Duet (11 page)

“Much better,” Aillil murmured against his lips. After that, Malcolm heard nothing else, not the bleating of sheep in the field or the burbling of the stream. All he knew was Aillil’s hands upon his skin, their tongues twining together. He no longer tried to hide his hardening cock. A discreet glance revealed he wasn’t the only one so affected.

Slowly, he raised his hand, resting it lightly upon Aillil’s chest. A moan of approval encouraged him, and he began to stroke the taut muscles, running fingers through a thick mat of coarse hair.

His logical mind shouted “Be afraid!” urging him to grab his damp clothes and run like a hound-chased rabbit. His heart argued that being with Aillil was so right, so tranquil. All timidity fled, leaving Malcolm bold and daring. He slid his hand lower, and when he passed it over Aillil’s belly, Aillil grasped his wrist, halting the exploration. “Not now, my little fox. Am I correct in my belief that you’ve never been with a man?”

T
HE
flush on Malcolm’s cheeks answered the question better than words. “I thought not.” Inwardly Aillil crowed,
I’ll be his first!
for in the space of a single day, he’d made up his mind. He wanted the Englishman, and intended to have him.
Aye, abit time ye gae courtin’,
he heard Maeve say. He swatted the memory away. Did she always have to be right?

“Have you?” Those clear green eyes refused to look at Aillil, and Malcolm’s complexion passed red, nearing purple.

Aillil answered honestly, “Aye, many times.”

Malcolm did look at him then, sadness in his eyes. “What’s it like? Is it all the poets say? Is it worth dying for?”

Aillil thought of his past adventures, some with men whose names he’d never bothered learning, and some of whom he counted among his friends. Would he have died for any of them? Would he lay down his life for Duncan? “Not in my experience,” he replied after much deliberation.

“Then what’s the point?” Malcolm appeared crestfallen.

Again, Aillil thought of his past lovers; not of his feelings toward them, but how they might have felt about him. A few had spoken of love. He’d taken the words for meaningless nonsense. Could they have been sincere? Would those men have died for him? “I suppose if you truly cared for one another, it might be,” he conceded.

Malcolm’s sadness turned to shock. “You bedded men you didn’t love?”

Was the man that naive?
“You think men couple because of love? Nay, it is for pleasure, an easing of physical needs. Love is for silly maids who require wooing to be bedded.”

“You’ve never loved? Ever?” The sorrow returned to Malcolm’s face and words.

“I have used a man’s hand, or mouth, occasionally his arse. It brought me pleasure, nothing more. I assure you that I wasn’t filled with the sudden desire to write sonnets.”

Aillil released Malcolm’s wrist and gazed out over the stream, lost in his thoughts. While he’d never loved any of the men he’d bedded in the past, was it possible that he could have, given time? He knew beyond doubt that loving a maid wasn’t going to happen. Could he love a man? He’d been quite fond of Duncan. In time, would the fondness have deepened?

Malcolm’s next question surprised him. “Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“When a man enters you, does it hurt?”

Aillil snorted. “No man has ever entered me.”

“When you said….”

Everything that needed to be was conveyed in one meaningful glare.

“Oh!” Malcolm exclaimed. “So you….”

“My lovers have serviced me.” Aillil believed his explanation sufficient. “And if you prepare a man’s arse properly with your fingers and oil first, it hurts very little.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Some claim to like a little pain.”

Malcolm’s own brows knitted together and creases appeared on his forehead. “You said you’ve taken a man’s mouth. Do they not bite?”

Aillil threw back his head and laughed. “No, little fox, they do not bite. Well, sometimes a bit. If they’re careful it adds to the pleasure.” He fixed his gaze on Malcolm, inspiring another blush. “Sometime I should show you exactly what I mean. Enough talk of others. I can think of far more pleasant ways to spend our afternoon.”

Aillil leaned in again, and when his tongue sought entrance into Malcolm’s mouth, it was granted.

U
NBEKNOWNST
to either of them, despite Aillil’s assurances, they weren’t alone. When they leaned in to share another kiss, curious eyes observed. In the shadows of the wood a watcher stood, confused by the scene playing out on the rock. He’d always believed that men who wanted other men were vile, reprehensible creature like Old Fergus, who sought boys for his bed.

Niall studied his teacher, concerned that he’d been overpowered. Aillil didn’t care for Master Byerly much, but he wouldn’t hurt the man, would he? No, the red-haired Englishman wasn’t bound or confined. A soft laugh carried on the breeze, a pleasant sound, too high-pitched to belong to Aillil. Did laughter mean that whatever happened on the rock was consensual? Aillil and Malcolm both desired other men? Didn’t only bad men do that?

Their kissing and shared embrace differed from what Niall knew of Fergus, for these were two good men, men he trusted, and neither seemed unhappy about their circumstances. Strange, very strange. They appeared more content together than he’d ever seen them alone. He’d followed his older brother often enough in the past to establish that no mistresses dwelled nearby. Now he understood why.

He finally decided on the one person who could explain. Sparing a last glance at the pair sunning on the rock, Niall eased back into the wood, making his way to the nearest village.

“I
HAVE
one thing more to show you,” Aillil said, once they’d dressed. Malcolm’s sun-dried clothes were warm against his skin. A well-muscled arm wrapped around his shoulders, steering him through the meadow and toward a stand of trees in the distance. Aillil directed him down a worn path and into the midst of a ring of evergreens. Their branches swept the ground, offering ample concealment from prying eyes.

“This is a sacred place.” Aillil stood tall and proud, and Malcolm pictured him as a Scottish hero of legend. “The Druids used this grove for their ceremonies, and my grandfather was named Laird of the Callaghans within this circle of trees.” Aillil’s face twisted into a scowl. “My father chose the great hall instead.”

Based upon everything Malcolm learned of Eoghan, he wasn’t much for tradition, unlike his heir, who held fast to bygone ways heedless of the possible cost. “And what of you? When your time comes, will you be named Laird Callaghan here?”

“Aye.” A gentle breeze stirred the branches and ruffled Malcolm’s hair. A smile emerged from within the dark nest of Aillil’s beard. “The yews agree with me.”

Without his former arrogance, Aillil made a most pleasing companion, and Malcolm could clearly picture him in the role of laird, receiving clansmen’s oaths of loyalty within the yew grove.

Aillil smirked when he caught Malcolm watching, lips descending. Malcolm, now much more self-assured, met Aillil halfway. When their tongues joined, the breeze wrapped around them like a blanket, the fluttering of leaves like the voices of the ancients. When they parted, Aillil smiled. “My little fox,” he said, “I believe the spirits who are said to dwell here approve.”

Aillil’s eyes roved to the tops of the trees. He sighed and stepped away. “As pleasant as the afternoon has been, the sun is setting. Come, we’ve been gone long, and my brothers will think us lost.”

They made their way back to the castle with the sun low in the sky. Aillil pointed out native plants and flowers along the way, describing medicinal uses for some. He was a totally different man from the intimidating English-hater Malcolm had met that first day. Instead, he more resembled the hero the younger Callaghan boys spoke of. When they arrived back at the stone walls of their home, Aillil paused. “The Highlanders are not so harsh as the
Sassenach
.” Malcolm flinched at the word. “Still, we must be discreet.”

Aillil’s playful smile softened the blow. “Discreet we must be, but mark my word,
Mael Caluim
, we
will
be.” He planted his lips against Malcolm’s briefly before stepping from the shade of the apple trees that flourished within a stone’s throw of the castle. Malcolm paused, tracing his fingers over the path Aillil’s lips had taken before following.

That night, when the boys ambled off to bed and Malcolm ascended to the tower room, Aillil waited inside the door. He dropped to his knees without warning, opening Malcolm’s breeches. The moment his lips touched Malcolm’s cock, it sprang to full hardness.

“Ahhhh!” Malcolm exclaimed, grabbing the door frame for support. Indescribable pleasure surrounded his flesh. Aillil proved his earlier point, the light scrape of teeth exquisite, and in no time at all Malcolm bit his fist to muffle his cries. He expected Aillil to pull away when he came. Instead, the Highlander took him in deeper, moaning and accepting the offering.

Malcolm braced against the doorway, incapable of rational thought. Aillil rose and pressed his hard length against Malcolm’s flagging one, sealing their mouths together. The kiss bordered on brutal, filled with a musky, unfamiliar taste. Aillil lifted his kilt and bucked against Malcolm’s belly, desperate moans filling the air. He stilled, groaning into Malcolm’s mouth while spattering them both with seed. They leaned against each other for support, panting in the aftermath.

Finally Aillil straightened, smoothing down his garment with one hand and cupping Malcolm’s cheek with the other. “Goodnight, my little fox,” he said, imparting another kiss. He opened the door and slipped through, taking Malcolm’s heart with him.

Malcolm stood in the doorway, breeches around his knees, until the sound of boot heels receded into silence.

Eight

B
Y
THE
light of the hearth fire, Aillil mimicked Malcolm’s finger placement on the strings of his own violin. With Eoghan in Inverness there was no need to hide, either violin or newfound esteem for his brothers’ teacher.

Each and every night after the boys retired, Aillil and Malcolm found a secluded place to practice. Sometimes they made use of Malcolm’s room, sometimes Aillil’s. They each learned the other’s favorite tunes, but the best sessions, the most memorable, were when they collaborated to write their own. Whatever they played or for however long, the evening always ended with passionate kisses and eager hands or mouths on hard flesh.

Tonight would be an exception, for the boys lay sprawled upon the floor of the great hall, joined by the household servants and a few souls who’d wandered up from the village. Old Maeve sat in the corner, surrounded by her usual brood of youngsters. Some Aillil knew were hers, some foundlings. Maeve claimed them all, like she had him and his brothers after their mother died.

Occasionally, Aillil stopped playing to observe Malcolm demonstrating a difficult piece, other times he’d join in, and still others, lead, particularly during traditional Highland reels.

The hall, normally so empty, now reminded Aillil of his grandfather’s days, when all seats at the long table were filled every evening and the sounds of laughter and conversation echoed off the stone walls. When he scrutinized their audience, Aillil noticed how well the locals had taken to the newest addition to the Callaghan household, clapping, dancing, and singing Malcolm’s praises. “
Sassenach
” had lately become a term of reverence, it deemed an honor to tell one’s friends, “I gae tae hear th’
Sassenach
,” for it meant attending an evening’s performance at the castle.

The clan apparently accepted the newcomer for their own, following Aillil’s example in calling him
Mael Caluim
. Now, sitting out a tune, he watched those assembled, every eye trained on the handsome musician, filled with pride for his
Mael Caluim
. Wait!
His
Mael Caluim
? Where had that thought come from?

Aillil’s scanned the room, this time discerning several young people with far more interest in their eyes than in their parents’. The icy grasp of jealousy clutched his heart. Malcolm could pick and choose from among most of the lasses and a few of the lads judging by their open adoration.

When those shining emerald eyes met Aillil’s, something flared in their depths, something missing from Malcolm’s interaction with the villagers. And Aillil’s affection for the teacher far surpassed any he’d carried for Duncan. The intensity of his craving hit like a blow to the head. He hadn’t truly claimed the Englishman yet, hadn’t answered the man’s question of what it felt like to be taken. How could he possibly be thinking such thoughts? His cock grew painfully hard. In that moment he knew. Knew he would have Malcolm fully, and for more than the short term.

He recalled their afternoon by the stream and their trip to the grove. Why he’d felt compelled to share that special place with an outsider, he didn’t know, he’d just been filled with the intense need to do so. Maeve told tales of the old days when lovers met in the grove to be blessed by the spirits of the ancestors. Well, he lived to uphold Scottish tradition. The Englishman would be his, and their first true coupling would take place amidst the sacred yews. His decision reached, Aillil picked up his violin and joined in the next melody.