The Englishman stepped into a beam of bright sunlight streaming in through the open shutters, causing his hair to glow. One long strand escaped the queue at his nape, falling across his face and obscuring his eyes. A graceful, long-fingered hand swept it back, tucking the errant lock behind one ear. Each movement captivated Aillil.
Malcolm intrigued him, and his compact body ignited a fire beneath Aillil’s kilt, far beyond any lust for Duncan. Duncan merely provided physical relief, regardless of how much Aillil cared for the man. The diminutive Englishman inspired much more than merely lust. Besides, visions of paid companions never interrupted Aillil’s sleep, nor had Aillil ever awakened shouting Duncan’s name. He’d yelled Malcolm’s from his bed several times.
Could Malcolm be a lover of men? When he’d ignored the maid, Aillil raised his guard where the youngsters were concerned. The Englishman paid them no undue attention, either, and his defense against Fergus spoke volumes. His manners couldn’t be faulted, were he talking to the laird or to the lowliest servant. Aillil manipulated some of the more comely women of the village within the man’s grasp, and he’d showed no interest in anything other than playing the violin or teaching. But Aillil recognized the passion lurking beneath a meek exterior, and believed the heart of a lover dwelled within. Malcolm wasn’t a cold, emotionless shell. What would it take to crack the stoic surface and bring out the fire? What did the man crave when he lay abed each night? Once his spark flared, would he scorch a lover with the heat?
Eyes the color of emeralds locked onto Aillil’s. Even from across the room Aillil heard the ragged gasp, noticed the sudden blush on pale cheeks. Had the Englishman any idea of the lustful visions Aillil conjured of him? Aillil’s mouth turned up in a smirk. Ah, now he understood why the little teacher hadn’t been tempted by the maid or the village lasses.
Aillil recalled the answering hardness during their tumble in the hay. It seemed he had his answer after all. Malcolm quickly looked away, under the guise of inspecting Niall’s penmanship, but not before betraying his secret.
The man sought another man for bedding, did he? Aillil was tempted to offer himself for the honor, and probably would have if taking a male lover close to home hadn’t been unwise—especially a foreign lover. His cock had no such reservations and throbbed beneath his kilt.
A memory came to mind of Duncan, mouth stretched wide to engulf Aillil’s flesh. Now, instead of Duncan, Malcolm kneeled before him, peering up from beneath lashes a few shades darker than Malcolm’s hair. Aillil shifted his weight to one foot and smoothed his kilt down to hide a growing bulge. Unwilling for his brothers to see, he eased from the room. He’d wait until later to speak with the teacher. A messenger had arrived earlier from Inverness, delivering the violins. The time had come to present Malcolm with his reward. Aillil pointedly ignored the fact that he’d lived for an excuse to get the man alone ever since playing the game of Fox and Hounds.
E
XHAUSTED
, Malcolm trudged the stairs to his solitary tower room. Normally, he took them two at a time, hurrying to spend a few precious moments playing his violin before retiring to bed. He sighed. It was gone now, damaged beyond repair, and acquiring another would require months of saving.
You did the right thing,
he told himself, his only consolation for losing what he’d once considered a dear friend.
The nights grew warmer with each passing day, though his tower room, with its thick walls, remained chilly. While it might not be true in other households where he’d served, at Callaghan Castle a tutor didn’t rate a maid to start the fire each evening. He counted his blessings that servants at least lit the wall sconces at night, guiding the way. If he wanted a fire, however, he’d have to provide it himself. Yet when he pushed open the door, bright flames flickered in the hearth, and the tiny room appeared cozy and inviting for the first time since his arrival.
He closed the door gently, grateful for the pleasant surprise without questioning his good fortune. His breath caught when he noticed the shadowy figure sitting on the bed. No doubt Aillil had noted his earlier reaction and now knew what he’d fought to keep hidden. Backing up to the door, he blindly groped for the handle, anticipating a beating or worse.
Before his tired eyes registered the movement, Aillil stood beside him, callused hand capturing a wrist. Malcolm panicked, knowing those strong hands could snap his arm like a twig if the big man were so inclined. He swallowed hard, eyes roving upward. The expected hatred was absent from Aillil’s eyes, replaced by something Malcolm couldn’t name. His heart thudded against his ribs, and his breath came in short, harsh pants. Was this how Thomas felt after being caught?
The moment stretched into eternity, his and Aillil’s eyes locked together, and he dared not turn away. Aillil’s hand remained upon his wrist, not restraining, merely resting there. Once able to think more clearly, Malcolm once more remembered poor, unfortunate Thomas, for different reasons. The hunger on Aillil’s face bore a striking resemblance to Thomas’s at their first meeting all those months ago, and his eyes held promise. Despite increasing dread, Malcolm’s body began to respond.
“
Mael Caluim
,” Aillil began, voice a gentle rumble.
“Why do you call me that?” Malcolm asked, snapping from his thoughts enough to wonder if this mispronunciation of his name meant another insult, like
Sassenach.
Had one hated slur been replaced by another?
“Malcolm is English,
Mael Caluim
is Scottish.”
Malcolm couldn’t believe they were having this conversation calmly in light of their previous heated exchanges. Aillil spoke to him casually, like an equal. “What?” Had he heard correctly? Aillil wanted him to have a Scottish name?
The words were spoken in a soft, lilting accent, free of the guttural dialect he’d noticed among the locals, and Aillil knew far more of the English than the average villager seemed to. At some point in time, the Callaghan heir had received a proper education and now gave thought to the world outside the Callaghan lands.
“If you’re going to live among the Highlands, you need a Highlander’s name.” Aillil snorted. “Malcolm comes from
Mael Caluim
, one more thing the English took from us to call their own. Or would you rather have a
Sassenach
name?” Amusement played in his eyes.
“I would be called anything except
Sassenach
,” Malcolm replied.
He still expected to be punished for the revelation of his secret, a secret Aillil might share. There had been no mistaking the hard length of flesh grinding against him when he’d lain beneath Aillil during Fox and Hounds. Had Aillil noticed being answered in kind?
Aillil released Malcolm’s arm and returned to the bed. Malcolm briefly reconsidered bolting through the door and running, but where would he run to? Besides, his curiosity wouldn’t allow him to leave without finding out Aillil’s purpose. The room hadn’t been warmed for naught. Liquid fire pooled in Malcolm’s groin as he watched the play of shadows over his bed and the man standing next to it. For one brief moment he imagined himself sprawled upon the mattress, watching Aillil shed a mass of woolen tartan to slide beneath the blankets.
Shaking his head to clear the vision, Malcolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly, composing himself. A lifetime spent in hiding couldn’t be easily overcome.
Aillil plucked something from the bedside table and turned back around. By the fire’s dim light, it took Malcolm a moment to realize what he held—a violin. Aillil drew closer, and Malcolm realized that it was no ordinary violin, but the most stunning example he’d ever encountered. He simply must hold that artfully crafted wood and release the music that had been locked deep inside him since the destruction of his own.
“Ma… may I?” His voice trembled. All thoughts of himself and Aillil on the bed together scattered. He reached out a shaking hand.
Aillil smiled in answer, extending the instrument. Malcolm took the offered treasure, fingers reverently caressing its smooth surface. He would never be able to afford such luxury; the fine workmanship of its creation destined it for someone of means. Stepping nearer to the fire’s light, he examined the prize closely. The intricately carved scroll, the pegbox, the bridge—all absolutely flawless, the workmanship of a true master. He turned wistful eyes to Aillil, who handed him a bow before settling on the bed. Aillil’s eyes twinkled in the firelight.
Malcolm longed to play more than anything, but wouldn’t be hurried. Instead, he took the time to acquaint himself with the instrument, tuning strings and running his fingers over the fingerboard, like he might explore a lover, had he possessed one. When at last bow joined fingers on the strings, the sweetest, clearest notes emerged. Malcolm closed his eyes and smiled in rapture. The room, Aillil, and all else disappeared except for himself and the violin.
Malcolm had no idea how long he played or what melodies, and he may have continued forever had not a hand fallen on his arm. He opened his eyes with an apologetic grin, the wonderful moments shattered by reality. No matter how he might wish otherwise, it wasn’t his. He handed the violin back to its rightful owner, holding on for as long as possible.
Aillil took it from his reluctant hands. “Thank you for tuning it for me,” he said. Malcolm saw something he’d never expected to from the big, rough man—a smile, aimed at him. From behind the Highlander’s broad back came another violin. “Now, I believe yours requires tuning before we continue our lessons.”
Eyes darting back and forth between the gift and the giver, Malcolm’s heart raced. It must be a joke, an exquisite offer made so Aillil could reclaim it and laugh. “Don’t you like my gift?” When Malcolm didn’t answer, too overwhelmed to speak, Aillil added, “Yours was lost defending my brother. It’s the least I could do.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, making him appear less sinister.
Fingers trembling in nervous anticipation, Malcolm accepted the precious gift, barely managing to squeak out, “Thank you.” He marveled at this exquisite piece of workmanship, afraid to close his eyes lest it disappear. Until today, he’d never seen anything so fine, let alone hoped to own it. His brow furrowed and he studied both violins, realizing that, far from being unique, his matched Aillil’s perfectly.
“They’re brothers,” Aillil explained. “Go on, tune it! I wish to learn a song.”
Malcolm took great care with his tuning. Once satisfied, he drew the bow across the strings, slowing the melody to allow his student to observe. Aillil hesitated a moment before joining in.
They practiced for a while, Aillil missing a few notes here and there, and then he’d watch intently before trying again. Occasionally Malcolm would assist with finger placement or technique.
The man possessed natural aptitude and picked up the art far faster than any former student. Aillil had undoubtedly benefited from instruction at some point in time, but all the lessons in the world couldn’t replace true talent. When they were too weary to continue, the fire had long since burned to embers. Light and shadows caressed Aillil’s profile. Malcolm realized with a start that he’d been alone in a room with his adversary for hours and none the worse for it.
“Why are you giving me this expensive gift?” he asked, still suspicious of the man’s motives. One didn’t give gifts without expecting something in return, in his way of thinking, in spite of what Aillil said. What would be the price? “Your brother was in danger. I did what any man would do. I expected no payment.”
A look surprisingly like pain crossed Aillil’s features. “I have no love for the English, for they’ve brought great harm to my people. Most care naught for us other than how they can use us for their gain. You’re not the first
Sassenach
teacher in the Highlands, but you are the first of my knowledge who didn’t treat the Scots like ill-bred, unteachable imbeciles.
“You came to Niall’s rescue when many would have passed by, turning a blind eye. I’m in your debt.” Aillil stared into the dying fire. “You filled the role I would have played had I been there a few moments earlier. For that, you’ve gained my respect.” His eyes locked with Malcolm’s.
Was that actual admiration on the big man’s face? Not knowing what else to say, Malcolm replied, “If that is truly the case, I’ll offer my thanks. We may have our differences, but we both care a great deal for your brothers. They worship you. I believe I know them well enough to understand that their affections aren’t lightly given.”
“No, they aren’t,” Aillil agreed. “In addition to saving my brothers, there is something else I require of you.”
A knot of worry twisted to life in Malcolm’s gut, thoughts of Thomas’s innuendo and the way Aillil regarded him earlier running through his mind. “And?” he managed to say around the lump in his throat, struggling to keep his voice steady. What would he do if the future laird wanted what Thomas had? Could he decline and hope to remain at the castle?
Luckily, Aillil asked something Malcolm could readily give. “Continue to teach me. When I asked before, I wasn’t exactly courteous.”
Malcolm caught himself before shouting “No!” Should he agree? Did Aillil really want lessons, or was this another way to inflict torment? Goodness knew the man spared no expense in replacing a broken violin that, even new, wouldn’t have compared to Aillil’s gift. All things considered, the last few hours had actually been pleasant, and there were far worse fates to be suffered than teaching music in the evenings. In fact, for the first time in years, Malcolm hadn’t felt alone.
He remembered the longing in Aillil’s eyes when the boys had played, the barely perceptible twitching of his fingers. Maybe the man did truly wish to learn. After much thought, Malcolm answered, “It would be my pleasure.”
A
ILLIL
unwound the length of plaid from around his body, hanging it over a chair, and opened the shutters on the single window, letting the breeze in along with the night sounds he’d missed during the long winter. Some might find the air crisp; he found it refreshing.