The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (22 page)

“Are you from around here?” Tim asked. Until he caught the bartender’s attention and ordered some food of his own, talking to his interesting-looking neighbor seemed like as good an idea as any.

“I am.”

This was going well. “Do you work at the hotel?”

“No.”

“Are you a…” Tim looked at the oil-stains on his pants, “…mechanic?”

“If needed.”

This guy wasn’t giving anything up. He could work for the CIA, MI-5 or whatever the equivalent Irish agency was.

“So you do it all, then? That’s a good skill. Are you—”

The man sighed, put his fork down and turned to face Tim.

“Hey, I’m just being friendly,” Tim said, raising one hand. It was not a good idea to piss off someone with muscles like that, who probably knew where to locate a tire iron.

“You’re an American, yes?”

“Guilty.”

“A curious lot, all of you.”

“Guilty again.”

The man picked up the cap he’d hung over his knee, rubbed his head with it, then dropped it back onto his lap. “I’m Donnovan, Séan Donnovan. I’ve a farm a few miles up the road.”

“Séan, nice to meet you. I’m Tim.”

“Welcome to Ireland.”

“Thank you, though I can technically say this is my second time here.” 

“A smart man you are, if you’ve come back.”

“I fell in love.”

“With an Irish girl? Well, the Lord love and help you, then.”

“You know, everyone keeps saying that.”

“With reason.” Séan turned back to his food, took a bite, then said. “You’ll take her away from this place.”

“Uh, well, no. I mean, we haven’t—”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling. Take her away. There’s nothing here but sadness.”

Séan Donnovan finished his food, put a few euros on the bar and left.

“I brought you a sandwich.”

“Bless you, you clever man.” Caera dropped down onto the decorative bench and took a bite. They were meeting in the garden, taking advantage of the break in the storm. Around them, everything seemed shiny and bright, scrubbed clean by the rain. The day had gone pear-shaped, and this was the first thing she’d had to eat besides a few sweets she’d found in her desk. 

“Have you eaten anything today?”

She took another bite and shook her head. 

“I’ll go find you something else.” Tim rose from his spot beside her, but she waved him down. 

“This is perfect. They’re having food at the event, so I’ll have another bite later.”

They sat in silence while she chewed. 

“Is this what it’s like to have a boyfriend?” she teased, when she could think past her hunger. “You’ll be taking care of me and feeding me?”

“Yes. You’re mine now, and I’m going to take care of you.”

Warmth spread through her belly at his words. “I think I’ll like that.”

“Good.”

She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth. Tim was watching her intently, his eyes sparkling with excitement. She raised a brow as she swallowed. 

“There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you.”

“Something good?”

“Something very, very good.”

“I cannot wait.”

Tim took her hand, laced their fingers together. “I sent my agent the recording of us singing together in Miltown Malbay. He loved it—he wants you to send him a demo tape.”

Caera jerked her hand from his. What was he talking about?

“I’ve already got a deal with a label to do a record of Civil War ballads, and my agent loves the idea of changing that to American and Irish war ballads with both of us on it, singing and playing together.”

“What?”

“And he wants to sign you, separate from doing the record with me.” Tim was grinning ear to ear. “I told you, you have a gift, a real gift.”

“How…dare you.” Caera shot to her feet, held her hand out to ward him off when he came toward her. “You had no right.”

“What are you talking about? Caera, we’re going to record an album together. We’re going to sing together.”

“I will never—” she slashed her hand through the air, “—sing professionally. That’s my choice, and you had no right to send a recording of us to anyone, to assume I’d want to do that. How dare you?”

“Hold on, hold on. You love to sing, and not just sing, but perform. You told me so in Miltown Malbay. You thanked me for getting you up on the stage.”

“That was a fantasy. That’s not reality, not my life.”

“If I thought you really didn’t want a music career, I wouldn’t have done it, but I know you do. You can deny it all you want, but when you perform, you come alive. Are you really going to live the rest of your life watching other people do what you love and sneaking onstage when you think no one is looking?”

His anger fueled her own, though it was as much fear as anything else.

“I told you, I
cannot
. If you won’t respect that, then I’d suggest you stay in the hotel tonight.”

Tim rocked back on his heels, as if her words were a physical blow.

He looked away, and she could see the muscle in his jaw working. “I wish I knew what you were hiding from, why you were punishing yourself like this.”

Caera couldn’t answer him, not now.

As she’d feared, her past had destroyed their love, before it even had a chance to grow.

Fighting back tears, Caera turned and walked away. 

Chapter Fifteen

Ghosts of the Past

It was a night for sadness. 

The whipping wind had returned. Trees bent and moaned, plants lay close to the soil and the lights in the castle flickered as power lines shook.

Caera crossed her arms over her belly and tipped her head back, letting the wind slice through her clothes, tangling her hair. She didn’t feel the cold, she didn’t feel anything. It was well past midnight, her work finally over. She’d returned to the cottage to find Tim’s suitcase and fiddle gone. Sorcha, who’d stayed away knowing Tim was returning, was back. When Caera walked in, she’d opened her arms, pity on her face.

Caera hadn’t been able to face her.

She’d changed from her black work suit into a warm pair of pants, tugged on a wooly jumper and headed out into the oncoming storm. The paths of the formal gardens had called to her. She’d gone first to the bench where she and Tim had sat only hours before. 

She wandered on, taking the path that led her as far from the lights of the castle as possible. Soon she could see the back wall, the steeple of the church and the roof of the dowager house beyond. 

A sudden gust of wind whipped her hair in front of her eyes. She drew her fingers across her face, tucking her hair behind her ear.

A pale figure stood on the path.

Caera gasped, and the figure turned to her. It was a young woman, a scarf draped over her head, her long dress motionless in the steady breeze. She was silver and white, as if time and death had leached the color from her.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Caera whispered, crossing herself. 

She’d come to accept that the castle was haunted, that there were spirits left within the walls, but she’d never seen a ghost like this.

The girl closed her eyes, and a shimmering tear slid down her right cheek. She bowed her head.

The wind picked up, howling across the garden like a banshee. The ghost dissipated in the wind, her figure melting away in smoky ribbons.

Caera staggered back, heart racing. Her knees hit something, and she turned to see a great ghostly dog standing across the path. He was as tall as Caera’s hips, his fur shaggy and coarse. The ghost dog was silvery gray, but dense and opaque where the woman had been translucent and shimmery. 

The dog opened its mouth, a pink tongue rolling out.

Not a ghost.

“Ah Jaysus,” Caera told the dog. She swallowed hard, trying to calm her heart. Adrenaline raced through her veins, and her skin was covered in gooseflesh. “You scared me half to death, dog.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t the ghost?”

For the third time in as many minutes, Caera’s heart leapt into her throat. A figure detached from the shadowed trunk of a tree. 

Seamus O’Muircheartaigh stepped onto the path, a second wolfhound at his side. His chiseled features were hollowed by shadows. The wind tossed his salt and pepper hair. The dog near her ambled over to him, butting Seamus’s leg with his head. 

“Mr. O’Muircheartaigh,” Caera said with a slight nod. “Your dog startled me.”

“True enough, but it’s the ghost that has you scared.”

“You saw it too?”

Seamus turned his head towards the castle at the front of the garden. “I’ve seen them all.”

“I, I’m sorry.” Caera didn’t know what else to say.

“Why would you be sorry? They’re my ghosts, aren’t they?”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“It’s not often she appears.” Seamus jerked his chin toward the spot behind Caera where the ghost had been. 

“Who is she…was she?”

“I couldn’t tell you a name, but I know why she remains.” The master of Glenncailty’s attention shifted back to her. “Will I tell you her story?”

Caera wanted to say no, but she didn’t. She nodded. With a wave of his hand, Seamus invited Caera to walk with him.

“She’s one of the maids who served the first lord of Glenncailty.”

“Ah, poor thing.” It was a sad tale, and sadder still if it was true, that young women had come to serve in the castle only to be tortured and raped. She hadn’t known that one of them haunted the garden. She’d heard that a young woman dragging chains could be found on the third floor. That ghost was one of the reasons Sorcha was reluctant to put anyone in the honeymoon suite, which was on that floor.

“In her time serving the Englishman, she suffered, as did they all. Her suffering was all the worse because there was a young man she’d planned to marry. Though she saw her beloved every fortnight, she did not tell him what was being done to her and the others. She kept her shame close to her heart, for fear of what they’d say and for fear of what the lord would do if she told.”

Caera looked at Seamus. She did not like where this story was going.

“Soon the Englishman grew tired of her. He sent her to work in the fields. When her young man found out, he came to her and said that he wouldn’t have her working in the fields, that it was time they married. The young man had worked hard, saved his money and could support both herself and her aged mother and siblings, who were the reason she’d gone to work in the first place.

“Her young man was ready to marry her and start their life together, but the girl refused. She wasn’t worthy of her brave young man, because of what the Englishman had done to her, or so she believed.”

“You know much of her story—did she tell you all this herself?” Caera bit out the words. 

Seamus stopped and faced her. “It doesn’t matter how I know.”

“It does. Who told you—” Caera swallowed down the rest of the question. “My life, my past, are not to be made light of in a ghost story.”

“You’re quick to assume I’m speaking of you.”

“If you’re trying to convince me that the past doesn’t matter by telling me a tale, you’d best stop.”

“If this story means something to you, then maybe she’s the reason you’re here.”

“What?”

“Sometimes the ghosts are looking for someone, someone like who they were in life. Maybe she called you here.”

Caera shook her head, sure he was manipulating her. “Even if this story is true, then the fact that that girl walks this place as a ghost should be evidence enough that the past can ruin a life.”

“You assume she’s a ghost because of what was done to her.”

Caera’s hands curled and uncurled in fists. She wanted to lash out at Seamus, who knew too much about her life for her liking. She’d exchanged no more than pleasantries with him in all the time she’d worked here and yet now, in the middle of a stormy night, he presumed to lecture her about her life, all in the guise of a ghost story. 

“And why does she haunt the garden?” Caera asked, her tone cold.

“She sent her young man away. She squandered their love, and that was a true, sad crime. He didn’t know why she’d sent him away and so, heartbroken, the young man left his farm and went to Dublin. He boarded a ship there, planning to make his fortune on the sea, hoping that if he were rich she’d love him again.

“His ship sank not even a full day out of harbor. On his way to Heaven, the young man’s soul appeared to the girl. He cried out that his one regret was that he hadn’t been worthy of her love. When she saw him there and knew he was dead, she screamed in pain. She tried to tell him that she loved him and always would, but it was too late—he’d gone on.

“Realizing what she’d done, what she’d wasted, the young woman made herself a noose and hanged herself in the chapel, hoping God would forgive her sin.”

Caera turned her back on Seamus and walked away. She wouldn’t listen to any more of this. 

She wasn’t sure who had told him about her past, but that was a problem for later. Her footsteps crunched over the gravel while the leaves rustled and the trees moaned in the ceaseless wind. 

Whatever Seamus thought he knew about her, her story was nothing like the tale he’d told. She couldn’t blame her past on some cruel lord. Her choices were her own and the consequences hers too. Whatever she and Tim might have had was done, over before the loss of it could hurt either of them too deeply.

Even as she thought it, Caera knew it was a lie. The thought of never seeing Tim again, never touching him or being touched, was enough to make her stomach roll with dread.

Still, he wanted something from her that she couldn’t give, wanted her to be someone she dared not be. He’d had that right of it when he said that she was happiest when she was playing or singing, but that didn’t mean she could be a professional musician. She—

The ghost appeared before her, so close that Caera’s vision with filled with pale silver and gray smoke. She gasped, stumbled back, but the ghost followed her.

The woman raised her head, showing Caera a face that was no longer human. Where eyes should have been, there were two dark holes, large and round as golf balls. Black liquid poured from those empty sockets, flowing thick as blood down the hollowed, wasted cheeks. The mouth was open in a silent scream, and open far wider than any living mouth would ever be, the jaw nearly resting on the chest.