“That’s more than good enough. Will you come inside now? I’ll warm your supper.”

“It’s the least you could do after you let it go cold.” She linked her fingers with his. “You won’t insist on a big, fancy wedding, will you?”

“I don’t see how when I’ve a mind to have us wed as quick as can be managed.”

“Ah.” She leaned against him. “I do love you, Shawn Gallagher. There’s one more thing,” she said as they walked toward the cottage. “Won’t you need a name for your song, the one Magee wants?”

“It’s ‘renna’s Song,’ ” he told her. “It always was.”

Turn the page for a preview of

HEART OF THE SEA

The stunning conclusion in Nora Roberts’s

all-new Irish trilogy of the Gallagher siblings

Coming soon from Jove Books!

THE VILLAGE OF Ardmore sat snug on the south coast of Ireland, in the county of Waterford, with the Celtic Sea spread out at its feet. The stone seawall curved around, following the skirt of the gold sand beach.

It boasted in its vicinity a pretty jut of cliffs upholstered with wild grass, and a hotel that clung to them. If one had a mind to, it was a pleasant if hearty walk on a narrow path around the headland, and at the top of the first hill were the ruins of the oratory and well of Saint Declan.

The view was worth the climb, with sky and sea and village spread out below. This was holy ground, and though dead were buried there, only one grave had its stone marked.

The village itself claimed neat streets and painted cottages, some with the traditional thatched roofs, and a number of steep hills as well. Flowers grew in abundance, spilling out of window boxes, baskets and potsand from the dooryards. It made a charming picture from above or below, and the villagers were proud to have won the Tidy Town award two years running.

Atop Tower Hill was a fine example of a round tower, with its conical top still in place, and the ruins of the twelfth-century cathedral built in the honor of Saint Declan. Folks would tell you, in case you wondered, that Declan arrived thirty years before good Saint Patrick.

Not that they were bragging, but just letting you know how things stood.

Those interested in such matters would find examples of ogham carving on the stones put for safekeeping inside the roofless cathedral, and Roman arcading faded with time and wind but still worth the study.

But the village itself made no attempt at such grandeur and was merely a pleasant place with a shop or two and a scatter of cottages built back away from lovely sand beaches.

The sign for Ardmore said failte, and that meant welcome.

It was that very combination of ancient history and simple character and hospitality that interested Trevor Magee.

His people had come from Ardmore and Old Parish. Indeed his grandfather had been born here, in a small house very near Ardmore Bay, had lived the first years of his life breathing that moist sea air, had perhaps held his mother’s hand as she’d walked to the shops or along the surf.