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

  “Actually, I was hoping I could stay a bit longer.”

  “Stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.” Sorcha looked him up and down, but then shook herself. “But I’m sorry, the castle is full tonight.”

  “I’ll stay anywhere.”

  She raised a brow and he remembered what had happened in the west wing. He grimaced.

  “While I sympathize, I’m afraid the west wing is closed at this time, which is why we need all the rooms in this wing.”

  “Crap, okay.” Tim rubbed the back of his head with his palm, frustrated that his plans were falling apart.

  “Bring your bags to the front desk. We’ll hold them until you make arrangements for tonight.”

  Tim cut his eyes to Sorcha, wondering if she was okaying him staying at the cottage she shared with Caera. He didn’t exactly have Caera’s okay with that, but one step at a time.

  With the help of the blonde maid with a thick Eastern European accent, Tim packed his things. He took care of the instruments, including ones he’d borrowed from Paddy to take to Galway. The maid quickly folded his clothes into his bag, tucked away his toiletries, then checked the drawers before hauling in her bucket of cleaning supplies and starting. She was almost done with the bathroom by the time Tim, laden with a suitcase and fiddle and guitar cases, headed out the door. Five minutes later, he was in the lobby turning his key over to Sorcha, who was now behind the counter. The traffic jam at the registration desk was gone, and after noting something in the computer and tucking his key in the drawer, Sorcha stepped out from behind the desk.

  “Can you handle this for a moment?”

  The staff person at the desk nodded.

  “Mr. Wilcox, we’re a little short on bellmen at the moment, so if you could follow me.” Sorcha took Tim through the door on the west wall of the foyer and down the hall he’d investigated that first day. Many of the doors were open now, and he understood where all the people he’d seen in the entrance were. There were people seated in the formal front room, balls cracked in the billiards room, and a waitress with a small white pot and two cups hurried past him.

  Sorcha took him to the door marked Staff. She opened it with a key and ushered him inside. They were in a small front section lined with luggage racks. Beyond those, he could see desks, couches and a small fridge.

  “Put your things there.”

  “My instruments?”

  “They’ll be safe. This door is kept locked.” She added tags to each bag and then gave him a ticket. “Now…” Sorcha put her hands on her hips, “…tell me about you and—”

  The door opened behind them.

  “Caera,” Sorcha finished, but she was looking over Tim’s shoulder.

  Tim whirled to see Caera standing in the doorway, her mouth open in an “O” of surprise. “Tim.”

  Caera looked from Sorcha to Tim, then closed the door behind her.

  “Tim was late to check out. I was worried,” Sorcha explained.

  “Check out is at 11,” Caera said, shaking her head. “I forgot.”

  “Unfortunately, though Mr. Wilcox wants to stay longer, we don’t have rooms, so I’m storing his luggage here until he’s able to make arrangements for this evening.” Sorcha’s voice was smooth and thick as peanut butter.

  Tim looked at her out of the corner of his eye, wishing she would shut up and stop telling Caera everything he’d planned to say.

  “You wanted to stay?” Caera’s gaze searched Tim’s face. “Why?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Yes, she does,” Sorcha added, her gaze flicking between them.

  “Sorcha, the guests need you,” Caera said.

  “Fine, but Caera, remember what I said, about what you deserve.”

  “I do.”

  When the door closed behind Sorcha, Caera walked past him, turning her shoulders to be sure they wouldn’t touch. Tim followed her into what he assumed was the staff lounge. He watched Caera take a small box from a drawer, pop two pills out of the blister pack and then wash them down with a palmful of water from the sink.

  “I want to stay a bit longer, to spend time with you.”

  “That’s foolish.” Caera didn’t look at him as she spoke. “You need to go. Paddy Fish told me you plan to take some time and tour Ireland. It’s a beautiful part of the world.”

  “I’ve found a pretty beautiful part of Ireland right here.”

  “You have commitments.”

  “Yes, I do. I have to be in Galway on Friday. Before then I just had vague plans and a bus schedule.”

  “Tim, last night was wonderful—”

  “But?”

  “But it would be a mistake to repeat it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “That’s not a good reason.”

  “You shouldn’t stay here to spend time with me. That’s foolish. If you leave on Thursday, you’d miss seeing the country, and…and…”

  “If it’s so important that I see the country, then come with me.”

  She scoffed. “That idea is madder than the first. I have to work.”

  “Come with me Caera, show me Ireland.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to work, because I just met you and don’t really know anything about you. Because I don’t go to the west.”

  “Do you have huge events every night between now and Friday?”

  She shook her head.

  “Great, we’ll leave tomorrow after tonight’s event is packed. As for not knowing each other, that’s what our road trip will be about.”

  “Road trip?” She held up her hand, as if to push away his words. “This is mad.”

  “Life is about living. I like you, Caera. I really like you, and I want to spend time with you.”

  “Why? What would come of it?”

  “I’d spend a few days in a beautiful woman’s company. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”

  Caera swallowed, reminding herself that she was trying to learn to enjoy sex without becoming emotionally invested, either for good or bad. The truth was that after tonight she had very little work, and what there was could be left with Rory. If she wanted to, she could run off with the Yankee musician for the week.

  The thought made her stomach cramp so badly that she pressed a hand to it.

  “I did this once,” she whispered, looking at the battered wood floor under her feet. “And it didn’t end well.”

  “Oh, shit, of course. I’m a moron.” Tim took her in his arms, hugging her tight. “I didn’t mean to remind you of what happened before. I was just talking through the possibilities.”

  Caera nodded.

  “I want to spend time with you, however I can. Whenever you’ll let me.”

  “And after Galway, when you leave?”

  “I don’t know, Caera.” He kissed the top of her head. “What do you want to happen?”

  She didn’t know.

  Nearly ten years later, she was back where she began, about to run away with a handsome musician who had no plans beyond his own desires. Back then, she’d gone not knowing what she was getting into, what it meant to run away with a man.

  This time she knew exactly what this would, and wouldn’t, mean.

  It had been too long since she’d last left the glen. It would be nice to see the countryside, to head west.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Once she said it, a fresh wave of bubbly fear hit her. She must be mad, mad as he was.

  Tim tipped her face up and kissed her, holding her bottom lip between his and tugging.

  “Thank you.”

  “We can’t leave until tomorrow,” she warned him. “And I won’t go to Galway. I’ll drop you at a stop before then and drive back.”

  “You have a car? Now this really is a road trip.”

  “Well, Sorcha has a car.”

  “Car theft? Good thing this isn’t the W
ild West—vehicular theft was a hanging offense.”

  Caera giggled. “You’re a bit strange.”

  “You’re a bit insane.”

  “Och now, who’s coming up with the mad plans? It isn’t me.”

  “You’re agreeing to them. What does that make you?” Tim tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling.

  Caera sighed. “That makes me mad as you. Utterly, utterly mad.”

  Caera threw a few things into a bag and carried it out of the cottage to Sorcha’s car. She was wearing black pants and a sweater thick enough to double as a jacket. All she needed were her toothbrush and a few extra shirts, one nice outfit and underwear, and she was ready to leave.

  Tim was carefully piling his instruments into the backseat and his suitcase into the boot. His hair shone with patches of sun. As he closed the boot, he stood and pushed the hair off his forehead. He was slender and strong in the dappled light, like a knight of old.

  She closed the cottage door and crossed the grass between the cottage and the overgrown road. Sorcha’s car was pulled up on a flat bit of grass, the compact seeming out of place in the old trees. Tim smiled as she approached.

  “Where’s your harp? Or better yet, do you have a lap harp?”

  “And what would I be needing a harp for?”

  “Music.”

  Caera’s stiffened. “I don’t play for anyone but myself.”

  “I think that’s stupid, but if that’s what you want, that’s fine. I thought if we found a nice spot, we’d stop and jam.”

  Caera smiled. “I don’t ‘jam.’”

  “You did a pretty good job jamming on that harp.”

  Caera waved her hand, afraid she was losing this argument. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not taking it.”

  “Suit yourself. You can sing, I’ll play.”

  “Tim.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t push this, please.” She ran her finger worriedly along the strap of the bag, before placing it in the back seat. “I told you why I don’t.”

  Tim took her hands in his. “I didn’t want to upset you. I really do want you to be happy.”

  It was only when he walked away that Caera realized he hadn’t actually said that he would leave the music issue alone.

  Caera could barely believe she was doing this. Elizabeth had given her the rest of the week off, and she’d spent the morning going over the Finn’s Stable events she’d miss with Rory. Her normally loquacious friend had been strangely silent. She had no doubt he knew she was going with Tim, though she’d told no one but Sorcha.

  History was about to repeat itself. It had taken her years to find her way home to Ireland after the last debacle. If this went the way it had the first time, she wondered how far she’d have to run, and how long it would take to get home.

  “We should go.” Before I come to my senses and change my mind.

  “First.” Tim touched her hip, urging her into his embrace.

  Her whole body came alive when he looked at her with heat and desire in his eyes. Beneath her clothes, goose bumps raised her skin and her heart raced.

  “You’re beautiful.” Tim cupped the curve of her neck, below her ear. The heel of his hand nudged her jaw up, their lips only inches apart.

  “And you’re—” Perfect.

  Before she could find the word, Tim bent his head to hers, their lips meeting. The kiss was still and perfect, a simple meeting of lips that felt as intimate as if they were naked.

  Caera pulled back, licked her lower lip. She was breathless, aroused. They needed to leave before she dragged Tim into the grass for another round of hot sex. As mad as this impromptu vacation might be, as stupid as she was to risk her heart and sanity spending time with a man—worse, a musician—with whom there was no future…

  She was looking forward to the sex.

  Her lips twitched in a smile at the thought, and Tim raised a brow. Caera shook her head. “We should go.”

  “Before we have sex on the hood of the car? Good idea.”

  Caera looked consideringly at the bonnet. She hadn’t thought of that.

  “I’ll get your door.” Tim opened the door and bowed, smiling in way she could only describe as rakish.

  Lips twitching, Caera raised a brow. “You planning to drive?”

  Tim looked in the open passenger side door. “Well, shit. Let me try that again.” Tim leapt around to the other side of the car and opened the driver’s door.

  Caera did a mock curtsey and then slid behind the wheel. Tim returned to the left side and jumped in. His legs folded painfully until he, cursing, managed to slide the seat back.

  Caera giggled as she watched him. She hadn’t laughed or smiled this much in a long time.

  “Ready?”

  “Absolutely.” Tim lifted her hand from the gear shaft and kissed her knuckles. “Let’s go.”

  Caera put the car into reverse and backed onto the main road.

  They drove out of the woods where the cottage crouched. The castle grounds were less wild than the forest, and the trees thinned above the road, letting in more light. The castle sat at the crest of the arch of its curved drive, its stones pale gray, the windows glinting with light.

  With a look at the man beside her, Caera started up the road that would take them out of the glen.

  Chapter Eight

  Out of the Glen

  “The forfeit is a kiss.”

  “Forfeit? I didn’t agree to play. And I’m driving.”

  “Oh, I see, you’re chicken.” Tim nodded in mock understanding.

  They’d been driving for a few hours and their talk of music had lapsed into a companionable silence, until now.

  Caera huffed out a sigh. The man was relentless. “All right, fine, I’ll play your silly game.”

  “Twenty Questions isn’t a silly game, it’s an important in-the-car activity.”

  “Is this an American thing?”

  “I didn’t think it was, but maybe. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’m ready. Go ahead.”

  Caera glanced at him. What was she supposed to do?

  “Do you know how to play Twenty Questions?” he asked, seeing her expression.

  “Well, I assume we ask each other twenty questions.”

  “That’s not exactly it, but it sounds like a good game. How about I go first?”

  “I thought it was my turn?”

  “New game, new rules. We’ll start easy. What’s your middle name?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, that’s it?”

  “Well, your first name is Caera. I expected something more exotic.”

  Caera burst out laughing—her, exotic?

  “Elizabeth was my grandmother’s middle name.”

  “Okay, do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  Caera’s mirth disappeared in an instant. She didn’t want to talk about her family. “I do.” She said no more.

  “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I answered your question.”

  Tim must have heard the strain in her voice because he touched her leg, his palm warm through her slacks. “This isn’t supposed to upset you. I’m sorry I asked about your family.”

  His voice was thick with regret for asking. Caera sighed, wondering if he, like others had in the past, now assumed something tragic had happened to them and that’s why she didn’t talk about them. Normally she let their misconception continue so they wouldn’t question her personal life, but with Tim it felt like a lie.

  She took a breath, forced herself to relax. “I have three siblings, all alive and well. My older brother is an architect. My younger brother is a civil engineer. They work together. My sister, who is three years younger than me, is married with three children.”

  “Accomplished family.”

  “Except for me.” The words were out before she could stop them.

  “What?” Tim’s hand, stil
l on her leg, squeezed. “Caera, you’re incredibly successful. You’re single-handedly turning a remote venue into an important musical center. You’re an amazing musician and singer, you—”

  “Thank you,” she said, just wanting him to stop. “And you’re right, I’ve had success too.”

  Tim took his hand from her leg. Caera bit her lower lip and stared resolutely forward. She was pushing him away. She knew it and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop. There was no future for them, and no reason to expose her heart to a man who would be gone in a few days.

  The silence stretched, humming with tension, unlike their previous silences.

  It was nearing four o’clock, and they’d made it farther than Caera thought they would. Traffic on the M8 was light. They’d been held up as the M3 reached Dublin, but they were able to avoid the worst of it as they changed onto the M7, which headed southeast out of the capital into the southern counties before turning into the M8.

  They passed a sign that said it was ten kilometers to Cashel.

  She hadn’t planned to stop there, but they’d made such good time they might as well. Plus, she wanted to do something, anything to break the cold silence in the car.

  She signaled and pulled off. The town of Cashel wasn’t far off the motorway, and the Rock of Cashel was a sight most people didn’t forget.

  “We’re in Cahir?”

  “Not yet. We have time so we’re making one quick stop.”

  The Rock of Cashel rose from the center of the town. The small stone hill had long been the seat of the kings of Munster before one king had turned it over to the church, and the castle atop the rock became a monastery. Buildings fell and rose anew atop the rock, like a living thing dying to be born again. Manmade structures were bound to natural rock formations until the name “Rock of Cashel” came to mean both the stone and the building atop it.

  Caera drove the car up one of the steep residential streets that led to the top of the rock. As they got closer, the gray stones of the rock itself were visible in patches where no soil held long enough to allow grass to grow.

  Tim picked up his guidebook. “The Rock of Cashel. The round tower is the oldest structure, dating to 1100 AD—”