by Lila Dubois
“Caera?”
“Yea?” Caera ripped her attention from Tim and turned back to Rory, who was looking at her oddly.
He followed her gaze to the bar.
“Who’s that?”
She wanted to say “no one” and tell Rory to mind his own business, but that made no sense. She had nothing to hide. “He’s Tim Wilcox.”
“The American?” Rory turned to look again. Out of the corner of her eye Caera saw Tim studying Rory in return. “He dresses like an American.”
Tim wore jeans, a T-shirt with a picture of what looked like Johnny Cash, a gray scarf wound around his neck and a black jacket. Among the trousers and jumper-clad Irish, he did stand out.
Caera thought he looked a bit like a model, with his hair parted at the side, the forelock curling on his brow, his jaw square, lips finely cut.
“He’s looking at you,” Rory said, voice deepening.
Rory, I’m not yours to protect, Caera thought.
“We met earlier. He came in to Finn’s to test his fiddle.”
Rory turned back to her, the fight draining out of him at her words. He munched down a few fries, before adding, “That’s what she said.”
“What?”
“You said he came to ‘test his fiddle.’ That’s what she said.” Rory grinned at his own wit.
Caera threw a hunk of brown bread at him. Lifting her bowl, she drained the last drops of soup. She was just in time. The shift must have been changing in the hotel, because a reception clerk and two parlor attendants were hovering, waiting to join their table.
She stood, giving up her seat and bussing her plate to the far end of the bar, away from Tim. Quick as she could, she pulled up the ticket for their dinner and paid, prepared to sneak out and away to home.
She didn’t make it.
The first notes of a strummed guitar quieted and then raised a cheer from the patrons in the bar. The pack of wily old gentlemen from Cailtytown had their instrument cases up on their table, pint glasses carefully pushed aside. Next came a fiddle and another guitar. A triangle and tin whistle hit the tabletop.
One of them, an old farmer who could talk for Ireland, as the saying went, and God help the soul who he trapped in a conversation, stood while his friends drank and tuned their instruments.
His clear baritone, seasoned by years, filled the silenced room as he sang the first lines of “The Auld Triangle”, a song that was both sad and funny, about an execution day at Mountjoy Prison.
The others joined in, a multi-part harmony, all a cappella, each taking a verse, some with a quiet seriousness that reminded listeners the song was about men imprisoned, others with a devilish twinkle in their eye as they sang about the women in the female prison. When the song came to an end, the pub erupted in applause and good-natured heckling by those who knew the singers.
Caera jolted, remembering that there were professional musicians in the audience. This pub was part of the hotel, but in off times it was kept alive by locals and not-so-locals who came for the good craic. She didn’t want the musicians she’d brought here looking down their noses at locals who took up an instrument to play a session.
Stepping away from the terminal, she looked down the bar at Tim, who was lounging next to Paddy Fish. Paddy grinned and leaned over to say something in Tim’s ear, but Tim didn’t react, his attention riveted on the musicians.
The fiddler stood, took a mouthful of his pint, and tucked his battered fiddle under his chin.
“How about ‘Mairi’s Wedding’, my lads?” one man called out.
“We’ll be needing a lassie to dance for us, and I’m seeing the one I want. Sorcha, come up here.” Caera hadn’t seen her friend and housemate enter the pub for dinner, but at their request, Sorcha stood, pulling off her jacket and taking down her hair. Red waves fell down her back. There was a clatter and Caera looked over to see Séan Donnovan mopping up the spill from the pint he’d just knocked over.
When the chorus came, half the pub was singing as Sorcha held her arms at her sides and danced, her cheeks flushing with laugher.
Caera looked back to Tim, who was gazing around the pub with an expression on his face that was almost…wonder. Curious, she dodged between the swaying diners, the clapping hands and perched beside him.
His attention turned to her. “This is beautiful.”
Caera looked around. Only half the pub was singing, the music echoed oddly in a space that wasn’t designed for it and enthusiastic tabletop drumbeats only barely drowned out the clink of silverware. It was far from beautiful. It was good fun, nothing more.
“Why do you say so?” she asked.
“It’s…real. Paddy said those men aren’t professional musicians, they just play when they feel like it, and if someone else had an instrument, they would go up and play.”
“That’s the way of it.”
“That’s…that’s how music should be.” There was an aching sadness in his voice.
“I like it all right when it’s nicely planned in a place with proper acoustics.” Caera raised a brow, reminding him that he was a musician.
He grinned ruefully, seeming to take her meaning. “When I’m on the stage, the music is one-sided, and that’s nice when I have something new to say about the song or when I want to own the feelings, but sometimes it’s too much pressure to be alone in the music.”
Caera sucked in a breath. She knew that feeling, that aching fear.
Tim’s eyes were green as the fields in sunlight. His gaze held hers, and she felt that he could see inside her, know her, but that was impossible, she hadn’t even told him her name.
The ruckus calmed, the song changing. The guitars started a simple progression of notes, a slower, sad tune. “We’ll have ‘The Four Green Fields’ to honor those who lost land to road works.” There was a round of head-shaking. “I can’t do it justice. Caera, do us the honor.”
At the sound of her name, the spell broke and she took a breath, still gazing into his eyes.
“I think they’re asking for you, Caera.” Tim’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Her name on his lips was a surprise. It must have shown on her face, because he held out his hand. “We haven’t formally met.”
“Caera Cassidy.” She slid her hand into his, touching him for the first time. Her palm tingled from contact with his fingers.
Caera turned away.
She made her way to the front, where the music was already underway, just waiting for the vocals to cue the next measure. One of the boys patted her on the shoulder as she turned to face the pub. She took a breath, closed her eyes and let the notes fill her. Hands pressed to her belly, she started singing. “Four Green Fields” was a story of a woman who had four green fields, but lost her sons protecting that land, and before the song was done it was clear that the fine old woman of the song was Ireland herself, her fields the four provinces of the island.
A rebel song at its core, the song elicited both shouts of protest and sad nods, reminding them of what their fathers and forefathers had suffered and lost. Caera opened her eyes, watching the crowd as she finished the song. Almost everyone in the pub had stopped to listen. No silverware clinked when she sang. If glasses were raised, they were in toast to something in the song. In that moment she had power, the music made her whole.
The last note hung in the air. Caera wondered what Tim, who may not have even understood the song, thought. She didn’t want to look at him, afraid to find him apathetic, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Tim was up off his stool, looking at her with an intensity that was almost frightening. He started forward, bumping shoulders and elbows in his single-minded determination to reach her.
Caera slipped away, out the rear doors and into the rainy night.
*
Tim followed her out. As he stood in the soaking rain, he decided his day officially couldn’t get any weirder. It had started yesterday in JFK airport. Since then he’d traveled, he’d talked, he’d played beautiful mus
ic with a beautiful woman who disappeared the moment his back was turned. He’d followed an unknown feeling into an unused part of a castle, only to find a foreboding bricked over doorway that seeped cold air and activated his fight-or-flight response.
And now he was chasing a dark-haired angel into the rain.
Yep, it couldn’t get any weirder.
“Caera, wait!”
The exterior lights of the castle didn’t illuminate more than a few feet of the wet ground. In her dark sweater she was nearly invisible, but Tim heard the crunch of her feet on stone. He had no idea where he was. She’d gone out the rear door of the pub, exiting into what he assumed were the gardens at the back of the castle.
Squinting at the ground, he could make out the texture of the crushed stone path and carefully followed it as it curved.
“It’s raining, you should go inside.”
Tim jumped. “Holy fuck! You surprised me.”
Her voice had come from his right, off the path. He took a tentative step that direction. The rain pounding down on his shoulders and skull was gone, replaced by the occasional fat drop. He stretched a hand up, touched a leaf of the tree they stood under.
“‘Holy fuck’? That’s quite a thing to say.” Her soft lilt seemed right for the dark, rainy night.
“I’ve had quite the day.”
“Oh?”
“I think I encountered a ghost in your castle.”
“You went to the west wing?”
“So it is a ghost. I thought maybe Sorcha was playing for atmosphere or something. Do you all know about the cold, the ghost?”
“You don’t live for years at Glenncailty without an encounter at the walled room.”
“Is Ireland really like this, all mysterious women and old haunted castles?”
“Mysterious women?”
As they spoke, Tim had been inching his way towards her, using her voice to guide him. Her breathy question came from directly in front of him, so close he thought he could feel the words, cold on the wet skin of his neck.
“Yes, I met a beautiful woman playing a harp, but when I turned around she was gone.”
“I had work to do.”
“You didn’t introduce yourself.”
The swish of wind and rain cocooned them, filling the space between his comment and her eventual reply.
“There was no reason for me to be playing. I didn’t know how to introduce myself after you’d caught me where I shouldn’t be.” Her sigh was loud enough to be heard over the rain. “With a hotel full of fine musicians, I had no place on that stage.”
Tim laughed. He couldn’t help it. He threw back his head as the mirth rumbled out of him. “You’re kidding, right? You’re genius on the harp. I’ve never heard anyone jam on a harp before today, and you’re saying you don’t think you’re good enough? That’s just nuts. Plus, you sing like an angel. You had the whole bar eating out of your hand. It was magical.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.” Caera’s words cracked like a whip, catching Tim by surprise.
“What? Why?” Had no one ever told her how musically gifted she was? It seemed impossible that she wouldn’t know how special she was. A person could have all the technical musical skill in the world, but if they didn’t have that certain presence, that real understanding of what music was, the technical skill kept them stuck in a studio. Caera belonged in front of an audience.
“Don’t say things like that,” she demanded, her tone both angry and almost…afraid.
Her anger sparked his. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth.”
“I don’t play for anyone but myself; it doesn’t matter if I’m good.”
“Of course it does. You should be playing and singing with us tomorrow night, not selling the tickets.”
“Stop.”
Her hand pressed against his chest, as if to push him away. Tim caught her wrist, holding her palm flat against him. When his fingers touched her bare skin, awareness sparked to life between them.
He searched for and found her waist with his free hand and drew her forward. Now he could see her, just the outline of her body—dark against the gray shadows. Her sweater was damp and heavy under his hand, making him aware of how wet and cold he was.
She drew in a breath, one of those soft girl sounds. Tim tightened his hand on her hip. Her frustrating denial of her music was forgotten under the pressing need to kiss her.
“Was that your boyfriend you ate dinner with?” Tim’s voice was husky. The rain felt like shield, protecting them from the night, from other people, from reality.
“Rory? No, he works with me.”
“Good.” Tim drew her captured hand up to his face. Her fingers brushed his cheek as they curled into her palm, her hand fisting to avoid contact.
“Why?”
In reply, Tim kissed her closed fingers. They were cold, wet against his lips. Under the warmth of his kiss, they opened, her hand cupping his cheek.
“May I kiss you, Caera Cassidy?”
Tim had never asked a woman if he could kiss her. He’d always just gone in for the kiss or been the kissee, but in the dark, rain-filled Irish night, it felt right to ask this woman who seemed as wild and untamed as the rain itself.
“If I say no?” Her fingertips pressed into his cheek, her body swayed forward into his, their hips pressed together.
Tim cupped the back of her head with both hands and kissed her.
*
The pressure of his lips on hers was firm and cool. The air around her smelled of earth and rain, and though she was wet and cold, the kiss heated her in ways she both longed for and feared. He tilted his head to the side, his tongue touching the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth, letting him in as she brought her free arm around his waist. Caera tasted Guinness, steak and something uniquely him in the kiss.
His hands stroked her neck, roamed down her back, pressing wet clothing into her skin. She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said, breaking the kiss. “You need to get inside and warm.”
The concern in his voice touched her, though there was no reason his being protective should seem sweet when Rory’s irked her. “It’s just a bit of water, never hurt anyone. You’re the one who’ll need a hot shower.”
Caera reached up and touched his damp hair. He turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. Caera felt the touch of his lips all through her body. He was dangerous.
“May I kiss you again, Caera?” The words were puffs of warm air against her exposed wrist. She drew her hand away. This was crazy, unprofessional and dangerous. This man—Tim Wilcox—had stirred up too many feelings and dreams best left in the past.
“No.”
“Then I’ll ask you again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow we both have to work.”
“Then I’ll ask you when we’re done working.”
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t.”
Caera ducked around the far side of the tree before she could say or do something—like kiss him again—she’d regret. He was right. If he asked her again, she didn’t think she’d have the strength to say no.
* * * *
“That’s a fine way to wash the floor.”
Caera jerked, looking up.
Sorcha pulled off her jacket, adding it to the mound of coats on the hook by the door of their little cottage. Caera was standing in front of the sink, her wet jumper held loosely in her hands as it dripped on the floor.
Dipping her head, Caera lifted her sweater over the small kitchen sink, wringing the excess water out, then draping it over the radiator to dry. With that done, she grabbed a towel and mopped up the tile floor. Sorcha stepped over her and filled the kettle.
“How’re the guests?” Caera asked her friend and housemate. They shared a small cottage on Glenncailty’s grounds. The cottages had at one time belonged to the staff and workers who cared for the manor house. They’d fallen into disrepair, and all needed to be updated, but a few were h
abitable and Sorcha and Caera lived in one of the nicest. As Glenncailty turned a profit, Elizabeth was repairing and remodeling the cottages one by one into private guest accommodations. Until then, the staff lived in them for low rent, though the cottages lacked proper kitchens and the old stone walls let in the cold.
“Well enough. The musicians are loud, and drinking.” Sorcha looked at Caera as she poured water out of the boiled kettle into two mugs. “I thought you’d be there looking after them.”
Caera’s shoulder twitched with the need to go back and shepherd all the musicians to bed so they’d be well rested for the event. “They’re capable of taking care of themselves. And I’m sure it’s not the first time many of them have had a few too many before playing.”
Caera winced as she remembered a hotel floor littered with cans and bottles, the crushed and broken pieces a minefield between the door and where she huddled, half-naked in the corner.
“And your leaving early has nothing to do with singing or the American who followed you out?”
Caera sighed and grabbed the jug of milk, pouring a healthy drought into each of the cups Sorcha held out. Putting away the milk, she took one mug from her friend, sipping the piping hot, creamy tea before answering.
“Did anyone else notice him come after me?” Caera didn’t want to answer Sorcha’s question, so she asked one of her own.
“No.” Sorcha sat at the small table they’d placed in the kitchen. She scooted her chair closer to the radiator, her nose wrinkling as the smell of Caera’s wet wool sweater competed with the homey scent of milky tea. “I was watching him watch you.”
“Why?”
“He asked me about you. Said he’d seen a woman playing the harp in Finn’s.”
“That’s how he knew my name.”
“Were you worried that if he knew your name he’d steal you away, as if you were some Fae princess?” Sorcha’s eyes sparkled.
Caera smiled, but it was brief. “He heard me play. I’d taken my harp on the stage. I wanted to pretend, if only for a moment.”
Sorcha’s face creased in concern. She patted the table and Caera sat, elbows braced as she stared into her teacup.
“You shouldn’t hide from the gift you have.”
