Duet (24 page)

“Mr. Byerly, are you okay?”

Someone tugged on his sleeve, and Billy gaped at the brunet student staring at him, blue eyes full of concern. When had they quit playing? Disoriented and trying to separate vision from reality, Billy fabricated a convenient lie. “A touch of indigestion, nothing to worry about.” Desperate to change the subject, he managed a tremulous, “You play superbly, by the way.”

A dazzling smile replaced the man’s alarm. “Thank you, sir. I’m Kenneth, Kenneth Boyd. Please call me Kenny, all my friends do.” Bouncing on his heels, energetic and excitable, the boy reminded Billy of a puppy. “Thank you also for letting me play with you. Wait ’til I tell my da I played with William Byerly! He’s a huge fan.” Something in his Scottish-tinged accent stirred a memory that danced out of reach before fully forming. Why did his voice seem so familiar?

The rest of the class proved uneventful, save for a deep sadness Billy couldn’t shake. He’d grown accustomed to nocturnal visits; now it seemed the persistent spirit had crossed into his waking moments too. He was tired, that’s all. Weeks of nonstop touring had taken their toll, which must be the reason he kept hallucinating. Thankfully, the class required little of him after his impromptu recital, and he dutifully listened to the students, murmuring compliments and words of advice.

When the class ended, he bid his former teacher and the students good day. He’d barely left the room when the sound of hurried footsteps caused him to stop.

Kenny caught up, ramming both hands into his pockets. “Can I walk you out?” His weight shifted from foot to foot. Billy pictured those lively blue eyes in another face, framed by darker hair. A name whispered through his consciousness: Thomas. Thomas? Who was Thomas?

Billy nodded and Kenny followed him outside, opening his mouth a few times and closing it without saying anything. They stepped onto the curb. “So, you’ve got a concert coming up.” Billy strained to catch the mumbled words. More foot shuffling and throat clearing followed. After several moments Kenny blurted, “What are you doing for lunch?” The words all ran together.

Used to straightforward approaches from more mature admirers, Billy had to admit the coy schoolboy routine came across refreshing and possibly genuine. “How did you know I was gay?” He tried to hide a pleased smile. Many wanted to be with him because of his profession and the few recordings to his credit, for not only rock stars attracted groupies. However, this man actually seemed to see
him
. Billy found Kenny’s attention flattering, and they quite literally made beautiful music together. Still, Billy didn’t believe his orientation widely known outside of the United States. Perhaps Kenny did read the tabloids.

Kenny leaned in and stage whispered, “You found nothing interesting up Margie’s skirt.”

“Was I obvious?” Billy gave an embarrassed laugh.

That earned him a grin. Kenny was really attractive when he smiled. He became animated, looking less like a serious violinist and more like any other mischievous youth. “If you know what you’re looking for,” Kenny replied. “Besides, Da reads the gossip rags and he told me. You weren’t really involved with that footballer, were you?”

Billy faked a pout and shook his head.

“Pity that.” They shared a laugh. The charming Scotsman took on a serious air. “So, what do you say? Go for a bite with me?”

When Billy glanced up, the image of the black-haired man with the laughing eyes superimposed itself over Kenny’s face. “I can’t,” he found himself saying. Kenny was of age, attractive, witty, and a gifted musician. That should have been enough. It wasn’t. Billy needed more, and Kenny deserved better than someone who longed for another, or rather, longed for someone who didn’t exist. How pathetic was it to turn down a flesh-and-blood date for the sake of a dream?

The stooped shoulders and eyes that wouldn’t meet his nearly did Billy in. He’d felt dejected way too often himself. Thinking of how best to redeem the situation with no hard feelings, he recalled the student’s extraordinary playing. “Can I have your number? I’d like to give it to my manager.”

“Really?” The cheerful smile reappeared, the rejection apparently forgotten.

 “Really. I’d like to play with you sometime.” The words hung between them for a moment before they both threw back their heads and laughed at the unfortunate choice of words.

“Well, I tried.” Kenny peered up from beneath overly long bangs, fluttering his lashes.

If the boy could smile, then no harm done. “Yes, you did. And I am flattered, really I am. I simply can’t.”

Later, Billy sat in a nearly empty restaurant, eating a solitary meal and staring out the windows at couples holding hands, wishing he’d said yes.

“I
F
I’
M
not down by four, come get me,” Luke murmured, shooting an appraising glance at the workers setting up equipment beneath the musician’s gallery. He winced when a chair leg screeched across the floor.

“Be careful!” he barked. “Those are priceless antiques!”

“Sorry,” a worker yelled back.

Thankfully, the dour caretaker wasn’t in the room, ticking marks on a clipboard, documenting each offense.

His assistant scowled. “Speaking of priceless antiques, you know the owners forbade any of the crew to go upstairs without Neil Richards or the caretaker in attendance. The agreement is for the downstairs, tower, guest house, and the grounds, unless accompanied by their designated representatives.”

Luke rolled his eyes. Jeez, had the overeager butt-kisser
memorized
the damned contract? “I’m not going to steal the silver. I merely wish to have a look around, get a feel for the place for the documentary. They’ll never know I’ve been up there.”

Glaring a silent reproach, the nosy meddler who knew far too much for his own good sighed and relented. “You’re the boss,” he sniffed. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d been at odds, and probably not the last.

“Stop worrying and come get me if I lose track of time. I wouldn’t want our ‘ghost’ to be kept waiting.” Luke chuckled. There wasn’t a single member of his team who didn’t know that he’d like to get Billy Byerly alone for a few hours. Like the assistant, most had been with him for years and were well acquainted with his mating habits when it came to actors and musicians.

“Will do.”

Luke took advantage of the chaos downstairs, where a crew arranged chairs and equipment, to slip upstairs to the private quarters traditionally occupied by generations of the Callaghan family.

Without quite knowing why, he tiptoed after climbing the first flight of stairs. Once he’d topped the landing, the noises from below faded into nothingness. All was relatively quiet during his steady, upward climb. From the moment he’d conceived the documentary, he’d been obsessed with the Lost Laird. Neil Richards’ phone call, inviting him to attend Byerly’s concert in Edinburgh, had been a godsend. He’d never expected the evening to include negotiations for filming in Callaghan Castle, particularly since the owners repeatedly turned him down. He didn’t know what pull Richards had, and didn’t really care. He wouldn’t pass up a golden opportunity. Working Byerly into his script at Richards’ insistence wasn’t a hardship either.

Since arriving here he’d been compelled to examine Aillil Callaghan’s room, imperative to setting the mood, he’d told himself. He wasn’t nosy, not at all.

Money crossing the palm of the right maid bought him the location of the sought-after room, and Luke, not in the best physical shape, huffed and puffed by the time he arrived on the top floor. He darted a furtive gaze this way and that, searching for evidence of the paranormal. After fifteen such documentaries, requiring days of touring historical dwellings, he’d learned to expect abnormal sightings, though they usually turned out to be fabrications of his own mind.

He prowled the hall, stopping at each unknown noise in a structure that creaked and groaned constantly. Was that a shadow, or did something move? He paused before the plain wooden door that hid the mysteries of Aillil Callaghan. If the servant girl told the truth, the room remained much as the former laird had last left it.

Luke took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He entered, half-hoping to find a dilapidated ruin, complete with a chain-rattling ghost, and was disappointed to discover a quite ordinary bedroom. The traitorous girl had lied. The four-poster bed wasn’t nearly antiquated enough to have been slept in by Aillil Callaghan, matched by an equally modern dresser, relatively speaking. In fact, the only objects in the room possibly dating back to 1758 were a battered wooden chest and a full-length piece of highly polished silver, what people of Aillil Callaghan’s time used for a mirror. Luke knelt to inspect an imperfection, a dent in the lower corner. It appeared as though something had violently struck the surface. With hesitant fingers he reached to probe the damaged metal.

When his eyes roved upward, he gasped and jerked his hand away. For a moment, the blink of an eye, he’d clearly glimpsed a man’s reflection. He jumped up and turned around, ready to stammer halfhearted apologies for trespassing. No one was there. Unchastened, he resumed his inspection of the room.

The bed was covered by a rich satin duvet and, the longer he stared at it, the heavier his eyelids became. Drawn to the pillow-laden haven, all arguments of “why not?” disappeared and he sank onto the soft covering, eyes snapping shut.

Luke stood in the hall below, all the chairs and equipment he’d brought missing. A fire blazed in the hearth, providing dim light in an otherwise darkened room. His anger flared, thinking his assistant had failed to bring the necessary supplies, but his anger vanished when the door clicked open and in walked Billy, carrying a violin and dressed in outmoded apparel.

Luke’s smile and wave went either unseen or ignored. The diminutive redhead crossed the floor and sank into one of the two chairs before the fire. Luke tried to approach, thinking to take the other chair, to find he couldn’t move. Forced to remain standing by the wall, he watched as Billy positioned the violin. The young musician really was a fine-looking man, and Luke planned to add the name of Billy Byerly to his long list of conquests. His partner wouldn’t mind, not really, as long as he confined such affairs to the field and played the role of devoted husband while at home.

Yes, Billy would definitely do to heat a bed with until Luke returned to Stephen. He stood transfixed, observing the talented violinist play the piece to be filmed for the documentary. Ah, perfect. Another violin joined in, playing as skillfully as the first. Luke tried to look for the second musician, but was unable to do anything except stare straight ahead. When the music faded, a pale outline formed in the second chair, gradually solidifying. An apparition appeared, with inky locks falling past its shoulders and wearing a tartan great kilt, the same style they’d be using for the documentary. Not the shorter version now popular, but the longer style worn in the early seventeen hundreds, the type Aillil Callaghan had worn. The phantom’s dark eyes swept over Billy, filled with longing, before turning to gaze at Luke. The open hostility within them issued a clear warning.
“
Mine!
”
the man roared, rising from the chair and crossing the room in long strides.

Luke, paralyzed, tried futilely to run. He opened his mouth in a silent scream as the specter approached, fading with each step until transparent. Cold air blasted past and once more an enraged voice declared,
“
Mine!
”

Luke shot upright, trying to get his bearings. Clutching his chest with both hands, he took a few shuddering breaths before calming.
Only a dream.

A glance at the mirror clearly showed the faded likeness of what he now believed was Aillil Callaghan’s ghost. Luke trembled, closing his eyes tightly and whispering, “Yes, Laird Callaghan, yours.” When he opened his eyes again, the mirror revealed only the room’s reflection—nothing more.

He all but ran down the stairs, relieved to find the chairs and equipment exactly where they should be. “Only a dream,” he muttered aloud, “only a dream.” He glanced over his shoulder, still half expecting to find an infuriated Aillil Callaghan in pursuit.

Discounting the whole episode as stress-induced nonsense, Luke began shouting orders, scolding the workers for imagined shortcomings and urging them to hurry. They’d begin filming the violinist scene at sundown. He’d have loved to film the segment on Halloween, if not for Billy’s manager declaring it out of the question, due to a scheduling conflict. But how apt! The “Lost Laird” making an appearance on the traditional night when spirits walked the earth.

An anxious fluttering began in Luke’s stomach when two men entered the room, one with the distinctive red hair of Billy Byerly. When he looked into the hostile eyes of Neil Richards, for a split second he saw the image of an imposing man with black hair, and clearly recalled the warning, “
Mine.
” He shivered, recalling the chill from his dreams.

Retreating back into the shadows, he whispered, “Yes, yours.”

“
T
HERE
you are!” Luke cried. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” His eyes flicked to the wall mirror and back repeatedly, and he kept his distance, both from the mirror and from Billy.

Billy stood on a low wooden stool, arms held out for a middle-aged woman to add the finishing touches to his attire. “I thought you wouldn’t actually be filming me,” he said, staring into the mirror. “I look nothing like the portrait of the Lost Laird.”

Luke ran an appraising gaze up and down Billy’s body, but instead of the assessing regard of a prospective lover, now he appeared all business. In fact, if not for the blatant attention the day they’d met, Billy wouldn’t have thought Luke interested in anything other than his musical skills and how well he wore a kilt. Not that he’d welcomed the advances, with or without Neil’s intervention; he’d become too obsessed with a man who’d died centuries ago. His Lost Laird fixation couldn’t be healthy. When this tour ended, Billy vowed to take a nice, long vacation, somewhere free of Highland lairds. Aruba, perhaps.