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She dropped her gaze to her feet, and wrestled her suddenly alert libido back into line. What a sad commentary on the state
     of her love life. Her body was lusting after her newly discovered half-brother.
    She trailed behind him through the box-strewn living room and into the kitchen. He wolfed down a half-piece of toast and took
     a huge gulp from the mug before rinsing it under the tap. Rylie had learned from Mrs. Cooke, the manager of the B&B, that
     it was Irish tradition to offer tea if a guest was welcome. Donovan O’Shea unplugged the electric teakettle and poured the
     remaining water down the drain, leaving no doubt as to her status.
    “I’ll just get my coat,” he muttered, eyeing her hooded sweatshirt.
    “It’s a nice sunny morning,” Rylie observed, but he turned and stalked away without reply.
    So much for small talk. She walked back into the living room and stood near the door next to three stacked boxes. Since the flaps on the top box were
     open, Rylie peered inside. A framed wedding photograph lay on top. The dark-haired bride wore a white, long-sleeved gown with
     a short veil. Her ruddy faced groom looked decidedly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Neither smiled. The photo didn’t look very
     old; therefore this must be Dermot O’Shea’s daughter, Doreen. Donovan’s sister. Her sister.
    Breath catching, Rylie looked away fast and just in time. Donovan O’Shea— her brother —walked into the room, shrugging on a black suede jacket. Wordlessly, she preceded him out the door and down the stairs. While
     he locked the back door from the outside, she glanced at the window over the barbershop to see if the little man watched them.
     The curtains fluttered.
    “Ready then?” her handsome half-brother inquired.
    Without waiting for her to answer, he approached a dilapidated Morris Minor parked near the pub door.
    “Does that thing even run?” Rylie couldn’t stop herself from asking. “It’s got to be twenty years old.”
    “Twenty-two, actually,” he replied stiffly. “And it runs sufficiently well. People don’t drive that much round here.”
    She eyed the numerous rusty spots on the exterior and the disintegrating interior with distaste. “I think we better take my
     car.”
    “Fine.” He held out his hand for the keys.
    She hesitated. “I should probably drive. The clerk at the car rental office was pretty insistent about me being the only driver.”
    “I’ll spare you my opinion of the car hire clerk,” he huffed out, then rolled his eyes. His hand remained extended.
    Rylie slapped the keys into his palm with a frustrated sigh.
    They hadn’t gone far down the main road toward Dungannon when Donovan turned right onto a country lane. The paving was all
     but nonexistent, grass grew thick between the numerous cracks, and tall hedges lined either side. Rylie wondered whether,
     if they met another vehicle, there’d be room for them to pass. That must be why he drove so slowly.
    Through an approaching gap in the hedge, she could see a whitewashed cottage surrounded by trees loaded with golden leaves.
     In front of the cottage, the lawn shined so green she had to squint. She’d never appreciated the description of “Emerald Isle”
     until she saw it for herself three days ago.
    “I’ll bet your family has lived here for generations, haven’t they?” she asked as they passed by the charming house.
    “Since the mid-1800s at least,” he replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Probably longer. Records weren’t terribly clear
     during the Hunger, what you’d call the Potato Famine.”
    “I can’t imagine how great it must be to have that much family history all around you.” She didn’t bother trying to disguise
     the envy in her voice.
    When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a moment. Even in profile he looked handsome, his features just rugged enough,
     without being rough or coarse. If he resembled his father— her father —then she understood why her mother had