The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (13 page)

Tim was glad all he was carrying was his fiddle. Each wedge-shaped tread of the spiral staircase was smaller than his foot, even at the widest point, and the pierced iron seemed barely strong enough to support his weight. He’d have to pull out some clothes and his toothbrush and leave the bag in the car. There was no way he’d bring his large suitcase up these stairs. 

“I had a great-aunt whose house looked like this. Scared me half to death when I was small,” Caera said quietly.

Ceramic vases of plastic flowers set on lace doilies filled alcoves in the wall. The alcoves were backed by wood planks, and one badly fitted plank let in a draught of cold air. Tim shivered, then realized these weren’t decorative alcoves. These were small windows, probably arrow slits. Paintings and prints of biblical scenes hung in the space between the windows.

Caera reached the top of the steps first. Tim joined her.

A long stone hallway stretched from the top of the stairs to the opposite side of the building. The right-hand exterior wall was set with barred windows. Along the left-hand wall were evenly spaced doors, closer together than he’d ever seen in a hotel. The doors were wood, painted an oddly bright green color. There was a small window in the top of each door. The openings in the doors were fitted with bars and backed by opaque glass.

“What the…” Tim stared at the doors in confusion.

“A bridewell is a jail.”

Tim turned wide eyes on Caera. Her lips were twitching, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.

“This wasn’t a castle, it was a…”

“A prison, yes.”

Tim blinked. Blinked again.

Caera giggled, then cleared her throat and bit her lip. She took the key from his hand. It was only then that Tim noticed that it was an old-fashioned key—a long cylindrical barrel with pieces coming off the end. 

It made the keys at Glenncailty seem high-tech. 

“Come on, we’ll check our room, bring a few things up and then try and sneak out of here to find a session before you end up playing for her.”

Caera started down the hall, checking the numbers mounted on the wall beside the doors against the tag on the key.

Their room was at the end of the hall. It wasn’t one of the cells on the interior of the hall, but rather a circular room on the right. From the outside, they’d seen that each corner of the bridewell was held by a rounded tower. One of those round towers housed the stairs they’d just come up, and it appeared they’d be staying in another of them. 

Caera braced her hands on the doorframe and leaned in to look around. There were three windows, a built-in cabinet and a bed. The floor was bare, cold stone, and a bulb hung from the ceiling with a crocheted lampshade.

“This was probably the warden’s office.”

“This is insane.” Tim dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I found this place, but we don’t have to stay here.”

“It’s just for a night, and it’s not so bad.”

“It’s not so good.”

“We’ll be fine. I’ll bring the bags up.” 

“No, you won’t. I’m the man, I’ll bring the bags up.”

“Are you saying that because that’s what you think or because you’re scared of Mrs. Reilly?”

“One-hundred percent because I’m scared of Mrs. Reilly. If she hadn’t told me I had to do it, I’d make you do it so I don’t have to see her again.”

Caera burst into laughter. She entered the room and took a seat on the bed, which groaned and squeaked. That sent Caera into a fresh round of laughter.

With a groan of his own, Tim passed Caera his fiddle. “I’m going for the bags. If I’m not back in ten minutes, you come rescue me.”

Caera fell back on the bed, giggling.

As Tim walked away, he was grinning. Caera’s laugh was infectious, joyous. She could be so serious he’d never imagined how funny she could be, how animated.

Girding himself, Tim snuck down the stairs and out through the fussy front parlor. He ran to the car, grabbed Caera’s bag and a few things from his own and then snuck back in.

Caera wasn’t in their room.

“Oh crap. The old lady killed her and is making her into stew.”

“What?”

Tim jumped and yelled—not yelped, he didn’t yelp. Caera was behind him in the doorway. 

“Who’s being made into stew?”

“I was worried you were.”

“Crazy Yankee.”

“Come here, let me check and make sure you’re not a ghost or a zombie.”

Caera rolled her eyes but let him pull her to him. When her hips met his, her breasts pressed to his chest, the farcical comedy of their situation melted away. His blood hummed with the need for her, his cock reacting to her body’s heat. 

He cupped her chin and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. She tasted wild and herby, the faint flavor of tea from their stop in Cashel lingering on her lips. 

He nipped her lower lip, felt her shiver. 

“We could stay in,” he whispered. 

“While Mrs. Reilly is still awake?”

Tim jerked away from her as if she were on fire. He’d forgotten about Mrs. Reilly. There was no way they were having sex while the old lady was still awake and possibly listening. He could only imagine what she’d have to say about a man’s duties and sex.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his dick and sighed.

“Ah, you poor man.”

“I’m suffering here, woman.”

“I’ll make it up to you, later.” Her eyes were the blue of the sky, but in them he could see storms, the dark madness that had sent them both into the depths of the pool at Glenncailty. He wanted to taste that wild sensuality again, and he wanted to make love with the soft, hesitant woman he’d found in a little cottage, as pretty and fragile as a fairy tale.

He wanted…but for now it would wait.

He sighed again. “Let’s go.”

Caera smiled, took his hand, and together they snuck out of the bridewell, giggling like kids as they ran down the long, curved road into the town of Cahir.

“‘And it’s no, nae, never. No, nae, never no more, will I plaaay the wild rover. No never, no more,’” Tim sang.

He had his arm over the shoulder of a man he’d just met, and together they rocked side-to-side, singing the chorus of “The Wild Rover
”.

On his other side, Caera sat on a stool, their drinks on the bar beside her. She clapped along, providing the downbeat for the song. She was beautiful, the lights of the bar shining on the glossy waves of her hair. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and Tim swore he could feel waves of contentment coming off of her.

The song ended, and the whole pub burst into applause. Backs were slapped, glasses raised, and everyone pushed towards the bar to order another glass. Tim lifted his pint of Bulmer’s and took a mouthful. 

Behind him at one of the tables, a group of musicians fiddled with their instruments. 

“So, they aren’t in a band, they may not even know each other, they just show up and play,” Tim said to Caera, pointing over his shoulder at the table.

In the hour they’d been in the pub, Tim had watched as people came and left, guitars and tin whistles being passed between strangers, as they negotiated who knew, and who could play, each song.

“Yes. Sometimes there are groups who are known to play the sessions at a certain pub, as we have at Glenncailty. Sometimes it’s like this, any who can playing what they know.”

“And when people say session, they mean…?”

“Music, a session of music.”

A lone guitar started. The chatter quieted and Tim turned to look back at the table where the musicians were. A young man, his face marked by acne, was playing. 

When he started to sing, Tim’s mouth dropped open. His voice was rough and soulful, each syllable aching with the heartbreak he sang of.

Around the bar heads nodded, fingers tapped, but the crowd was silent and respectful of the music, and the musician. It reminded Tim of how the Glenncailty pub had fallen silent when Caera sang “Four Green Fields”
.

“I don’t know this song,” Tim whispered to Caera. 

“It’s ‘On a May Morning
’;
Barry McCormack sings it. Before you leave, we’ll get you the Other Voices soundtrack. Good, original music.”

Before you leave.

Tim took a long sip, then hugged Caera to him. He didn’t like to dwell on the future. As a musician, he couldn’t plan years ahead, the way he could if he were an accountant. He’d learned to take each day, each moment, as it came. He sang songs from the past, finding that losing himself in the world that had created the music he loved was easier than planning for a future of sold-out arenas that might never happen.

That had spilled over into his relationships. He knew he’d broken more than a few hearts because he hadn’t wanted to think about the future, to discuss where the relationship was going. He’d loved, and been loved, but he’d never given anyone rights to be part of a future he refused to plan for. 

Maybe he’d been waiting, searching, for a day when he’d find a love, a love who loved him so, as the song said. His time with Caera was finite. She’d said she would take him to Galway, then return to Glenncailty. 

He couldn’t imagine her leaving. He knew almost nothing about her and the shadows behind her eyes, and yet there were times he felt as comfortable with her as if they’d known each other, been with each other, for years. He worried about the sadness she seemed to carry, was frustrated that she wasn’t pursuing a musical career and wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on sex addiction.

He had no idea what he’d do when she said goodbye.

The song ended and the pub broke into applause. Rather than applaud, Tim leaned down and kissed the top of Caera’s head, the ball of dread that now sat in his stomach making him queasy. 

The chatter level in the pub rose again. Over it, Tim could hear the young man with the soulful voice picking out what sounded like the first chords of “Take Me Home, Country Roads”.

Setting his drink on the bar, he made his way over to the musicians. He could feel Caera’s gaze on him as he left her.

Caera watched Tim speaking with the young man. After a few moments, the guitar was passed and Tim pressed his fingers to the strings, pointing at the placement of his fingers with his other hand. The boy nodded along. Tim handed the guitar back and the boy bent his head over the neck, watching his fingers as he played. Tim clapped him on the shoulder. 

From seemingly out of nowhere, another guitar appeared before Tim. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. He watched the boy for a second, then joined in. As the sound of the dual guitars rose, the pub quieted again. A cheer started up as everyone realized they were listening to an American singing John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads”.

Tim’s fingers flew along the strings, playing the steel guitar piece as he sang while the young man held down the melody.

“Everyone now,” Tim called out. A ball of emotion filled her as Tim led the pub in the chorus, singing about country roads and that aching need to go home.

“Once more,” Tim called out, and the singing swelled to a crescendo. 

As the chorus ended, Tim pressed his palm to the guitar strings, silencing his music, leaving the final musical bit to the young man. 

When the room started to applaud, Tim shook the young man’s hand. He went to hand the guitar back.

“Hey now, you’re an American?” someone in the crowd called out. 

“Yes, sir, I am.” Tim rested his hip on the table, the guitar settled on his upraised knee.

He was a natural performer, owning the room as if he’d been booked to play here, rather than just been handed a guitar.

“Will you play a little something for us?”

“I will. Any requests?”

“Some of that good country music.”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. He hung his head for a moment, then set his fingers to the strings, his right hand strummed quick and light as he played “If I Had a Hammer”. His voice was clear and strong, enunciating the words so the audience could understand, while still making it melodious. 

Heads nodded as he sang. His eyes scanned those who listened, his gaze inviting them into the hope, the power of the song. Hands clapped along with the down beats as he sang about the need to create change in the world.

He played, then repeated, the musical bridge, looking at her. Her heartbeat jumped in her chest. When he sang, there was nothing easygoing about him—he was intense and dark, as if the laughing, smiling man were just a mask for a much older soul. “Caera, will you sing this verse?”

She sucked in a breath when he said her name, then nodded. 

He repeated the bridge a third time, nodding to let her know when to come in.

Caera took a lower octave than she normally started at and sang the next verse. Then Tim joined her, humming a background melody, their voices blending perfectly. When she reached the chorus, he too started singing. It was seamless, as if they’re rehearsed it one hundred times, and yet they’d never sung together before. They communicated with their eyes, small head motions, and most of all, with the music. She knew when he held a note, drawing it out longer than normal, that he was cuing her for a new verse or a tempo change. 

Tim dropped out, leaving her to sing the last of the verse alone. Caera felt the pub patrons’ attention on her. Claws of doubt caught her before she remembered that she was a stranger here. No one in this pub knew Caera Cassidy, no one would judge her for what they knew of her past or her present.

There was freedom in that, and Caera felt her heart blossom open. Rather than abandoning the song after the verse she’d been asked to sing, Caera turned it into a duet with Tim, her voice soaring to the rafters above.

When the song ended, the applause was thundering. Tim handed back the guitar, his eyes on hers. Before he could make his way back, a sea of friendly people surrounded her, complimenting her, asking her to sing another song. Rather than run, as she would have at Glenncailty, Caera accepted their words.

Fresh pints appeared at her elbow, for both her and Tim. When he made it through the crowd, she handed him his new drink.

“Thank you,” was all she said.