Read Online Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) by Clare Austin - Free Book Online
Authors: Clare Austin
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her direction and smiled. “I’ll be begging for my librarian job back.”
A laugh bubbled to the surface and Muireann couldn’t hold it back. “You’re a librarian?” The only librarian she had ever known was Mrs. Murphy, with a voice never raised above a whisper, putrid breath, and glasses thick as fence insulators.
“Please don’t judge me by that,” he retorted with a grin. “I play a decent mandolin when pressed into service.”
“I seem to recall you playing the electric guitar and wanting to be the next Phil Lynott.” All else being equal, she’d always thought musicians made the best lovers. It must be about rhythm and timing.
“A lot less rock and roll in my life now,” he said with a chuckle. “I like to think of myself as a storyteller, a seanchaí.”
A seanchaí. A wandering teller of tales steeped in Irish lore. Gallant and clever as well. “Hang a left here.” She was forced to grip the dash as he whipped around a sharp turn. “Sorry.”
They passed the ruins of Bertie’s place and the notorious whitethorn tree. “I’m another kilometer straight ahead.” Now that she knew he was still into music and hadn’t become an investor from some European Union conglomerate, Muireann started to relax. “What really brings you to Ballinacurragh, Ty?” She had to ask, even if the answer would be less than she hoped.
“You don’t think I’d come all the way here to find a pretty girl from my past?” He cleared his throat. “Okay, in all honesty…partly on business, you might say.”
“Oh.” She wanted in a big way to ask what kind of business, but restrained her curiosity. “When I first saw you earlier today, I didn’t recognize you, but I knew you weren’t from around here.”
He glanced at her and back to the road ahead. “What made you so sure?”
Muireann couldn’t help but chuckle. “Possibly because you’re staying at my aunt’s B&B, you drive a hire car, you don’t dress like a culchie, and you have nice shoes.”
“Very observant.” He grinned and she felt fresh heat rise in her cheeks. “Anything else?”
“Certainly.” Muireann turned in her seat to watch his expressive face. “I didn’t know you.”
“And you know everyone?” He raised an eyebrow.
One eyebrow. Who can really do that? It gave a sexy tilt to his grin. She forced herself to look away. “Ballinacurragh has exactly two hundred thirty-five residents—that’s excluding the priest and the tinkers in the caravan parked at the traffic circle—and I’m related to two hundred thirty-two of them.”
“What about the other three?”
“Two of them are men I’ve dated. One is the banker.”
“Hmm. Then the man who you refused to talk to until ‘hell freezes over’ is either kin, an old boyfriend, or—”
“Give me a bit of credit here,” Muireann interrupted. “That shitehawk doesn’t share a DNA strand with me, and I’d have to be more than desperate to be shaggin’ him.”
“That leaves one option.”
“There’s my place.” She pointed off to the right. “You can drop me here.” No need for him to come all the way up her muddy, rutted road and give her an excuse to invite him in for a cup of tea. She was the first to admit her track record with men hadn’t been stellar. Today had been a long day and her judgment could suffer lapses.
Only a few hours ago, not knowing who he was, she had flaunted her naked body shamelessly for his viewing. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, Muireann was certain he remembered. But Ty was unusual, entertaining, and Muireann had a strong need to sort him out.
“I’ve come this far.” He turned up the lane and parked the car. Before she could jump out, give a quick thanks, and say “Slán,” he was at the passenger door.
Muireann tried to clench her teeth together to prevent herself from saying the next words. Call it force of habit, the deep-rooted Irish penchant for hospitality, or pure curiosity, she failed. “The least I can do
A laugh bubbled to the surface and Muireann couldn’t hold it back. “You’re a librarian?” The only librarian she had ever known was Mrs. Murphy, with a voice never raised above a whisper, putrid breath, and glasses thick as fence insulators.
“Please don’t judge me by that,” he retorted with a grin. “I play a decent mandolin when pressed into service.”
“I seem to recall you playing the electric guitar and wanting to be the next Phil Lynott.” All else being equal, she’d always thought musicians made the best lovers. It must be about rhythm and timing.
“A lot less rock and roll in my life now,” he said with a chuckle. “I like to think of myself as a storyteller, a seanchaí.”
A seanchaí. A wandering teller of tales steeped in Irish lore. Gallant and clever as well. “Hang a left here.” She was forced to grip the dash as he whipped around a sharp turn. “Sorry.”
They passed the ruins of Bertie’s place and the notorious whitethorn tree. “I’m another kilometer straight ahead.” Now that she knew he was still into music and hadn’t become an investor from some European Union conglomerate, Muireann started to relax. “What really brings you to Ballinacurragh, Ty?” She had to ask, even if the answer would be less than she hoped.
“You don’t think I’d come all the way here to find a pretty girl from my past?” He cleared his throat. “Okay, in all honesty…partly on business, you might say.”
“Oh.” She wanted in a big way to ask what kind of business, but restrained her curiosity. “When I first saw you earlier today, I didn’t recognize you, but I knew you weren’t from around here.”
He glanced at her and back to the road ahead. “What made you so sure?”
Muireann couldn’t help but chuckle. “Possibly because you’re staying at my aunt’s B&B, you drive a hire car, you don’t dress like a culchie, and you have nice shoes.”
“Very observant.” He grinned and she felt fresh heat rise in her cheeks. “Anything else?”
“Certainly.” Muireann turned in her seat to watch his expressive face. “I didn’t know you.”
“And you know everyone?” He raised an eyebrow.
One eyebrow. Who can really do that? It gave a sexy tilt to his grin. She forced herself to look away. “Ballinacurragh has exactly two hundred thirty-five residents—that’s excluding the priest and the tinkers in the caravan parked at the traffic circle—and I’m related to two hundred thirty-two of them.”
“What about the other three?”
“Two of them are men I’ve dated. One is the banker.”
“Hmm. Then the man who you refused to talk to until ‘hell freezes over’ is either kin, an old boyfriend, or—”
“Give me a bit of credit here,” Muireann interrupted. “That shitehawk doesn’t share a DNA strand with me, and I’d have to be more than desperate to be shaggin’ him.”
“That leaves one option.”
“There’s my place.” She pointed off to the right. “You can drop me here.” No need for him to come all the way up her muddy, rutted road and give her an excuse to invite him in for a cup of tea. She was the first to admit her track record with men hadn’t been stellar. Today had been a long day and her judgment could suffer lapses.
Only a few hours ago, not knowing who he was, she had flaunted her naked body shamelessly for his viewing. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, Muireann was certain he remembered. But Ty was unusual, entertaining, and Muireann had a strong need to sort him out.
“I’ve come this far.” He turned up the lane and parked the car. Before she could jump out, give a quick thanks, and say “Slán,” he was at the passenger door.
Muireann tried to clench her teeth together to prevent herself from saying the next words. Call it force of habit, the deep-rooted Irish penchant for hospitality, or pure curiosity, she failed. “The least I can do
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