Duet (23 page)

Billy had never ventured upstairs before, but had a good idea of their destination, and his anticipation soared. A door quietly shut behind them and a rich Scottish burr husked,
“
Open your eyes.
”
The hand slid from his face.

Billy’s eyes flew open and he stared in shocked amazement. The familiar bed, the trunk, the mirror, the chair. He’d been to this room before! His guide smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. A hand on his back ushered Billy toward the enormous bed, then slipped beneath his shirt to tease the thin patch of hair above his trouser band.

“
I want you,
”
the ghost murmured against Billy’s nape, whiskers tickling sensitive skin. Billy shivered, not from cold, but from arousal. A second hand joined the first, and his dream lover stripped the shirt away, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Gentle hands stroked his sides, turning him, and dark, lust-filled eyes left Billy feeling more desired than ever before. Cock already hard and aching, he feared he’d come immediately from a single touch.

“
Do you trust me?
”
his phantom lover asked.

“
With my life,
”
Billy replied. He watched, fascinated, as the spirit’s lips descended, drawing ever closer.

A faint meeting of lips, like a shy hello, and then the gentle exploration escalated into something deep and passionate. It’d been far too long since Billy had received the attention of another, and the craving for this man rose to nearly unbearable. The kilted Scot reached down and squeezed Billy’s erection with a strong hand.
“
It seems you missed me, too,
Mael Caluim
.
”

Billy woke abruptly, still feeling lips upon his skin. Why did he have to wake up now? Why couldn’t he have finished the dream?

With a start, he realized the late hour. The sun had long since set. If he intended to play a concert tomorrow, he needed to get to work. The scores Neil provided, traditional Scots’ tunes from Aillil Callaghan’s time, were difficult and required hours of practice. He didn’t need a manager’s gentle scolding to know how important a flawless performance would be for the video; he fully appreciated the benefits of reaching potential new fans.

Wait a minute! Where was his violin? He panicked, looking down at his empty lap and frantically searching around the chair. A sigh of relief escaped when he found his violin lying on the floor, resting on a plush rug. Thankfully, the instrument appeared unharmed. Had he put it there before falling asleep, without remembering? He’d been pretty tired. Now he felt surprisingly well-rested for having spent a few hours in the chair.

As he recalled the vivid dream, he glanced up at the portrait, relieved to find the Lost Laird gazing down with an enigmatic smile. Billy’d half expected to discover the man missing. The dream had been so real. A tantalizingly masculine scent played on his senses, and he raised a hand to his cheek, expecting to find whisker-abraded skin. He stood, staring up at the painting. The words were out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to question them. “Aillil, your little fox has come home.”

Aillil? Little fox? Now where did that come from? He replayed the dream and the endearment of the Highlander: “My little fox.”
It’s a dream,
he told himself,
an anxiety-induced dream.

He decided doing something normal might help overcome the silly notions taking up residence in his mind since arriving at the castle. He’d always prided himself on practicality. Now to believe in ghosts?

He placed his sheet music on a nearby table and positioned the violin, the wood against his skin comforting. Raising the bow, he began playing the first melody. When a second violin joined in, he stopped immediately. The hall fell silent. He must have imagined it. Again he put bow to instrument and, once more, clearly detected two violins. He stopped, so did the other violin. Recalling Neil’s words, “
The acoustics in this room are amazing,
” he fought against the tendril of fear curling to life in his belly. Those were no mere acoustics. His heart pounded.
Relax, Billy. You’re scaring yourself. Nothing’s there. Relax.

Slowly, he expanded his lungs, exhaling even slower.
Easy, Billy, easy.
Of course there was a logical explanation. His own playing reverberated off the stone walls, like Neil said. Did the coolness of the evening cause the phenomenon? He raised his violin, feeling a bit foolish, when another thought occurred to him, his reason for being in the castle to begin with.

“Aillil,” he breathed, wondering why the name tripped from his tongue so easily, as though he uttered it every day. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. What had the Internet article said? How did the legend go? That the Lost Laird would play the violin in hopes of bringing back a lost lover?

Billy focused on breathing deeply and steadily, trying to reclaim rational thought. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said out loud, willing his hammering heart to believe. The words bounced off the walls, filling the cavernous space. Determined to get on with practice, he began playing again, ignoring the second violin when it joined in.
It’s the room, it’s just the room.

When he’d finally mastered the piece to his satisfaction, he lowered the bow and spoke loudly, “Gee, the acoustics really are amazing in here.”

Seventeen

T
UCKED
into bed in the guest cottage, Billy slept like the dead. Once again, the Highlander appeared in his dreams, and like before, Billy awakened too soon, cock hard and begging for relief. Remembering the previous day in the castle, and the sense of not being alone, deflated it.

A gripping, forlorn tune, leftover from his dream, stuck in his head: “
Chi mi ’n t-iasgair aig ceann nan lionan
….”

Feeling the need to be among people, Billy called a former instructor who currently taught a master’s class in Inverness.

“You’re in town? Marvelous! If you’re not busy, why not drop by the school? My students will be thrilled to meet you.”

Billy took a taxi into Inverness, hoping to say hello and listen to a few promising musicians. Instead, he found himself introduced as an honored guest.

“Class, I’d like you to meet William Malcolm Byerly.” Curtis Everham stood beside Billy in the center of a circle of chairs occupied by hopeful musicians, most barely past their teens and all staring in fascination. Billy found their gawking awkward. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the name, since I play his CDs for you on a regular basis.”

Billy felt a blush creep up his cheeks as he recalled his not-so-long-ago days under this man’s tutelage.

“How old were you when you started playing?” a lanky young man asked, face partially hidden by a fall of light brown hair. He appeared the typical, bored college student except for the keen intelligence shining in his eyes, and the long, slender fingers constantly in motion—violinist’s fingers.

Billy smiled. He’d talked to classes before, and no matter the age of the students, they all asked the same questions. What the guy really meant was,
Will I have a chance to play professionally, like you, or did I start too late?

“I was four,” Billy replied. A smug smile appeared on the man’s face. Oh, the brunet had started young too, had he? “Actually,” Billy clarified, “according to my grandfather, I was drawn to the violin before I could walk. He recounts, at great length, a couple of near misses when I almost destroyed his favorite. Let that be a lesson to you. Never leave your instrument out of its case.”

His attempt at humor earned a giggle from some of the girls. The brunet observed Billy closely, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Where are you playing next?” a young woman asked, appearing a little too fascinated, not in the answer, but in
him.
Apparently, she’d never read the American tabloids that linked him with various actors, singers, the occasional athlete or two, with the odd male model thrown in for good measure. To Billy’s great misfortune, they were merely friends, with the occasional “friend with benefits.” All were busy with their careers, which wasn’t conducive to settling down. The football player created the biggest scandal, one Billy resented because rumors of their whirlwind romance weren’t true—darn it. While never flaunting his lifestyle, he didn’t believe in hiding his orientation, either.

Billy flushed hotly under the collar and cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the flirting. Unlike some gay men of his acquaintance, he’d never experimented with the opposite sex and, except for Neil’s fiancée, didn’t have any close women friends. Lisa liked to tease that he was afraid of them. Looking now at the one before him, twining a strand of hair around her finger and pursing her lips (dear Lord, did she wink?), he was inclined to agree.

“I’m playing October 31 here in Inverness,” he somehow managed to say around a too-thick tongue. Hoping she wouldn’t imagine encouragement where none existed, he threw in for good measure, “In case any of you would like to attend.”

The woman turned a blind eye to the
I’m not interested
signals and crossed her long legs, allowing her impossibly short skirt to slide up one thigh.

Their teacher conveniently placed himself between Billy and the lacy pink panties she showed off and asked, “William? Would you do us the honor of playing?” While most people called him “Billy,” Curtis always insisted on “William.”

Relieved for the save from an uncomfortable moment, Billy replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He unlocked his case and reached inside, intending to remove his normal, concert violin. Of its own volition, his hand crept to the other side of the double case, pulling out the instrument from Edinburgh.
An intermediate piece
, he decided,
fun to play, not too demanding
. The moment he began, the magic of the violin suffused his playing, transporting him to another world.

Enraptured by music, it took a moment before the sound of a second violin registered. What? Here? Anxiety gripped him until he looked up to see not a kilted Highlander, but the young man who’d questioned him. Their eyes met and they shared a smile. Turning to face the audience, they began a lively competition of “dueling violins,” much to the delight of Dr. Everham and the other students.

“Way to go, Kenny!” a student yelled.

“Whoo-hoo! You go, boy,” shouted another.

The kid was a few years younger than Billy and possessed a lot of talent. So much talent that keeping up with him proved difficult. Grinning like maniacs, they moved on to more challenging pieces, putting each other through their paces, each trying to one-up the other.

Caught up in the sheer joy of playing, Billy glanced over at his rival. Instead of a smiling young student, he glimpsed a dark-haired, dark-eyed man, sensuous lips surrounded by a well-groomed beard and moustache.

The teacher, students, and classroom disappeared, and Billy found himself in an alternate reality, nothing new while performing, only this time he wasn’t alone.

They stood in a cavernous room, lit by a roaring fire in an enormous fireplace—the great hall of Callaghan Castle. It appeared differently than it had the previous night. Billy sensed, rather than saw, a small audience. Normally, he closed his eyes whenever playing; now he kept them open, not daring to blink for fear he’d miss one moment of gazing at the man next to him.

All his life, Billy had gravitated toward men with dark hair and eyes. Facial hair added a big plus. Throw in remarkable skill with the violin and the man currently in his sight was, in a word, perfect. While Billy was used to his body’s wholehearted agreement with his brain’s choices, for the first time his heart wanted in on the vote. Something deep inside it twanged.

The piece they performed was one that had magically risen from the violin the night of the concert, and they played together like they’d practiced for years. In fact, everything—the man, the room, the hidden spectators, all seemed to belong in his memories somewhere. With a wicked wink, the man launched into a stunning cadenza, daring Billy to follow.

As his fingers flew upon the strings, the world narrowed down to the two of them, which suited Billy fine. Instinctively, he knew the man was all he needed, all he’d ever need.

The fire dimmed, the walls faded, and Billy felt himself slipping away from the momentary paradise. He tried to stop the slide between his fantasy world and the lonely reality that awaited.
“
No!
”
he screamed. Violin trills drowned the words.

Powerless to stop the transition, the one he’d waited his whole life for dimmed from view. Comforting reassurance appeared in the man’s eyes.
“
Not to worry, my little fox. We’ll meet very soon.
”
The phantom musician disappeared in a swirl of green and red.