Duet (12 page)

He barely noticed the quiet youth who stared listlessly at nothing, head resting on his mother’s bosom, and paid little heed to the woman’s shocked gasp when she put her hand to the child’s brow and jerked her fingers away again as if burned.

L
ATER
, when Malcolm climbed the stairs to the tower, Aillil followed.

Once inside his room with the door shut, Malcolm’s shyness fled and he entered Aillil’s arms, turning his face up for the expected kiss. A soft graze of lips gave a second’s warning before Aillil plundered his mouth.

He ran his fingers over Aillil’s chest, and Aillil pulled away, promising, “Tomorrow. I’ve asked Angus to take my brothers fishing. Meet me by the wood on the road to the village at noon.” One more heated kiss and the Highlander slipped from the room, leaving Malcolm with much to think on with the words, “You will be mine.”

Madness! Sheer madness. No one knew his true desires here except for Aillil. That seemed so much less important now than when he’d left Kent. Aillil, despite a rocky start, had turned out to be a decent man, fiercely protective and loyal. The kilted Scotsman of Malcolm’s dreams also sped his heart simply by entering a room.

“
You will be mine.
” Malcolm took a deep breath, trying to steady his suddenly weak knees. This was it. For weeks Aillil had pleasured him with hand and mouth, never once taking his arse with anything more than a wetted finger. Did those words mean what Malcolm thought they meant; what he
hoped
they meant?

He risked everything with their trysts. How much worse for Aillil if they were discovered? For hours he lay awake, worrying over what could happen. Only after reaching a decision did he finally fall asleep. Like the day at the stream, he’d decided to place his trust in Aillil.

“
A
ILLIL
? Why don’t the village children have a teacher like we do?”

Leave it to Niall to ask that question. “Because laborers have no need of learning,” Aillil replied, unwittingly repeating the same answer his father gave when he’d asked the same question.

“Couldn’t they become more than laborers if they were educated? Doesn’t Father say that the English think us ignorant? Why are we proving them right?”

Ah, it seemed Niall had been listening to Old Maeve, for Aillil himself oft heard her speak of such. However, he posed an excellent question. Bless the lad’s soul for providing the answer to Aillil’s own dilemma of how to keep
Mael Caluim
close always. “If we started a school in the village, we’d need a teacher,” he mused aloud.

“Yes!” Niall responded, all bright-eyed enthusiasm.

As the village teacher, Malcolm would be nearby, and no one would question if the future laird paid regular visits—to check on students’ progress, of course. Ever since his first taste of the man in the little tower room, Aillil had thought of little else. It would be impossible to give Malcolm up. Thanks to Niall’s excellent suggestion, he might not have to.

Even after marrying and becoming laird, he could keep his lover with none the wiser. Oh yes, he liked the idea very much indeed. If he couldn’t have Malcolm at the castle, a local village would suffice. Teaching village youths would also greatly benefit the clan.

“Niall, I think that’s a splendid idea.” Niall glowed under Aillil’s praise. “I’ll definitely give it much thought.”

“Thank you,” his brother replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find Rory and the others. We’re going fishing.”

Yes, the lad had given Aillil a credible plan.

M
ALCOLM
strolled through a maze of trees, breathing in the clean scent of moss and heather. A combination of anticipation and a sudden unexpected chill crept up his spine, causing a shiver. A scant moment later, despite his excitement and it being noon, a huge yawn stretched his mouth wide. Was it the warm autumn day making him sleepy? Had he been up too late?

With four energetic youngsters underfoot, he reasoned, it was small wonder he was tired, especially when an afternoon’s freedom was so rare. The twin Callaghan males lived for creating havoc. What could one expect from the descendants of a warrior race? Their unruly ways didn’t stop Malcolm from caring deeply for them and their brothers, or from loving his vocation. The aching in his muscles was just mild fatigue, nothing at all to worry about.

Hearing a friendly shout, he stepped from the trees and onto the hard-packed earth of the village road, returning the greeting of a passing villager. A sturdy highland nag followed behind the man, its thickening coat heralding the coming winter. Knobby knees protruded from beneath the tartans the man wore in open defiance of English law. It seemed Aillil wasn’t the only one who refused to give up the kilt. More laborers appeared, leading horse-drawn carts filled with cut firewood. Malcolm stood watching them amble down the rutted lane before a snapping twig announced company. “I know you’re there, you can come out,” he called once the carts were safely out of sight. Thankfully, leaves and branches hid him from view of the stone fortress and any who might be watching from its shadowy recesses. It still paid to be cautious.

He sprang back, hand pressed to his mouth to stifle a shriek, when a dark blur dropped from above to lay sprawled on the ground, laughing. “You should see your face!” Aillil exclaimed, full of youthful mirth.

Malcolm feigned annoyance, then, unable to help himself, joined in the laughter. “You’re getting a bit long in the tooth to be climbing trees, are you not?” He extended one hand to the future laird. It seemed his charges weren’t the only Callaghans capable of mischief. Judging by the man sitting before him, mischief might be a hereditary trait.

Aillil grasped the offered assistance, hoisting his sturdily built body and nearly toppling Malcolm in the process. The Highlander stood a head taller and was much broader in the shoulder. After a moment’s intense gaze, the humor in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a lustful glimmer.

He pushed Malcolm against a tree, hand cupping his jaw. Callused fingers lightly stroked the down of one cheek.

“Aillil!” Malcolm hissed. “We mustn’t! Not out in the open like this. Think of your father!”

“What my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Aillil replied, leaning in to rub their lips together, the faintest of touches. “And none are here to carry tales back to him.”

Despite the confident words, tendrils of fear slithered through Malcolm’s belly. His entire existence in this place depended on Aillil’s father. No matter how highly prized by his students, if Eoghan discovered his and Aillil’s relationship, he wouldn’t be pleased. Beyond the wood by the stream, or in Aillil’s room was one thing, on the village road where anyone could pass by another entirely.

“I don’t understand what you want with me,” Malcolm murmured. “You’re the heir of a laird. One day you’ll lead your clan.”
And be expected to marry
remained unsaid.

“Shh…,” Aillil soothed, one finger trailing down the length of Malcolm’s nose. “Your blood is every bit as noble as mine. ’Tis no fault of yours you were the third son of your father and not the first. Besides, you’re hardly scullery help. You teach my brothers.” He grinned. “It’s too late for me.” The flash of white teeth set Malcolm’s heart to hammering once again, for different reasons.

“Despite my thick headedness,” Aillil continued, “you’ve also managed to teach me to play the violin passably when others failed. I want you. Must there be a single reason?” His thoughtful expression turned uncertain. “Are you saying it’s you who wishes to turn away?”

“No!” declared Malcolm. “My feelings should be obvious by the fact I met you here. I simply couldn’t bear making trouble for you by flaunting what we have in the open.”

Aillil’s sinful grin reappeared. “A dilemma easily cured. And you, little fox, could never be trouble.” While he spoke, he drew one hand through the fiery locks that fit the nickname, fingers urging Malcolm’s head toward his own.

Aillil’s tongue swept Malcolm’s lips, requesting entrance. Much more practiced than since their first awkward attempt, Malcolm opened his mouth, welcoming the invader. Their tongues slid together.

Pulling back enough to speak, Aillil asked in a seductive Scottish purr, “Come with me to the grove?”

Malcolm’s heart dropped to his stomach. This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for. The kiss left his knees shaking, his stomach fluttering, and his cock in serious need of attention. Consequences lost importance—he’d gladly follow Aillil anywhere. Nodded acceptance sent his curls bouncing around his face, escaping the ribbon tying them at his nape. Aillil clapped him on the back, leading the way into the trees.

B
RIGHT
sunshine greeted them when they stepped into a clearing. They spoke of music and horses and whatever nonsense occurred to them. Malcolm felt so alive and carefree, drunk on life and Aillil’s company and lost in a world completely their own. One perfect moment in time upon which nothing could intrude.

On all sides of the glen, the mountains rose majestic and proud, and Malcolm marveled at this wild, untamed place, worlds away from his former home in Kent. Oddly enough, despite the vast differences between the two, Malcolm found he didn’t miss his birth land at all. He supposed Aillil Callaghan contributed to that.

Aillil was like no man he’d ever met before, honest, proud, and who’d gladly lay down his life for loved ones or beliefs. For certain Aillil wouldn’t have suffered Thomas’s persecution, standing by and doing nothing. Could Malcolm possibly learn bravery from him, and absolve the guilt he’d harbored these many months?

Wait! Malcolm had stood up for someone. He’d taken on Fergus for Niall’s sake. It was one thing to think himself a coward in the school’s dining hall, with the actual threat passed. If he’d been on the steps of the molly house, would he have come to Thomas’s defense? He’d asked himself that question many times. This time, he came to a different conclusion.

It was easy to consider Aillil a hero, for that’s how he behaved always. Was a man less of a hero if he only displayed boldness when needed? In that instant, Malcolm knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would have defended his two fellow teachers.

Absolution came as a breath of air to a drowning man. He thanked the powers that be, and Aillil, for helping him to realize that, for a small, unassertive man, he did have strength when it counted.

Aillil’s hand on his arm brought him out of his thoughts. The grove lay a stone’s throw ahead. Reverent as any mystic, Malcolm crept forward, breath catching in anticipation. The moment of truth had arrived. For all the past discreet kisses and hasty fumblings in the shadows, today would be more than hands and mouths. He’d no longer accept the excuse of “The time isn’t right
.
” But once he’d had Aillil in truth, there would be no going back, not for him, anyway. Soon his body would belong to his bold Highlander—his heart already did.

When safely hidden from sight by the thick expanse of yew trees, Aillil lowered his mouth to Malcolm’s ear. “
Mael Caluim
,” he whispered, “will you give yourself to me?”

“Of course,” Malcolm murmured breathlessly, biting off the “
Yes!
” that immediately sprang to mind. “I was yours from the time I set eyes upon you.”

Aillil pulled back, a scowl speaking louder than words.

“All right, it was after that,” Malcolm confessed, “but it did happen eventually.”

Brown eyes smoldered with passion. “You’ll never regret this, my little fox. I promise you.” Malcolm shrugged out of his waistcoat. His rough woven shirt prickled when Aillil rolled it up and off his body, exposing smooth, white skin liberally mottled with freckles. The hunger in those dark eyes was unmistakable.

Aillil stepped away, tartan slipping from his shoulders along with his shirt. Fire shot through Malcolm, watching the Highlander reveal a finely made body. Broad shoulders tapered to a slender waist, and ripples of muscles covered Aillil’s belly. His legs were thick and as solid as tree trunks. The slightest movement caused his arms to bulge.

All Malcolm could think about was having that body pressed against his. The shirt fluttered to the ground to land on a bed of rich green moss. “One day, when I’m laird, you’ll be dressed in fine satin. Emerald, I think,” Aillil mused, “to go with your eyes.”

The words reminded Malcolm of how far apart they were in the world, for all their physical closeness. Aillil would one day take Eoghan’s place and would be expected to marry and carry on the family name. A male lover had no place in that future. To watch this man bind himself to another, take her to his bed, give her children, would be more than Malcolm could bear. Still, he’d take whatever Aillil could give, enjoying every minute while it lasted.

Being with the one he loved and hoped loved him in return—regardless of what Aillil said about love being for lasses—made everything else inconsequential. All that mattered was the two of them here now, together, and Malcolm refused to waste this opportunity worrying about something yet to happen.

The skillful fingers that had easily mastered the bow and violin divested Malcolm of boots and breeches, tossing them carelessly aside. Aillil unfastened his belt and unwound his kilt, spreading it upon the ground for a blanket. When they faced each other naked, Aillil’s heavy, dark cock rose proudly from a nest of ebony curls. Malcolm’s, fairer skinned and equally aroused, was surrounded by a thatch of reddish-brown. They stood apart, drinking in the sight of each other, then came together in a frenzy of mouths, hands, and engorged flesh.

Heated explorations were interrupted when, in their eagerness, they overbalanced and fell onto a bed of woolen plaid. Bright laughter filled the air before a shared, lustful gaze restored their passion. Aillil pushed Malcolm back onto the tartan and covered him, weight braced on powerful arms. His dark hair fell like a curtain around their faces, hiding them from the rest of the world.