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      Prologue

      AILEEN QUINN kNELT over the bed of pansies, digging into the soil with her trowel until she’d broken up the clumps around the plants. The wind was chilly and the weather rolling in from the Atlantic was sure to bring rain. But it was spring in Ireland and she was alive to enjoy another summer. At age ninety-six, one couldn’t ask for much more.

      She braced her hands on the tall handles of her gardening bench and slowly got to her feet. Every day was a blessing, she mused. And with each day came the hope that she would find more members of the family that she’d lost all those years ago.

      As one of Ireland’s most famous novelists, she lived a charmed life. But it hadn’t started that way. She’d been raised in an orphanage, her father killed in the Irish uprising and her mother dead of consumption when Aileen was two. She had spent her life alone, without a single blood relative to call family.

      But then, in the midst of doing research for her biography, she learned of her four older brothers—Diarmuid, Conal, Lochlan and Tomas, who had been sent from Ireland by her mother, hoping that her boys would make lives of their own in a more promising place.

      Her investigator, Ian Stephens, had already tracked down one descendant, a lovely young man named Logan Quinn who ran a horse-breeding farm outside Brisbane, Australia. He’d also found Logan’s parents who had recently visited her in Ireland. She’d given David Quinn and his son, Logan, a sizeable gift from her estate, almost a million dollars each.

      Aileen smiled to herself. She had so much money and nothing to do with it. Better that it went to help her family. They were the people who’d be her legacy, the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of her lost brothers.

      “Miss Quinn?”

      Aileen glanced over her shoulder to see Ian Stephens standing at the garden gate. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “Either you’re early or I’ve lost all track of time.”

      “It’s half past eleven,” he said. “That was when we were supposed to meet, wasn’t it?”

      She pulled off her gardening gloves and dropped them onto the padded bench. “Yes, it was. Come, let’s get out of this dampness and in front of a warm fire. I’m cold to the bone.”

      Ian offered her his arm as they walked through the garden then onto the wide terrace and into the house. Sally, her housekeeper, appeared almost immediately and helped Aileen out of her jacket. “I’ve laid a fire in the parlor,” she said. “I’ll bring you tea.”

      “Thank you, Sally. And bring a cup for yourself. Mr. Stephens has come with news, haven’t you, Mr. Stephens?”

      He grinned. “I have. Lots of news. All good.”

      Aileen nodded. “Then I think we’ll also need some of your blackberry scones, as well, Sally. And real butter, not that terrible paste you and Doctor Arnett insist I eat. I’m nearly ninety-seven years old. What harm will a few bites of butter do me now?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Sally muttered, sending Ian a secret smile. “But I’m sure Mr. Stephens doesn’t keep his trim figure by gobbling down butter every chance he gets.”

      Ian forced a smile, then cleared his throat. “I’ll have butter,” he said.

      He extended his arm and Aileen slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go find a quiet place to talk, shall we?”

      The stone country house was warm and cozy, filled with comfortable furnishings and items she’d collected over a lifetime. They walked to the parlor and Aileen sat down in the chair closest to the fire.

      They chatted about the weather until Sally returned with the tea tray. She poured them both a cup and then found a spot for herself on a nearby sofa.

      Aileen held out a plate of scones. “Have one. Sally bakes them for me every day. They are the only indulgence left to me, I’m afraid.”

      As he munched on a scone, Ian opened his portfolio and withdrew a folder, holding it out to her as he wiped his other hand on a linen napkin.

      She hesitated before taking it, knowing that the information inside would open yet another door to her past. There were times when the regrets outweighed the joy. “Tell me,” she said. “Who have you found?”

      “Conal,” Ian said, setting his scone down. “And it wasn’t a simple task.”

      She opened the folder to find a copy of a faded photograph. Though