No, Shannon thought. It was honor. As old-fashioned a word as courtship.

“Stop flirting with the lass.” Tim stopped by to slap Murphy hard on the back. “Sing something for us, Murphy.”

“I’m busy now, Tim.”

“No.” Shannon edged back, found a smile. “Go sing something, Murphy. I’ve never heard you.”

Fighting to compose himself, he stared down at the hands he’d rested on his knees. “What would you like to hear?”

“Your favorite.” In a gesture that was as much apology as request, she laid her hand over his. “The song that means the most to you.”

“All right. Will you talk with me later?”

“Later.” She smiled at him as he straightened, certain she would feel more like herself later.

“So, how do you find your first ceili?” Brianna sat down beside her.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s great. All of it.”

“We haven’t had such a grand, big party since Gray and I married last year. The Bacachs we had on the night we got back from our honeymoon.”

“The what?”

“Oh, a Bacachs is an old tradition, where people disguise themselves and come into the house after dark, and—Oh, Murphy’s going to sing.” She gave Shannon’s hand a squeeze. “I wonder what he’ll do.”

“His favorite.”

“ ‘Four Green Fields,’ ” Brianna murmured and felt her eyes sting before the first note was played.

It took only that first note for voices to hush. The room went still as Murphy lifted his to the accompaniment of a single pipe.

She hadn’t known he had that inside him—that pure, clean tenor, or the heart behind it. He sang a song of sadness and hope, of loss and renewal. And all the while the house grew as quiet as a church, his eyes were on hers.

It was a love song, but the love was for Ireland, for the land, and for family.

Listening to him, she felt that something that had moved inside her during the dance shift again, harder, firmer, further. The blood began to hum under her skin, not in passion so much as acceptance. Anticipation. Every barrier she had built crumbled and fell, soundlessly, under the effortless beauty of the song.

His voice simply vanquished her.

There were tears on her cheeks, warm, freed by his voice and the heartbreaking words of the ballad. There was no applause when he had finished. The hush was acknowledgment of a beauty simple and grand.

Murphy’s eyes stayed on Shannon’s as he murmured something to the piper. A nod, and then a quick bright tune was played. The dancing began again.

She knew he understood before he’d taken the first step toward her. He smiled. She rose and took the hand he offered.

He couldn’t get her out quickly. There were too many people who stopped him for a word. By the time he’d led her outside, he could feel her hand trembling in his.

So he turned to her. “Be sure.”

“Yes. I’m sure. But, Murphy, this can’t make any difference. You have to understand . . .”