Duet (2 page)

Malcolm watched the two leaning together as they chatted, an ache of loneliness building in his chest. What would it be like to give in to temptation, to experience firsthand being held, being loved?

All he knew of such were the boastful stories of his peers about female conquests, involving lust, not love. Forcing his eyes to stay on his plate, Malcolm turned deaf ears to the murmured voices around the table, Thomas and the blond’s in particular, as the food turned to sand in his mouth.

The torturous ritual continued for weeks. By day he focused on filling the minds of his students; each evening he sat and watched what he’d thrown away, pretending not to care. During that time, no tender songs emerged from his violin, only requiems of desolation and emptiness. One night, he arrived at the table to find two places conspicuously empty, as they remained throughout the meal. Oddly enough, at a table full of gossips and “brothers’ keepers,” no one mentioned the missing men and all eyes studiously avoided the vacant seats. Appearances in the dining hall were mandatory. Though bold, surely Thomas wouldn’t risk a reprimand, knowing such an absence would be noted?

Unable to tame his curiosity, Malcolm asked, “We’re missing two of our ranks tonight. Are they ill?”

His fellows grew uncomfortably quiet. “You mean you haven’t heard?” the man sitting beside him finally spat. “Seems we had two sodomites in our midst. Caught them at a molly house. Don’t you worry, we know how to deal with the likes of them.” The man’s beefy hand rested on the table, the knuckles torn and swollen.

Malcolm swallowed hard, his eyes darting from one stern face to the next. Some of the teachers nodded agreement while others kept their eyes downcast. A dark bruise marred one’s cheek, a deep gash another’s. What had they done? And why had Thomas and his friend visited a molly house? Didn’t they only need each other? Malcolm heard tales of such places, safe havens for men who desired other men, too reticent to pass the door. Denying his curiosity appeared now to have been a wise decision.

Thankfully, no one observed him too closely, or if they noticed the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks and the horror in his eyes, they mistook his discomfort for indignation at having been exposed to such vile men. He dropped his hands beneath the table to hide their trembling. Afraid to press further and reveal his true interest in the men’s fates, like a coward, Malcolm joined Thomas’s accusers. “Serves them right, too, if you ask me,” he muttered, while inwardly praying for the two lost souls.

By unspoken agreement, the teachers never mentioned the offenders again. That didn’t stop Malcolm from thinking of them often, wondering what had become of them, and whether their few shared moments had been worth the price they’d paid.

Although he’d rejected Thomas, Malcolm still felt a kinship to the lovely brunet with the expressive sapphire eyes, and deeply mourned the loss of a good teacher. In the evenings, alone in his room, conjured images of the ill-fated lovers filled Malcolm’s mind, and when his bow caressed the strings of his violin, he named the result,
Thomas’s Lament.

Night after night, he sat at the table, studying face after face, trying to decide which of his fellows passed judgment and who’d stood idly by, and what he himself would have done had he been present. How Malcolm came to dread those times and the painful memories dredged from the depths of his consciousness where he tried to keep them safely locked. Upon whose hands did Thomas’s ruin reside?

Fate had spared Malcolm, but for how long? If any discovered his true desires, would they care that he’d not acted on them? Probably not. Suspicion alone would prompt action. He never learned precisely what heinous cruelty his peers endured. Most likely they’d been beaten, judging by the injuries he’d witnessed. And the careers of both men were over, their reputations damaged beyond redemption. Had they been dragged through the streets, cursed at and spat upon, as Malcolm had once witnessed?

The punishment could be quite severe if they’d been caught in the act. The two men could face the pillory or, at this very moment, be languishing in prison. For Malcolm, his absence from the jeering crowd mattered little. He knew he was too weak and afraid to take a stand. He’d told Thomas the truth when he’d confessed, “I am a coward.”

Soon, his imagination created trouble where none existed before. Were the other teachers watching him? Did they suspect? Guilt and fear gnawed constantly at his belly, his unease growing with each passing day. He needed to leave Kent before he, too, fell victim to self-righteous judgment.

“
M
ASTER
Byerly, you have a letter.”

Malcolm glanced up one early spring evening into the sweet face of his deliverer, who unknowingly handed him salvation. He stared down at a flowery script he’d not seen in years, recognizing the handwriting immediately—his former teacher’s, from whom he’d learned music.

Dearest Malcolm,
the letter began,
I’ve found a position for you in Scotland…

Dear Master Edward, who’d shocked one and all by leaving a prestigious position in Kent for the wilds of Scotland, had remembered him.

There is a family of my acquaintance in need of a tutor for their sons. Forgive my presumption, but I recommended you, dear student and friend, remembering how fondly you once spoke of your ambition to visit Scotland.

Relief flowed through Malcolm, and he didn’t try to hide a smile, the unfamiliar gesture causing his cheeks to ache. “I’ve received a letter from my mentor!” he announced to the men he’d secretly begun referring to as
the angry mob.

With great satisfaction he tendered his resignation. The letter enabling his escape was tattered and worn from nearly constant handling by the time he traded familiar surroundings for the unknown of the Scottish Highlands. All his life, he’d done as expected, head down to avoid notice. Now he feared obscurity wouldn’t be protection enough. For once in his life, he’d do something daring, something bold.

Packing his precious violin, a few books, and other meager possessions took a mere handful of minutes. To avoid his sire’s admonishments that he’d soon return in shame, upon leaving Kent, Malcolm sent a letter back home to be delivered long after his departure.

He left with his head held high, determined never to look back.

Two

Edinburgh, Scotland

L
YING
upon a down-filled mattress in a rented room, Aillil Callaghan plunged his cock into a willing body, also rented. He moaned and gripped the slender hips of the man riding him, thrusting into tight heat. Internal muscles squeezed mercilessly, and he fought a losing battle to prolong the pleasure. After weeks of abstinence, he never wanted the pleasure to end—the precise reason it would, and soon.

The evidence of his partner’s arousal smacked against his belly, full and needy. Aillil wrapped a tight grasp around the straining member, stroking in time with their bodies’ rhythm. His partner moaned his approval, head thrown back and eyes closed. Low, pleading cries filled the room.

Aillil’s hips surged, driving harder and urging them both toward release. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked and groaned.

His lover cried out and impaled himself completely. Aillil’s fingers slid through spatters of liquid warmth. Speeding the pace, thrusts hard and deep, he followed a moment later into bliss with a hoarse shout. When the capacity for coherent thought returned, he wondered for the hundredth time why he couldn’t feel this way with a lass. It definitely would make life less complicated.

The room quieted, labored breathing blending with the noise of the bustling city outside. Aillil’s satisfied flesh slipped from the moist heat surrounding it and the prostitute collapsed onto the mattress in a sated heap, staring up at the ceiling. Sweat gleamed upon his bare skin, and his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath.

It was over now; Aillil had gotten what he came for. All too soon he’d dress and leave, which pained him more than he cared to admit. His companion didn’t know tonight was to be their last encounter.

Seldom did an opportunity present itself to escape his father’s disapproving eyes, and the flimsiest of excuses sent Aillil to Edinburgh to sample such delights. Necessity didn’t force him to stray far from home to find a willing bedmate, for many comely lads and lassies offered themselves regularly. No, pleasure without fear of emotional entanglements prompted visits to a certain establishment on the edge of the city. A room and a man could be rented for a few hours, or for the night, without the fear of discovery to be endured elsewhere. The house hadn’t flourished for over forty years through indiscretion, and paid lovers demanded coin, nothing more.

A year ago, he’d met the man lying beside him, who’d be an equal if not for one fateful moment in history. He rolled onto his side to study his partner. Handsome Duncan came from a good family, reduced to current circumstances by a father who’d chosen the losing side in the rebellion.

Aillil secretly admired the risks taken in the name of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Scotland and England’s rightful king had the battle gone differently. Now this lad paid the cost with nothing to show for his clan’s sacrifices, his family name now reduced to a curse by many and a warning to still more of what happened to those who fought the English and lost. Damn the Englishmen and their meddling! They’d won! Couldn’t they be happy with overthrowing the rebels? Must they ruin innocent lives, too, like they’d ruined Duncan’s, by killing his father and stripping away the family’s possessions, leaving him and his widowed mother destitute?

“What are you thinking, Aillil?” Duncan asked, intruding on those dark thoughts.

“That I’ll miss you when you leave,” Aillil answered in Gaelic.

Duncan turned to face Aillil, propping his head on his arm. One brow rose in question.

“You don’t know what I said, do you?” Aillil asked.

“No.” A shadow of grief passed over Duncan’s face. “You talked liked my grandfather did when he was alive.”

“You hail from Dornoch and don’t understand the language of your clan?” Aillil shook his head, grieved at yet another thing taken from Duncan.

“My mother forbade me to learn. She said the English would arrest me if I did.” Curiosity bested caution and Duncan finally asked, “What did you say?”

That a man raised in poverty learned the conqueror’s language so well gave testament to a poor mother’s attempts to do right by her son. Most of the common folk’s attempts at English bordered on incomprehensible. Not Duncan’s. His speech and bearing befitted the son of a clan chief. He deserved far more than he had, which was nothing, especially since his mother’s death left him all alone in the world. What remained of his clan had been driven from the Highlands, the bulk of them leaving for the colonies.

“It’s nothing,” Aillil replied, running the tips of his fingers down Duncan’s nearly hairless chest. Gooseflesh followed in their wake. “I’m merely wondering what would have become of you had the uprising proven successful.”

If possible, the light in Duncan’s eyes dimmed even more, and Aillil regretted defiling their sexual contentment with weighty matters. However, he’d much to say and little time, for tonight marked their farewell. Before parting, he’d remind Duncan of his heritage, and send him on to a new land and new future, a proud son of Scotland.

“If not for that defeat, I’d one day be laird and not earning my keep by spreading my legs,” Duncan answered. “Not that I wouldn’t still offer myself to you,” he blurted, meeting Aillil’s eyes briefly before turning away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Aillil captured Duncan’s quivering chin in one hand and lifted, to stare into woeful eyes. “You’re merely doing what you have to in order to live, a harsh lesson many a Scot has learned of late. There’s no shame in surviving.”

Gazing into those eyes and at the slim, nude figure lying next to him, Aillil felt a flash of guilt. Duncan was only three years younger than he, in this house because of a family fallen from favor. If his own father were a stronger man, would this have been Aillil’s fate as well? Or would the backing of the Callaghans have swayed the balance in favor of the Scots, as he’d always believed? Regardless of how much pleasure he tried to bring to their meetings, more than free will brought Duncan to his bed. And now came the time to let go.

“At least your family stood up for what they believed in.” Aillil’s voice held a bitter bite. “My father is a traitor, promising support and later withdrawing when the enemy made a better offer. Unfortunately for him, the Crown is nothing if not fickle, giving its blessings and snatching them away for no cause. Father placed his faith in vows too easily broken, the promised title and lands never came, and what little the clan possessed has been diminished. The English are without honor.”

His father’s duplicity rankled, though Aillil had been a lad himself at the time. “When our neighbors united, the chief of Clan Callaghan withdrew, taking the coward’s way out. In return, what did he get? The power of the clans is naught. The justice the lairds once dispensed is no more. He’s merely a figurehead, a puppet whose puppeteer resides in another land.” Clan Callaghan hadn’t been party to the rebellion, and still they’d lost several choice holdings in the aftermath, simply on suspicion. Aillil snorted. For greed, more likely. Purposely leading the conversation, he added, “Better to face exile in the colonies.”