He couldn’t help studying his mother’s brother, who had been her favorite. That was not so surprising to Blackie. Patrick Kennedy was a handsome man with the brightest blue eyes, reddish-blond hair and finely sculpted features. He was tall, well built, and his presence and his looks attracted people to him.

Men liked his easygoing, friendly manner, his vast knowledge of world events and sports. “A man’s man,” his mother had told him once. “And a woman’s man as well,” she had thought to add. “They fall at his feet,” she had murmured, “and he enjoys every moment.”

Blackie now smiled to himself, remembering the day she had said that, and how he had believed she meant they literally fell on the ground at his uncle’s feet. It was Blackie’s older brother, Niall, who had explained what that meant, and in great detail, not leaving much out about what a man and a woman did in a bed when not sleeping.

Blackie closed his eyes as different memories flooded back. The water and ham sandwich had been restorative, and this, plus the motion of the train, lulled him to sleep after a few minutes.

Patrick Kennedy regarded his nephew for a while, studying him. He was Black Irish to the tips of his toes, just like Patrick’s own wife, Eileen, descendants of those rescued sailors from the great Armada of centuries ago.

He himself was descended from the Norsemen, who had sailed from Nordic lands, going around the top of Scotland, down into the Irish Sea. The Vikings in their longships with carved heads at the fore and aft, heads of beasties and monsters … all that had been eons ago.

And through all those centuries the men and women of Ireland had been noted for their fine looks; their coloring had told everyone their true origin. They were also deeply rooted in its Celtic traditions, the Druids they came from and the history of their ancient island with its multifaceted folklore.

How odd all this was, Patrick suddenly thought, very odd indeed, being able to know a person’s country of birth at a glance. Would he be able to pick out an Englishman? Yes. A Frenchman? Of course. A smile flickered in those deep blue eyes.… Every man had his origins stamped on him, no two ways about it. And clothes told their own story, even if the face and coloring did not. Every country had its own style of dress.

Patrick’s eyes focused on his nephew once again. He had been pleased to see that Blackie had arrived off the ship looking neatly dressed, not in rags. For a split second, he had been startled by the boy’s height and build, and by those staggering looks.

Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, to give him his full name, was one of the handsomest young men he had seen lately. And he looked older than thirteen.