“Oh.” Shannon’s smile widened at the small, gleaming room with its claw-foot tub and pedestal sink and fussy fingertip towels hanging over brass rods. “It’s like a doll house.”

“It is, yes.” Nervous as she would have been with no other guest, Brianna linked her hands together. “Shall I help you unpack, or would you rather have a rest first?”

“I don’t need help, thank you. I might make use of that tub.”

“Be at home then. There’s extra towels in that little trunk, and I think you’ll find everything else you’d be needing.” She hesitated again. “Would you want me to bring you up a tray at teatime?”

It would have been easier to agree, Shannon thought. She could have snuggled into the room alone and blocked out everything else.

“No, I’ll come down.”

“Take all the time you need.” Brianna laid a hand on Shannon’s arm to let her know the statement didn’t refer only to having tea. “I’ll be just downstairs if you want anything.”

“Thank you.”

When the door closed behind Brianna, Shannon sat on the edge of the bed. In private she could let her shoulders droop and her eyes close.

She was in Ireland, and hadn’t a clue what to do next.

Chapter
Five

“So what’s she like, this Yank sister of yours?” As at home as he would have been in his own kitchen, Murphy Muldoon helped himself to one of the cream tarts Brianna was arranging on a tray.

He was a tall man who tended toward lankiness. He’d taken off his cap when he’d come into the kitchen, as his mother had taught him, and his dark hair was tousled from the fingers he’d raked through them, and in need of a trim.

“Keep your fingers off,” she ordered, swatting at them. “Wait until I’m serving.”

“I might not get all I want then.” He grinned at her, dark blue eyes dancing, before stuffing the tart in his mouth. “Is she as pretty as you, Brie?”

“Flattery won’t get you another tart before tea.” But there was a laugh at the edge of her voice. “Pretty isn’t the word for her. She’s beautiful. Her hair’s calmer than Maggie’s, more like the hide on that chestnut mare you love so. Her eyes are like Da’s were—though she wouldn’t like to hear that—the clearest of greens. She’s about my height, slim. And . . . sleek, I suppose you’d say. Even after the traveling she hardly looked rumpled at all.”

“Maggie says she’s a cold one.” Since Brianna was guarding the tarts like a hen with one chick, Murphy settled for tea.

“She’s reserved,” Brianna corrected. “It’s that Maggie doesn’t want to like her. And there’s a sadness about her she hides with coolness.” And that Brianna understood perfectly. “But she smiled, really smiled, when we came up over the road where the valley spreads out.”

“It’s a fair sight, that.” Murphy moved his shoulders as he poured his tea. His back was aching a bit, for he’d been plowing since dawn. But it was a good ache, a solid-day’s-work ache. “She wouldn’t see the like of it in New York City.”