The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (5 page)

“Is Ireland really like this, all mysterious women and old haunted castles?”

“Mysterious women?”

As they spoke, Tim had been inching his way towards her, using her voice to guide him. Her breathy question came from directly in front of him, so close he thought he could feel the words, cold on the wet skin of his neck.

“Yes, I met a beautiful woman playing a harp, but when I turned around she was gone.”

“I had work to do.”

“You didn’t introduce yourself.”

The swish of wind and rain cocooned them, filling the space between his comment and her eventual reply.

“There was no reason for me to be playing. I didn’t know how to introduce myself after you’d caught me where I shouldn’t be.” Her sigh was loud enough to be heard over the rain. “With a hotel full of fine musicians, I had no place on that stage.”

Tim laughed. He couldn’t help it. He threw back his head as the mirth rumbled out of him. “You’re kidding, right? You’re genius on the harp. I’ve never heard anyone jam on a harp before today, and you’re saying you don’t think you’re good enough? That’s just nuts. Plus, you sing like an angel. You had the whole bar eating out of your hand. It was magical.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” Caera’s words cracked like a whip, catching Tim by surprise. 

“What? Why?” Had no one ever told her how musically gifted she was? It seemed impossible that she wouldn’t know how special she was. A person could have all the technical musical skill in the world, but if they didn’t have that certain presence, that real understanding of what music was, the technical skill kept them stuck in a studio. Caera belonged in front of an audience.

“Don’t say things like that,” she demanded, her tone both angry and almost…afraid.

Her anger sparked his. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth.”

“I don’t play for anyone but myself; it doesn’t matter if I’m good.”

“Of course it does. You should be playing and singing with us tomorrow night, not selling the tickets.”

“Stop.”

Her hand pressed against his chest, as if to push him away. Tim caught her wrist, holding her palm flat against him. When his fingers touched her bare skin, awareness sparked to life between them. 

He searched for and found her waist with his free hand and drew her forward. Now he could see her, just the outline of her body—dark against the gray shadows. Her sweater was damp and heavy under his hand, making him aware of how wet and cold he was. 

She drew in a breath, one of those soft girl sounds. Tim tightened his hand on her hip. Her frustrating denial of her music was forgotten under the pressing need to kiss her. 

“Was that your boyfriend you ate dinner with?” Tim’s voice was husky. The rain felt like shield, protecting them from the night, from other people, from reality.

“Rory? No, he works with me.”

“Good.” Tim drew her captured hand up to his face. Her fingers brushed his cheek as they curled into her palm, her hand fisting to avoid contact.

“Why?” 

In reply, Tim kissed her closed fingers. They were cold, wet against his lips. Under the warmth of his kiss, they opened, her hand cupping his cheek.

“May I kiss you, Caera Cassidy?” 

Tim had never asked a woman if he could kiss her. He’d always just gone in for the kiss or been the kissee, but in the dark, rain-filled Irish night, it felt right to ask this woman who seemed as wild and untamed as the rain itself.

“If I say no?” Her fingertips pressed into his cheek, her body swayed forward into his, their hips pressed together.

Tim cupped the back of her head with both hands and kissed her.

The pressure of his lips on hers was firm and cool. The air around her smelled of earth and rain, and though she was wet and cold, the kiss heated her in ways she both longed for and feared. He tilted his head to the side, his tongue touching the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth, letting him in as she brought her free arm around his waist. Caera tasted Guinness, steak and something uniquely him in the kiss. 

His hands stroked her neck, roamed down her back, pressing wet clothing into her skin. She shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said, breaking the kiss. “You need to get inside and warm.”

The concern in his voice touched her, though there was no reason his being protective should seem sweet when Rory’s irked her. “It’s just a bit of water, never hurt anyone. You’re the one who’ll need a hot shower.”

Caera reached up and touched his damp hair. He turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. Caera felt the touch of her lips all through her body. He was dangerous.

“May I kiss you again, Caera?” The words were puffs of warm air against her exposed wrist. She drew her hand away. This was crazy, unprofessional and dangerous. This man—Tim Wilcox—had stirred up too many feelings and dreams best left in the past.

“No.” 

“Then I’ll ask you again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow we both have to work.”

“Then I’ll ask you when we’re done working.”

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.”

Caera ducked around the far side of the tree before she could say or do something—like kiss him again—she’d regret. He was right. If he asked her again, she didn’t think she’d have the strength to say no.

“That’s a fine way to wash the floor.”

Caera jerked, looking up.

Sorcha pulled off her jacket, adding it to the mound of coats on the hook by the door of their little cottage. Caera was standing in front of the sink, her wet jumper held loosely in her hands as it dripped on the floor. 

Dipping her head, Caera lifted her sweater over the small kitchen sink, wringing the excess water out, then draping it over the radiator to dry. With that done, she grabbed a towel and mopped up the tile floor. Sorcha stepped over her and filled the kettle.

“How’re the guests?” Caera asked her friend and housemate. They shared a small cottage on Glenncailty’s grounds. The cottages had at one time belonged to the staff and workers who cared for the manor house. They’d fallen into disrepair, and all needed to be updated, but a few were habitable and Sorcha and Caera lived in one of the nicest. As Glenncailty turned a profit, Elizabeth was repairing and remodeling the cottages one by one into private guest accommodations. Until then, the staff lived in them for low rent, though the cottages lacked proper kitchens and the old stone walls let in the cold.

“Well enough. The musicians are loud, and drinking.” Sorcha looked at Caera as she poured water out of the boiled kettle into two mugs. “I thought you’d be there looking after them.”

Caera’s shoulder twitched with the need to go back and shepherd all the musicians to bed so they’d be well rested for the event. “They’re capable of taking care of themselves. And I’m sure it’s not the first time many of them have had a few too many before playing.”

Caera winced as she remembered a hotel floor littered with cans and bottles, the crushed and broken pieces a minefield between the door and where she huddled, half-naked in the corner. 

“And your leaving early has nothing to do with singing or the American who followed you out?”

Caera sighed and grabbed the jug of milk, pouring a healthy drought into each of the cups Sorcha held out. Putting away the milk, she took one mug from her friend, sipping the piping hot, creamy tea before answering.

“Did anyone else notice him come after me?” Caera didn’t want to answer Sorcha’s question, so she asked one of her own.

“No.” Sorcha sat at the small table they’d placed in the kitchen. She scooted her chair closer to the radiator, her nose wrinkling as the smell of Caera’s wet wool sweater competed with the homey scent of milky tea. “I was watching him watch you.”

“Why?”

“He asked me about you. Said he’d seen a woman playing the harp in Finn’s.”

“That’s how he knew my name.”

“Were you worried that if he knew your name he’d steal you away, as if you were some Fae princess?” Sorcha’s eyes sparkled.

Caera smiled, but it was brief. “He heard me play. I’d taken my harp on the stage. I wanted to pretend, if only for a moment.”

Sorcha’s face creased in concern. She patted the table and Caera sat, elbows braced as she stared into her teacup. 

“You shouldn’t hide from the gift you have.”

Sorcha’s words were a softer version of Tim’s, but unlike him, she knew why Caera both loved and hated her music.

“I’m a coward,” Caera said.

“No, you were hurt and needed time to heal.”

Caera shook herself. The patter of rain and the dense, warm air of the kitchen were bringing on melancholy. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway. The people playing tomorrow are all professionals, with recording contracts and years of experience. I’m not in their league.”

Sorcha looked like she wanted to say something, but she held her tongue, sipping her tea. 

Caera struggled not to think about the past, about all the things she’d lost due to her own foolishness. 

“So, is he a good kisser?”

“He is,” Caera said before she realized what she’d just admitted to.

Sorcha whooped in joy, and like that, the melancholy lifted from the kitchen. The room morphed into a cozy warm den of secrets and laughter, a place where women could talk about men’s kisses.

“Well, that’s nice, taking advantage of a distracted woman,” Caera griped.

“You were staring at the wall grinning when I came in. It wasn’t hard to figure out why.”

“I was?” Caera shook her head, a small smile curving her lips. “I was thinking about it.”

“Details.”

“He followed me out in the rain. Asked me if he could kiss me.”

“And you said yes.”

“Before I could, he kissed me. It was wonderful.”

“He’s handsome, charming in that silly American way.”

“And he has a cute accent.” Caera remembered the way he’d said her name, stumbling slightly over the Irish.

“He does.” Sorcha looked over her shoulder at the wall, but Caera knew it wasn’t the wall that interested her friend. It was Glenncailty. Even from a distance the building had a presence that could be felt, as if it were drawing you in.

Sorcha turned back. “He went to the west wing.”

“He told me.”

“I’ve told Elizabeth we shouldn’t use it. Should close up the whole floor, but she won’t hear it.”

“It’s because she’s never felt the cold. Never heard the voices.”

“Your Tim said he could see the outline of the door. Through the paint.”

Caera shook her head, glad the troubles of the bricked room were not hers to deal with. “He’s not my Tim.”

“He is.”

“I’ve barely spoken to him.”

“But you’ve kissed him.”

“A kiss can mean nothing.” Caera spoke with authority.

“Or it can mean something. Why don’t you enjoy him, while he’s here.”

“He’s not a bag of crisps to be enjoyed.”

“Sure he is.” Sorcha tossed her hair. “I plan to enjoy Paddy Fish.”

“Ah, Sorcha,” Caera sighed. “Will you wait until after the concert to break his heart? I can’t have him backing out because you’ve done him in.”

Sorcha nodded. “If you want.”

“Thank you.”

“
If
you give the American a chance.”

Caera looked at her friend in exasperation. Where Sorcha used sex as both weapon and shield, Caera’s past had made her wary.

“Sorcha…”

“Another kiss. See where it goes.”

Caera was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “He’s a musician.”

Sorcha stood and came around Caera’s side, hugging her. “That doesn’t mean he’s terrible.”

“I know that,” Caera said, voice small, “but I couldn’t trust him. I just…can’t.”

Sorcha said something more, but Caera was lost in her past, remembering the foolish girl she’d been. At seventeen, she’d been full of confidence and life. She’d aced her exams and would be attending Trinity College in the autumn. She landed a job serving chips and gravy to people she’d known all her life in the local pub. When she wasn’t serving, she was singing or playing. She’d been hired as much for that as for her serving. 

She planned to study classical music and make her name as a traditional musician busking on Grafton Street between classes. 

And then he’d walked into the pub. 

Older, beautiful, with a lush Spanish accent and long hair that made the old men sitting at the bar frown, he was exotic as parrot in her little town in the west. He heard her play and sing, told her she was beautiful and talented. They were things she’d always heard from family and friends, but now a stranger was saying it. A beautiful stranger. A
musician.

She’d run away with him, expecting to play beautiful traditional music from their homelands in smoky bars and jewel-small theaters. When they landed in Central Europe, she’d met his band, a rock group that cared nothing for traditional music. She’d confronted the man she thought she loved, bewildered, and he’d laughed and kissed her so hard her lips bruised against her teeth. 

It had taken weeks for her to figure out that everything had been a lie and six months to spiral into the darkness of life as a groupie, until she found herself standing on the balcony of hotel, prepared to jump. Only her fear of the mortal sin had brought her down. She’d left, walked away with nothing. It had taken her another six months to work her way back across Europe, tending bar and serving to make money. When she reached England, she stopped, too ashamed the cross the Irish Sea. There she found a job at a hotel and quickly worked her way out of the bar into the catering and events office. When she finally returned to Ireland, she held her head high to hide her shame and declared that she now had a career in hospitality. She’d returned home only once, leaving when she saw the sadness and disappointment on her parents’ faces. Saw how her disappearance had aged her mother.

“Hey there, miss. There’s nothing good in dwelling on the past.”

Caera shook herself. Sorcha was rubbing her back. 

“There’s plenty of good. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“You know that not every man would treat you that way. Not every man is so cruel.”

Caera nodded, wondering if Sorcha would be so anxious to set her up if she knew all the details. Caera had told Sorcha much of her past as they lived and worked together to open Glenncailty, but there were things she was too ashamed to admit, even to her closest friend.