Free The Irish Lover by Lila Dubois Page B

slightly taller
than her, but not nearly as tall as the massive orchestral harps.
Interested, he moved up the aisle that bisected the audience
chairs, focused on the shape of the harp and the intricate roses
carved into the base.
    The first note hummed, vibrating with a purity
of sound only the harp could produce. Then she sighed, a soft thing
of pleasure.
    For the first time, Tim focused on the woman
who played.
    She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever
seen.
    Waves of dark hair framed her face and fell
over her shoulders, mingling with the black wool sweater she wore.
Her skin was pale, her lips full. And her eyes, focused on the
middle-space beyond the stage, were a clear, pale blue. Late
afternoon sun beamed in the windows, highlighting the curve of her
cheek as she sat with one shoulder towards the floor to ceiling
windows behind the stage.
    She ran through scales, her fingers plucking
the strings with ease. Scales turned into a melody, a song he knew.
“Lament on Con O’Leary’s Wife’s Death” was an old song and a sad
one for all its beauty. Sad and beautiful, just the way he liked
it.
    The harp’s pure notes filled the air, but he
found himself watching her, almost forgetting the music. Her face
creased with grief, expressing the sadness of the song. Her body
rocked in time to the dirge-like pace, every fiber of her being
melded with the notes her fingers drew forth.
    Retreating silently, Tim picked up his fiddle.
She was improvising some, adding notes and refrains to the simple
song. Tucking the fiddle under his chin, he forced himself to stop
ogling her and hear the music. Some part of his brain was
translating what he heard into letter-notes, the tempo into musical
beats, but when he lay his bow to the strings, it was instinct and
skill that let him join her. First matching her note for note, then
taking off on his own path, turning her solitary song into a
fiddle-harp duet as he walked the long aisle from the back of the
venue to the stage.
    She looked up, blue eyes bright and sharp.
Their gazes met, held, and discordant notes sounded from both their
instruments as something passed between them. With the next breath,
she found the notes, brought them both back into the song. Shaking
himself free of the spell of her sapphire eyes, he joined her on
the stage, bending his body to her as they continued to
play.
    Her eyes, which had been assessing him, slowly
closed, a faint smile curling her perfect lips as she rocked in
time with the music they made.
    They reached a natural crescendo, Tim closing
his own eyes to focus. He didn’t need to see her, she was there in
her notes, the melody. The musical fever rose, then broke, slowly
fading to a smooth, sad finish.
    Tim opened his eyes.
    She had one cheek against her harp, her gaze
clear and steady on him.
    “You must be the American,” she said, in a
sweet Irish lilt.
    “Guilty.” Tim flashed her a smile, wondering
who she was. He knew, or knew of, all the other musicians
participating in Free Birds Fly, and she wasn’t one of them. At the
same time, she was too good a musician to be a tech or a roadie—not
that anyone playing this event had that kind of entourage anyway.
Maybe she was one of the TV crew who’d let him into the building.
That still didn’t explain why she was on stage playing a harp.
“What gave me away?”
    “You fiddle like an American.”
    “I don’t know if I should thank you or be
insulted.”
    She rose, stroking her harp in a way that
brought his attention to her hands. “No insult.”
    “Well, then thank you. I’m Tim.”
    She didn’t respond right away, instead her
fingers crawled the strings, another scale. “I know.”
    One of the main doors opened with a groan and
Paddy, his best and only Irish musician friend, strode
in.
    “Yank, come on. We’re to check in, and I’m
famished.” Paddy’s entrance shattered the moment—his shoes were
clacking on the stone floor, his voice loud and boisterous after
the