Duet (6 page)

“And if I don’t?” Malcolm had plenty of experience facing down bullies, even large, obnoxious ones. Body taut as a bowstring, he stood his ground.

“You will” came the arrogant reply.

Before Malcolm worked up an argument, Aillil stalked from the hall. Malcolm’s hunger fled, and he no longer looked forward to their evening meal.

Five

M
ALCOLM
entered the great hall with his students, all laughing at Niall’s retelling of a story he’d heard from the cook. The boys fell silent. Four frightened gazes fixed on a group of men sitting at the table with Eoghan. One of the men glanced up, an arrogant sneer on his face.

When Malcolm had lived in his father’s house, he’d once gone fox hunting with his brothers. The dogs had given the fox the same malicious glare. Malcolm shooed his students to the opposite end of the table, placing himself between them and the stranger.

Normally, meals in the hall were relatively quiet. Not tonight. The visitors banged their fists upon the table to make a point while arguing, voices raised to disrespectful levels. Why did Eoghan put up with such rude guests, especially the one whom the boys seemed to fear? The man Niall called “Fergus” in a hissed whisper appeared of an age with Eoghan, with a shifty glint in his eye hinting at dishonesty and a cruel twist to his lips. Malcolm might have considered him handsome if the young Callaghans’ behavior hadn’t screamed of danger.

The boys had settled far away from the strangers, and Aillil, despite earlier demands for a private concert, remained absent. Niall, Rory, Dughall, and Dughlas usually couldn’t resist an occasional comment, quieting when reprimanded by Eoghan. Tonight, they uttered nary a word. Malcolm peeked up several times into the stranger’s gimlet-eyed stare, and unease formed a knot in his belly. As soon as polite, he made excuses and escorted the boys from the room. Once assured his charges were safely secured in their quarters, Malcolm returned to the tower for his violin. While he hadn’t actually agreed to the meeting with Aillil, he wasn’t about to back down from a challenge.

He’d scarcely mounted the stairs to the sons’ wing when a voice he’d heard way too much of during the past hour taunted from above, “What do you plan to do, lad? You’re no match for me.” What was a visitor doing near the boys’ quarters? Who was he speaking with?

Niall, normally steady and sure, stammered, “I… I’ll tell my father,” his words strangely devoid of confidence.

The other voice hissed, “Your father knows, boy. How do you think I knew where to find you?”

Malcolm froze, holding his breath. Thus far, he’d heard two voices. When frightened, Rory cried, ceasing only when comforted by Niall. He strained to hear, but the only sounds were the stranger’s evil laugh and Niall’s pleas. If Dughall and Dughlas were up there they wouldn’t be quiet; they’d be hurling insults. Only the stranger and Niall, perhaps.

He momentarily debated slipping back downstairs for help until a frightened “Please, no!” spurred him to action. How dare the lout accost the boy! Back flattened to the wall, Malcolm crept up the stairs, reining in white-hot rage. The grizzled visitor from the hall nearly matched Aillil’s lofty height, and openly carried a sword. Unarmed and with little knowledge of fighting, Malcolm fervently prayed that either the stranger would flee when confronted by another full-grown man, or for a diversion, allowing Niall to slip away.

Timing each footfall precisely so arrogant sneers covered any sounds, Malcolm crept up to the landing. There stood the man he’d expected, with a mocking grin on his lips, made more hideous by flickering lantern light. One hand wrapped around Niall’s upper arm, fingers digging cruelly into flesh.

When the youth struggled, the man raised his sword, point aimed at the vulnerable spot where Niall’s throat met his neck. Niall whimpered and raised his chin to evade the sharp blade. Malcolm barely heard the whispered, “I promise not to tell anyone if you’ll release me.”

His blood boiled, urging him to attack. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. One miscalculation and the sharpened steel could end Niall’s life in an instant. Rushing in would make the situation worse.
Think, Malcolm, think!

Rory burst from the door to the boys’ chamber, screaming, “Niall!” He charged his brother’s captor, beating leather-clad legs uselessly with childish fists. “Let him go! Let him go!”

The stranger laughed again, looking down his long nose at his diminutive assailant. “You’re a bit too young for my tastes. Another time, perhaps.” He slurred his words and swayed precariously. On top of already despicable behavior, the bastard was drunk! That could either be a liability or an asset.

Despite obvious fear, Niall shouted, “Rory, get back to the others!” He earned himself a nick with the blade for his efforts. A thin rivulet of red appeared, dark against a pale cheek.

Rory backed away, eyes never leaving his brother’s face.
Go back in the room,
go back in the room,
Malcolm chanted silently, hoping to minimize the damage
.
The child shouldn’t have to witness this, and far better to have just the one boy to worry about.

“Please, Rory,” Niall pleaded, weary resignation in his hushed plea. “Say nothing to the others.”

The stranger and Niall watched Rory hesitate and finally obey.

“Now, where were we?” the predator purred. He eased down the hallway toward an open door, dragging Niall.

With every step they took, Malcolm’s heart beat faster. In his favor, the man’s preoccupation with Niall meant he hadn’t yet noticed Malcolm. At this point, Malcolm doubted his mere presence would have any influence, and he desperately searched for a way to save Niall.

His opponent was armed and appeared skilled in the use of the weapon held purposefully against Niall’s throat. Unfortunately, tearing arrogant beasts limb from limb with bare hands wasn’t covered in any of the books Malcolm read. He’d have to rely on the element of surprise.

Knowing the stranger couldn’t be allowed to reach his destination, Malcolm jumped from the shadows, violin brandished high overhead. “Ahhhhhhh!” he screamed, drawing the man’s attention. Niall ducked, and Malcolm brought the precious instrument crashing down with all his might on an unkempt mass of graying hair.

Twang!
went the strings. The violin shattered, wooden shards rattling off the walls and floor.

Niall’s attacker released his hold and collapsed in a dazed heap, sword clattering against the stones at his feet. “Niall!” Malcolm bellowed. “Go to your room. Now!”

“But Master—”

“Now, Niall!” Malcolm crouched, bow trained on the moaning man’s head. He held the neck of the ruined violin in his other hand, all that remained intact. The anger flowing through his veins demanded an outlet, and driving the sharp wooden point like a dagger through the disgusting predator escalated from
possibility
to
probability.

When the door closed behind Niall, Malcolm drew back to strike. Unyielding arms wound around his body, jerking him away. He kicked and clawed, feet no longer touching the floor. “Let me go!” he shrieked.

“Go with my brothers,” he heard growled against his neck. “I’ll handle this.”

Wondering once more if he’d traded one devil for another, Malcolm glared up into the terrifying countenance of Aillil Callaghan. Aillil’s hatred on the day they first met paled in comparison, for hell itself couldn’t be as furious as the Highlander’s stormy expression. A moan from the injured man reminded Malcolm of his mission. Following after Niall, Malcolm barely reached the safety of the boys’ room when the first scream sounded.

The piteous wails curdled his blood, but he neither knew nor cared what Aillil did. Whatever punishment he meted out, it wasn’t enough.

Soft firelight from the hearth showed Niall kneeling on the floor, a smear of blood staining one cheek. Rory’s tiny arms were wrapped tightly around him, showing no signs of letting go.

“You were so brave,” Niall crooned to his brother. His eyes met Malcolm’s. “Thank you,” he mouthed, before rising and crossing the room to sit on the bed with Rory. Malcolm’s concern didn’t blind him to the dark brown robe Niall pushed beneath the bedclothes, something he appeared to be trying to hide. In light of tonight’s events, more pressing issues needed addressing. Anything else must wait.

The twins, thankfully, were sound asleep, curled together like two pups upon a second bed.

“What happened?” Malcolm asked, bending down for a better look at the injured cheek.

Niall peered up from stroking his brother’s back and murmuring soothing words. “I needed the privy,” he said, eyes darting away. “Fergus was waiting outside the door.”

Ah, the robe was for warmth. It still seemed an odd thing for Niall to hide.

The attacker’s words came back to taunt Malcolm. “Does your father really know?” Regrettably, he’d heard of such situations back in England. What was the world coming to when parents sold their children for gold or political favor?

Niall shrugged. “I doubt it. Fergus has a reputation for being the king’s lackey and he’s a friend of Cousin Marcus’s. Father turns a blind eye to him far more than he should.”

Doing nothing condoned the sin in Malcolm’s eyes. Looking from one boy to the next, Malcolm asked, “Has this happened before?”

“He’s grabbed at us, made comments. This is the first time he’s tried more than that.”

Malcolm fought hard to focus on Niall and tune out the curses and screams coming from beyond the door. Someone was hurting, badly, and likely not Aillil. As much as Malcolm despised and feared him, he appreciated the man’s timely arrival. He’d prayed for divine intervention and received Aillil Callaghan. Would wonders never cease? They may not have much in common, but on this issue they apparently agreed: touch a Callaghan child at your own risk.

A shocked gasp brought his attention back to the boys. “Master Byerly,” Niall exclaimed, staring at the broken shard clutched in Malcolm’s fist. “Your violin!”

Malcolm looked down. He held his bow in one hand, in the other the shattered remnants of his instrument. His violin! He’d completely destroyed it! When he saw Niall, safe and sound and tightly embracing Rory, he couldn’t regret its loss.

“It’s nothing,” he lied. “I’ll simply get another.”

A
ILLIL
towered above a cowering form, holding Fergus Gordon with the scoundrel’s own sword. Everything he’d accused the Englishman of by virtue of birth was true of a fellow countryman. A memory came back of his younger self facing this same man while visiting his relative in Inverness. Like today, another’s intervention proved a saving grace. Now a man full grown, ten years of fear and loathing demanded retribution. His muscles clenched of their own accord, and Aillil fought the impulse to run the sword’s tip against Fergus’s throat. Oh, how he wanted to drive the cold steel home, dealing with the threat once and for all. How dare the man touch Niall! How many others had the lout forced unwanted advances on?

One eye was swollen shut, and when Fergus next cast a lascivious grin, it would be missing a few more teeth. Hopefully, the satisfying crunch Aillil heard while slamming the man against the wall resulted in severe enough injuries to keep his brothers safe until the mongrel crawled back to Inverness. His father wouldn’t be pleased about the king’s spy now carrying a grudge, and while Eoghan normally put up with whatever Fergus did, he wouldn’t suffer a son to be abused in such a manner. Would he?

Any wrath would fall on Aillil and the teacher, leaving Eoghan blameless. Well, if Aillil couldn’t end the cur’s miserable life, at least he’d teach him a thing or two about offending a Callaghan. “Get up, you cowardly scum. Face someone who’ll fight back!”

One bloodshot eye glared. Apparently, Fergus hadn’t yet learned his lesson.

“What’s going on here?”

Fergus’s cronies, all Aillil needed! No wonder his father had sent him on a contrived errand, with prying eyes in the castle tonight. Eyes Eoghan didn’t want glimpsing tartan plaid and ears he didn’t want filled with Aillil’s opinions. Well, too late to worry about discretion now. Depending on who stood at his back, Duncan may have company relocating to the colonies, a price Aillil could pay for holding true to Highland customs.

Surprisingly, the arrogance disappeared from his captive’s features. Hmm… maybe not a crony after all.

Aillil eased around to face a man he’d fostered with and who’d once dressed in yellow and green tartan. “He attacked my brother, Ronald,” Aillil snarled, waiting to discover if his old childhood companion remained an ally or if years and politics turned his once friend to foe like so many others. In younger days, had Ronald also been forced to fend off Fergus? Shame kept Aillil from discussing the incident, and his rescuer never brought up the matter afterwards. Fergus likely escaped completely unscathed.

Pale eyes shifted from Aillil to the man at their feet. “Fergus?” Ronald inquired, voice surprisingly deep for a man barely the size of Niall.