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

  “There was a girl.” Tim pointed at the harp with his bow. In the few moments he’d been talking to Paddy, back to the stage, she’d disappeared.

  Paddy rolled his eyes. He had an unremarkable round face, curly brown hair and a voice that could make angels weep. “Ah, sure there was.”

  Holding the neck of his fiddle and bow in one hand, Tim rubbed the back of his head.

  “She was playing the harp, so I joined in. There was a girl, I swear.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Quiet-like?”

  “Yea, how’d you know?” Maybe she was a musician who’d just been added to the program. That would make sense.

  Paddy laughed. “Welcome to Ireland. We specialize in beautiful, mysterious women.”

  Chapter Two

  The Cold Within

  The first drops of rain and accompanying wind followed Tim and Paddy through the front doors of Glenncailty Castle. Outside it was raining and sunny at the same time. Tim was beginning to understand why Ireland was famous for its rainbows.

  “Is this the pretty girl you met?” Paddy’s whisper was loud enough to carry, but the thunk of the doors closing behind them drowned out the words.

  Tim blinked at the gorgeous redhead waiting in the massive foyer beyond the castle’s double doors. There was no doubt she was beautiful, but she wasn’t the harp player.

  “No, that’s not her.”

  “Well then, I think she’s mine.”

  Tim snorted. “You couldn’t get her.”

  “Put a guitar in my hands and I could have anyone. When I’m playing, I’m quite the catch.”

  “What happens when you put the guitar down?” They were almost to the redhead, so Tim kept his voice low.

  “These fingers are still magic.”

  “Gentlemen, you’re very welcome to Glenncailty Castle. We’re looking forward to hearing you perform tomorrow night.” The look on her face said she’d heard some of their conversation, and her small smile twitched with amusement. “I’m Sorcha, guest relations manager here, and I’ll be helping you check in.”

  She gestured to the left side of the foyer, where a long reception desk waited. The foyer was almost square, with a massive wood staircase opposite the double entrance doors. The floor was black and white stone—not tile, Tim noticed, but honest black and white stone—set in a check pattern, dull from three hundred years of feet. The walls were mint green above the waist-high paneling and the furniture heavy, dark wood. Wheeling his bag behind him, fiddle case under his arm, Tim followed Paddy and Sorcha to the registration desk, where an ethereally pretty blonde with an accent he couldn’t place helped him. There was no massive counter or huge computer terminal, just a laptop and a printer somewhere under the desk. When he’d answered her questions and signed the needed forms, she opened a drawer to hand him a gold key. An actual metal key.

  “Never seen a key before?” Paddy elbowed him in the ribs.

  Tim tossed it in his hand. “Never gotten one from a hotel.”

  Sorcha came around from behind the desk. “I’ll show you to your rooms and then we can go on a tour if you feel up to it. Otherwise you can rest before having dinner. Mr. Wilcox, I know you’ve come a long way.”

  “We already saw some of your beautiful castle.” Paddy was laying it on thick. “Tim was worried for his fiddle, so we went first to the barn.”

  “So you’ve seen Finn’s Stable? It’s a beautiful venue, and its reputation for live music and performances has grown over the past year. That’s one of the reasons we’re excited to have Free Birds Fly come to our glen.”

  “It’s the nicest castle I’ve ever been in,” Tim said, taking another look around the foyer.

  The redhead laughed. “Thank you. As you may have guessed, it’s not a true castle in the medieval sense—for that you’d need Trim or Bunratty. Glenncailty was originally a large, fortified manor. The people in Cailtytown and the other villages in the glen have always called this Glenncailty Castle, and there are many stories as to how it came to be known that way. It was a private residence until a few years ago. It’s currently owned by the O’Muircheartaigh family. “

  Tim looked at the simple brochure he’d been given along with his key. The name of the family that owned it had caught his eye because it seemed unpronounceable.

  “Wait, this name, spelled like this, is pronounced O-were-hurtie?” Tim frowned at the brochure, sure that wasn’t right.

  “Yes.” Sorcha took them through a doorway opposite the registration desk. A wood-paneled hall stretched from the foyer to the far wall of the main building.

  “How…?” Tim was staring at the name in bewilderment.

  “That’s Irish for you.” Paddy laughed. The sound of their luggage wheels quieted as they went from stone to carpet.

  “So this is a traditional Gaelic name?”

  “You Americans.” Paddy shook his head.

  “What did I say?”

  “Gaelic isn’t a language.” Sorcha looked over her should and smiled softly. They passed a recess with a door that said simply The Restaurant at Glenncailty. “Gaelic is a group of languages, same as the Germanic or Romance languages. It includes Irish, Welsh, Scotts-Gaelic, Manx and a few others.”

  “Oh.” Tim blinked. “I had no idea. I thought it was Gaelic, sorry.”

  “Everyone seems to, but the language is Irish. It’s the official language of the Republic, and everyone takes Irish in school.”

  “Is that why all the street signs are in English and, uh, Irish?”

  “Yes.” Sorcha cleared her throat slightly, then went into tour-guide mode. “If you consult your map, you’ll see that we’re passing through a hall that runs from the foyer to the east wall. This half of the main floor contains our restaurant, which is fine dining at its best, and also the breakfast room, which you access from the foyer.”

  At the end of the hall was another large wood door, though this one didn’t look like it was one hundred years old, as all the other doors he’d seen so far had.

  “This door leads to the east wing.” Sorcha opened it and motioned them through. “Architectural historians have dated the detached east and west wings to within fifty years of construction of the main building. The covered halls, one of which you’ve just entered, were added later, and as part of the remodel they were repaired and updated.”

  On the other side of the door was a short stone hall. Large windows provided a view of the grounds in the front of the castle, which were a tumble of wild roses and thick underbrush with heavy, evenly spaced trees lining the curved drive that touched the entrance doors. On the other side of the hall, matching windows offered a view of more wild plants, which partially obscured an annex that jutted off the side of the main castle. Straight in front of them was a second massive stone building. Rain dripped down the windows, and the sunlight that had been present when they first entered the building was gone, abandoning the sky to the fat, dark rainclouds.

  “What’s that?” Paddy asked, pointing out the windows towards the rear of the castle at the annex.

  Sorcha winced. “It’s the kitchens. As you can see, the kitchens were built new for the hotel and attached to the restaurant via one of the exterior walls. No part of the main building could be reworked into a restaurant grade kitchen, so we had to add that space.”

  “It’s a pity.” Paddy shook his head.

  “It is.” Sorcha paused and frowned. “And it blocked the view of the rear of the castle from these windows. The gardens are beautiful—walled and laid out in a formal way.”

  Tim had no idea what Paddy thought was a pity. His confusion must have shown on his face, because Paddy said, “It’s a shame when they add things like this. Modern things to old buildings.”

  “But a hotel needs a kitchen.” Tim was most definitely a lover of all vintage items, especially old music, but he didn’t understand their distress.

  “In Ireland we’re very protective of our old home
s, actually any architecture at all.” Sorcha started walking again.

  “That’s fair. I mean, just this building is older than the U.S. as a nation.”

  Paddy and Sorcha stopped, turned and looked at him. Paddy shook his head and Sorcha’s smile was full of pity.

  “That’s a sad thing. I’d never thought of it that way before.” Paddy patted his shoulder.

  “It’s not sad,” Tim said with a flash of star-spangled pride.

  “Ah, sure it is.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Gentlemen, if I may direct your attention.” With Sorcha’s herding, they passed out of the hall into the east wing, which they’d seen looming over them through the rain-sheeted windows. The foyer for this wing was tiny compared to what they’d come through, with an elevator and several doors taking up most of the wall space. It might have been any modern hotel, except for the exposed stone exterior wall they’d just passed through, which seeped cold. “The elevator or stairs just here will take you to your rooms, on the second floor. There are nine rooms in this wing. All the performers save one who has family in Trim are staying there. The production crew is in the west wing.

  “Through the door here—” Sorcha gestured to a wood door with a textured glass window, “—is the Pub. It’s always good crack, and you won’t be the only musicians, I’d say.”

  Tim rocked back on his heels as he ran his tongue over his teeth. “I, uh, don’t usually partake in crack—alcohol is my vice.” He smiled to cover his discomfort at hearing that the class-A felony drugs to be found at the pub were nice. Damned musician stereotypes. He hoped the hotel hadn’t stocked his room with hypodermic needles or anything strange. And he’d always considered Ireland a rather conservative country. Today was just full of surprises.

  Paddy and Sorcha were looking at him again.

  Paddy patted him on the back. “Tell me now, Yank, did I seem as great a fool when I came to America?”

  Tim just sighed. They were all three speaking English, weren’t they?

  “That’s no way to treat a guest,” Sorcha scolded her countryman. “Tim, crack is spelled C-R-A-I-C. It’s the Irish word for a good time, for fun.”

  “Is there a dictionary or something I can get?” Tim felt a little desperate.

  “No need—by the time you leave next week, we’ll have you speaking like a proper Irishman.” Sorcha hit the button for the elevator and turned to leave.

  “Sure, you’re going to walk us up,” Paddy said, smiling at the redhead.

  She leveled a look at him but returned the smile. “Of course.”

  They piled into the elevator. When they got off on the second floor bits of music filled the hall. He heard the first strains of what he thought might be “Curragh of Kildare” on guitar, the rhythmic thump of a traditional Irish drum, the tinny sound of an Irish tin whistle and discordant layers of string instruments, including guitar, tenor banjo and something he thought might be a bouzouki.

  “I get why we’re above the pub,” Tim said as Sorcha led them to their rooms.

  “Yes, well, if you have any problems with your room or the noise level, please let us know. You dial zero on the—”

  “No, I’m glad. I need to tune too. I didn’t think you’d let me do it in the hotel, that’s why I asked Paddy to take me to the barn.”

  “We will ask everyone to quiet down if there are any complaints.”

  “And will you be coming personally?” Paddy asked with a grin.

  Tim shook his head, leaning back against the wall in the hall to watch his friend make an ass of himself. Jet lag was rearing its ugly head, and his door was temptingly close, but he didn’t want to miss this.

  “No, sad to say. It would be my night manager.”

  “Pity. Will you be at the concert tomorrow?”

  “I will be.”

  “Then I’ll see you after, my lovely Rose of Tralee,” Paddy swept a dramatic bow and disappeared into his room.

  Tim turned his snort-laugh into a cough. Sorcha turned her look of resignation on him.

  “Ahem, sorry, dust or something in my throat.” Tim pushed away from the wall, the muscles in his face protesting from exhaustion when he smiled.

  “We didn’t complete our tour of the castle, but I suspect you’ll want your bed or some food.” She crossed her arms. “And while you’re here I hope you meet some proper Irish gentlemen.”

  “I’ll make a point of it,” Tim said with all the mock seriousness he could muster.

  Sorcha lapsed back into her professional customer-service face. “Please let the front desk know if there’s anything you need. In the hotel, your options for dinner are the pub, which I pointed out to you, or the main restaurant, which is quieter.”

  “Thank you.” Tim opened the door with the brass-colored key. “Actually, I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “There was a woman playing a harp. In Finn’s Stable.”

  “Of course.” Sorcha nodded, smiled and turned away.

  “Wait.” Damn, Paddy had not been kidding about Irish women. “Who is she? What’s her name?”

  Sorcha looked him up and down. Her body language changed as she did it, her straight posture softening, her hands not folded in front of her but tapping restlessly on her thigh. She was no longer a hotel professional, but a beautiful, touchable woman. Any other time Tim would have felt something for her, but either jet lag or the dark-haired women had stolen his desire. And if he really thought that one song and a few words between him and the beautiful woman had robbed him of his ability to be attracted to anyone else, he needed to stop playing and listening to melancholy, romantic folk songs, because he was losing touch with reality.

  “Caera Cassidy. She’s our special events coordinator. She arranged all of this.”

  “That’s Caera?” Tim had seen her name on all the emails about the event. He’d never imagined she was so beautiful, or young.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s younger than I thought.” That was an understatement. Usually booking managers were a bit younger, but venue managers were older, with years of experience.

  “She’s very special, is Caera. Careful there.”

  As Sorcha walked away, Tim wondered if she was warning him to be careful because Caera could hurt him, or he could hurt her.

  After half an hour lying on the bed, bone-weary but not tired—despite the fact that he’d spent the past ten hours traveling to Dublin from New York via London, plus two hours in the car with Paddy—Tim gave up the hope of a nap and sat up.

  Digging into his bag, he took a few aspirin and gulped down water. The clashing sounds of tuning instruments and discordant bits of song were making his lingering headache worse, so he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, stuffing the key and castle map in his pocket.

  It was barely five o’clock, but when he reached the window-filled hall connecting the east wing to the main castle it felt like 3 A.M. as rain sheeted down the glass from a black sky. There was no way he was going outside, as nice as a walk sounded, so he’d settle for touring the castle. He really liked castles. He’d even booked himself a room in a castle-looking B&B later in the week. As Tim emerged into the foyer, he wondered if there was any hope of finding Caera and begging her for a tour.

  The foyer was empty except for the blonde who’d checked him in.

  “Good evening, Mr. Wilcox, is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Is Caera, uh…” Tim’s brain took a moment to come up with her last name, which he’d seen on her emails, “…Cassidy around?”

  The blonde frowned. “I’m sorry, she’s busy preparing for the concert. Is there something you need for your performance?”

  Tim considered making up something so he could talk to her, but that was a shit thing to do. He shook his head. “No, I just wanted to say hi. I think I’m going to go for a tour. Maybe just find someplace to sit.”

  “I’d take you on a tour myself, but I’m afraid I’m the only one here.
If you’re looking for quiet, I’d recommend the Rose Room or the formal front room. You can access them through that door.”

  She directed him to another old, expensive-looking door, almost directly opposite the one he’d just come through.

  With a nod of thanks, he opened the door. Rather than more wood, he found himself in a carpeted hall with fancy wallpaper and several white doors. The first one had a small plaque, labeling it the formal front room. The need to explore the castle—Tim didn’t care that it wasn’t technically a castle, it was called castle and that was enough for him—was on him, so he bypassed that room and examined each of the other doors. He found one marked Staff, a billiards room, the Rose Room and the door that led to the other covered hallway and the west wing.

  He stepped out of the main castle building, into the covered hallway. The rain on the windows made it hard to see anything, but the air that seeped through the stones was vibrant with cold and atmosphere. Feeling like a great explorer, which he knew was stupid since Sorcha had said the TV crew was in the west wing, Tim entered the third building of the castle.

  Disappointingly, the first floor of the west wing was a generic hotel hallway. Nondescript patterned carpet traversed the length of the hall, all the way to a window in the far wall, which was stone. The interior walls were beige, the doors white. A few of the doors had Do Not Disturb signs up, so he guessed those were the TV crew. Feeling more than a little stupid, Tim walked the hall, counting nine rooms and an elevator and stairs in the space by the door where a tenth room wasn’t. The only interesting things about it were the large gold keyholes and real handles on the doors, rather than the key-card mechanisms Tim was used to.

  “Worst explorer ever,” Tim muttered to himself.

  Either the aspirin or the fake exploring had lifted some of his jet lag exhaustion. Deciding to go back to the main building and check out the billiards room, he put his hand on the door handle.

  And stopped.

  He looked at the stairs.

  He needed to check the second floor.

  Heart beating fast, for no reason he could name, Tim took the stairs two at a time. At first glance, the second floor was just another level of hotel rooms—the same paint on the walls, same carpet on the floor. But it wasn’t the same. There was something wrong. Tim knew it the way he knew when a song was right.