“And you’re afraid this will blow things out of the water again.”

“I’m not afraid it will. I know it will. If I could spare you from her anger and embarrassment, I would, Shannon.”

“I can handle myself.”

Brianna’s face relaxed into a smile. “Then I’ll ask a favor. Don’t let whatever she says or does turn you away. We’ve had such little time, and I want more.”

“I planned to stay two or three weeks,” Shannon said evenly. “I don’t see any reason to change that.”

“I’m grateful. Now if—” She broke off, distressed when she heard the sound of the front door opening, and the raised female voices. “Oh, they’re here already.”

“And you’d like to talk to her alone first.”

“I would. If you don’t mind.”

“I’d just as soon not be around for the first act.” Feigning a calmness she no longer felt, Shannon rose. “I’ll go outside.”

She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as though she were deserting a sinking ship. It was Brianna’s mother, Shannon reminded herself as she started along the garden path. Brianna’s problem.

There’d be a scene, she imagined. Full of Irish emotions, temper, and despair. She certainly wanted no part of that. Thank God she’d been raised in the States by two calm, reasonable people who weren’t given to desperate mood swings.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned a circle. And saw Murphy crossing the closest field, coming toward the inn.

He had a wonderful way of walking, she noted. Not a strut, not a swagger, yet his stride had all the confidence of both. She had to admit it was a pleasure to watch him, the raw masculinity of movement.

An animated painting, she mused. Irish Man. Yes, that was it exactly, she decided—the long-muscled arms with the work shirt rolled up to the elbows, the jeans that had seen dozens of washings, the boots that had walked countless miles. The cap worn low to shade the eyes that couldn’t dim that rich, startling blue. The almost mythically handsome face.

A capital M man, she reflected. No polished executive could exude such an aura of success striding down Madison Avenue in a thousand-dollar suit with a dozen Sterling roses in his manicured hand as Murphy Muldoon strolling over the land in worn boots and a spray of wildflowers.

“It’s a pleasant thing to walk toward a woman who’s smiling at you.”

“I was thinking you looked like a documentary. Irish farmer walking his land.”

That disconcerted him. “My land ends at the wall there.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.” Amused by his reaction, she glanced down at the flowers he held. “Isn’t that what we call bringing coals to Newcastle?”

“But these are from my land. Since I was thinking of you, I picked them along the way.”

“They’re lovely. Thanks.” She did what any woman would do and buried her face in them. “Is it your house I see from my window? The big stone one with all the chimneys?”