And she dreamed of a man on a white horse. His hair was black and streaming behind him, and his dark cloak whipped in the wind and was beaded with the rain that spewed like fury from an iron-gray sky.

Lightning split it like a lance, speared its flash over his face, highlighting the high Celtic bones, the cobalt eyes of the black Irish, and the warrior. There was a copper broach at the cloak’s neck. An intricate twist of metal around a carving of a stallion’s reared head.

As if in sympathy, his mount pawed the chaotic air, then pounded the turf. They drove straight for her, man and beast, both equally dangerous, equally magnificent. She caught the glint of a sword, the dull sheen of armor sprayed with mud.

Her heart answered the bellow of thunder, and the rain slapped icily at her face. But there wasn’t fear. Her chin was thrust high as she watched them bullet toward her, and her eyes, narrowed against the rain, gleamed green.

In a spray of mud and wet the horse swerved to a halt no more than inches from her. The man astride it peered down at her with triumph and lust shining on his face.

“So,” she heard herself say in a voice that wasn’t quite hers. “You’ve come back.”

Shannon jerked awake, shaken and confused by the strangeness and the utter clarity of the dream. As if she hadn’t been asleep at all, she thought as she brushed the hair back from her face. But more remembering.

She barely had time to be amused at herself by the thought when her heart tripped back to double time. There was a man standing not a foot away, watching her.

“I beg your pardon.” Murphy stepped forward out of the shadows that were spreading. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you were napping.”

Miserably embarrassed, she pulled herself upright in the chair. “So you came to stare at me again, Mr. Muldoon?”

“No—that is, I . . .” He blew out a frustrated breath. Hadn’t he talked to himself sternly about just this behavior? Damn if he’d find himself all thick-tongued and soft-headed a second time around her. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he began again. “I thought for a minute you’d come awake and had spoken to me, but you hadn’t.” He tried a smile, one he’d found usually charmed the ladies. “The truth of it is, Miss Bodine, I’d come back around to apologize for gaping at you during tea. It was rude.”

“Fine. Forget it.” And go away, she thought irritably.

“I’m thinking it’s your eyes.” He knew it was more. He’d known exactly what it was the moment he’d looked over and seen her. The woman he’d waited for.

The breath she huffed out was impatient. “My eyes?”

“You’ve fairy eyes. Clear as water, green as moss, and full of magic.”

He didn’t sound slow-witted now, she realized warily. His voice had taken on a musical cadence designed to make a woman forget everything but the sound of it. “That’s interesting, Mr. Muldoon—”