Duet (22 page)

“Are you all right?” Luke asked.

Billy closed his eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath and attempting to explain away what he’d seen.

Neil gallantly spared him the effort. “This place has that effect on me too.”

Although Billy hardly doubted it, he appreciated the save and followed his friend into an enormous, much warmer room. His heart skipped a beat. He knew this room! Not only as it appeared now, but how it looked at night, fire roaring in the fireplace, chairs arranged in a semi-circle, filled by a family of Highlanders enjoying an evening’s entertainment. While a cleaning crew spread white sheets over the furniture, his eyes shot to the other end of the hall, where a tremendous table occupied much of the space, automatically seeking out a spot at the far end. The dark-haired man from his dreams appeared there for one split second.

His breath caught in his throat, a name coming to mind. “Aillil,” Billy breathed at last, pulse pounding in his ears. He concentrated on inhaling and exhaling.
I will not panic, I will not panic!

“Why, yes,” Luke replied, coming up beside him. “Aillil Callaghan is the spirit you’ll be portraying in the film. Your manager gave you the music, right?”

Billy nodded, eyes still riveted to where he’d spotted the apparition. Plainly and simply, he was losing his mind. Many times he’d seen similar things happen to fellow musicians, usually involving performance burnout and drugs. Billy didn’t take drugs, even those for anti-anxiety, more afraid of what the chemicals might do than of the occasional panic attack. He was starting to rethink that decision, because it appeared he might go insane anyway, without the help of hard living.

Too stunned to move on his own, Billy let Neil guide him to where the others stood, staring up at a small balcony to the right of the hearth—a musician’s gallery. “That wasn’t there before,” Billy said before he could question the knowledge.

Luke elbowed his way past Billy’s guardian. “I knew it! You
are
a history buff! A previous laird added the gallery about the same time the foyer was built, in the mid-eighteen hundreds. Apparently his wife enjoyed entertaining. It connects with the turnpike stair, part of the original structure. That’s where you’ll be playing, or, thanks to a little movie magic, where the ghost of the Lost Laird will play.”

Much to Billy’s relief, Luke ambled away and began giving instructions to the crew, allowing a desperately needed moment of peace. The overwhelming urge to fetch his violins consumed him. “Can I have some time later in here to practice?” he asked Neil, still gazing up at the balcony.

“Sure. The work crew will be here tomorrow to clear the room and place those chairs.” Neil pointed toward the stack of folding chairs lining the walls. “You’re staying in the cottage out back, so take all the time here you need. The caretaker lives in another cottage on the far side of the barns. I’ll instruct him to let you in whenever you’d like.”

From across the room, one of the workers sneezed; the sound reverberated throughout the hall.

Neil brightened. “Wow, the acoustics really are great in here.”

D
URING
daylight hours, Aillil’s spirit remained in the tower room near his violin. However, if he concentrated, he could sense bits and pieces of what occurred elsewhere on the grounds.

Intruders breached the privacy of the stone sanctuary, and he focused on the front of the castle, where several men entered. A hazy sense of recognition settled over him, for Callaghan blood flowed through the veins of the one who’d slept there a few nights ago, and who reminded Aillil so strongly of Niall. He’d also sensed several of the other men exploring the property, but who was the newcomer? Why did this man seem familiar? Desperate to investigate, Aillil fought with every ounce of his strength to no avail. Until nightfall, the room imprisoned him.

The Callaghan did his best to steer the predatory stranger away from the one who’d piqued Aillil’s interest, and still the unwelcome suitor persisted. With no other recourse, Aillil pleaded with the spirits in the glen for help. “Bring him to us,” they said. “He’ll be safe here.”

With a sudden burst of energy he’d never before commanded, Aillil willed himself downstairs, to stare into a face he’d dreamed of for over two centuries. “Come with me to the grove,” he said, turning a baleful glare on the one standing too close.

The Callaghan stepped in, leading away the reminder of all he’d lost. Aillil’s body solidified in the great hall before being abruptly yanked back to the tower. Quietly, he thanked the ancestors for allowing him those few brief glimpses of the stranger. His heart clenched at the memory of burnished ringlets and bright green eyes. Did he dare to hope, or did his long wait trick him into seeing phantoms? Aillil growled possessively when he thought of his new nemesis, the one who’d claim the handsome redhead for fun. He’d keep his eye on the scoundrel.

Sixteen

T
HE
dark wooden panels, covered with carved gryphons and other fantastic creatures, quite frankly gave Billy the screaming shivers. Despite his best efforts to be quiet, the doors’ hinges screamed loudly when he pushed the tall monstrosities open, which didn’t help his frayed nerves in the least. The ominous screech reminded him of too many horror movies. He’d definitely have to report the neglect to the caretaker.

The uneasy feeling of
déjà vu
returned upon crossing the foyer and entering the gigantic room the Internet referred to as “the great hall”. This same stone structure haunted his dreams, now proven to be real and not a fabrication of an overactive imagination.

Caught up in open-mouthed fascination at the shapeless masses hidden beneath protective sheets, he clearly visualized each piece of furniture, sight unseen. He also didn’t need to approach the tall windows to catch a glimpse of a once-splendid orchard, for he’d walked beneath their laden branches in dreams.

Behind the house, connected by a breezeway, was the kitchen, and to his right a seemingly endless hallway led to the library, study, master’s suite and ballroom. Upstairs were additional family living quarters, downstairs, servant’s quarters, and in the tower… well, his odd awareness of the tower bordered on ridiculous, really. Having never set foot on even the first stair before, he couldn’t possibly know that exactly forty-eight stairs led from the bottom to the top. He knew all this and more about the estate; what he didn’t understand, wanted desperately to figure out, was why and how he knew these things.

A sudden compulsion sent him hurrying back to the guest cottage for his violin case. Easing back into the room, he pulled a sheet from a chair before the hearth. He sank down onto the upholstery, feeling an odd sense of rightness. His eyes roved above the mantel to the sheet-draped painting there. Even hidden from sight, his memory provided the image of a portrait of the one who inhabited his dreams.

With one swift movement, he rose and peeled back the covering, dropping the dust cover to the floor. The painted canvas held a startling likeness to the man whose face Billy beheld nightly since obtaining the Edinburgh violin. Soot-black hair fell in a shiny silken mass around broad shoulders, and thick brows rose haughtily over dark eyes. The rather noticeable nose reminded him of Neil’s. The man’s aloof posture would have been intimidating if not for the playful smile tugging full lips up at the corners. Looking up at the castle’s former master set Billy’s heart to racing.

“My dark laird, why ever do you haunt me?” he asked. He ached with a deep sense of unexplained loss, pining for this man wearing garb from a bygone age, a man who’d disappeared under unexplained circumstances many years ago. “Where did you go?” Billy wanted to know. “Is it true you died of a broken heart?” The Highlander remained silent, staring down from the canvas.

The portrait painter was either a highly skilled artist or a liar, for the result showed an exquisite example of masculinity. That is, except for the nose.

Unable to avert his eyes from the mesmerizing likeness, Billy eased back into the chair, opened the violin case, and withdrew the vintage instrument. He played a melody that he’d never heard with his waking ears, but knew every note of in his subconscious mind. Slow, ethereal, the piece brought him to tears. When the song ended, he began another and another until, exhausted, he fell asleep.

A
ILLIL
’
S
spirit emerged from his wooden sanctuary to a sound that would have made his blood run cold had he possessed any. A stirring refrain first encountered years ago, played on a worn-out instrument, the one Malcolm had destroyed defending Niall.

Aillil swept down the stairs in righteous pursuit. He’d overheard the plans of the men with all their peculiar belongings, how they’d hired a violinist to impersonate him. Bad enough to have strangers invading his home to make a mockery of the Callaghan legends; how dare they cruelly torment him by playing
that
song!

The enchanting refrain ceased abruptly. Although Aillil knew he couldn’t be seen, he slowly approached the lone figure sitting by the hearth in the great hall, anger near to boiling. The stranger had the audacity to sit in
that
chair! No one sat there! Only one man was allowed to occupy that chair. Aillil’s own kin had known better than to so much as look at it with intent.

Furious, he floated to the hearth and turned to face the intruder. He would have gasped had he been able, and his anger vanished, for there, fast asleep, was the man from earlier who reminded him of the love of his life. At least, the sleeper looked like Malcolm. He crept closer for a better look. Could someone be playing some kind of evil trick, getting his hopes up only to dash them again?

He knelt before the chair, carefully taking the instrument and bow from the stranger’s pliant fingers and setting them on the floor. Wait! He could touch them? His hands didn’t sweep through? He tried touching the chair, a lantern, and the hearth. The violin and bow were all he managed. Still, being able to touch anything was an improvement. Did he have a connection with them? He stared at the instrument, at the intricately carved scroll, and recognized the twin to his own. Had the violin drawn him or the man who’d played it?

The hall was dim, with lanterns that didn’t need oil providing illumination, but Aillil needed no light. The tangled mass of hair draping the back of the chair, the milk-white skin splashed with freckles, he knew like his own. Long-lashed eyelids fluttered over tightly closed eyes that he knew to be the softest of greens. Aillil would have thought the man dead if not for the flickering movement beneath closed lids, indicating dreaming.

An ever-present draft circling the floor buoyed him along, and he stared in fascination, waiting for the man to awaken. Could this really be his love reborn, come back to him? “
Mael Caluim
,” the elders whispered from out in the glen.

Relief flooded Aillil’s soul. His incorporeal fingers traced a long, thin nose, then smoothed unnoticed over soft curls. Eyes were often easily deceived; his soul wasn’t, and it told him that this was truly Malcolm, at long last. “Thank you,” he told the elders, a happy tear rolling down his cheek. Blood and breath he lacked, tears he had aplenty. He longed to wake the man, though waking him would serve no purpose—yet. Malcolm was mortal and couldn’t see him, unless he believed, unless he
wanted
to see, unlike those Aillil had attempted to reveal his presence to over the long, lonely years.

A smile curved his lips. Aillil might not be able to hold his love in the waking world; however, he could send his little fox a reminder of past times in the realm where he did hold sway—dreams.

Summoning his violin and bow, Aillil began to play.

T
HE
canvas hanging over the hearth was blank. Billy flinched, looking up to find the raven-haired Highlander standing over him, smiling and extending a hand. The gesture seemed comforting somehow, and Billy reached out for that large, rough hand without hesitation. In a part of his brain inaccessible during waking moments, he recognized this man, the Lost Laird of the Callaghans. Far from the expected fear, Billy found himself filled with deep longing. Giving trust freely along with his hand, he followed the otherworldly visitor from the great hall.

“
Where are you taking me?
”
he asked, without really caring. He’d go anywhere this spirit led.

“
Patience,
”
the specter replied with a soft chuckle, placing a hand over Billy’s eyes.
“
Take care where you step.
”

“
You’re taking me upstairs?
”

“
Shh… quiet, my little fox,
”
the apparition murmured against Billy’s skin, warm lips finding and tickling his neck. Ghosts had warm lips? Gooseflesh raised the hair on Billy’s arms.
“
A few more steps.
”