The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 Read online

  “Look.”

  They’d reached the top of the road. Here there was no grass, and it seemed as though the castle grew out of the stone it sat on.

  “Can we go in?” Tim didn’t look at her when he asked.

  Caera shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had a right to her privacy, but she knew that didn’t excuse her from being rude when he tried to compliment her. She desperately wanted to go back to where they’d been before he started his Twenty Questions game.

  “I’m afraid we’re too late for that.”

  He consulted the guidebook. “Yep, they’re closed. Maybe we could just wander around the grounds?”

  “Ah, I think it’s walled all around. There are cemeteries on the grounds, and they don’t want people disturbing them.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Caera pulled onto the shoulder so they could get out. Tim pulled out his camera and took a picture. She raised her hand, wanting to offer to take his photo, but she dropped it, worried he’d rebuff her.

  Searching her mind for something, anything to say, Caera blurted out, “Shall I tell you the story of how the rock got here?”

  Tim looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. The band around Caera’s chest loosened.

  There was a gate in the wall not far from where she parked. Caera walked down to it. Halfway there, Tim moved up beside her and laced their fingers together. Caera felt like a world that had been off-tilt had just righted itself.

  They stood looking in the gate facing the rock and its stony buildings. The modern buildings were at their back, the view of the town that skirted the rock hidden by the wall that circled the grounds. If she ignored the sound of cars, she could imagine what it was like when there was nothing but the castle, the seat of a king’s power.

  “According to local legend, the Rock of Cashel was formed when St. Patrick banished the Devil from a cave in a mountain near Templemore. That’s to the southwest of Cashel.” She turned to point. “The mountain is called Devil’s Bit. You see, the Devil was holed up in the cave, waiting for St. Patrick to leave Munster so he could continue to torment the people of Tipperary. The town knew the evil was in that cave because it glowed with a terrible red light every night. Anyone who got too close came back raving about flames and the monsters that danced in them. When the town told St. Patrick this, he knew it was the Devil himself in the cave, and the fires were those of Hell that traveled with the Devil when he came to Earth.

  “St. Patrick was a brave man, and he climbed the mountain until he could see the fires, so hot and bright that they were visible even in the day. When the Devil saw St. Patrick, he came roaring out of the cave. He told St. Patrick lies, changed his form to try and fool the holy man, but St. Patrick was not deceived and he cast the Devil out.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “As the Devil was being sucked back to Hell, he opened his mighty huge jaws and took a bite out of the land. But the mountain is, and was, a holy place, and the rocks were like poison to the devil. He spit them out, and when he did they landed here, forming the Rock of Cashel.”

  “Well done, St. Patrick. I thought he just got rid of the snakes.”

  “St. Patrick had many holy victories.”

  “Gotta love the saintly super powers.” Tim pulled her against his side when she laughed. “So, this is a giant Devil spitball.”

  Caera frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”

  “My apologies. Is there really a bite out of a mountain somewhere near here?”

  “There’s a gap in the mountain between one outcrop of rock and another small plateau.”

  “That’s the Devil for you, ruining a perfectly good mountain.”

  Caera giggled, nervous that he’d joked about such a thing, but still finding him deliciously funny.

  “I thought I saw a coffee shop on our way up here,” Tim said. “Can I take you to coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee this late in the day, but I am thirsty. Maybe we could find a—”

  “Caera, I’m asking you out on a date.”

  “A date,” she squeaked.

  Tim nodded as if her reaction had confirmed something for him. “Yes, a coffee date. American dating protocol indicates that it’s always best to start with a coffee date.”

  Caera had never been out on a real date. Certainly she went out with friends, and she’d met people when she was living and working in Europe, but a date? The whole concept of going to dinner one-on-one with someone she barely knew and interviewing them as a potential boyfriend seemed very strange and American.

  “I don’t have date clothes.”

  “Coffee dates don’t have specific clothes.”

  “Ah, all right.”

  “So you’re accepting my offer?”

  “Yes.” Caera cleared her throat. “Tim, I’d be honored to go out on a date with you. Thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tim tucked her hand in his and led her away from the rock and down the road.

  Chapter Nine

  Cahir

  “It’s late. We might have to look for a guesthouse outside of the town center,” Caera worried.

  “Guesthouse?”

  “Bed and breakfast.”

  They’d lingered too long on their coffee date, Caera with tea and biscuits, Tim with coffee and a scone. It was eight o’clock and they were just leaving Cashel for Cahir, which was an hour away on the winding country roads that linked the cities.

  “You think they’ll be booked up? It’s a weeknight.”

  “Irish hotels are usually smaller, so there’s very little space for walk-in guests.” Caera’s work experience had come from larger metropolitan hotels in Europe and England, and the change to the scale and business practices of Irish hotels had been eye opening.

  “Wait.” Tim fished in his pocked and pulled out his sleek phone. “I’ll check and see.”

  “Check what?”

  “If there are hotels in the town and if they have vacancies.”

  “Is that your American phone?”

  “Don’t worry, I have international data coverage.”

  Caera hadn’t been worried about his roaming, but rather about him wasting his time. Tim was going to be disappointed when he realized that wouldn’t help him. Most hotels in places like Cahir, which was not a tourist destination, were used for out-of-town guests, events and business meetings. Those people didn’t care about booking on their phones because—

  “Got it!”

  “What?”

  Tim smiled. “Found a room, booked it online.”

  “Well done.” Caera couldn’t hide her surprise. “I didn’t think any of the hotels would be online.”

  “Well, this one was, at least. It looks like it’s right in the middle of town too.”

  “Great. Do you have a name or address for me to use when we get closer?”

  “It’s Cahir Bridewell.”

  He butchered the pronunciation of Cahir, which was simply “care”, but that’s wasn’t what caught Caera’s attention.

  “Bridewell?”

  “Yep, in the picture it looks like a castle. Not as big as Glenncailty, but still, I never say no to castles. I’d planned to stay in a castle on my original bus trip.”

  “A castle…okay.” Caera’s lips twitched.

  She couldn’t wait to see Tim’s reaction when they walked in to the “castle” he’d just booked for them.

  “Are you married?”

  Tim and Caera cowered before the innkeeper. A tall, thick woman, she wore a gray dress, white stockings and a flowered apron. Her hair was the same gray of her skirt.

  Tim gave Caera a little push forward, making it clear he was not going to answer. “Ah, no, missus, we’re not.” Caera pinched Tim’s thigh, the movement hidden by her body.

  “Shameful thing, that.”

  “We’re—” Caera wasn’t even sure what she was going to say, but the woman cut her off.

  “I’m Mrs. Reil
ly. Mr. Reilly’s been dead now these twenty years.”

  “God rest him.” Caera joined her in making the sign of the cross.

  “A good man, he was. At the Lord’s right hand, I’m sure.”

  Behind her, Caera heard Tim murmur “Holy shit,” and bit her lip to hold back a laugh.

  “And you, young man, you’re an American?”

  Tim jumped, then said, “Uh, yes, yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re interested in this Irish girl?” She pronounced girl “gehl”.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  Caera sucked in a little breath at his words.

  “Then you’d best marry her. I’ll be sad to see a good Irish girl moving to America for a man. We lost too many to America in the past, but the way young men are nowadays, it’s no wonder young women must go elsewhere. And you’ll take a firm hand. You’ll do right by her and care for her, and no messing, but you’ll not be like these young men today expecting a wife to run their life as their mammy did. No, none of that now.”

  “Uhhh.” Tim was blinking rapidly.

  Caera pinched him again.

  “Yes, yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, good.” She went to a rack of keys and took one down. “This will be your room. I’ve no great love for an unmarried couple staying together under my roof, but I can’t blame you girl for wanting to test your options. You cannot depend on men to be men in these times, and isn’t that a great sadness?”

  She handed Tim the key. “You’ll bring your own bags up. And don’t think I don’t see that fiddle on your back, so I’ll have a bit of music from you before you leave.”

  Tim seemed frozen, so Caera answered, “Of course. Thank you,” and dragged Tim towards the stairs in the far corner of the room.

  Tim was still reeling when they started up the metal spiral staircase. “Did that just happen?”

  “Shh, she might hear you.”

  Tim looked over his shoulder in horror.

  Tim was glad all he was carrying was his fiddle. Each wedge-shaped tread of the spiral staircase was smaller than his foot, even at the widest point, and the pierced iron seemed barely strong enough to support his weight. He’d have to pull out some clothes and his toothbrush and leave the bag in the car. There was no way he’d bring his large suitcase up these stairs.

  “I had a great-aunt whose house looked like this. Scared me half to death when I was small,” Caera said quietly.

  Ceramic vases of plastic flowers set on lace doilies filled alcoves in the wall. The alcoves were backed by wood planks, and one badly fitted plank let in a draught of cold air. Tim shivered, then realized these weren’t decorative alcoves. These were small windows, probably arrow slits. Paintings and prints of biblical scenes hung in the space between the windows.

  Caera reached the top of the steps first. Tim joined her.

  A long stone hallway stretched from the top of the stairs to the opposite side of the building. The right-hand exterior wall was set with barred windows. Along the left-hand wall were evenly spaced doors, closer together than he’d ever seen in a hotel. The doors were wood, painted an oddly bright green color. There was a small window in the top of each door. The openings in the doors were fitted with bars and backed by opaque glass.

  “What the…” Tim stared at the doors in confusion.

  “A bridewell is a jail.”

  Tim turned wide eyes on Caera. Her lips were twitching, and her eyes sparkled with mirth.

  “This wasn’t a castle, it was a…”

  “A prison, yes.”

  Tim blinked. Blinked again.

  Caera giggled, then cleared her throat and bit her lip. She took the key from his hand. It was only then that Tim noticed that it was an old-fashioned key—a long cylindrical barrel with pieces coming off the end.

  It made the keys at Glenncailty seem high-tech.

  “Come on, we’ll check our room, bring a few things up and then try and sneak out of here to find a session before you end up playing for her.”

  Caera started down the hall, checking the numbers mounted on the wall beside the doors against the tag on the key.

  Their room was at the end of the hall. It wasn’t one of the cells on the interior of the hall, but rather a circular room on the right. From the outside, they’d seen that each corner of the bridewell was held by a rounded tower. One of those round towers housed the stairs they’d just come up, and it appeared they’d be staying in another of them.

  Caera braced her hands on the doorframe and leaned in to look around. There were three windows, a built-in cabinet and a bed. The floor was bare, cold stone, and a bulb hung from the ceiling with a crocheted lampshade.

  “This was probably the warden’s office.”

  “This is insane.” Tim dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I found this place, but we don’t have to stay here.”

  “It’s just for a night, and it’s not so bad.”

  “It’s not so good.”

  “We’ll be fine. I’ll bring the bags up.”

  “No, you won’t. I’m the man, I’ll bring the bags up.”

  “Are you saying that because that’s what you think or because you’re scared of Mrs. Reilly?”

  “One-hundred percent because I’m scared of Mrs. Reilly. If she hadn’t told me I had to do it, I’d make you do it so I don’t have to see her again.”

  Caera burst into laughter. She entered the room and took a seat on the bed, which groaned and squeaked. That sent Caera into a fresh round of laughter.

  With a groan of his own, Tim passed Caera his fiddle. “I’m going for the bags. If I’m not back in ten minutes, you come rescue me.”

  Caera fell back on the bed, giggling.

  As Tim walked away, he was grinning. Caera’s laugh was infectious, joyous. She could be so serious he’d never imagined how funny she could be, how animated.

  Girding himself, Tim snuck down the stairs and out through the fussy front parlor. He ran to the car, grabbed Caera’s bag and a few things from his own and then snuck back in.

  Caera wasn’t in their room.

  “Oh crap. The old lady killed her and is making her into stew.”

  “What?”

  Tim jumped and yelled—not yelped, he didn’t yelp. Caera was behind him in the doorway.

  “Who’s being made into stew?”

  “I was worried you were.”

  “Crazy Yankee.”

  “Come here, let me check and make sure you’re not a ghost or a zombie.”

  Caera rolled her eyes but let him pull her to him. When her hips met his, her breasts pressed to his chest, the farcical comedy of their situation melted away. His blood hummed with the need for her, his cock reacting to her body’s heat.

  He cupped her chin and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. She tasted wild and herby, the faint flavor of tea from their stop in Cashel lingering on her lips.

  He nipped her lower lip, felt her shiver.

  “We could stay in,” he whispered.

  “While Mrs. Reilly is still awake?”

  Tim jerked away from her as if she were on fire. He’d forgotten about Mrs. Reilly. There was no way they were having sex while the old lady was still awake and possibly listening. He could only imagine what she’d have to say about a man’s duties and sex.

  He pressed the heel of his hand against his dick and sighed.

  “Ah, you poor man.”

  “I’m suffering here, woman.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, later.” Her eyes were the blue of the sky, but in them he could see storms, the dark madness that had sent them both into the depths of the pool at Glenncailty. He wanted to taste that wild sensuality again, and he wanted to make love with the soft, hesitant woman he’d found in a little cottage, as pretty and fragile as a fairy tale.

  He wanted…but for now it would wait.

  He sighed again. “Let’s go.”

  Caera smiled, took his hand, and together they snuck out of the bridewell, giggling lik
e kids as they ran down the long, curved road into the town of Cahir.

  “‘And it’s no, nae, never. No, nae, never no more, will I plaaay the wild rover. No never, no more,’” Tim sang.

  He had his arm over the shoulder of a man he’d just met, and together they rocked side-to-side, singing the chorus of “The Wild Rover”.

  On his other side, Caera sat on a stool, their drinks on the bar beside her. She clapped along, providing the downbeat for the song. She was beautiful, the lights of the bar shining on the glossy waves of her hair. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and Tim swore he could feel waves of contentment coming off of her.

  The song ended, and the whole pub burst into applause. Backs were slapped, glasses raised, and everyone pushed towards the bar to order another glass. Tim lifted his pint of Bulmer’s and took a mouthful.

  Behind him at one of the tables, a group of musicians fiddled with their instruments.

  “So, they aren’t in a band, they may not even know each other, they just show up and play,” Tim said to Caera, pointing over his shoulder at the table.

  In the hour they’d been in the pub, Tim had watched as people came and left, guitars and tin whistles being passed between strangers, as they negotiated who knew, and who could play, each song.

  “Yes. Sometimes there are groups who are known to play the sessions at a certain pub, as we have at Glenncailty. Sometimes it’s like this, any who can playing what they know.”

  “And when people say session, they mean…?”

  “Music, a session of music.”

  A lone guitar started. The chatter quieted and Tim turned to look back at the table where the musicians were. A young man, his face marked by acne, was playing.

  When he started to sing, Tim’s mouth dropped open. His voice was rough and soulful, each syllable aching with the heartbreak he sang of.

  Around the bar heads nodded, fingers tapped, but the crowd was silent and respectful of the music, and the musician. It reminded Tim of how the Glenncailty pub had fallen silent when Caera sang “Four Green Fields”.

  “I don’t know this song,” Tim whispered to Caera.

  “It’s ‘On a May Morning’; Barry McCormack sings it. Before you leave, we’ll get you the Other Voices soundtrack. Good, original music.”