“You’re only half right,” she told him. “I can’t help but see it as magical, as romantic, but I understand the rest. How could I not understand after meeting your cousins, seeing their families? That’s what I met yesterday, a family. Not a picture in a book.”

“And you were … comfortable with them?”

“Very much.” Her heart began to trip in her throat. It mattered to him, she could see it. Mattered that she accepted his family, and him. Because … was it possible it was because he loved her, too? That he wanted her to be part of his life?

Joy spurted through her in one long liquid gush.

“Rowan.” He came back to sit, so that she hid her trembling hands under the table. “My cousins are many. Here, in Ireland. In Wales, Cornwall. Some are Donovans, some Malones, some Rileys. And some are O’Mearas.”

Her heart had bounded into her head to spin dreamily. “Yes, you said your mother was an O’Meara. We might even be distant relatives. Wouldn’t that be nice? Then in some convoluted way I might be connected to Morgana and the rest.”

He bit back a sigh; then, reaching for her hands, he took them firmly in his and leaned closer. “Rowan, I didn’t say we might be cousins, but that we are cousins. Distant, it’s true, but we share blood. A legacy.”

Puzzled by the sudden intensity she frowned at him. “I suppose we might be. Tenth cousins or something, however many times removed. I’m not entirely clear how that works. It’s interesting, but …”

This time her heart seemed to stop. “What do you mean?” she said slowly. “We share a legacy?”

“Your great-grandmother, Rowan O’Meara, was a witch. As I am. As you are.”

“That’s absurd.” She started to jerk her hands free, but he held them fast. “That’s absurd, Liam. I didn’t even know her, and you certainly didn’t.”

“I know of her.” He spoke calmly now. “Of Rowan O’Meara from Clare, who fell in love and married, and left her homeland, and abjured her gifts. She did this because the man she loved asked it of her. She did this freely, as was her right. And when she birthed her children, she said nothing of their heritage until they were grown.”

“You’re thinking of someone else” was all she could say.

“So they thought her eccentric, and perhaps a bit fey, but they didn’t believe. When they birthed children of their own, they only said Rowan O’Meara was odd. Kind and loving, but odd. And when the daughter of her daughter birthed a daughter, that child was raised not knowing what ran in her blood.”

“A person would have to know. How could you not know?” This time he released her hands so she could pull back, spring to her feet. “You’d feel it. You’d sense it.”