Duet (5 page)

He kept a close watch, and when the boys left the table behind the Englishman, Aillil waited a few scant moments before following, keeping out of sight. They didn’t mount the stairs leading to his brother’s quarters, going instead toward the oldest part of the structure—the tower that once provided defense against invaders. Up the winding staircase he climbed, quietly placing his feet on each stone stair. He heard voices and paused, listening closely.

“Is that it?” Rory’s childish voice sounded full of excitement.

“Can I touch it?” Niall asked.

Gentle laughter from the teacher answered them. “Be patient. If you’re good and do exactly as I tell you, you’ll each get a turn. Here, Rory, you first.”

The voices ceased and Aillil held his breath, waiting for the first sign of distress from above. If the man harmed those boys in any way…

“No, Rory,” the English-accented voice said. The words were kind and patient with no hint of rebuke. “It’s very delicate. You must hold it like so.” After a moment he continued, “There, much better. Now, give me your other hand.”

Aillil couldn’t believe the others would allow anything to happen to the youngster they all doted on. Still, his brothers were quieter than he’d ever heard them. Even the twins were silent, a rare occurrence. Several uneventful moments passed. He decided he’d fretted for naught and turned to leave when the teacher’s next words slammed into his protective instincts. “Gently now, stroke it very, very gently. It responds best to a firm, easy hand.”

No! Mounting the remaining stairs two at the time, Aillil bellowed, “Unhand him this instant!” The door to the tower room struck the wall behind it with enough force to rattle teeth, and he swept inside, consumed by righteous fury and ready to tear the vile offender limb from limb. Five sets of wide eyes stared at him, five mouths hung open. Instead of the expected perversion, his youngest brother perched on a stool in the middle of the room, muted candlelight reflecting off a… violin? Rory’s other hand held a bow.

Four

A
ILLIL
’
S
rage hovered momentarily, then careened around the room seeking a target. At last, the truth penetrated the primitive part of his brain that would kill to protect kin, the teacher’s instruction settling into rightful context. His anger dissolved. The words merely cautioned Rory to carefully handle a valuable possession.

Lack of guilt this time didn’t mean the Englishman wouldn’t try something later. Feeling no apology warranted, Aillil offered none. Rory, used to their father’s stormy temper, doubtless saw nothing amiss in the outburst, being too young to realize the implications. The twins, also used to harshly shouted words, normally deserved, resumed inspecting the teacher’s belongings. Niall said nothing, regarding Aillil thoughtfully. Aillil imagined cogs turning in the boy’s mind.

“Aillil!’ Rory squealed, shattering the tension. “Masser By-lee gaun teach vy-lin!” His missing teeth caused him to sputter.

The teacher watched with wary eyes. Rather than retreat to the farthest corner of the room, the slightly built man put himself between what must be perceived as a threat and his students. Interesting. Equally interesting was the fire flashing in those wide-set green eyes. Ah, the
Sassenach
wasn’t without spirit.

“Very good, Rory,” Aillil replied, suspicious eyes pinning his nemesis. “I believe I’ll stay and watch—if your
teacher
doesn’t object.” He raised a questioning brow. With the four boys all nodding enthusiastically, the man couldn’t graciously refuse.

“If you wish.” The Englishman’s freckled nose rose to a haughty angle and he returned to instructing Rory. There was no mistaking the stubborn set of his jaw. Although pride probably dictated sparing the youngsters any scathing comments, Aillil believed the matter far from over.

When the bow connected with the strings, the instrument squalled like an angry cat. Aillil winced, fighting to hide his reaction.

The teacher never flinched. “Everyone does that the first time.” His encouraging tones lessened Rory’s pout. “I’ll tell you what, you finger the strings and I’ll wield the bow.”

Standing behind the stool, the teacher reached around Rory, slender fingers covering the boy’s on the strings. Aillil observed with a fascination normally reserved for birds of prey, anticipating a wrong move. The teacher touched Rory no more than necessary, and Aillil couldn’t help noticing that his bashful sibling didn’t pull away from the contact. This time, the stroke of the bow produced a pure, sweet note. Cold chills rose on Aillil’s arms and along his spine.

The sound, while very different from his beloved pipes, took his breath away. Aillil had once scoffed at his own violin teacher after a few lessons, preferring an instrument more befitting a Highlander. With pipes no longer an option for public playing, he reconsidered his options.

One by one, the boys took turns with varying degrees of success, while the others sat on the floor offering comment. Even Dughall and Dughlas, usually in constant motion, sat still for a time. When they’d all taken a turn, Niall asked, “Master Byerly, would you please play something for us?”

The Englishman shot a defiant glare at Aillil, who inclined his head. Sitting down on the stool, the teacher swept red curls away from his face with one hand before securing the violin against his neck. He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, even breath. To Aillil, the actions appeared ritualistic. The first notes began, slow and stately, quickly escalating into a lively tune, far more complex than the ditty the boys had learned. The teacher’s nimble fingers darted over the strings in a well-practiced blur.

Aillil grudgingly admired the teacher’s skill. While in Glasgow, he’d studied swordplay. The sword master, a diminutive man scarcely larger than the teacher, wielded his weapon with unnatural grace, his parries and thrusts more dance than fighting moves. Cold steel in his hands became an extension of himself. No challenger stood a chance of victory. The Englishman’s confident playing reminded Aillil of the swordsman. Each was a master in his own right.

All too soon the music ended, and Aillil surprised himself with his own disappointment. Niall spoke up, preventing Aillil from requesting another song. “Thank you, Master Byerly. It’s time for us to be abed.” The wiry youth herded the complaining younger boys from the tower room, leaving Aillil alone with the Englishman.

The moments ticked by. Perhaps Aillil owed an apology after all. The Englishman may yet transgress, though currently he appeared innocent of the monstrous act Aillil had suspected him of. “Teacher, I…,” he began.

“Malcolm Byerly.”

Raising his eyes brought Aillil face-to-face with someone he’d hated hours earlier. Now he wasn’t sure. How could he hate someone his brothers obviously adored? But trust? Another matter entirely.

“Byerly,” the man repeated, glaring daggers at Aillil and easing off the stool. “My name is Malcolm Byerly. And regardless of what you might believe, not all Englishmen force their attentions on helpless children.” His voice was surprisingly melodious, even laced with scorn.

“I care for my brothers,” Aillil said, in equally stern tones. With Duncan heading for a new life, and no pressing business elsewhere, nothing prevented Aillil from keeping an eye out for his brothers’ interests—including monitoring their tutor.

They stared each other down, the tension building. Aillil thought they must appear quite amusing, the angry redhead being much smaller. Before taking time to consider his actions, Aillil seated himself on the stool, staring into shocked green eyes. His mouth opened and out came, “My turn now.”

“What?”

Ignoring the teacher’s surprised gasp, Aillil reached up and plucked the violin and bow from unresisting hands. Positioning them as he’d once been taught, he drew the bow across the strings, suspecting the teacher expected the same vile squawking each of the novices produced. Instead, the instrument sang true. Aillil regarded the Englishman expectantly, pleased at remembering lessons from long ago. For now, he chose to feign a certain amount of ignorance.

The tutor resumed his place behind the stool, directing Aillil’s fingering of the strings, his touch lighter and far more hesitant than with the boys. Together they played a simple melody, completed with few sour notes.

Aillil smiled despite the present company. While a stringed instrument would never replace his treasured pipes, a violin could be played without fear. The raised-brow gaze he turned on the shocked Englishman brooked no argument. “You will teach me to play.”

M
ALCOLM
seethed. The nerve of the arrogant beast! Barging in, suspecting the vilest of sins, interrupting a music lesson, and nearly scaring the poor boys to death. To top it all off, he’d the audacity to expect to be taught himself.

The cramped chamber on the topmost floor of the tower offered little room for Malcolm’s agitated pacing. He’d have kicked the oaf out on his tartan-clad arse if not for the worshiping eyes of the boys. They seemed to think highly of their obnoxious older sibling; why, Malcolm couldn’t fathom. Picturing the shaggy man, laughing and playing with Rory, cooled his temper. No one who adored a child could be completely bad. But despite Aillil’s one lone redeeming quality, Malcolm still hoped the rogue would tire of the strict discipline required to learn a musical instrument and return to the wilds from whence he apparently came. The less contact they shared, the better.

He cleaned the violin and placed it on the table beside the bed with great care. Well used when Malcolm bought it, the instrument still had cost a good deal of a teacher’s salary, and was worth every penny. He quietly prepared for sleep before stretching out on his narrow bed, thinking back to the Callaghans and their introduction to music class. Of the five of them, Aillil alone showed any true interest. Niall preferred listening, and the twins simply couldn’t sit still long enough to make it through a single song. If Rory overcame his shyness, in time he might show some promise.

Sleep eluded Malcolm for many hours. He lay awake mulling over his changed circumstances. Had he really improved them by abandoning his post in Kent to come here? He visualized the hate-filled faces of the men who’d condemned Thomas, weighing them against the elder Callaghan. Had he traded familiar devils for one or, in this case, two, lesser known? Not only did Aillil pose an open threat, when not actively trying to be a nuisance, the damnable man was attractive, in a rugged, untamed way. When sleep finally came, it brought the memory of the barbarian’s solid back pressed against Malcolm’s groin.

“
V
ERY
good, Dughall.” Malcolm beamed at his most challenging student’s latest attempt to read aloud. The poor child quite literally buried his nose in the book, a sure sign the boy’s poor marks weren’t entirely due to a stubborn nature, though willfulness certainly didn’t help. He’d improved markedly in the past two weeks, but still lagged well behind his better-visioned twin.

A muffled snigger sounded when Malcolm discreetly picked a bug from his sleeve and tossed it out the window. Apparently Dughlas had taken advantage of the distraction to place it there—the fifth so far today. Each and every time, Malcolm discarded the pesky creatures as unobtrusively as possible. If he didn’t react, eventually the boys would tire of the game and find some other way to test him. Without a doubt he’d counter whatever they came up with. Really, did they think themselves the only ones he’d ever instructed?

When Dughall stumbled over a word, Malcolm stepped in. “Possible means something
can
happen, probable means most likely it
will
happen.” He went on to explain, “It’s
possible
that you and Dughlas won’t get into any mischief today, while it’s
probable
that you will.”

A bark of laughter from the doorway caused him to look up. His smile faded. Aillil leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across a tartan-covered chest. Several times during the day Malcolm noticed the Callaghan heir watching him, more than likely attempting to find some fault with the lessons. With a smug bit of pride, Malcolm noted that all four of his students held great promise with their studies, promise they’d fulfill under his tutelage. While unsure of many things, his ability to teach wasn’t one of them.

Lessons finished, he dismissed the boys, who fled the room for an afternoon outside. Only with the younger Callaghans safely out of sight would Malcolm acknowledge Aillil’s presence. “Is there something you wanted?”

Aillil straightened from the doorway and crossed the room in a few long strides. “After the evening meal, you’ll come to my rooms with your violin.” The words, although more confidently spoken, served an unwitting reminder of poor Thomas’s bold proposition. Malcolm hadn’t thought of Thomas’s advances in weeks, having hoped he’d successfully banished the incident from his mind. It seemed the guilt and pain merely lay in wait for a reminder. Trust Aillil to provide one.