Duet (13 page)

Malcolm’s skin appeared so pale against Aillil’s much darker complexion. They ground their mouths and lower bodies together, moans growing desperate. Malcolm reveled in the feel of flesh upon flesh, the culmination of months of longing and stolen moments whenever watchful eyes turned away, trying to ignore the scratch of wool at his back.

Strong fingers grasped Malcolm’s cock. “I want you,” Aillil whispered, voice thick with promise. The desire in the Highlander’s eyes was an all-consuming thing, and Malcolm pushed into the hand holding his length. Returning the favor, he placed tentative fingers around Aillil’s flesh, eliciting another moan from them both.

“Then you shall have me,” Malcolm replied. Aillil had explained the basics of how men enjoyed other men, beyond what they’d done already; he wasn’t unaware of what was to come. He also expected some discomfort, for Aillil’s cock was much larger than fingers, the only things to breach him thus far. Many times in the recent past he’d placed his trust in Aillil, and today was no different.

A small vial appeared in Aillil’s hand. “To ease my way,” he explained, pouring oil onto his fingers. “Though you may wish to, do not fight me. ’Twill make matters worse.”

Bobbing his head in agreement, Malcolm raised his knees and parted his thighs, panting through the sensation of being probed by a finger, then what felt like another. This much they’d done before. He fought the natural instinct to protect himself from the invasion while recalling the words of warning. All thought of resistance faded when a fingertip grazed something deep inside that had him pushing back, begging for more.

“Please, Aillil, I burn for you,” he pleaded. He was still a bit unsure precisely what he asked for, not that it mattered—this was Aillil, whom he trusted with his life.

Unlike himself, Aillil was no stranger to acts between men, and Malcolm counted on his lover’s experience to guide them. Steady hands helped him up on hands and knees, and murmured words reminded him to relax. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, Aillil entered him, stopping whenever Malcolm tensed. Ever so slowly, Aillil eased in. When Malcolm gasped and nodded, Aillil gently rode him, whispering words of praise and encouragement, frequently pausing to ask, “Am I hurting you?” The discomfort paled in comparison to the eventual pleasure.

Aillil wrapped a skillful hand around Malcolm’s erection, working the length in time with their bodies’ rhythm. Aillil swore, gasping through completion a moment before Malcolm’s sharp cries announced his own arrival at the same destination. Caught up in the moment, Malcolm barely registered the thrumming of the encircling trees, and surely it was his mind, feverish with passion, that made them appear to glow.

Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, half covered by Aillil’s plaid. Aillil lazily stroked Malcolm’s exposed stomach. “You really do burn for me,” he teased. “You’re nearly too hot to touch. And when did you acquire so many freckles?” Surprisingly cool lips fluttered against Malcolm’s forehead. Several moments of quiet bliss followed before Aillil spoke again. “I have an afternoon appointment with my father and dare not be late, else I fear you’d never be quit of me. I will see you for our evening meal. Until then….”

While Malcolm lay resting, unaccountably tired and achy, Aillil dressed him, and then began the painstaking process of folding the heavy woolen kilt, arranging the mass before clasping on the brooch that held the garment in place. He shook off the evidence of their outdoor rendezvous. “Until tonight,” he said, disappearing into the trees.

Malcolm fell asleep within minutes.

Nine

“
Y
OU
wished to see me, Father?”

“Aye,” the leader of the Callaghan clan replied from behind his desk. His tone wasn’t welcoming.

Reading the man’s foul mood, Aillil entered the study with caution, settling into the very chair he’d sat in to speak with Fionan. He studied the laird, wondering why he’d been summoned. The disdainful glance at his tartans was nothing new; the cool distance in his father’s eyes was.

“I will say my piece now, Aillil, and you will listen.” Eoghan’s pronouncement expressed a clan chief passing judgment, not a father admonishing a son. What offense had Aillil committed this time? “You are more than a man now, at five and twenty, after all. It’s past time for you to act your years.”

His father stood from behind the desk to stalk the length of the study, keeping a distance between them. “I recently visited my cousin Marcus in Inverness.”

Aillil nodded, remaining silent. His father kept a mistress in Inverness and often used visiting Marcus as an excuse to pay a call. Why mention it? Visits to Marcus’s home were common enough occurrences.

Eoghan glowered, wrath in his eyes. In a voice colder than the loch in winter, he shattered Aillil’s world. “Marcus and I reached an agreement. You will marry his eldest daughter in six months’ time. When the weather warms, they’ll bring your bride.”

The blood froze in Aillil’s veins and a dagger of ice pierced his gut. “M… marriage? Why now? You’ve never—”

Eoghan cut him off, anger sizzling in both words and eyes. “I have swallowed my pride and done my best to accept the ways of the English. Then, my son, my own son, openly defies the law against my explicit orders. Have you no fear of the king’s spies? Do you think he doesn’t know who mocks him?” His father’s gaze swept over Aillil’s clothing, a tradition the elder Callaghan had abandoned to appease a foreign king.

Aillil understood the risks of imprisonment and deportation to the colonies if tales of his deeds fell upon the wrong ears. The conqueror’s laws weren’t going to stop him. He was a Scotsman and damned proud of it! They’d discussed the matter numerous times and always before walked away agreeing to disagree. This time it seemed Aillil might have pushed too far, for not merely his attire earned his sire’s displeasure. His heart skipped a beat when next the man spoke.

“Donna think I’ve nae seen how ye look at that
Sassenach
, an’ how he looks at ye!” the laird ranted, in anger reverting to the thick Scottish brogue he’d fought for years to abandon. “That sort o’ thing be expected during battle, when there be nae lassies around. Nae need fer it now. I’ve ay good mind tae—”

Aillil’s own anger blazed equally hot. “You’d what, Father?” He’d never dared challenge the laird directly before, but this argument he couldn’t walk away from. Not when the outcome concerned
Mael Caluim
. How did Eoghan find out? Hadn’t they been careful? Thinking back to his lover’s fears, bile rose at his own arrogance. He’d foolishly believed being the laird’s heir granted protection from gossip. How very wrong he’d been. Apparently, the king wasn’t alone in employing spies.

The muscles in Eoghan’s jaw visibly clinched and his hands balled into fists. Finally, the mottled red anger began to fade until he once more appeared the diplomat and English arse-kisser he was famed for being—at the cost of clan respect. “The matter is settled,” he said. “The
Sassenach
is to leave here tomorrow. Fergus Gordon will take him in.”

“Fergus Gordon? Fergus is under punishment by Laird Gordon for attacking Niall!”

The stubborn glint in Eoghan’s eyes gave answer.

“You visited Laird Gordon, didn’t you?” Dark, bitter hatred consumed his better judgment, and Aillil wished he’d taken care of Fergus when presented the chance, consequences be damned.

“Fergus is the king’s man,” Eoghan defended. His neutral tone could have been discussing the weather. “I made a bargain. He wouldn’t have my heir sent to the colonies, and I’d smooth things over with his clan chief.”

Picturing Niall’s terrified face and then recalling his own revulsion all those years ago at the mere mention of the man’s name, Aillil fought the impulse to grab his father and shake some sense into the man. “Fergus Gordon is a disgusting, vile beast!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and sending the chair crashing to the floor. “You know what he nearly did to Niall, and what he’ll do to
Mael Caluim
! How can you think such a thing?”
What he tried to do to me!

“Oh?” Eoghan asked, ignoring the remark about Niall. One bushy gray brow arched. “And how exactly would his actions differ from your own in regards to the teacher?”

Aillil’s fury got the better of him, stealing all discretion. “It’s not the same, for I love him!” He realized the mistake the moment the words left his mouth. Eoghan’s triumphant smirk declared the damage done; too late to take the confession back.

Exploiting the perceived weakness, his father moved in for the kill, using Aillil’s own patriotism against him. “There is more at stake here than you could possibly grasp. At this very moment, the MacPherson clan is being driven from their lands, all because one of the king’s sources accused them of treachery.” The words were flat and emotionless. Uncaring. A lump clogged Aillil’s throat. “It’s of little consequence that there’s no shred of truth. The English wish to clear the Highlands, keeping the rabble rousers firmly under their thumbs. They’ll use any excuse to forward their goals. If we’re to survive, we must remain above reproach.”

Rumors of the English plans abounded, yet Aillil had scoffed in disbelief. The
Sassenach
dared not carry out such wicked deeds. The clans would never stand for it; such actions would likely inspire another uprising. He’d clearly underestimated the foe. The other chieftains must be running scared, thinking of their own, like his father. The MacPherson’s lands neighbored the Callaghan’s, making matters worse. It seemed the Callaghan Coward intended to sit by and do nothing while honest, hardworking folk lost everything.

Eoghan continued, “Here are my terms: you will marry Marcus’s daughter and provide an heir. In return, you’ll be allowed to give reference for
Mael Caluim
”—he hurled the name like a curse—“and choose where he goes. Make no mistake, he will go, be it your choice or mine of his destination. I’ll not risk any more disgrace on the good name of Callaghan. Your bride brings titles and land. It is a good match and will add substantially to the clan.”

“You’ve failed to mention that she’s a homely, spoiled thing who cares naught for any save herself,” Aillil countered. “It’s well known that her father kisses the king’s arse for whatever crumbs can be gathered from the royal table. To this day I find it hard to believe Marcus is from the same clan as my devoted, caring grandmother. Tell me, Father, did Marcus turn the king’s wrath on the MacPhersons, or Fergus?”

The smug satisfaction on Eoghan’s face betrayed him. Aillil’s anger flared anew. “I can’t believe it. My own father betrayed his countrymen. Tell me, for what price did you sell your soul this time?”

The blow caught Aillil off guard, and he barely controlled an answering swing. At that moment, he’d gladly have risked disinheritance if it were only himself in danger. If Eoghan cast him out, where would that leave the clan? His brothers? What about his lover?

Aillil considered abandoning his birthright, taking Malcolm, and running away. His father was one step ahead. “If you attempt to leave with
that man
, you will be found. When you are, certain valuables will be discovered on your companion. I don’t think you’d care to watch him hang for a thief. Your choice, Aillil. In the end you will do exactly as I say. Why not make this easy on the both of us?”

Such helplessness rankled, even while seething in anger. Aillil hung his head, admitting defeat. How foolish he’d been not to recognize that the enemy didn’t only reside in England, but in his own home. He should have hidden his feelings better, trusted less.

Carefully measuring the costs, Aillil decided the good of the many outweighed his own wants and needs. To protect the clan from Eoghan’s greedy machinations, he must remain here, minimizing the damage until he became laird. Then he could carry out justice for those ruined for other’s gain. How had this happened? He’d promised his love no regrets and hadn’t been able to keep his word for a day.

If he wanted to keep Malcolm safe and guarantee some semblance of a happy future, Aillil had to agree to the terms. If not, no doubt Eoghan would make good on the promise to deliver Malcolm to Fergus. Features carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, Aillil hoped his Englishman would someday forgive him for giving in to Eoghan’s demands.

Aillil forced a smile and lied, “Truth be told, I’m beginning to tire of him anyway. The girl brings lands, you say? And titles?” He pretended to think on the matter. “After we dine tonight, I’ll tell him.”

Eoghan didn’t appear convinced, but didn’t argue. “Do it tonight. If you don’t, I will. He must be gone before the harvest ends.”

“Yes, Father,” Aillil agreed, blinking back tears.

D
INNER
was an uncomfortable affair with Eoghan watching every move. Aillil vowed to make the evening last, putting off the inevitable moment when he’d have to destroy the happiness of the only man he’d ever loved. Yes, even after all his earlier protestations, Aillil now realized he’d been right to suspect Malcolm of thievery, for the Englishman had snuck in and stolen his heart.