Seeing his home for the first time with Sophie was like waking from hibernation; the blood sang in his veins, his eyes, he knew, were alight with pleasure. He enjoyed everything, even noticed the beautiful handling of his racing green Aston Martin as it took the sharp corners coming into Kilcarrick.

Hugh felt invincible, like nothing could ever go wrong again.

“I hope you aren’t expecting too much,” he said.

She turned those gorgeous brown eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Kilcarrick Castle isn’t like Château des Étoiles. It’s small—it’s not a family seat. When I bought it, it was a ruin. Took me eight years to restore, and I’m not quite finished.”

Sophie smiled wickedly. “You mean it’s just your jobbing castle?”

He chuckled. “Exactly.”

“Do you have hot water?”

“Yes, and electricity and lots of fires.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” She sighed with contentment.

“This is Kilcarrick,” he said, spinning the car left and parking. There was a space just off the market square, by the Victorian stone Celtic cross that dominated it. “We’ll have lunch before we go to the castle, shall we? Just the two of us.”

“Why, do you have other guests?”

“Of course not.” Hugh chuckled. “I’m a miserable old sod, ask anybody; I never socialize. But there are staff. Have to be—it’s a good-sized place, and I’ve abandoned it for far too long.”

“I see.” Sophie got out and looked around her. “Wow. It’s a beautiful village.”

“Isn’t it.” He loved Kilcarrick; it typified the mixture of gorgeous old houses with grey slate roofs, cobbled streets, and chic little internet cafés that had come to characterize Ireland. “The Celtic tiger’s been roaring for years, but the traditional side of the country’s still there.”

“Do you drink in this pub, too?” Sophie asked, turning in through the front door.

It was called the Black Lamb and had an inviting little garden and pink dog roses around the door.

“Often.” Hugh looked straight ahead.

“How are ya, Hugh?” the barman called out. He was a strong man, and his eyes flickered with interest over Sophie.

“Great, Jack. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I’m sorry.” He steered her to a little corner table near the back window; Sophie looked at the horse brasses and the low-hanging black beams on the ceiling. “Village pub; you’ll be the news of the day. You know how gossip is.”

“Well, we’re used to that.”

Jack sent over a lad with a couple of menus. Hugh recommended the shepherd’s pie; Sophie opted for that, and he had a rabbit stew. They both ordered cider.

“Gosh, I haven’t had cider in . . . forever.” Sophie held it up to the light, admiringly. “There are things you miss in France.”