Duet (3 page)

“Aye, I hear the colonies aren’t bad.” Duncan’s eyes sparked with interest. His words did much to dispel Aillil’s guilt.

“I despise the English, and the weaklings who went along like sheep to the slaughter. Your family had the right of it, Duncan. Better any Scotsman on the throne than an Englishman.”

His companion remained silent, gazing at him with curious eyes, and Aillil reminded himself that, while close to the same age, they’d been raised differently. Duncan knew little of the proud traditions Aillil’s grandfather taught before his death, of loyalty and of dying to uphold clan honor.

Thoughts of his grandfather’s betrayal at the hands of his father further darkened Aillil’s mood. “My grandfather was a great man. He believed the Callaghans should have joined the fight. When he grew sick and weak, my father usurped his place and kept him locked in his room, declaring him mad.” Aillil exhaled a slow breath. “The night Grandfather died, I heard pipes.”

“Pipes? They’re outlawed!”

Aillil nodded. “Something else the bastards took from us. I heard them that night and slipped from my bed to find them.”

Duncan stared, transfixed, reminding Aillil of how he himself had once watched his grandfather telling tales of days gone by.

With the eagerness of a small child, Duncan prodded, “Did you find them?”

“Aye, I did. In the yew grove robed figures danced in the moonlight. One approached and told me they were sending my grandfather on his way, the proper way, the old way.”

“Pagans!” Duncan hissed.

“Druids,” Aillil corrected. “A religion that existed here long before Christianity.” Outlawing Druidism hadn’t stopped its followers; they still existed, practicing in secret. Aillil’s grandfather had oft spoken of them. “We gave up too easily. My father should have fought.”

“At least the Callaghans still have their lands and can speak their name without shame.” Duncan’s quiet words barely reached Aillil’s ears.

Shadows stretched across the floor, the day giving way to evening. Duncan lay silently on the bed, the lids over his sad brown eyes beginning to droop. The workers of the house weren’t ill-treated, but this one appeared tired, and like he could use a few good meals and a friend. With the night came the house’s busiest time and Duncan might be called upon to service several more customers before finally seeking his own bed and rest.

Well, rest and peace Aillil could give for a time, and he welcomed an excuse to prolong the inevitable parting. Tomorrow, Duncan’s life would be busy, indeed. “Go tell your master I’ll pay for the whole night, and bring us back a meal.” He reached beside the bed to the skin pouch worn on his belt, removing several coins to place in Duncan’s outstretched hand.

Initially intending to save it for later, Aillil decided to tell his news now. His eyes roved over the slim body that had pleasured him well this past year—pleasure he’d surely miss. “This is the last time we’ll be together, and I’d like to make the most of it.”

The coins scratched together in Duncan’s tight fist, a small, desperate sound that matched his stricken face. “Have I displeased you? If there’s something more you want, you have but to ask.” His eyes strayed to the floor. “Do you wish someone younger?”

“Nay, lad. You’ve not displeased me.” Aillil smiled his reassurance. Duncan had never been less than perfect. “I’m merely displeased with your surroundings.” When he’d first started these clandestine visits, he’d sworn against the meetings being anything more than physical. In spite of his vow, he’d come to care for Duncan and could no longer bear to see the son of a clan chief living in shame. Had the lad been a lass, Aillil would have found a house in a nearby village and installed him as mistress long ago.

“I’m not a lad.” The words lacked conviction. After a moment, Duncan’s shoulders slumped. “I feel like an old man sometimes.”

Aillil fully understood, feeling ancient himself far too often.

Duncan rose from the bed and picked up the clothing he’d discarded in haste earlier.

“Were you taught how to wrap a kilt? You were truly a lad when they were commonplace,” Aillil said.

“No” came the mumbled reply.

Aillil stood, picking up the yards of plaid fabric that fashioned his clothing. He rounded the bed to drape the tartan around Duncan’s shoulders.

“You should know how to do it. They’ll take everything from us if we let them. Go, fetch us some meat and cheese, holding your head high like the noble Murray you are.”

Duncan stared, eyes wide. “I’ll be in such trouble if I’m seen in this! There are spies everywhere!”

With a sigh, Aillil removed the rough woolen garment. “I don’t have the right to make you suffer for my convictions. Too many others have done that to you already.” He wouldn’t be like his father, leading others to ruin. “I’m not your laird and will not bring the
Sassenach
down upon you, especially now when you’re nearly beyond their reach.”

“What… what do you mean?” Duncan stammered, trembling likely inspired by more than the evening chill. “Despite your generosity, I haven’t saved enough for a new start elsewhere.”

Aillil originally intended to restore Duncan’s dignity by letting him save and earn his own freedom. Lately he’d come to realize that each moment Duncan remained here made it harder to let him go. “Your kin took a ship to Wilmington. I’ve paid your passage to the colonies where they’ll welcome you, a strong young man with a bright mind.”

Hope flared in Duncan’s eyes, erasing Aillil’s remaining doubts. He cautioned, “It won’t be the life of a laird, but it’s better than what you have here.”

The hope warred with disbelief on Duncan’s face. “Are you serious? You’ve really bought me a ticket?”

Aillil nodded. “Aye, I did. You’ve pleased me more than you can imagine, and if I had my way, you’d fill my bed every night. Regardless, it’s not right to keep you here for my own selfish reasons. You should be free to pursue a better life.”

Wary eyes searched Aillil’s. In that moment, Duncan appeared younger than he had in a long time. “I truly did enjoy our time together, and will miss you greatly. Thank you,” he said. He scrambled into his clothing before bounding from the room.

Aillil didn’t know exactly why he was being thanked: for freedom, their nights spent together, or for restoring the man’s pride. It didn’t matter. That Duncan found something to be grateful for was the important thing. With any luck, soon he’d be grateful for a second chance at life in a new land, far from the painful memories of what might have been.

Relaxing back on the bed, Aillil flexed a sore arm. Duncan’s ilk weren’t the only reasons for visiting Edinburgh. There were men here willing to teach the sword, another thing the English banned. He’d learned in his youth, but without regular practice those skills would be lost. If and when a threat came, Aillil didn’t intend to be helpless, and what he learned he planned to one day share with his brothers—against their father’s wishes if need be.

He’d also some private business to attend involving a few investments. While his father insisted on throwing good money after bad, Aillil preferred to wager his on propositions with better odds. Odds that fell in his favor, reaping a tidy windfall. When he became laird, his ever-growing sum would help restore the glory of the clan, without reliance on the English. Minus the cost of one ticket to the colonies and enough coin to tide Duncan over, of course. All money Aillil spent came from his own earnings. He refused to take his father’s—or rather, the clan’s—for personal use, unlike others he could name.

Aillil swore that there would never be another Callaghan Coward in the family, who thought only of themselves or the English. He’d not repeat his sire’s mistakes, and if given the opportunity, he’d personally eradicate all Englishmen from Scottish soil, for Duncan and every other Scot who’d suffered for
Sassenach
greed.

The English were an evil not to be tolerated.

Three

M
ALCOLM
stood in a great stone hall, a few hours north of Inverness. It was far larger than the dining room of the school where he’d taught, which he’d considered massive. The room would easily accommodate all the numerous students previously under his care, but only four youngsters sat at a long table stretched before the hearth—his new charges.

The oldest lad seemed caught in the brief moment when childhood ended and adulthood began. Skinny and gawky, not yet grown into his height, he appeared open and friendly. Intelligent brown eyes peeking out from behind an unruly mop of dark hair studied Malcolm with undisguised interest. A somewhat largish nose nearly overwhelmed otherwise delicate features and a studious air brought to mind past prized pupils. Malcolm liked the boy immediately.

Across from the first youth sat a pair of twins, about ten years of age, stockier of build, with lighter hair than their older brother’s, leaning toward auburn. Also reminiscent of former pupils, the taunts they threw at each other gave warning enough that they would likely provide quite the challenge.

The last one, much smaller than the others, huddled into the oldest brother’s side. Several times the child’s thumb approached his mouth, and each time a muffled “Ahem” from the older boy sent it scurrying back under the table out of sight. Unlike his brothers, light hair crowned this boy’s head, nearly a match for the oak table at which they sat. His eyes were dark, like his brothers’, and thoughtful.

At the end of the table, arms folded behind a broad back, stood the single most intimidating man Malcolm had ever met—Laird Eoghan Callaghan, Malcolm’s new employer and father of the four boys. Bushy brows rose and fell above the same hawkish nose that repeated itself on the face of each son. His hair was more neatly kept than the boys’, darker, and shot through with streaks of silver, falling loose around his shoulders. He paced back and forth from hearth to table, reminding Malcolm of a former headmaster delivering a lecture.

“I do not know how things were at your last post, nor do I care. In
this
house, I expect the strictest of discipline,” the laird intoned, laying down the laws in what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “There will be no coddling.” He shot a disapproving glare to the youngest boy, who ducked behind his brother. “Rory,” the man said by way of introduction.

Laird Callaghan nodded his graying head toward the twins. “Dughall and Dughlas. I expect my sons to behave respectfully and cause the name of Callaghan no shame.” One’s cheeks flushed; the other affected a look of false innocence.

Turning toward the oldest, behind whom Rory hid, he continued, “There is a time for study and a time for other things not requiring one’s nose to stay stuck in a book. Niall.”

Malcolm tried to hide his trembling, and barely managed to venture, “I’m pleased to meet you all. We’ll get along splendidly, I’m sure.” The oldest boy nodded and the twins snorted, only slightly quieter than their father. Rory slid farther behind his brother’s back, almost completely disappearing from view.

“You’re not here to get along,” Eoghan spat, “you’re here to teach them. I’ll not have it said that Callaghans are the ignorant savages the
Sassenach
think us to be.”

Unsure whether or not he was included among the “
Sassenach
” Eoghan referred to, Malcolm caught Niall’s sympathetic gaze. Ah, an ally already—very promising. The smirks from the twins said they’d be harder to win over, and more than likely Rory would follow suit with his older brother, judging by how tightly the youngster clung.

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply but choked on his own words. Leaning in the doorway, arms folded across a wide expanse of chest, could easily be one of the ignorant savages the laird spoke of. A wild mantle of black hair fell over the man’s eyes, and a full, woolly beard hid half of his face. A tartan kilt draped his sturdy frame, forbidden since the rebellion of ’forty-five, and his loose shirt might, at one time in its distant history, have been white. The same prominent nose as the rest of Callaghans, the only facial feature clearly visible, suggested close kin.

“An Englishman, Father?” A menacing growl emerged from the unkempt reminder of more primitive times.

A huge hand swept aside the curtain of hair, revealing a coldness in the newcomer’s penetrating, dark-eyed stare. Malcolm’s blood froze at the hostility pulsing from the stranger in great waves. He quickly demoted Eoghan Callaghan to the
second
most intimidating man he’d ever met.

The four boys glanced up, smiles of welcome proving they were far more comfortable with this man than with their own father, who’d received frowns. He’d called Eoghan “Father.” Was he a brother? Tiny Rory, with two front teeth missing from his grin, jumped from the table to launch himself at the new arrival. The harshness melted before Malcolm’s eyes. The man caught the mere slip of a boy in mid-flight, tossing him high into the air and catching him. “Aillil!” the child shrieked in obvious delight.

In his scruffy woolen tartans, the newcomer appeared more animal than man. Yet when he smiled at the youngster his face transformed, appearing less world-weary and almost handsome.