by Silver James
Hours stretched into days and finally, he could stand it no longer. He grabbed his duffel stuffed with instruments and headed out. He would drown his sorrow in music. He would fill the air with laments until the whole city’s heart broke and the people wept with him.
He caught the subway, traveling close to Times Square before he de-trained. The crowds here were good, filled with holiday cheer. The trains ran on a schedule that gave him time for a song between. He took up his station between the platform and the turnstiles. Setting out his copper pot, he withdrew the soft fiddle case from his duffel and pulled out his violin.
After a few tweaks, he pulled his bow across the strings. People paused. He flexed his fingers and began to play.
Notes ripped from the depths of his soul filled the air, each one dripping a tear. His hair flew around his face as he coaxed the tune from wood and string. The violin wailed, baring Venn’s tortured soul. Then it wept but offered no consolation for his loss.
Gwyn. Her name was both a prayer and a curse on the tip of his tongue. How could one woman bring him to the depths of despair? He’d sworn never to love, but he’d had no choice. She stole into his heart, surrounding its darkness with light and sweetness, with sunset hair and Galway blue eyes.
He finished the song, one dredged from his soul, on a last sighing note. Silence thundered in his ears. A woman stepped forward, tears streaking her perfect makeup. She dropped money in his pot and moved on. Another followed suit, a man this time. Then more.
The crowd thinned, so he dumped his take into his duffel without counting. What did it matter? Money paid for his empty rooms, bought food that tasted like cardboard, eaten only because he had to. He didn’t want to live without Gwyn, and each bite just prolonged the inevitable.
He’d broken a violin string and had all but shredded his bow. He repaired the string and retrieved a second bow from his bag. Another crowd gathered in anticipation. What would he play now? The first song had loosed the tightness in his chest. Heartbreak lingered, but now anger surged in like a tidal wave to fill the corners of his being.
He tucked the chinrest beneath his jaw, stroked the bow across the strings, and played. Within moments, frenetic notes cascaded from the instrument, reeling and careening through his listeners. A fierce exultation filled him, and he leaped into the air. Darting and dancing, he played. Angry. Savage. Tormented.
Something inside tore free. Some living spark burned through his brain into the very center of him. Like a demon, he fiddled, the notes igniting around him, a conflagration of sound and fury. The music stopped abruptly as if consumed by the fire raging inside him. He’d fallen to his knees, the final note played as he leaned back over his heels.
The crowd cheered and money rained into his pot. He could feel the coiled creature inside him, and he was glad he couldn’t see his face. Rising to his feet, he inhaled deeply. He stowed the money he’d made and waited for the crowd to shift. It was almost as if he could feel their hearts and souls, could touch their innermost mood, and he shaped the music to fit.
He felt alive—for the moment. Strong and in charge. He felt…magic. Yes, that was it. He made magic with his music. He controlled these humans, bent them to his will. A cold smile touched his mouth. He didn’t need anyone. He had the music. And with it came magic.
Chapter Eight
Venn missed a note. He’d never, ever in the whole of his existence misplayed a tune. Stunned, his fingers recovered before his brain did. The bow scraped across the violin’s strings as his gaze searched the faces of those gathered close listening to him.
Something flickered in the corner of his eye. His heart raced. He turned to face the threat. A man—dark and deadly despite his expression of hapless bemusement. He might have fooled anyone but Venn. The man was a warrior.
Shifting into a melody less frenetic, Venn continued his study of the man. Long brown hair pulled back into a queue at the base of his neck. Dark eyes constantly roving the crowd, on alert for any hint of danger. Broad shoulders encased in leather. The man he watched and dipped his head as if listening to someone else.
The woman stepped up beside him, and Venn’s heart skipped a beat, though his fingers kept a steady rhythm. He knew her. But how could he? He’d never seen her before. Of that he was positive. But, he knew her on a soul-deep level that made no sense.
Ending the song, he bowed and let his innate showmanship take over. Money appeared in his pot as he was rewarded with a smattering of applause.
“Oh, Duncan, don’t be such a stick in the mud.” The woman laughed, her blue eyes shining with adoration as she gazed at the man. “Go put some money in.”
Duncan turned then, his brown gaze pinning Venn to the wall. “Moira—”
The rest of the man’s words were lost in the thunder as blood, rushing through Venn’s body, echoed in his ears. Moira.
He lifted the violin and played.
The woman stood transfixed as a secret wind lifted her hair into a golden nimbus dancing around her beautiful face. The haunting tune hovered between them, and then her feet began to move, her hips swaying in time. Her body was full, womanly. Her hands rested on her rounded belly. Pregnant. The woman was to be a mother.
The man leaned closer, his body also caught in the music’s spell. People stopped and stared, ensnared by the notes. Enthralled, they watched the couple dance. Once upon a time, this tune was meant to entice—a woman’s weapon to weave the strands of love between her heart and a man’s.
Venn instinctively knew these two had experienced that magic, had joined their hearts and souls—in this world and the next. Something shifted inside him, like a granite block scraping across a floor opening a crack, a shaft of soft light falling through the dark. The song ended, not abruptly but trailing off like a lover’s sigh.
Duncan gathered Moira into his arms and kissed her deeply, passionately. His hands cupped her pregnant belly then he bent and kissed the rounded mound, and thereby their child. The crowd exhaled a collective breath before scattering in the wind, intent on their own lives.
Venn rubbed his chest, an ache growing as he continued to watch the couple. Duncan approached and dropped a bill into the copper pot at Venn’s feet without taking his eyes off the musician.
Yes, the man was very much a warrior and a very old soul bearing many scars. Straightening to his full height, he stared at Venn, searching his face, a puzzled expression pasted on his own. “Do I know you?”
Scottish. The man’s country of origin was fitting. He could have been a highland warrior wearing a kilt with a battle sword at his side. Venn studied him as a shadow slipped between them, wavering in the light. More shadows appeared standing guard between him and the man. Startled, Venn stepped back. The shadows molded to Duncan’s body becoming one with him. His former lives, Venn realized with one part of his mind, though he couldn’t say how he knew. And he was correct. Duncan had been a warrior in every existence.
He blinked several times, dizziness making his head spin until the shadows solidified. He started to answer Duncan’s question in the negative but deep within his soul, he knew that would be a lie. He did know this man on some level. His gaze slid to the woman who approached and slipped her hand into her husband’s.
Moira. Duncan. The names sang in his heart. Again, that sense of déja vu slammed into him and he swayed. Eyes closed against the shadow lives swirling around these two, Venn shifted through his memories. Nothing—everything—about her—about him seemed familiar. He’d loved the man. Once. A very long time ago. And her as well. Opening his eyes, he watched them both a long moment before finally answering Duncan’s question.
“In another life.” His answer was deliberately vague, partly because he couldn’t explain how he knew this to be true.
A secret smile hovered on Moira’s sweet lips. How did he know they would taste such? He’d never kissed her. He was as certain of that as he was his name. Venn McLyre. Itinerant Irish musician. Right?
And more.
> Venn jerked at the words, glancing around wildly. The voice that uttered them belonged to neither of the couple in front of him. Duncan pulled Moira behind him, his posture protective and on guard.
“So much more,” the wind whispered. Only they were below ground, where the wind didn’t blow.
She tilted her head as if studying him from a different angle would help before reaching back to snag Duncan’s hand. “Just as I remember that song. Not many know it and the last time we heard it, the musician played the Uilleann pipes.” Her gaze dipped to his duffel. Then she smiled at him, and the air carried a hint of spring flowers instead of evergreen and roasted chestnuts.
She pressed her palm against her tummy, and her face lit up as brightly as a full midsummer’s moon. “He kicked, Duncan. Here!” She took his hand and pressed it against her belly.
Duncan’s face transformed, painted with pride and wonder, but tinged with terror as well. He kissed his wife’s forehead. “Damn but I love ya, lass.”
Venn turned away from their love, hollow but for the pain ripping every muscle and bone and tendon. Had he been a weaker man, he’d have fallen to his knees and cried out for relief.
Moira looked up, offering him a secret smile to include him in their little vignette. When Duncan straightened, she stepped closer to Venn. Reaching toward him, she cupped his cheek in one hand. Stretching on her toes, she kissed his other cheek and whispered in his ear. “Have faith. You’ll find your home again, Harper.”
Chapter Nine
“Gwyneth!” Her mother’s demanding voice echoed up the stairwell. “Sumner and I are waiting.”
Her shoulders hunched up to her ears. Gwyn didn’t want to see her fiancé. How could she continue hiding what she’d done? Guilt twisted her insides, and she bent over to relieve the pain. If she stopped to analyze her feelings, she’d have to admit the way she left Venn—and the missing him—caused the cramping. He was so kind, so…real. He treated her as if she was special. And beautiful. Not like Sumner.
But she was marrying Sumner. She had no choice. Mildred and Gloria had planned the wedding almost since Gwyn’s birth. She’d been thrown at Sumner from puberty on. He’d done his duty, a dark, stormy expression on his face, but he’d gone his own way while she’d been sheltered.
“Gwyneth!” Sumner’s voice grated on her ears and she shuddered.
For days now, she’d stiffened her spine, playing her role perfectly, waiting for her façade to crack and her secret to spill out. He’d be so angry. He’d told her often enough that no one was allowed to touch his property.
Oh, but someone had touched her. With his hands. His mouth. His heart…everything. She’d slept in his arms and awoken smelling him on her skin, tasting him in her mouth. A whimper escaped as she stuffed a fist in her mouth to hold it in. This wasn’t a marriage. It was a merger. She was nothing but stock shares to Sumner
Gwyn had to get through the wedding rehearsal at the cathedral and then dinner for the wedding party at Milagro’s. For a brief, bitter moment, she wondered if Sumner’s mistress would be there. That thought brought another. You did nothing he hasn’t, the hussy who’d taken up residence inside her head insisted. But just because he cheated didn’t make it right for her to do so.
Memories of that night with Venn washed over her, sapping her resolve and weakening her knees. Their time together had been glorious. He made her feel beautiful. Desired. He’d left her breathless with want, and what had she done? She’d sneaked out of his apartment like a common thief, leaving him asleep in the bed where he’d ravaged her heart and soul, laying her body bare to its every desire before sating each and every one.
Gwyn considered the evening stretching interminably before her and discovered she wouldn’t really mind if Sumner’s other woman showed up. Anything to keep his clammy hands off her skin. His breath smelled of cigar smoke, and her stomach roiled each time he kissed her—even those perfunctory kisses to her cheek required whenever the paparazzi appeared. Sumner played to them like a social diva.
She could never see Venn again. He was too tempting, too…perfect. She had to marry Sumner. There was no way out.
Furious knocking jerked her attention back to the present.
“Gwyneth! What is the delay?”
“Mother, be right there.”
In the vestibule, Sumner held the fur coat he’d bought her, dropped it on her shoulders, and pushed her out the door. Music—an Irish lament—teased her ears as the scent of cloves and oranges tickled her nose.
Venn. In the shadows, tempting her. He was there, his heated gaze warming her blood. This is why she’d returned to her mother’s brownstone, to get away from him. Gwyn knew he haunted the streets around her apartment, but since her one night of freedom—of perfect bliss, Sumner had tightened the noose. She wasn’t allowed in public alone. Gwyn had hoped she could hide here, that Venn couldn’t find her, but he had.
Swallowing hard, she turned her back and slipped her arm through Sumner’s, a tear slipping from her lashes, mourning what could never be. The magic of the music caressed her cheek as she offered a final farewell. She couldn’t say the words aloud, so she whispered them in her heart.
Goodbye, my love.
****
Venn watched Gwyn get into the limousine with the prick and her bitch of a mother. Waiting until the vehicle pulled away from the curb, he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction. He hadn’t a clue where the happy couple was headed, but he knew where they’d be come nine o’clock.
Milagro’s was closed tonight for a private party—the rehearsal dinner for the Barrett-Riley wedding party. Venn knew the maître d’ and finagled a job with the band. He would see Gwyn no matter what. And stop this travesty of a marriage. She would still be the season’s most beautiful Christmas bride, but sweet Gwyn would be marrying him, not that prick.
At the restaurant, Venn slipped through the back door into a kitchen. Hot, yeasty bread. Saffron. Chili peppers. Roasting meat. The tang of vinegar, the kiss of burnt sugar scented the air. The chef nodded a greeting while yelling at the sou chefs.
Pots banged on stainless steel counters, a bass drum beat in counterpoint to the snare drums of clattering plates. Crystal glasses sang a siren’s song. Venn hummed along, adding harmony to all the sounds.
The other musicians were setting up in the main room of the restaurant when he stripped out of his pea coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He smiled at the band leader.
“You’re the new guy. What do you play?”
Venn didn’t alter his expression. “Anything.”
One of the band members snickered. “Yeah, right.”
Ignoring the snarky one, Venn casually sank to the piano bench at the baby grand. He riffed a few chords, listening to the tuning. Satisfied, he played. “Beethoven’s Fifth” segued into Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” A short bridge later, he launched into Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Proud Mary” and ended with Enya’s “Orinocco Flow.”
He indicated his duffel with a jut of his chin. “I have my violin, Irish flute, and a set of Uilleann pipes. I didn’t bring a guitar, but I can play any you might have available.”
“Dude, can you play drums?” A scruffy face peered from behind a trap set.
“Aye, I can.”
The band leader smiled. “And with that voice, I just bet you can sing.”
“A fair bit, yeah.”
“Damn. I think I’m in love, even if you have the wrong plumbing.”
Venn smirked though his expression only sported a good-natured smile. He would have kissed the man if it meant he could stay to see Gwyn, to talk to her, convince her to be with him instead of Sumner.
Chapter Ten
Gwyn’s hand pressed against her stomach in a vain attempt to keep it steady. She hadn’t eaten anything, but still the darn thing rebelled. When she’d studied the vows, she’d come close to vomiting. Walking down the aisle, she stumbled numerous times. Since her dad was dead, her mother and
Gloria had decided to send her down the aisle alone. What a sad testament to her life. Her knees knocked and she clenched her jaw so hard she was sure her orthodontist was spinning in his grave. That was just the rehearsal. How in heaven’s name would she get through the ceremony?
As she stood inside the foyer of Milagro’s, she felt lightheaded. The room threatened to spin like a tilt-a-whirl. In the main dining room, people settled at tables. A low hum of conversation carried out to her. Sumner took Gwyn’s arm and led her into the room to the sound of music and applause.
The music swelled beneath the applause, and she could almost see the golden notes hanging in the candlelit air. Her gaze darted to the band and her breath caught. She stiffened, but Sumner had moved on, leaving her standing in the doorway staring at the stage.
It couldn’t be. Venn. Sitting at the piano, playing with abandon, his glorious blond hair flying as his head bobbed in time to the music, his fingers dancing on the keys. He turned to face her, his eyes dark and smoldering. She couldn’t catch the gasp before it escaped.
No one paid any attention. They focused all their attention on Sumner. He was the man of the hour and she was…just Gwyn. Except, Venn noticed her. And his stark hunger heated her blood, sending it zinging through her body. She couldn’t breathe, needed to break the thread binding them, but she couldn’t look away to sever that bond.
The music’s tempo slowed, guitars strummed, and the drums turned soft and slurry. Venn rose and took the microphone. His gaze never left her face as he began to sing. “I knew I loved you before I met you,” he crooned in a voice sweeter than spun sugar. Savage Garden. She’d loved the band, this song. How did Venn know? He sang to her, about her.
Drawn by that invisible ribbon tying them together, she walked toward him as if in a dream. Conversations faded into silence as Venn’s voice consumed her. She reached the stage area, and he knelt before her, bringing their eyes level as he sang, pouring out his heart.
