looking men.

Maybe she’d never met one with quite Murphy’s style, or that odd something flowing so placidly under it all, but it didn’t concern her. Not really.

She climbed into bed, tugged the covers up to her chin. The rain had made the air just a little cooler than comfortable. Still it was snug and almost childishly pleasant to be bundled into bed with the sound of the rain pattering and the steaming cup of tea Brianna had insisted she take with her cooling on the nightstand.

Tomorrow she’d explore, Shannon promised herself. She would swallow her pride and take the car. She’d find her art supplies, maybe some ruins, a few shops. She’d done enough traveling with her parents not to be concerned about knocking about a foreign country on her own.

And on her own is where she wanted to be for a day, without anyone watching her movements, or trying to dissect them.

Snuggling down lower in the bed, she let her mind drift to the people she’d become involved with.

Brianna, the homebody. A new mother, new wife. And a businesswoman, Shannon reminded herself. Efficient, talented. Warm hearted, certainly, but with something like worry behind her eyes.

Gray—her fellow Yank. Easygoing—on the surface, at any rate. Friendly, sharp witted, dazzled by his wife and daughter. Content, apparently, to shrug off the high life he could be living in a major city with his fame.

Maggie. The scowl came automatically. Suspicious by nature, hotheaded, frank to the point of rudeness. Shannon considered it too bad that she respected those particular traits. Unquestionably a loving wife and mother, indisputably a major talent. And, Shannon though, overly protective and fiercely loyal.

Rogan was cultured, smooth, the ingrained manners as much a part of him as his eyes. Organized, she would guess, and shrewd. Sophisticated, and sharp enough to run an organization that was respected around the world. And, she thought grimly, he had to have a sense of humor, and the patience of Job, to live with Maggie.

Then there was Murphy, the good friend and neighbor. The farmer with a talent for music and flirtation. Strikingly handsome and unpretentious—yet not nearly as simple as it appeared at first glance. She didn’t think she’d ever met a man as completely in tune with himself.