I don’t need.”
“Then why do you…” She couldn’t count the number of times he looked at her, touched her, made it clear—she’d thought—that he was interested.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t sleep with you.” Rory shrugged casually. “But I can tell you think I’m jealous. I’m not. I’m worried.”
“About the event?”
“No, about you.”
“Why?” Caera was starting to feel like a broken record, starting to wonder if the whole day would be like this.
“Because you’re about to deal with your past, and it’s going to hurt you.”
Caera sat up, her eyes wide. Rory’s eyes were intense under his straight brows. This time she didn’t ask why he said that or what he knew. There was a tingle in the air, a feeling similar to the electric hum in the air at the Hill of Tara, the seat of the ancient High Kings of Ireland.
Caera nodded slowly, telling Rory that she’d heard him and that she understood what he was saying and what it meant.
The intensity faded from the air and Rory relaxed back into his normal self. He held up the paper she’d given him, studying the timeline and diagrams.
“You never told me,” she said, wondering how she could have missed that Rory was touched by the sight. Caera had a grandmother who knew things before they happened. She would get the same look on her face that Rory had just had.
“Do you think three valets will be enough?” he asked, gesturing to the page. The set of his shoulders indicated he didn’t want to talk about it.
After they went over the details, Rory took off to check in with the hotel. Caera returned to her place at the back of Finn’s Stable. Tim was seated with a guitar on his lap, head tilted to the side so his hair fell across his forehead as he listened to the Australian musician. The music stopped, and Tim and the other musician conversed in voices too quiet to be heard. Tim nodded and repositioned the guitar before he started playing. It was only the two of them and the sound tech, the others having wandered off.
Caera watched with envious admiration as they worked out the mash-up of two related songs. Their skill and musical knowledge was beyond her. Maybe she could have done what they were doing if she’d gone to Trinity, but she’d destroyed that dream when she left. It was good to remember that whatever skill she had with her harp or voice was a product of practice and a lifetime of music, not training and knowledge.
Caera leaned against the wall, soaking up the music. Her movement must have caught his eye, because Tim looked up. The sun was up today, light flooding the stable from the windows at Tim’s back. Caera froze, caught, before she reminded herself she had every right to be here.
Tim said something to the other man. The song they were playing cut off.
“Hey, Johnny, can you turn the mics on?” Tim shouted to the sound tech, though his gaze never left Caera.
Tim set down the guitar and picked up his fiddle. He remained seated, the fiddle tucked against his neck. The first notes stared, a familiar song that it took her a moment to place—“Shenandoah.” The Australian musician joined in with a guitar.
Tim changed the notes slightly, raising the tempo even as he layered the notes. Then he started to sing. Caera felt herself go soft, everything but the music fading away. It was always that way with great music. It reached into the body, touched a place of truth and emotion so raw that all the walls people built to keep that raw truth inside crumbled away.
Tears filled her eyes, tears of pleasure at the music, of sadness for the lovers in the song, divided by a great river.
“‘For her I’ve crossed the rolling water. Away, I’m bound away.’”
Tim was looking at her, their gazes held, as if there were nothing and no one in the world but her. He took the simple song to new places, adding swelling crescendos as the lovers were at their happiest, lowering and slowing the tone and tempo when he
“Then why do you…” She couldn’t count the number of times he looked at her, touched her, made it clear—she’d thought—that he was interested.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t sleep with you.” Rory shrugged casually. “But I can tell you think I’m jealous. I’m not. I’m worried.”
“About the event?”
“No, about you.”
“Why?” Caera was starting to feel like a broken record, starting to wonder if the whole day would be like this.
“Because you’re about to deal with your past, and it’s going to hurt you.”
Caera sat up, her eyes wide. Rory’s eyes were intense under his straight brows. This time she didn’t ask why he said that or what he knew. There was a tingle in the air, a feeling similar to the electric hum in the air at the Hill of Tara, the seat of the ancient High Kings of Ireland.
Caera nodded slowly, telling Rory that she’d heard him and that she understood what he was saying and what it meant.
The intensity faded from the air and Rory relaxed back into his normal self. He held up the paper she’d given him, studying the timeline and diagrams.
“You never told me,” she said, wondering how she could have missed that Rory was touched by the sight. Caera had a grandmother who knew things before they happened. She would get the same look on her face that Rory had just had.
“Do you think three valets will be enough?” he asked, gesturing to the page. The set of his shoulders indicated he didn’t want to talk about it.
After they went over the details, Rory took off to check in with the hotel. Caera returned to her place at the back of Finn’s Stable. Tim was seated with a guitar on his lap, head tilted to the side so his hair fell across his forehead as he listened to the Australian musician. The music stopped, and Tim and the other musician conversed in voices too quiet to be heard. Tim nodded and repositioned the guitar before he started playing. It was only the two of them and the sound tech, the others having wandered off.
Caera watched with envious admiration as they worked out the mash-up of two related songs. Their skill and musical knowledge was beyond her. Maybe she could have done what they were doing if she’d gone to Trinity, but she’d destroyed that dream when she left. It was good to remember that whatever skill she had with her harp or voice was a product of practice and a lifetime of music, not training and knowledge.
Caera leaned against the wall, soaking up the music. Her movement must have caught his eye, because Tim looked up. The sun was up today, light flooding the stable from the windows at Tim’s back. Caera froze, caught, before she reminded herself she had every right to be here.
Tim said something to the other man. The song they were playing cut off.
“Hey, Johnny, can you turn the mics on?” Tim shouted to the sound tech, though his gaze never left Caera.
Tim set down the guitar and picked up his fiddle. He remained seated, the fiddle tucked against his neck. The first notes stared, a familiar song that it took her a moment to place—“Shenandoah.” The Australian musician joined in with a guitar.
Tim changed the notes slightly, raising the tempo even as he layered the notes. Then he started to sing. Caera felt herself go soft, everything but the music fading away. It was always that way with great music. It reached into the body, touched a place of truth and emotion so raw that all the walls people built to keep that raw truth inside crumbled away.
Tears filled her eyes, tears of pleasure at the music, of sadness for the lovers in the song, divided by a great river.
“‘For her I’ve crossed the rolling water. Away, I’m bound away.’”
Tim was looking at her, their gazes held, as if there were nothing and no one in the world but her. He took the simple song to new places, adding swelling crescendos as the lovers were at their happiest, lowering and slowing the tone and tempo when he
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