It only took her a moment. " 'Scarborough Fair'." It meant Simon and Garfunkel to her, on the oldies station on the radio.
"Do you sing, Shannon?"
"As much as anyone who has a shower and a radio." Fascinated, she bent her head closer. "How do you know which buttons to push?"
"First you have to know what song you've a mind to play. Here."
"No, I-" But he had already slipped an arm around her and was drawing her hands under the straps beneath his.
"You have to get the feel of it first." He guided her fingers to the buttons, pressed down gently as he opened the bellows. The chord that rang out was long and pure and made her laugh.
"That's one."
"If you can do one, you can do another." To prove it he pushed the bellows in and made a different note. "It just takes the wanting, and the practice."
Experimentally she shifted some fingers around and winced at the clash of notes. "I think it might take some talent." Then she was laughing again as he played his fingers over hers and made the instrument come to life. "And quick hands. How can you see what you're playing?"
With the laugh still in her eyes, she shook back her hair and turned her face to his. The jolt around her heart was as lively as the tune, and not nearly as pleasant.
"It's a matter of feeling." Though her fingers had gone still, he moved his around them, changing the mood of the music yet again. Wistful and romantic. "What do you feel?"
"Like I'm being played every bit as cleverly as this little box." Her eyes narrowed a bit as she studied him.
Somehow their positions had shifted just enough to be considered an embrace. The hands, those hard-palmed, limber hands, were unquestionably possessive over hers. "You have some very smooth moves, Murphy."
"It occurs to me you don't mean that as a compliment."
"I don't. It's an observation." It was shocking to realize the pulse in her throat was hammering. His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered so that she could feel the heat, and his intention as a tangible thing. "No," she said very quietly, very firmly.
"As you please." His eyes came back to hers, and there was a subtle and simple power in them that challenged. "I'd rather kiss you the first time in a more private place myself. Where I could take my time about it."
She thought he would-take his time, that is. He might not have been the slow man she'd originally perceived. But she had a feeling he was thorough. "I'd say that completes the lesson." Determined to find some distance, she tugged her hands from under his.
"We'll have another, whenever you've a mind to." And indeed taking his time, he lifted his arm from around her, then set down the concertina to drink the last of his beer. "You've got music in you, Shannon. You just haven't let yourself play it yet."
"I think I'll stick to the radio, thanks." More agitated than she cared to admit, she rose. "Excuse me." She went off in search of the rest room, and time to settle down.
Murphy was smiling to himself when he set his empty glass down. His brow lifted when he caught Maggie's frowning stare.
"What are you about, Murphy?" she demanded.
"I'm about to have another beer-once Rogan gets back with it."
"Don't play games with me, boy-o." She wasn't sure herself if it was temper or worry brewing in her, but neither was comforting. "I know you've an eye for the ladies, but I've never seen that look in them before."
"Haven't you?"
"Stop hounding him, Maggie." Gray kicked back in his chair. "Murphy's entitled to test the waters. She's a looker, isn't she?"
"Close your mouth, Grayson. And no, you've no right to be testing these waters, Murphy Muldoon."
He watched her, murmuring a thanks when Rogan set fresh drinks on the table. "You've an objection to me getting to know your sister, Maggie Mae?"
Eyes bright and sharp, she leaned forward. "I've an objection to seeing you walking toward the end of a cliff that you'll surely fall off. She's not one of us, and she's not going to be interested in a west county farmer, no matter how pretty he is."
Murphy said nothing for a moment, knowing Maggie would be simmering with impatience as he took out a cigarette, contemplated it, lighted it, drew in the first drag. "It's kind of you to worry about me, Maggie. But it's my cliff, and my fall."
"If you think I'm going to sit by while you make an ass of yourself and get your heart tromped on in the bargain, you're mistaken."
"It's none of your business, Margaret Mary," Rogan said and had his wife's wrath spewing on him.
"None of mine? Damn if it isn't. I've known this softheaded fool all of his life, and loved him, though God knows why. And this Yank wouldn't be here if it weren't for me and Brianna."
"The Yank's your sister," Gray commented. "Which means' she's " probably as prickly and stubborn as you."
Before Maggie could bare her teeth at that, Murphy was holding up a hand. "She's the right of it. It's your business, Maggie, as I'm your friend and she's your sister. But it's more my business."
The hint of steel under the quiet tone had her temper defusing and her worry leaping. "Murphy, she'll be going back soon where she came from."
"Not if I can persuade her otherwise."
She grabbed his hands now, as if the contact would transfer some sense into him. "You don't even know her."
"Some things you know before it's reasonable." He linked his fingers with hers, for the bond there was deep and strong. "I've waited for her, Maggie, and here she is. That's it for me."
Because she could see the unarguable certainty of it in his eyes, she closed her own. "You've lost your mind. I can't get it back for you."
"You can't, no. Not even you."
She only sighed. "All right then, when you've had your fall and lay broken at the bottom, I'll come around and nurse your wounds. I want to take Liam home now, Sweeney." She rose, bundling the sleeping boy into her arms. "I won't ask you to talk sense to him," she added to Gray. "Men don't see past a comely face."