The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (14 page)

He tapped his cup to hers. 

“Play something lively! I need to dance.” The demand came from somewhere in the back. There was a pause while instruments were redistributed and then a tin whistle started “The Beggerman Jig”.

Taking Tim’s drink from his hand, Caera set them down and drew Tim into the little bit of free floor space. 

Feeling freer than she had in a long time, Caera linked arms with Tim and led him in a jig, laughing and smiling with a condition-less joy she’d forgotten existed. 

“Shut up, woman. She’ll hear you.”

That just made Caera giggle harder. It was past midnight. They’d stayed in the pub, dancing and drinking, until the last orders went in to the bar. It was cold out, the clear skies glittering harshly overhead as they quick-stepped it back to the bridewell. 

The front door of the bridewell had been locked, but after a panicky moment they’d used their room key, which luckily also opened the ancient lock on the front door.

The parlor was dark, only an electric sacred heart picture casting a red glow for them to navigate by.

The stairs creaked and groaned as they climbed them, Caera in front. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light or had so much fun. Actually, she could, and it was back when she had that job in the pub, and playing and singing was something she found joy in, before her desire to sing professionally had led her to destroy her future and her family’s heart.

“Move, woman, move.”

Tim smacked her ass, and Caera paused on the step to wiggle her butt at him.

“The faster you get up these steps, the faster we’ll be having sex.”

Caera started up again. “Having sex, not making love?”

“I’m going to fuck you until your eyes cross, then I’ll make sweet, sweet love to you.”

Caera broke into peals of laughter even as her blood heated. Tim’s straightforward approach to sex was new to her, as freeing as the music in the pub had been.  

Once in the hall, she raced for their room, Tim right behind her.

Together, they fumbled to open the door, spilling into the room. The windows let in light from the town and stars above.

Their jackets and gloves hit the floor, shoes were kicked off and fingers plucked at shirts and pants.

Wanting to show herself, and Tim, that she wasn’t afraid, Caera dropped to her knees. Undoing his jeans, she jerked them down, freeing his cock. He wiggled his legs, kicking off his pants as he pulled his shirt off.

“Caera, you don’t have to do this, come up here and let me kiss you.”

“I want to. I do.” She laid her hands on his taut belly, exploring his skin, his muscles, as her fingers worked towards the apex of his groin. 

“Okay, but if you—”

“I’m glad you’re back!”

Caera froze, her right hand around the root of Tim’s cock, her open mouth poised over the tip.

“Holy fucking shit,” Tim whispered, his head whipping towards the door.

Judging by the sound of her voice, Mrs. Reilly was just outside.

“I put towels in the bathroom for you. Breakfast is at 8 A.M. You’ll have something before you go on your way.”

Caera slapped her hands over her mouth to hold back the horrified laughter. Tim was staring, open-mouthed, at the door. Quiet as she could, she stood.

“You wouldn’t be one of those vegetarians, would you, boy? I’ve nothing for that. A good sausage is the thing for the morning.”

Tim backed up and collapsed onto the bed, which groaned and squeaked. 

Caera cleared her throat. “No, Mrs. Reilly, he’s not a vegetarian. Thank you for the towels.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Caera heard her footsteps as she left. When she was sure Mrs. Reilly had gone, Caera tiptoed to the bed and eased down beside Tim.

“I just want to clarify something—did she do that on purpose?” Tim’s voice was flat.

“Wait for us to come home, then make it clear she was spying on us so we wouldn’t have sex because we’re not married?”

“Exactly.”

“Probably.”

“Fuck.”

Caera urged Tim off the bed, then pulled back the covers so they could get beneath them.

“No sex tonight, I’m afraid.”

They climbed in together. Tim pulled her close, his body radiating heat.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll fuck like rabbits,” he promised

She giggled, her disappointment turning into pleasure of a different sort as they drifted to sleep wrapped around each other.  

Chapter Ten

Tipperary

They stopped for petrol, bottles of water and sweets in Clogheen. Cahir—and Mrs. Reilly—were miles behind them on R668. They would drive over half the south of Ireland before reaching their stop for the night, Miltown Malbay. 

Tim cracked open a bottle of water and chugged it as they left the petrol station, headed south out of Clogheen. 

“Where are we headed today?” Tim asked when he lowered the bottle.

“We’re going to the Vee, then on to Miltown Malbay.”

He flipped open his guidebook and checked the map. “What’s the Vee?”

“The Vee is just that, a V-shaped break in the mountains, with a view that stretches across four counties. It’s sometimes called the Vee Valley.”

“Ah, so this is definitely something I would never have seen on my own.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then thank you, again.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She meant it. 

“And Miltown Malbay, I feel like I’ve heard of that before.”

“It’s famous for its music.”

This morning over breakfast while Tim argued, unsuccessfully, with Mrs. Reilly over what he had to eat, Caera had gone over a map. They’d set out from Glenncailty with only Caera’s determination to show him Ireland as it was meant to be seen. Now they needed a firm plan.

She wouldn’t take him all the way to Galway; it was too close to home for her liking. Tomorrow after lunch, she’d drop him in Limerick and he could take a bus to Galway while she returned to Glenncailty.

That meant they only had one more night together.

“So what county are we in now?”

“Tipp.”

“Tipp?”

“Ah, sorry, Tipperary.”

Tim grinned, opened his mouth—

“Don’t!” Caera yelped, but it was too late.

“It’s a long way to Tipperary.” he said, then cleared his throat and started singing the war song. 

“Of course you know all the words.” Caera sighed, then joined in.

They sang as the car climbed the Knockmealdown Mountains. When the song ended, they did it again, this time no words, just whistling. Caera’s need to smile made it hard to whistle. Tim was bobbing his head side to side, tapping his fingers on his knees, looking for all the world like a fool who didn’t care that the world thought him a fool. 

Caera was so engrossed in their silliness she almost missed what they’d come to see. She caught a glimpse of the flatland and held up her hand.

“Look.”

They came around a curve and there was the Vee, as clean as if a giant or God Himself had cut a wedge from the mountains. Caera slowed so they could take in the view.

“It’s beautiful.”

The land
was
beautiful. Those who saw this view never questioned why so many who left Ireland to find their way across the seas longed to return home. 

Like a quilt, the fields of land were stitched together in uneven patches, each shade of green slightly different. Ribbons of streams, tree lines and roads melded the patchwork together. 

At a wide shoulder, Caera pulled over, parking behind another car that had stopped to take in the view. Tim grabbed his camera, and they jumped out.

“What am I looking at?”

“Tipperary, Waterford, Cork and Limerick.” Caera pointed in the direction of each county as she said it.

The people at the car in front of them appeared from a path just up the slope. Tim got them to take a picture, then asked them where they’d been. While he talked, Caera looked out over the counties. The air here was different, somewhere between the smell of the west and her home and the east where she lived now.

“Caera.”

“Yes?”

“You okay?” Tim wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

She nodded.

“Do we have time to stop here for a while? There’s something I want to do.”

“All right.”

Tim grabbed his borrowed guitar and fiddle from the car. He passed her the fiddle case. “Will you carry this?”

“Of course. Where are we going?”

“Up there.” He pointed to where the other people had come from and the pale line of the path that cut across the ground.

Caera nodded, then grabbed her purse out of the car and locked the doors behind them. 

Tim led them up the path, which was easy hill walking. They passed a few paint-marked sheep, which Tim took pictures of. The further they walked, the more the sound of cars on the road receded. Soon it was just them, crisp air, and a view that went for miles. 

At the crest of a small rise, Tim stopped. His gaze was intense as he handed her the guitar and motioned for his fiddle. Moving quickly, he took out the instrument, flexed his fingers around the frog and pad, then set the hair to the strings.

Music spilled out, rolling down across the hillside of the Vee, rising up on gusts of wind to the blue sky above. The tune was low and slow, its simplicity familiar but unknown. The notes grew quick and sharp, turning into a jig so lively that the very air seemed to dance.

Caera sank to her knees, laying the guitar carefully to the side. The easygoing man who’d been her companion these past days was gone. In his place was the intense man she saw only through his music. A man who, when he saw something breathtaking, wanted to express it with his instrument. This song was his homage to the beauty before him. She understood his need, his expression. She felt the reverence in each note, even those that jumped with life and gaiety.

She fell in love with him. 

She’d been fighting it, trying her best to take her pleasure where she could and not involve the depths of her heart. Kneeling there on the hillside as his music flowed around her, Caera fell helplessly, and irrevocably, in love. 

“Ah, no, please,” she whispered. She couldn’t,
shouldn’t
love him. She’d lost everything once, for the sake of foolishness and something she’d called love.

The sliding, aching feeling within her now was a thousand times as strong as what she’d felt all those years ago when she’d abandoned everything and run off. 

She’d loved once as a foolish girl, and it had broken her.

She loved now, as a woman grown and wary, and she feared it would be the end of her. 

He tossed his hair off his forehead, opening his eyes. Their gazes met.

Oh yes, she loved him.

Tim’s song slowed, quieted until his bow moved lazily, coaxing only a thin thread of sound from his fiddle.

“Will you sing for me, Caera Cassidy?” His voice was deep and rich. Her name on his lips made her shiver with longing.

Caera closed her eyes, swallowed, then nodded. Feeling old and fragile, she stood.

Tim flipped his bow in his hand and plucked the strings with two fingers. She knew the tune. It was “The Last Rose of Summer”, a love poem written long ago by Thomas Moore.

She took a breath, facing out towards Ireland, and started to sing.

Tim had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. She stood slim and tall atop the mountain, the land spread at her feet. Her hair fluttered across her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her voice was pure and clear, a lovely soprano, hitting the high and low notes of the ballad with equal intensity.

Tim gave up plucking and flipped his bow in his hand, setting the hair to the strings. She turned to face him, her eyes the deepest blue.

He fell in love.

He’d loved before, but was never
in
love. He’d loved because he’d been with women who were kind, funny and smart, but they never reached deep into his soul. 

Caera was his soul, a piece of him he didn’t know he’d been missing until he found her.

She was a wounded princess, a fallen angel. Every line from every love song he knew swirled through his head. When she stopped singing he stopped playing, his bow hand falling numbly to his side.

She took a hesitant step forward, her eyes seeming to swirl with the same intensity he felt.

He matched her, step for step, until they met, their bodies clinging desperately, their lips melded together.

They stood there at the crest of the land, a chill wind swirling around them, until Caera pulled away.

Tim’s heart clenched as she did, sure that she would lead them back to the car and the bitter reality that awaited them there. Instead, she went to her purse and drew out a tin whistle he hadn’t known she carried.

A smile sprang to his lips. Tim tipped his bow to her and bowed, indicating he’d follow her lead. She raised a brow—a beautiful woman offering a challenge.

Only a fool said no.

Caera played the first notes of “The Clare Jig”
.
Tim slid his fiddle into the case, threw the strap for the guitar over his head and tapped out the drumbeat on the belly until he felt her rhythm, her take on the well-known song, and could join her. With a flourish he joined in, the high, thin notes of the whistle melding perfectly with the robust vibrations of the guitar.

They played together in perfect harmony as the sun sank into the west.

They didn’t speak.

Caera turned the car off the main road, her gaze scanning the scenery as if she looked for something.

Tim clenched his knees, trying and failing to appear at ease.

He loved her. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

They’d played together for over an hour on the hilltop, until a group of people had ambled up the path. Together, they’d played a song for the newcomers, a family from Ulster who applauded uproariously when they finished.

By unspoken mutual consent, they’d gone back to the car after their song was done. No words were exchanged as they climbed in and drove out of the Vee. Now Caera had turned off onto a one-lane road riddled with potholes and Tim was too tense to even ask what they were doing.