Duet (4 page)

There was no mistaking the disapproval in the laird’s eyes when they swept over the scene.

“I thought it time they learned their enemy, and how to fight the battle
properly,
” Eoghan replied, tone and stance screaming:
My word is law, do not question me!

Turning to Malcolm, Eoghan explained through clenched teeth, “My heir, Aillil.”

Aillil. The big bear of a man dressed in forbidden clothing was named Aillil. Setting the child down, the moving mountain approached the table, calling out a cheerful greeting to each of his brothers. When his eyes raked Malcolm, they turned angry and threatening.

What have I done to earn such wrath?
Malcolm shivered.
How can someone I don’t know hate me with such undeniable passion?

When Aillil reached Eoghan’s side, he glowered at his slightly shorter sire. “Father,” he said. His curt greeting lacked the affection he’d shown for his brothers. “I have news from Edinburgh. I’ll await you in your study.” He spun on his heel, shooting one more venomous glare at Malcolm before departing the way he’d entered.

Without a word, Eoghan followed.

Malcolm’s mind reeled, and he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Should he worry about being murdered in his sleep? He’d come here to escape persecution, not find more.

“Pay them no heed,” Niall said, tugging on a sleeve to get Malcolm’s attention. “Aillil hates all things English and chafes at the restrictions put on us by the crown. He’s still a decent man. You’ve naught to fear from him. And Father doesn’t hate the English, he’s embarrassed by the power they hold. Both are too busy to bother with you, or us and our studies.”

Gazing down at four youthful faces, one eager, one shy, and two mischievous, Malcolm prayed the boy spoke true.

A
ILLIL
passed the entrance to the great hall, intent on the back staircase leading to his room, when his father’s clipped words stopped him. Eoghan used such harsh tones to speak to underlings or misbehaving sons, never an equal. Curious, he stepped inside and leaned in the doorway to observe before barging in.

The room—designed to hold the laird’s extended family and clan, in addition to numerous attendants—held a handful of people: Aillil’s father, brothers, and a stranger. The man hanging onto every word must be yet another new tutor. The last had been a dismal failure. Aillil remembered his own instructors fondly. He’d fostered for a time in Glasgow with another prominent family, once the custom among the clans, and provided with the finest educators. The scholars from whom he’d learned bore little resemblance to the barely literate, drunken sods his father usually employed. It would be a miracle if his brothers reached maturity with even a cursory education. This new teacher had best be more qualified than the last.

Regardless of the man’s credentials, he didn’t warrant the attention of the laird himself. It should be a seneschal addressing mundane issues, for such were the duties of that position. Yet, there stood the Chief of Clan Callaghan, wielding what little authority was still his to command. Once the castle had boasted two seneschals, stewards of the household who, in turn, gave orders to others reporting to them, before the glory days ended with the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

The immense stone structure housing them had been the dwelling of the Callaghans for generations, the furnishings nearly as time-worn as the stones. Most of the few remaining servants had been with them since Aillil’s childhood; tutors were another matter. Either the louts possessed drinking or other problems, angered a local father by taking advantage of some lass, or the twins ran them off with their antics. Aillil hoped, for his brothers’ sakes and the household’s, that this new teacher was made of sterner stuff. Why his father wouldn’t send the boys for fostering, to attend school in Glasgow or Inverness, baffled him. Then again, the current laird, so accepting of English rule, claimed few friends among the local clans, unlike Aillil’s late grandfather, a highly respected man in better days.

Eoghan did have a maternal cousin in Inverness who might agree. However, Aillil wouldn’t trust the likes of Marcus with a hound, much less his brothers.

Presence still unnoticed, Aillil studied the stranger. He appeared small of stature and quite pleasing to the eye, with hair the color of a red fox’s fur and fine-boned, inquisitive features. A stirring began beneath Aillil’s kilt. The man was undeniably attractive until he opened his mouth and an English accent emerged. Rage began to build. How dare his father add insult to injury by inviting a
Sassenach
into their midst, entrusting Callaghan minds to the care of a hated Englishman!

Bristling, he fixed his sire with an angry glare known to back down many a rival. “An Englishman, Father?” His condescending gaze fell on the new tutor, saying exactly what he thought of the man, comely or not. Bonnie Scotsmen existed aplenty without falling afoul of the likes of a
Sassenach
.

The hatred aimed at the enemy was interrupted by Rory, who laughed and ran into Aillil’s arms. Never one to resist the lad, he tossed the boy in the air and caught him, unable to keep a smile at bay. Aillil’s foul moods never stood a chance against the charms of the fair, happy child.

Disapproval shone in his father’s eyes when Aillil chanced a glance to the head of the table. Eoghan hated the way the older brothers favored young Rory. Their mother had died giving him life, and he was such a sweet and gentle soul that the older boys couldn’t help spoiling him. Eoghan certainly never spared the child a second thought, and Niall had long ago assumed responsibility for the lad.

Next, his father gave Aillil’s filthy tartans a once-over. Being on the road for days left little time to worry about appearances. The stranger intently watching the interaction rekindled Aillil’s fury. What he needed to say to his clan chief would be done away from prying ears.

“Father, I have news from Edinburgh,” he lied. He refused to share anything he’d learned with a traitor; furthermore, the man owed him an explanation. “I’ll await you in your study.” Casting one last scathing glance at the red-haired teacher, Aillil quit the room, trusting Eoghan to follow.

He met no one on the way to his father’s study and wondered if they’d lost any more servants in his absence. Aillil stepped inside the chamber where Eoghan spent a good portion of each day, dearly wishing to see his grandfather sitting behind the desk. An affectionate smile and a kind word would have been his welcome.

The room generations of Callaghan lairds used for conducting business appeared exactly the same as in his grandfather’s day. “How I wish you were still here,” he whispered, staring at the portrait hanging over the hearth. From inside an ornate frame, the wise old man who could do no wrong in Aillil’s eyes smiled down. By all accounts, Fionan Callaghan had been a great leader, well-loved by their own clan and respected by others. If still alive, he’d be horrified at the fall of once-mighty Clan Callaghan.

Footsteps warned Aillil of his father’s approach. “I hope this is important.”

Back turned, Aillil ground out, “You dare to bring a
Sassenach
into our midst?”

“Who is laird here, Aillil? What right have you to question me?”

Aillil didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of those words. Had his father retained the hereditary power of the clan chiefs, he’d be harshly punished for his insolence. Any true power was now gone, given away for the promise of an earldom that never materialized. Still, if Aillil pushed too far, being heir would offer no protection. With five legitimate sons, and likely several illegitimate ones, Eoghan could disown him with ample spares.

“I sincerely hope no one recognized you dressed as you are!” his sire continued. “Do you wish to bring the wrath of the English upon us? You fault me for bringing in a mere teacher when you openly defy the law. If you’ve no respect for our good name, at least consider your brothers. You risk more than yourself, you risk us all.”

“What I do does not affect you or them and well you know it,” Aillil growled, thoughts straying to Duncan’s bleak fate. Duncan’s father had probably believed the same thing before the battle of Culloden, and those decisions nearly resulted in the end of Duncan’s clan. More softly, Aillil added, “No, Father, no one saw me.”
At least, no friend to the English
went unsaid.

“You’d do well to consider the consequences of your actions. It’s one thing to flaunt defiance here at home, in the city is quite another. I owe you no explanation—nonetheless, this teacher came highly recommended, the younger son of an English baron.” Eoghan’s heavy footsteps traversed the length of the room, halting directly behind Aillil. “You may not care for the king’s men when they come. I do. We must keep up appearances. We must remain above reproach. What better way to appear to embrace their ways and customs than to hire one of their own to teach my sons?”

Aillil fully believed his father did more than
appear
to accept the English, and he wondered how destitute the clan must become before coin ceased to flow into the king’s coffers in an attempt to win an English title with bribes. Bribes paid for by the sweat of the clan’s brow. The family’s outside holdings had dwindled to nothing, and all petitions for restoration went ignored. What would it take for Eoghan to finally understand that the English took, they didn’t give?

“You
will
accept this tutor and do what you can to ensure he stays,” Eoghan commanded. “You don’t want your brothers to grow up ignorant, do you?”

Ah, yes, hide behind my brothers, you weakling
. “If he stays away from my path, I’ll stay away from his.” Aillil turned to face the man whose likeness he bore.

They glared at each other and parted ways, Aillil wondering why two men so similar in looks thought so differently.

E
NTERING
the hall for the evening meal, Aillil was somewhat cleaner, and still wearing a kilt. To him, the great kilt symbolized a true Scotsman; he refused to give up tradition, although weavers willing to create new garments grew harder and harder to find. Taking his usual place beside the laird, he glanced down the table. The tutor sat at the opposite end, with many empty places standing between them. How depressing. When Fionan lived, the table had been filled to capacity every night, the room lively with conversation. There would also be music, which Aillil sorely missed.

Over the past few years, all the young, able-bodied men who’d normally grace the hall had been conscripted into the English military, and the seneschals and the harper had grown old and died, never to be replaced. The outlawing of the great war pipes put an end to the traditional role of piper, and the clan no longer retained enough power or wealth for their laird to need bodyguards. Eoghan’s death would mean one less Scotsman to worry about, in the king’s eyes.

Also noticeably missing was the laughter of females. After Aillil’s mother died, his father hadn’t remarried, meeting his needs by visiting a mistress instead of bringing her into the castle. Aillil privately believed that the man held out for a match with a titled Englishwoman.

Ailsa, the only girl child to survive infancy, had been married off into a lowland clan with whom Eoghan sought to curry favor. To Aillil’s satisfaction, the man chosen for her was an amiable sort who wasted no time falling in love with his new bride. For that alone, Aillil was in his debt.

Now the household consisted of Aillil, his father, brothers, and the teacher, with a few servants hovering nearby. The shame of it! A once-magnificent castle now reduced to little more than a keep, the curtain wall that had repelled centuries of rivals a crumbling ruin. Most of the rooms stood empty. A dismal, dreary place indeed.

They ate their venison stew in relative silence—Eoghan frowned on dinner conversation unless visitors attended—the quiet broken by an occasional murmur from one of the lads questioning their new teacher. Aillil couldn’t blame them. All they ever saw were the lands and villages surrounding their home. With little knowledge of the outside world, they were bound to find speaking to someone from another land intriguing.

No, the fault lay with the Englishman. Why had he come here? Did he hope, like many before, to abscond with their valuables? Did he wish to dally with ignorant backcountry wenches smitten by the flattery of a foreigner? Quite possibly the man left England for a reason. A criminal, come to hide? Were Niall and the others in danger? Or could the man be a spy, sent by the English?

Aillil scrutinized the stranger, convinced he meant the clan harm. When a buxom maid approached, the teacher’s eyes didn’t rove to her ample bosom or ogle her backside, as expected. Instead, he merely smiled and offered polite thanks for the filling of his cup before inclining his ear to Niall. Hmmm, did the man like lasses with a little less meat on their bones?

An Englishman. There were plenty of good Scottish teachers. Aillil didn’t quite believe his father’s reasoning. Why an Englishman? This one also seemed a bit young for his profession. Lack of experience didn’t bode well for longevity. Most tutors lasted a few weeks before they fled the castle or were banished, many of those seasoned men who shouldn’t have run screaming from the pranks of the twins, no matter how creative those pranks might be. They were boys, after all, and a touch high-spirited at times. Studious Niall probably made a perfect student, and Rory never emerged from Niall’s shadow long enough to cause trouble.

Midway through the meal, Aillil witnessed something unexpected: shy Rory talking to an adult other than himself. His small, tight-lipped brother scarcely spoke to the servants, and never to their father, and there the lad sat with a mirthful face, eyes alight with laughter. The teacher’s words were softly spoken, but Aillil managed to hear, “I’ll show you later tonight.” His hackles rose. The
Sassenach
wouldn’t be the first man to turn perverted desires on a helpless youth, as he’d learned during a brief stay at his father’s cousin’s in Inverness.