The Harp and the Fiddle: Glenncailty Castle, Book 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 a 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