Jack looked at his thirty-one-year-old bride, touched her hair, and smiled. “We’re in our native land, Mrs. Reilly. Our Irish roots lie before us.”

Anyone who saw the handsome couple wouldn’t have questioned those roots. Jack was six foot two, with sandy hair, hazel eyes, a firm jaw, and a winning smile. Regan had blue eyes, fair skin, and dark hair-she was one of the black Irish.

“Well, it certainly is green around here,” Regan observed as she glanced around at the lush gardens, wooded trails, and rolling lawn. “Everything is so still and quiet.”

“After last week, still and quiet sounds good to me,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

Together they broke into a jog and crossed a pedestrian bridge that traversed a stream in front of the castle. They turned left and headed down an isolated country road that the concierge told them led right into the village. The only sound was their sneakers hitting the pavement. At a curve in the road they passed an old stone church that looked deserted.

Regan pointed toward the steepled building. “I’d love to take a look in there tomorrow.”

Jack nodded. “We will.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think that rain is coming in faster than we expected. This jog is going to be quick.”

But when the road ended at the tiny village, a graveyard with darkened gravestones proved irresistible to Regan. A set of stone steps to their left led up to a courtyard where a broken stone wall surrounded the cemetery. “Jack, let’s take a quick look.”

“The funeral director’s daughter,” Jack said affectionately. “You never met a graveyard you didn’t like.”

Regan smiled. “Those tombstones must be centuries old.”

They hurried up the steps, turned right, and stopped in their tracks. The first tombstone they spotted said REILLY.