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.

He wanted to kiss her, she thought as her eyes grew heavy, some place private. Where he could take his time about it.

It might be interesting.

The man controlled the impatient horse with no visible effort. Rain continued to pelt, icily, so that it sounded like pebbles striking the ground. The white stallion snorted, sending out frosty clouds of smoke as man and woman watched each other.

“You waited.”

She could feel the heavy thud of her own heart. And the need, the terrible need was as strong as her pride. “Walking in my own field has nothing to do with waiting.”

He laughed, a full, reckless sound that rolled over the hills. At the crest of one of those hills stood the stone circle, watching.

“You waited.” In a move as graceful as a dance, he leaned down and scooped her off her feet. With one arm he lifted her, then set her in the saddle in front of him. “Kiss me,” he demanded, twining gloved fingers in her hair. “And make it count.”

Her arms dragged him closer until her breasts were flattened against the traveling armor over his chest. Her mouth was as hungry, as desperate and rough as his. On an oath, he flung out a hand so that his cloak enfolded her.

“By Christ, it’s worth every cold, filthy mile for a taste of you.”

“Then stay, damn you.” She pulled him close again, pressed her starving lips to his. “Stay.”

In sleep Shannon murmured, rocked between pleasure and despair. For even in sleep, she knew he wouldn’t.

Chapter
Eight

Shannon took a day for herself, and was better for it. The morning was damp, but cleared gradually so that as she drove, the landscape surrounding her seemed washed and skillfully lit. Furze lining the road was a blur of yellow blossoms. Hedges of fucshia hinted at droplets of blood red. Gardens were drenched with color as the flowers sunned themselves in the watery light. Hills, the vivid green of them, simply shimmered.

She took photographs, toying with the idea of using the best of them as a basis for sketches or paintings.

It was true enough that she had some trouble negotiating the Irish roads, and the left-side drive, but she didn’t intend to admit it.

She shopped for postcards and trinkets for friends back home along the narrow streets of Ennis. Friends, she mused, who thought she was simply taking a long overdue vacation. It was lowering to realize there was no one back home she felt intimate enough with to have shared her connection here, or her need to explore it.