The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 (7 page)

A line of torches lit the path between the stable and the hotel, their flames casting pools of orange light every five feet. As a figure hurried down the path, Caera put her hand on the door, ready to hustle the latecomer into a seat. When they were closer, Caera recognized Sorcha. She stepped away from the door so their voices wouldn’t be heard.

“Is it started?” Sorcha rubbed her upper arms. A breeze whipped the cold air around them, cutting through their clothes. 

“Just. The RTE crew moved the camera at the last minute and the back rows can’t see all the stage.”

“Feck.”

“Exactly. What about you? How’re things in the castle?”

Socha frowned. “We had a few people arrive looking for a room. We’re full except for two rooms.”

“Full? You didn’t put people in the west wing second floor.”

“I did.” Sorcha looked worried. “I can only hope that nothing happens, or that everyone goes from here to the pub and is too drunk to notice.”

Caera winced. 

“I know,” Socha said, seeing her face. “But Elizabeth insisted. I would have turned them away before putting them there.”

“And how was the reception?”

They’d hosted a reception prior to the event for all guests, musicians and RTE crew. Caera hadn’t had time to run over and check on it because of the relocated camera.

“It was grand. I only wish we’d been able to have it in the ballroom instead of the restaurant, but it’s nowhere near done.”

“I’m sure it was beautiful.” Caera knew Sorcha wouldn’t have let anyone into the room if it weren’t perfect. Though receptions and events were outside Sorcha’s list of job duties, she was brilliant at them.

“It was, but it was to Elizabeth’s credit, not mine. If she doesn’t slow down or hire the additional staff we need, she’s going to do herself harm.”

Caera nodded. Glenncailty lacked catering and banquet sales reps, bell captains and dedicated event crews. She’d worked in hotel catering and events departments all across Europe and could do any job. That didn’t mean she wanted to. Caera was happy with Finn’s Stable and the few music-related events they hosted in the main hotel. She didn’t want to be in charge of meetings, weddings and catered ladies’ luncheons, but as the hotel’s business grew, she’d have to oversee those things too unless Elizabeth brought in other staff.

“Can we go in?” Sorcha asked, rubbing her arms.

Shaking herself from her brown study, Caera eased the door open, pushing aside the black fabric she’d hung inside the doorway to protect the back row from gusts of cold and to keep out the torchlight.

The show had progressed, and there were now four musicians on stage. As Caera eased the door shut behind them, she heard the first strains of a familiar tune, one that every good Irishman knew.

By the time the singer reached the chorus, the entire room was singing “The Fields of Athenry” with much better results than the crowds at rugby and Gaelic football matches ever managed. “The Fields of Athenry” was Ireland’s rally song, a sad tale that reminded them of tragedies in the past but not forgotten, as a husband was taken from his wife and children for stealing bread and sent to Australia, leaving the wife to raise children in famine and sorrow. 

Leaning back against the wall, Caera gave herself over to the music. She had the schedule memorized, so she knew she had a few minutes to enjoy herself. “The Fields of Athenry” ended and the group immediately starting up another song. Someone on the stage was playing an Irish harp. With her eyes closed, Caera could pretend it was her rosewood harp, the strings stiff and hard under her fingers while the stage lights heated her skin. The crowd’s pleasure was palpable. The purely musical number melted away. A new song, sans harp but with vocals was up next.

The deep voice called to her.

Caera breathed deep, her eyes opening. Tim was at the mic, his fiddle held loosely at his shoulder, a guitar, second fiddle and upright bass accompanying him as he sang.

Caught in his spell, Caera stood away from the wall. Like moth to flame, she walked forward, desperate to feel the music. She wanted to be swept away in it, let the music fill her until it pushed out the darkness inside her. She knew Tim couldn’t see her because of the lights, but she could see him.

He wore a black T-shirt under a battered denim jacket. His hair fell across his forehead as he tipped his jaw into the fiddle, raising the bow to finish the song.

The applause broke Caera from her spell. She jolted back into herself, embarrassed to find she was standing at the rear of the camera platform. Caera retreated, almost falling in her haste and embarrassment. Someone grabbed her. Sorcha’s hands were on her arms, drawing her back against the wall.

“You don’t have to stay for this,” Sorcha whispered.

“I’m fine,” Caera breathed. She both loved and hated this.

The RTE host stepped up to the mic again. “Music’s influence can be felt and traced around the globe. Stories of love, loss and betrayal, expressed in song, travel on birds’ wings from country to country. We’re going to ask two of our artists to portray that, telling stories of love betrayed.”

Again, Tim stepped up to the mic, Paddy’s guitar across his shoulder. The lighting changed, a spotlight on him alone. “Rose Connelly” was a sad tale of a man who killed his beloved and threw her body in the water. It was a terrible story, but he made it sound like a love song. 

“Is he killing her?” Sorcha’s voice was a curious whisper. “Is it strange that I find this song beautiful?”

“Yes, he’s killing her, and no, it’s not strange to find it beautiful.” Caera breathed deep as Tim’s eyes scanned the unseen audience, finally stopping on her. He couldn’t see her, she knew he couldn’t. But he was looking at her, staring into her as his smoky voice filled the space between the stone walls. 

“Caera…” There was a note of warning to Sorcha’s voice. 

“I want things I’ve already lost,” Caera whispered.

Sorcha’s arms were around her, but Caera barely noticed. Her focus was on Tim. Even as he stepped back and the Australian musician took his place, singing Nick Cave’s “Where the Wild Roses Grow
”
, another tale of a woman murdered by her love, Caera’s attention was on Tim. 

As Tim disappeared into the shadows at the back of the stage, Caera shook herself. It was almost time for the intermission—she had work to do.

Ducking through the now-empty green room, Caera checked the refreshments carts they’d roll out during intermission. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. She turned. Tim was there in the door, his fiddle held loosely in his hand. The light from the green room cast a halo around him, shadowing his face.

Caera waited.

He took two steps, free hand cupping her cheek. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, “I was singing for you.”

“I know.”

“Tonight?”

Caera breathed deep. “Yes.”

Chapter Five

The Deep

Caera stepped out of the pub, the raucous noise and singing fading as quick steps carried her into the dark gardens. Exhaustion tugged at her. It had been a long day, if a successful one. While some guests had departed after the concert, many had adjourned to the pub, packing it to the limit. Elizabeth hadn’t expected that many, and all on-site staff had been called in to assist. Caera served food, freeing up pub staff to open the second bar. Hustling with a tray of plates was a familiar feeling for Caera, though something she hadn’t done in years. 

Her exhaustion warred with her excitement over the event’s success.

She felt light with joy over a job well done, though an aching sense of loss and gnawing jealousy threatened to consume her. At this point both feelings were muted by her tiredness.

As she followed a curve in the path, a dark shape stepped in front of her. Her initial spike of fear vanished, replaced by desire, as she recognized Tim. His jean jacket was gone, in its place a leather jacket and a thick scarf. He looked foreign and sexy in the moonlight.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

“It’s late.” Caera knew it was a mistake to touch him tonight, when her past and all its darkness was so close to the surface, her internal barriers weakened by exhaustion. 

“It is.” His voice was warm in the cold night air. 

“You were brilliant.”

“Thank you. There was magic in that room.”

“There was.”

“I have a question for you.” His voice had dropped as he closed the space between them. 

Caera knew what his question was. “You’re full of questions.”

“Yet I don’t have any answers about you.”

There was a burst of noise as the pub doors opened. They were too close to the main hotel and all the people within it. Caera had an idea, a moment of madness.

“Follow me.” Caera tried to skirt past Tim, but he caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. 

“Lead on,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

With her warm hand held in his cold one, she led him deeper into the garden. As they passed between decorative bushes, the rear wall of the garden came into view. Beyond the wall sat the dowager house, where Glenncailty’s master lived, and next to it the old stone church. At a fork in the path, she turned left. Light in the main building shone through windows, patches of yellow in the darkness. Behind the west wing, inside the walled garden, were the mews, which were in the process of being converted into a pool and spa space.

The mews were dark, but Caera knew the way. She led Tim to one of the glass doors that had taken the place of the stable doors. Half the first floor had been retrofitted for a pool, while on the second floor the former stablehands’ quarters were being turned into spa treatment spaces.

“Where are we?” Tim’s voice echoed.

“The pool. It’s not open yet, no one comes here.” Caera led them in and Tim closed the door behind them, the click of the handle loud in the quiet space. 

They were standing on the rough concrete pool deck. Glass windows and doors along each wall let in the moon and star light. The pool was a long rectangle of black water. The surface reflected the light coming in through the glass, making it seem as if there was a bit of the night sky trapped here.

Tim’s hand brushed her cheek, lifting her hair to stroke the back of her neck. Untangling her fingers from his, Caera reached for his scarf, unwinding it. In response he unfastened her jacket, pushing it from her shoulders. 

She shivered as the cold air touched her bare arms. His jacket hit the floor. She stepped out of her shoes as his fingers worked the fastening of her pants, which pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them and her shoes. Together they pushed his shirt over his head, his muscled chest hard and warm under her questioning fingers. She shivered, but the building was heated, the air warm enough against their bare skin.

Caera looked over her shoulder.

Under the reflected night sky, the water was dark, the underwater pool lights off. There was no way to tell how deep it was. It could be ten feet, it could be deep as the sea. Deep enough to drown her. But she’d been drowning for a long time. 

The same madness that had led her to bring him here rose up in Caera. Breath coming in shallow puffs, she pressed her body to his, front to front. His skin was warm, his body supple with muscle that made her wish there was more light. 

Wrapping her arms around his waist, she took a step back, then another. He came with her, his hands exploring her back under her shirt, her hair, as he whispered quietly of her beauty. She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt like she was all alone and drowning. She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Her heel went off the edge, leaving her poised at the lip of the pool, her back to the water.

His eyes were a glitter of light in the dark. “Caera?”

“Don’t worry, we won’t drown.”

Caera threw herself backwards. She hit the cold water, sinking into the darkness. She was alone, Tim’s body having slipped from her grasp. She hadn’t been strong enough to hold him. To bring him with her.

She didn’t need to hold him, because he followed her in. 

The water rippled and hands closed around her, drawing her upright. Tim hugged her to him. Together, they kicked to the surface. Caera smiled as they emerged. 

“Woman, you’re crazy,” Tim’s voice was gruff. “The water is cold.”

“I’ll warm you up.”

She took his face in her hands, kissing him hard and deep. They sank below the surface once more. Water flowed around her lips, bubbles streaming from their mouths. 

Caera stroked the smooth skin at his waist. He still wore his jeans. Her lungs tight with the need to surface, she struggled to undo the button and zip. When they were open, she pushed them down his hips, his boxers sliding over his wet flesh. He kicked, drawing them both up. She touched his waist again, sliding her hand down his hip to discover only warm, wet flesh.

He pulled her soaking shirt up and off, tossing it to the side where it plopped wetly onto the pool deck. Wearing nothing but her bra and underwear, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him. He swam them over to the side, grabbed the edge of the pool and drew them into the shallow end, where he stood, Caera in his arms—one hand under her ass, the other tangled in her wet hair.

He struggled with her wet bra for a moment before yanking it down, exposing her chest to his hungry mouth and warm lips. He lifted her so her breasts were above the water, a shiver taking her as the night air, so much colder than the water, touched her wet skin.  He sucked her tightly drawn nipples, tugging them with his teeth until she gasped and clawed his back. Now she could feel his hard cock brushing her inner thigh. He was a tall man, and his cock was long and thick, velvety smooth against her. When she snaked her hand below the water, between their bodies to fondle the sensitive head, his breath came out in a hiss, bathed her wet breast. He raised his head from her nipples, kissing her long and deep. She moaned, shivering against him as he walked to the steps, his hands holding her against him, her legs still around his waist.

“Reach up, hold the edge.” He rasped out his demand, releasing her to grab her arms, urging her to lie back and clasp the lip of the pool.