Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (110 page)

Two wrongs might not make a right, but sometimes it seemed the only language that the other side understood.

He returned his attention to the papers beneath his hands, firmly blocking out thoughts of his wife and his home. His mind turned as a well-oiled machine to the intricacies of revolution and its tiny, yet crucial details. Such as how a man might design a workable drop system that wouldn’t require too many extraneous people. The British had discovered their last system far too quickly and damning documents had found their way to the barracks, resulting in the arrest and imprisonment of two key IRA figures in Belfast. Which led Casey to think there was a mole within the ranks.

He had a notion just who the mole might be, and thought he might know how to smoke him out of hiding with the proper bait. It would just take a bit of patience and cunning on his own part.

THE PUB WAS FILLED TO CAPACITY by the time Pamela arrived, light and raucous voices spilling out into the humid summer night. It was after nine and almost the hour that the Irish considered appropriate for getting down to the serious business of music and dedicated drinking. The air inside the pub, impossible as it seemed, was twice as thick and heavy as the air outside. The smell of spilled ale, whiskey sweat, and the general fug of too many happy human bodies in a small space, was overwhelming. She plucked at the bodice of her dress, looking about for a seat in a dark corner, hoping to remain invisible for as long as possible.

It soon became apparent that finding a seat was akin to locating the Holy Grail, and after politely refusing the not-so-polite offers of several male laps, she settled for wedging herself into the dark overhang of a set of stairs. She was barely thus accommodated when there was a stir in the thickest of the throng of people. Robin had taken his seat, and in accordance a hush started to ripple across all assembled. It was their third night here and obviously, the word was spreading. Robin looked cool and nerveless as he set about preparing his fiddle for the first set. Of Casey, there was no sign.

Robin drew the bow in a long shudder across the strings, the extended note shivering through everyone’s nerves, setting the anticipation. He settled the instrument more comfortably in the notch of his collarbone, experimenting with another drawn-out note before nodding with satisfaction. He paused for a second, letting the crowd fall into a strung silence, then shot a look of pure blue devilment across his fiddle and launched full-throttle into a hard, rollicking tune made to race in the blood. Pamela could feel her heartbeat begin to pulse along with the rhythm, could see others around her start to tap their toes and clap their hands in time with the merciless beat.

She caught sight of Casey seconds later as he took his stool next to Robin, settling his bodhran upon his knee. His fingers, slightly bent, splayed the surface, testing the tension of the skin and he shifted his shoulders under the crisp, white material of his shirt, readying himself for his part in the song. Robin paused for a half-heartbeat, giving Casey his cue.

While the fiddle rode the stretch of nerves directly along the spine, the drum settled itself in the more primitive parts, low in the belly, deep in the blood. It was primal, calling up the animal that had once danced when fire was the only light for darkness. It was also the most sexual instrument known to man. There was a reason, she knew, that drummers were second only to lead singers in allure. Casey understood the dark nature of the instrument and played it accordingly.

Together the two men performed like nothing she’d ever seen, the energy of one seeming to drive the other. People were clapping, feet flying beneath their chairs, a few up already and dancing, drawing rhythms and patterns with the click of bone against wood that they’d known since childhood. She, however, remained still, despite the hard thrum in her blood and the twitching of her nerves. Casey had yet to look up, but she knew he was as aware of her presence as if she’d sat upon his knee. So she watched him, riveted, and waited.

The tipper, tucked neatly between his index and middle fingers, flew in a blur across the taut skin of the drum, the rhythm flying faster and faster, building to a seemingly impossible crescendo. Both he and Robin’s shirts were soaked through by the end of the first melody, faces gleaming with sweat, and the two of them positively crackling with the joy of performance. Robin’s bow was such a flurry of movement she half expected to see sparks and smoke pour off it.
‘The man can play like the very devil himself,
’ Casey had said and witnessing it, she was inclined to believe that even Old Scratch would be hard put to match the sheer madness of Robin on the bow and strings. His eyes were shut tight in concentration, brow furrowed, tongue protruding slightly between brilliant white teeth and she knew every woman in the room was wondering if his intensity on the fiddle would be matched between the sheets.

She knew, though, that Robin was completely unaware of the women in the room at present. The music had swallowed him entirely, his every cell and synapse brought to its service.

He met Casey’s eyes suddenly, in a look she knew they must have shared a thousand times as boys, and got the answering nod. Robin slowed the tempo, skipping into a new tune without a discernible pause. A flurry of notes flew off the strings like liquid silver and then Casey answered it boldly on the bodhran.

Robin played with the audience, allowing the notes to fall down to the cadence of a lullaby, lulling them all, soothing the blood, tempering them to bend to his will, shaping them to the fit of his palm. It was a fleeting power, but in the moment, awesome in its scope.

They played a set of nine songs through, without pause, seamlessly sewing the end of one song onto the beginning of another. It was a river without respite, running its listeners onto shoals of emotion, extracting them without mercy. They seduced, they coaxed, they enchanted, they enthralled, and not a person in the building wished to be released from the spell. But even Robin’s bowing hand had its limits and at the end of the ninth tune, by some unspoken agreement they stopped, laying their instruments down. Robin paused to drain a glass of ale, filled to the point of foam flowing down his hand.

“A song or two more,” Robin said, wiping his forehead down with the ale-soaked hand, “an’ we’ll take a break. Any requests?”

A number of shouts greeted this question, but a comely girl in a low-cut blouse said something in a sassy tone that caught Robin’s eye and ear. He sent a wink and a nod in her direction before standing and speaking a word or two over his shoulder to Casey.

Casey in turn picked up his penny-whistle, blew a testing breath into it, then nodded at Robin. Robin closed his eyes, head tilted to the side, feeling his way into the opening notes of
Four Green Fields
. Pamela had heard it many times, it was a standard in Irish folk music, but she had never heard it as Robin sang it. He gave himself over to the emotion of it fully, drawing every person in the room with him to those four green fields red with blood and an old woman’s grief. His throat throbbed with the pain, crying to heaven then dropping to a whisper of raw feeling. Under his voice the old woman of the song became the Ireland of legend, the one each person still wanted to believe in. Her four sons the four ancient kingdoms of Ireland, the final field that lay in bondage—Ulster always un-free. There was not a dry eye in the house. The man was pure
seanachais
, born to mesmerize with his music. Casey kept the penny whistle deliberately low, following each note hand in hand with Robin. The melody wove like tattered ribbon round the anguish of Robin’s words, and the audience succumbed entirely, giving the proprietorship of their hearts over to the two musicians.

Robin bled the song for all it was worth, ending on a hoarse whisper, head down, eyes still closed as if in prayer. The silence was all-encompassing. Around Pamela, no one even took a breath. Casey sat still, penny whistle at rest on his knee. Then Robin’s head came up, blue eyes open, a weary smile in place. The place exploded in a riot of applause and shouts. Robin nodded his thanks and sat, looking suddenly like a mere mortal, and an exhausted one at that.

“One more then,” he said when the crowd quieted, holding up a hand to stave off requests. “Casey, ye’ve a song to sing for yer wife, have ye not?”

Pamela froze in horror at the words, looking for an escape route. However, a knotted chain of shoulders, arms, heads and legs presented no obvious pathway to deliverance.

Casey whispered to Robin and Robin tucked the fiddle back under his chin. Casey took a swallow of his ale and then, seeking his wife’s eyes through the thick haze of smoke and overly warm bodies, began to sing, voice pure and untainted as a first fall of snow.

‘Come over the hills my bonnie Irish lass,
Come over the hills to your darlin’
You choose the rose love
And I’ll make the vow
And I’ll be your true love forever.
Red is the rose that in your garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
And my love is fairer than any...’

Beneath the words the fiddle played lightly with heartstrings, Robin knowing well enough to let Casey’s voice do its job.

She knew heads were turning her way, but couldn’t see clearly through the tears that clouded her vision. Damn the man, he always knew how to get round her. She knew, though, despite the fact that he was very aware the song would soften her up, he also meant every word he sang, for such was the nature of his emotion. He stood, beginning the second verse, voice stronger, filled with longing, eyes burning a corridor direct between them.

‘Twas down by Killarney’s green woods that we strayed
The moon and the stars they were shining
The moon shone its rays on her locks of raven hair
And she swore she’d be my love forever...’

He began to move toward her, people melting away before the force of his voice and emotion. She could feel, as a physical entity, the pull of his need through the heat and smoke that wavered between them. She dashed away her tears with an impatient hand. Damn him for doing this in front of an entire roomful of strangers. His body could call her own without words and she knew the chemistry between them was palpable in the air, that people could see it, feel it. It was like being naked and on view for them all, and her body flushed beyond its already elevated temperature. The fine hair on her skin rose as though it too sensed his approach. She met his eyes for one moment and shook her head before fleeing the reach of that gaze and the penetration of his voice.

‘It’s all for the love of my bonnie Irish lass
That my heart is breaking forever...’

Behind her, she could hear the end of the song, Casey’s throat washing the words with heartache and unassailable grief. Fucking bastard, she thought furiously, emotional blackmailer with his silver-tongued Hibernian charm. Well she wasn’t so much fool as he was betting on! Yet the thought of him standing there in that crush of people, still singing, heart on display for all who cared to look, wrenched her as little else could have done.

‘Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
And my love is fairer than any
My love is fairer than any...’

The last words slid in her ear like liquid gold, pure and designed to rend down the hardest of hearts. She moved faster, elbowing a few oblivious drunks out of the way. She heard the fiddle start as she trod on someone’s stout boot and made it out the door. Casey had left Robin on his own, and was likely hard on her heels. She started to run, determined to get to the car and take swift leave before Casey found her and convinced her to do otherwise.

However, when she reached the grass verge where she’d parked the Citroen, it was to find it firmly clinched between two Cortinas. She glared at the cars, fore and aft, as if the sheer force of her frustration would cause them to move. It didn’t, so she kicked the front tire of the aft one, adding a few filthy epithets for good measure.

“Ye can curse at it ‘til yer blue in the face, darlin’, an’ it’ll not be encouraged to move. Yer stuck here for the present time, so ye’ll have to talk to me, like it or no.”

“Go away,” she muttered tersely, seeing the approach of his reflection in the car window, skin prickling happily at the sound of his voice.

He sighed deeply, a thoroughly taxed and Irish sigh. “How long do ye plan to keep runnin’ away from me? I think I can manage a few more minutes of this but not much past that.”

“Me?” she swung about, filled with indignation, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly he’d gotten to her in the pub. “You’re the one who’s not bloody well seen fit to come home for the last week.”

“After ye told me ye’d gut me like a pig on the telephone, did I so much as darken the door again, I thought it wisest to give ye yer space.” He snorted. “Or are ye sayin’ one thing an’ meanin’ another, like always?”

“You bastard,” she stamped a foot in frustration, “How dare you try to make this my fault!”

He advanced, glowering darkly, she retreated only to find her back up hard against the Cortina. “Oh I see how it is then, ye order me out of our home, tell me ye’d rather consort with a snake than have me ever touch ye again and,” he put a hand on either side of her, “then ye have the locks changed just to be certain I’ve gotten the point, but it’s my fault I can’t find my way into the house? I’ve half a mind to turn ye over my knee and give ye a tannin’ for what ye’ve put me through.” His mouth was so close to her ear that it stirred the curls she’d tucked behind it. Contrary to his words, he didn’t sound the least bit angry.

She was drowning in his proximity, breathing in the heat that came off him in waves. Half fury, half lust, with a pinch of whiskey added in for good measure.

“Why’d you sing to me in there, then?” she asked, clenching her hands tightly in an effort not to touch him.

“Well,” he said, lips brushing the sensitive rim of her ear, “I’ve heard as women are notoriously weak-willed concernin’ musicians,” he moved, effectively pinning her against the car, where she could have no doubt of his intention.