Duet (7 page)

“The lad agreed!” Fergus declared. “He changed his mind when the Englishman appeared!”

The self-appointed arbitrator turned a steely gaze on Aillil. “Is this true?” If Ronald needed to ask, maybe he hadn’t learned to avoid Fergus himself all those years ago. But a sword master’s son might not have presented so vulnerable a victim.

Aillil growled, unable to contain his anger. “My brother is not yet a man. Would you call him a liar?”

Ronald’s eyes held Aillil’s, reading the truth there, before unleashing his rage on Fergus. “You! On your feet. You’ll not spend another minute here!” Of Aillil, he asked, “Is the lad unharmed?”

Aillil nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Slowly, he lowered the sword.

“My apologies to you and your family. Be assured it won’t happen again.” Stronger than he appeared, Ronald reached down one hand and yanked Fergus to his feet. “Be gone with you!” he shouted, hauling the much larger offender toward the stairs, ignoring the man’s plaintive whining. He stopped and turned, extending his free hand.

Aillil sighed, relinquishing the sword. What had the world come to when an honest Scotsman defending his family couldn’t possess a blade lawfully when a low dog like Fergus could?

Ronald resumed his trek toward the stairs, dragging the balking Fergus. Before passing out of sight, Fergus gave Aillil a savage glare with his one good eye. “Tell the little Englishman this isn’t over. He denied me my sport, ’twill be him who replaces it.” He spat a mouthful of blood on the floor, arms wrapped protectively around his ribs.

Ronald growled something unintelligible, wrenching Fergus brutally by the arm. The two disappeared around a bend in the stairs.

Several moments passed before Aillil managed to catch his breath and tamp down his outrage. In his grandfather’s time, a man like Fergus wouldn’t have lived until the dawn; Fionan would have delivered swift justice with a sharp length of steel. Too bad Fionan hadn’t been around when Aillil had first made the cur’s acquaintance. Now it seemed a man wasn’t safe in his own home. Aillil briefly considered following through anyway and damn the consequences. No, retribution would bring more hardship for the family. Instead of justice, the English courts would call it murder.

With a quick glance to ensure Fergus was truly gone, Aillil stepped quietly to his brothers’ door. He paused before entering, listening to the sounds from within. A voice that had to be the teacher’s—for none of his brothers could carry a tune—sang an unfamiliar melody. A lullaby?

He opened the door and eased inside, eyes falling across the occupants. Of the five, all slept but the teacher and Niall. The twins lay tangled together, snoring softly, and Rory curled across Niall’s lap. Wide green eyes turned to him, full of dread. “Is he gone?” the teacher asked, cleaning the blood from Niall’s cheek.

“Aye.” Aillil swallowed, pride going down with the bile. “I owe you my thanks,
Sassenach
.”

“You may thank me by not calling me
Sassenach
. My name is Malcolm.” The words were gently spoken, but defiance glimmered in the Englishman’s eyes.

Aillil met the challenging scowl, finally shrugging and dropping his gaze. “You have the right of it,
Mael Caluim
.”

“
Mael Caluim?
”

“Aye.” Aillil offered no further explanation. “I must be gone a few days. Watch over my brothers.”

When Malcolm replied, “I will,” Aillil did not doubt his word. Despite being small, the man possessed all the fierceness of a hound protecting a new litter of pups.

“So will I,” Niall chimed in.

Aillil honed his attention on his brother. “Are you unharmed?”

Niall’s face reddened. “I am, thanks to Master Byerly.”

It was highly unusual for Niall to refuse to meet his eyes. “And what were you doing out of your room with the likes of Fergus Gordon afoot?”

“I needed the privy,” Niall retorted, a bit too quickly.

Aillil sensed the lad lied, though he’d never believe for an instant Fergus’s claim of an agreement. Was the lad sneaking out to visit a lass? Niall was of an age, after all, and often spoke of village girls who’d captured his attention. Aillil needed to have a long talk with his brother—when he returned. “No more prowling,” he ordered, trusting his brother to heed the warning.

“Aye, Aillil.”

With a final nod to Malcolm, Aillil left the room and followed Ronald and Fergus down the stairs. Only when convinced they were well and truly gone did he return. Intent on his own room and provisions for a trip to Inverness, he tripped and nearly fell. A mass of wood shards littered the floor, gleaming in the lantern light. He picked one up, laying it flat upon his palm, and turned it over, puzzled. Then he remembered his earlier demand for a violin lesson. Ahhh… so that’s how Malcolm happened to be in the son’s wing to rescue Niall. Aillil recalled the blood matting Fergus’s hair, visualizing the violin splintering over the man’s stubborn head. What a waste of perfectly good wood.

Being grateful for the intervention didn’t stop him from mourning the loss of Malcolm’s violin, now lying broken upon the floor. He recalled the Englishman’s transformation while playing, eyes closed, face rapturous. The instrument was most likely a prized possession, sacrificed to protect Niall. Aillil would never admit aloud having enjoyed hearing the gifted musician, and looking forward to playing himself, since he dared not play his beloved pipes around his father.

The more he considered the situation, the more convinced he became, albeit grudgingly, that the red-haired Englishman displayed very Scotsman-like behavior. Inside the soft-spoken teacher, no,
Mael Caluim,
dwelled the soul of a warrior. Aillil left to follow Fergus to Inverness, confident of leaving his brothers in capable hands.

R
ONALD
delivered Fergus to the clan chief in Inverness. Aillil met privately with Laird Gordon, voiced his grievance, and left with reassurances of severe punishment for one who’d dare offend the good name of the Gordon clan.

Retelling the incident brought a forgotten image to mind: Malcolm charging the much larger Fergus like some avenging angel. He’d been absolutely magnificent, pale, freckled face a mask of rage, hair streaming behind like one of the heroes Aillil’s grandfather had spoken of around the fire on a winter’s night. Aillil wouldn’t have believed the mild-mannered teacher’s fierceness if he’d not witnessed the encounter firsthand. An Englishman braving a ready sword to protect a Scottish child? Didn’t the English hate all Scots? Malcolm didn’t appear to. Maybe fear of the laird’s wrath prompted such heroics.

But no, Malcolm’s fury appeared genuine and, like his brothers’ unmistakable acceptance of the man, inconceivable. Never before had a teacher so clearly cared for them. In retrospect, if any had, they might still be employed.

After leaving Laird Gordon, Aillil wandered the streets of Inverness, locating a storefront he’d noticed before, but never occasioned to visit. Malcolm made a personal sacrifice to defend Callaghans, leaving Aillil honor bound to repay the debt.

He strolled around the cluttered shop, explaining what he wanted. The wizened shopkeeper replied, “I hae just th’ thin’,” leading him over to a table where a marvelously worked violin sat. Another identical instrument lay next to it. “Brithers,” the man said, “frae wood o’ th’ same trees.”

Both instruments appeared artfully crafted, and Aillil admired the two, lifting each for closer inspection. He closed his eyes, picturing the warmth of the wood contrasting with the copper of Malcolm’s curls. Oh, what sweet refrains cried for release from such an instrument. In spite of his limited knowledge, Aillil recognized quality far superior to the violin that met its end against Fergus Gordon’s head.

Unable to decide between them, he compromised. “I’ll take them both.” The first he’d use to replace the broken one, the second he’d keep for himself. He added bows to his purchase and arranged for delivery before returning home.

Six

A
FTER
Aillil returned from Inverness, none mentioned the Fergus incident again—save to Eoghan, who said little on the subject. The days filled with lessons for his brothers, while Aillil occupied his time visiting the surrounding villages on clan business. Occasionally, he participated in a sparring match to keep his skills sharp, whenever he found a worthy opponent, albeit with rusted weapons kept hidden in remote barns and not swords suitable for practice. He’d work with the tools at hand, however inferior, to prevent growing lax.

While Eoghan frowned upon such common behavior, Aillil also wasn’t above helping the locals with plowing or chopping wood. With the majority of local able-bodied men pressed into the English military, many a farm lacked strong arms and sturdy backs.

Whenever at home, he and the teacher behaved civilly toward each other, though little changed otherwise. Aillil still found himself seeking fault, and the Englishman steadfastly avoided unnecessary contact. The loss of the anticipated violin lessons reduced the time spent in each other’s company, time Aillil wanted.
Because of the music
, he sternly reasoned. In the evenings after their meal, he’d love to relax with a tune, and eagerly awaited the arrival of the new violins.

The more Aillil observed, the more he realized how different Malcolm was from the
Sassenach
his grandfather warned him of, and completely unlike the ones who came a’calling, hands extended for gold.

It caught him off guard to discover the man slinking down the stairs one day, taking great care to muffle his footsteps. Aillil flattened as much as possible into a recessed doorway, alarmed by the odd behavior. What was Malcolm doing creeping from the sons’ wing? Where were Niall and the others? Peeking out from the doorway, Aillil watched the teacher cross the great hall, clear green eyes darting this way and that when he passed by. Where was he going? Eoghan’s rooms and study lay that way, which must mean the little sneak intended either spying or stealing.

Aillil followed, heavily muscled body less suited to stealth than the teacher’s lithe form. Instead of Eoghan’s rooms, once he’d crossed the hall, Aillil’s quarry opened the entry door and slipped outside, running for the barn. Aillil hesitated a moment before pursuing, no longer concerned about being seen. What had the man done? Had he stolen? Had he harmed one of the lads?

The teacher was fast, but no match for Aillil’s longer strides. Aillil quickly caught up, full weight crashing into the smaller man, tumbling them both to the ground in a pile of loose hay. “Get off me, you great oaf! What do you think you’re doing?” Malcolm bellowed.

Staring down at the man lying provocatively beneath him prompted lewd thoughts. “I’m stopping your escape,” Aillil barked, ignoring the pleasant friction caused by Malcolm’s squirming. Loose red hair fanned out around the man’s head like flames. If the Englishman was a thief, he made a comely one. Without thinking, Aillil ground his hardening cock against his captive, surprised to find an answering hardness hidden beneath the teacher’s breeches.

“Let me up,” Malcolm cried, struggling to get free, “this instant!”

“Not until you tell me why you were running away!”

The teacher stilled, fire dancing in his eyes. “I wasn’t running away!”

The pounding of feet fast approached. Aillil rolled away, bracing for the inevitable questions. He looked up into the grinning faces of his brothers. “Thanks for catching him for us, Aillil,” Dughall said. “He has to hunt us now.”

“What?” Aillil’s confused gaze darted from his brothers to his red-haired nemesis, who eyed him with great annoyance.

The Englishman sighed, wiping hay and dirt from his clothes. “We’re playing Fox and Hounds,” he explained, twirling a russet curl around his fingers. “I’m the fox, obviously.”

“And we’re the hounds!” his brothers chorused.

A game. Not a diabolical plot, but a game. Aillil stammered an apology to “the fox,” who appeared quite unhappy.

“Since your brother caused my untimely demise, I think this game needs two foxes,” Malcolm suggested with an evil grin.

The boys nodded their approval, and Aillil found himself wishing he’d minded his own business.

That night after falling asleep, he dreamed of the handsome Englishman lying in a bed of hay, hair fanned out around his head. Instead of righteous anger, a look of longing crossed those pale features, and his nude body welcomed Aillil into its depths.

Aillil woke with a start, heart thumping, to find a pool of cooling warmth on his belly.

M
ORE
and more Aillil found himself in the doorway of the great hall, watching four heads bent over their studies, or rather, noticing them while observing their tutor. The teacher passed from one to the other, bending to assess their work and muttering words of encouragement or correction. His melodic tones never rose above a murmur, and he hurled no insults. Instead, he gave quick praise, rarely finding fault. His hand rested lightly on the shoulders of his students when he spoke, and they didn’t flinch as with past instructors. They appeared totally at ease in the man’s company.