The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1

by Lila Dubois

  Tim laughed. “That’s quite a compliment. Thank you.”

  “What has you in the lovely west?”

  “I’m playing tomorrow in Galway. A friend has been taking me on a tour of Ireland, and this is our last stop before Galway.”

  “Galway, well, if you must. It’s a clever friend who brought a musician like yourself to Miltown Malbay. We don’t let the tourists in here, sure we don’t. They’re always wanting songs from some television program they saw about Ireland.”

  “Then I’m doubly excited to be here, and I promise no requests.”

  “Now, don’t be saying that, because I’d like to make a request of you. You see, this is my place.”

  Tim blinked in surprise that the unassuming looking man was the owner.

  “My family has owned this pub for a hundred years, and my father was the undertaker for this town until the government said there’d to be no bodies in the pubs.”

  That explained the “publican and mortician” sign he’d seen outside the door.

  “I’m lucky to say The Fiddler’s Way is known in these parts for its music. We have a few CDs and we’re on the iTunes—compilations of all the people who’ve come to sing in my place.”

  Tim looked over the bartender’s head to the shelf of CDs he’d seen earlier. From what he could see each was called “The Music of The Fiddler’s Way”.

  “That’s a great idea, and I’d love a CD,” Tim said quickly.

  “That’s not what I’m asking you, boy.” John laughed and slapped his knee. “I’m hoping you’ll do me the honor of playing a song or two for us, letting me record it. An American traditional singer is not something we’ve had in these parts. I can pay you a little for your troubles.”

  Tim grinned. There was no better feeling than being recognized as an artist and being asked to play. He thought it over as quickly as he could. His fiddle was in the trunk of the car because the door of their room at the B&B hadn’t had a lock and he hadn’t wanted to leave it. As long as he sang public domain songs, which were most of his repertoire anyway, there shouldn’t be a problem.

  “John, I’d be honored. Give me a moment to give my lady her drink, and get my fiddle from the car.”

  “Your friend is your lady? Ah well, good to see a smart man like you looking for a pretty Irish girl. Though I warn you, boy, you must watch out for the Irish women. Thirty years I’ve been married and I still know nothing about her, or women.”

  They both laughed, though Tim’s was little hollow. He picked up the second drink from where he’d set it down.

  “I’m seated over there, by the stage.”

  “There’s no rush. I’ve a need to find my sound man first. I’ll find you, sure enough.”

  Grinning, Tim returned to the table, handing Caera her drink.

  “I was worried for a moment there,” she said. Her hair hung in soft, dark waves. She was wearing a long-sleeved top, the fabric tight enough to show off the curves of her body. Tim had an ongoing fantasy of taking her to a beach, where she wouldn’t need to wear thick layers that covered her up.

  Tim opened his mouth to tell her, then decided not to. After the fight they’d had in the car, he wasn’t sure how she’d react to what he wanted to do. It was a risk, but he’d have to surprise her into joining him on stage. She’d said no to joining him in Galway, but this wasn’t Galway.

  “And what are you grinning about?” she asked, taking a sip. She licked her upper lip, and Tim had to look away before things got hard—literally.

  “I met a nice man at the bar.”

  “Well, there’s something I don’t often hear a gentleman say. And what did he say to make you smile?”

  “Well—” Tim took a sip of his own, savoring both the moment and the drink, “—that’s a surprise.”

  Caera narrowed her eyes, “I’ve no great love for surprises.”

  “For someone who is full of them, that’s a bit odd.”

  “I’m not full of surprises.”

  Tim laughed, throwing his head back.

  “You’re handsome when you smile.” He looked back at her. She shrugged. “You always tell me I’m beautiful. I feel I should be telling you when you look well.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you think I’m handsome, because…” He leaned across the table and crooked his finger at her. “…when we get back to the B&B, I’m going to bend you over that pretty bed and fuck you until you can’t think anymore, then I’m going to make love to you until you don’t remember your own name.”

  Tim leaned back. Caera’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes round and glossy with desire. She licked her lips once, then again.

  “Hey,” he said in his normal voice, as if nothing had happened. “Can I borrow the keys?”

  “Hmm, keys? Oh yes, let’s go.” She grabbed her purse off the back of her chair and half-rose before he could stop her.

  “We’re not leaving, I just need something out of the car.”

  She sank back into the chair, disappointment clear on her face, but then fished out the keys and handed them to him.

  Tim grabbed his jacket and the keys and stood. Holding his jacket over his crotch, to hide the erection he hadn’t been unable to prevent, he went out to the car to retrieve his fiddle.

  Caera tried to bring herself under control. Damned if she didn’t want to fuck him, though only hours ago they’d been having sex at Kilknock Abbey.

  She crossed her legs, aware of how wet his words had made her. He was infuriating, riling them both up like that when he clearly planned to join in a session rather than leave and have sex with her. He was infuriating, sexy, funny, handsome, caring and smart.

  Not that she was a good judge, seeing as she was mad in love with him.

  Tim returned, fiddle case in hand, as she’d suspected.

  He looked at her knowingly. “Thinking of me while I was gone?”

  “Ah no, I was thinking about work.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were thinking about sex. Give me details—what position were you imagining?”

  “Work, I was thinking about work, and the global economic crisis.”

  Tim laughed as she shook her head in mock despair. He picked up her hand where it lay on the table and kissed her knuckles.

  A proper old Irish gentleman approached and clapped Tim on the shoulder while he looked Caera over. She gave the gentleman a small nod, then looked to Tim for answers.

  “I see you’ve your fiddle. If you’ll come up on the stage, we’ll get you sound tested.”

  Caera’s eyes widened, and she looked over her shoulder at the stage. Tim was going to play formally? How had that happened?

  “John, this is Caera Cassidy, the lovely young woman who’s been showing me Ireland.”

  Caera shook the man’s hand.

  “I recognize your name, girl—you manage Finn’s Stable, don’t you? A fine job, a fine job. Meath needs some music, outside that pit they call a capital. Full of Dubs, the place is.”

  “Ah, thank you. Thank you. Were you at Free Birds Fly?”

  “I was, and a lovely thing. It makes me both sad to see how far our music has spread across this world, taken by our young men who had to leave, and glad to hear the beauty.”

  “Exactly,” Caera said, feeling like she was ten steps behind in this conversation.

  “John recognized me, asked if I’d play.”

  Caera nodded. That was what she figured. A little thrill of excitement formed in her belly, not only for Tim because he’d been asked to play, but to see him perform again. Playing together in the Vee was one thing—it was another to see a musician on a stage, feeding off the emotions and energy of the crowd.

  “You’ve good taste, then, John,” she said. “I’m sure your people here will appreciate the music as much as those who came to Finn’s Stable did.”

  “You’re right. You’re right. Come now, my young American.”

  Tim kissed her hand one more time before he rose. Caera was acutely aware that this wa
s the first time they’d identified themselves as a couple to someone who knew them. Mrs. Reilly hardly counted, but John knew who she was and where she worked. This time, it mattered—it made what was between them real.

  Caera felt the attention of the room shift as Tim leapt onto the stage. Speakers crackled to life as Tim plugged in his fiddle, then tested the standing mic. A single clear note sounded from his fiddle before he nodded and unplugged it.

  The music coming from the main bar quieted as people flowed into the already full side room.

  Tim whispered something to John, who nodded and grabbed a second mic.

  “Who’s this now? I didn’t know anyone was scheduled tonight,” someone behind Caera said.

  “I don’t know, but he’s a good-looking man.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see a group of forty-something women at the table behind her, cups of tea before each of them. They were undoubtedly here for the music, since it was unusual for married ladies to be out at a pub alone.

  She couldn’t help but agree with the woman’s assessment. He was a good-looking man. He shed his leather jacket, now wearing nothing more than black T-shirt, which clung to the muscles of his chest and showed off his defined arms.

  It would kill her to say goodbye to him.

  But that was tomorrow, and tonight she had another chance to see her beloved play.

  “John, before you go, can I ask a quick question?” Tim turned his back on the crowd, his fiddle and bow dangling from one hand.

  John looked up from adjusting the second mic. “Of course, and I’ll be here if you need anything. We’re not so formal that you can’t just call my name if you need anything.” He clapped Tim on the back.

  “Do you speak Irish?”

  “I’d say so, boy. You’re in the west, the real heart of Ireland.”

  Tim licked his lips, a little afraid to ask his question. More accurately, he was afraid of the answer. “Okay, then what does tah-me-grow-lath mean?”

  “Tá mé i ngrá leat?” John looked out at the crowd at Caera. “And did that pretty lady there say that to you?”

  Tim didn’t respond, already regretting asking.

  John clapped him on the shoulder again. “She’s a pretty girl, and you’re very lucky. Tá mé i ngrá leat means ‘I love you’.”

  For a moment Tim was frozen, unable to do anything but breathe.

  Caera loved him. She’d told him so—twice—only hours ago.

  The knot of anxiety that had been living in his belly loosened. They loved each other.

  “Thank you, John.” Tim said, grinning.

  “You’re most welcome, and congratulations, you poor fool.”

  Tim laughed and turned to face the crowd.

  He laid the belly of his fiddle on his shoulder and stepped up to the mic.

  “Hello, my name is Tim Wilcox. I’m visiting Ireland from America.” There were several hoots and calls. “Thank you, I’m so honored to be here.” For one wild moment he thought about saying that he’d fallen in love, but Caera deserved better than a stage announcement.

  “I’m a folk musician in America, a traditional musician. So that’s what I’m going to play for you.”

  He stepped back from the mic, tucked his chin to his fiddle and laid the hairs of the bow to the strings.

  He started with a good fiddle song, “Turkey in the Straw”. That got the crowd clapping along. He saw people nod their approval. Just to see how much they were paying attention, he flipped to “The Beggarman Jig” then back. That got riotous applause. Tim grinned, joy filling him as he took the crowd with him on a journey made of nothing but sound and feeling.

  When he finished with a flourish, cheers rang out.

  “Thank you, that was ‘Turkey in the Straw’ mixed with a bit of ‘The Beggerman Jig’.” He looked to Caera. She was grinning, and when their gazes met, she clapped softly. “For the next song, I’d like to invite a very special guest onto the stage.”

  Caera’s smile disappeared, and her eyes got wide. He waited for her to shake her head or say no, but she did neither.

  “I met a beautiful Irish woman—though there seem to be no kind but beautiful—who can sing like an angel. I’m hoping she’ll join me.”

  The room’s attention turned to her as he held out his hand.

  For a moment she sat, still and lifeless as a doll, and Tim worried he’d made a mistake, pushed her too hard, too soon.

  “Get up there, girl!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  Caera jerked to attention, then stood. She jumped up on stage with him.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered to her.

  “I don’t know American songs.”

  “You know some of them, and you’ll pick up the choruses. We’ll do some Irish songs too.”

  She nodded, but still looked shocked.

  “Caera Cassidy.” He used her last name to add weight to his words. “Will you play with me?”

  “I…” He watched her struggle with herself, until on a sigh, she seemed to shake off something. “I’d like nothing more.”

  Tim grinned, raised his brow and his bow.

  Caera went to the second mic, flipped it on, then looked at him.

  He bowed out the first mournful notes of “Mother Is the Battle Over?”, a Civil War song about a family torn apart. He sang the first verse, and as he reached the chorus, Caera stepped up to her mic, and, in perfect harmony, they sang the sad chorus.

  When Caera’s clear bright voice rang through the room, Tim felt the energy change. He was a good musician, a good singer, but she was something else.

  As the song ended, the crowd applauded. Caera started, as if she’d forgotten there were other people there. Her shoulders were tense, her hands clenched together in front of her belly. She whipped her head to Tim, and he saw the beginnings of panic on her face.

  He wouldn’t let her run from this. He started “The Southern Girl’s Reply”, another Civil War ballad. He’d sung it at Free Birds Fly and was planning on recording it for his next studio album, so he’d have to make sure Johnny didn’t choose this song for his compilation CD. When the intro was played, he held a single note and jerked his head towards her mic, as much as he was able with the fiddle under his chin.

  She blinked, then understood. She placed her hand on the mic, and sang. Her clear soprano rang pure and true. He’d taken a gamble that she’d remember the words based solely off the few times she’d heard him sing it in sound check, but the gamble paid off. The crowd sat up a little straighter, listening to the words of a song he was sure few of them had heard. Based on an old poem called “True to the Gray”, it was about a woman who remained loyal to her slain Confederate lover even after the war, turning away other men, and wondering if they were the ones who had killed her beloved.

  Now it was his turn to join in on the chorus.

  She looked over at him as she sang. She’d relaxed, her hands loosely at her sides, her shoulders down. Pure joy shone in her eyes.

  They went from that song to the next, and soon they were experimenting with the music, changing the song as they went, using nothing more than their eyes to convey where they were going. When Tim told the crowd, during a pause while they were brought water, that they were missing out because they’d never heard Caera play the harp, a harp was brought forward, as if it were totally normal for a bar to have a half-size harp in the back room.

  Caera ran her hand over the harp in wonder. A chair was passed through the crowd to the stage.

  She took a seat, her fingers finding their place on the strings.

  Someone in the crowd asked for “Scarborough Fair”, and Caera obliged, playing it through once on the harp alone, then a second time while she sang and Tim rounded out her sound with the fiddle.

  When the song was done, the crowd took a collective breath, then cheered uproariously.

  Caera stood from the harp, then moved to stand by Tim.

  He had to stop himself from grabbing her an
d kissing her.

  “Thank you, for this,” she said, gaze on the crowd.

  “Thank you,” he said, meaning it.

  As the applause died, she sighed, seeming to draw back into herself.

  “Woman, you didn’t think we were done, did you?” They’d been playing for over an hour, but he didn’t want this to end. He’d play until his fingers bled if it meant seeing that light within her.

  She looked at him and smiled. “Something upbeat?”

  “Keep up,” he said, winking, and laid bow to fiddle.

  Caera let out a trilling laugh, then stepped back to her mic.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ghosts and Goodbye

  The cold woke him.

  The sheet and duvet had slipped down to his waist, and Tim felt goose bumps prickle along his back and arm as he lay on his side facing Caera.

  He grabbed the edge of the covers to throw them over her, but she wasn’t there. Tim sat up and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. The pretty—if insanely girly—room they were staying in had a lace canopy on the bed and lace curtains on the window and French doors. Silvery moonlight turned the lace pearly gray and cast odd, broken shadows on the floor.

  Their room was at the back of the house and opened onto a small garden. One of the French doors was open, and the lace panel that covered the glass insets fluttered tightly.

  Sliding out of bed, Tim rooted in his suitcase for a pair of sweats and socks. He quickly dressed, adding shoes and his leather jacket, which was cold and stiff against his bare back and shoulders.

  The night air was chill and clear, the slight breeze bringing the scent of lavender and grass. Square stones created a meandering path that led past their door. He had a choice to go left or right. To the left, the beds of flowers gave way to a rose garden. To the right, the garden was wilder, with the small copse of trees towards the back of the property.

  Tim went right.

  His shoes were silent on the stones, and he wavered between marveling at the beauty of the night and fearing the long shadows cast by everything around him.