Page 2 of Memory of a Highlander (Arch Through Time #27)

N iall Campbell plastered his most charming smile onto his face, although in reality, he wanted to scowl like a thunderhead. He really did not want to be here.

Get on with it, he told himself. The sooner you get what you need, the sooner you can make excuses and leave.

The woman before him—Lady Somethingorother— smiled demurely and furiously waved her lace fan in her face as though overcome by sudden warmth. They were the latest fashion among Edinburgh’s elite, along with meaningless balls like this one, a place to show off your wealth and build alliances while plotting to stab those allies in the back.

Niall let none of his true feelings show on his face. Quite the opposite, in fact. He flashed a dashing grin, bowed over the lady’s hand, and kissed it.

“A pleasure to see yer beauty, as always,” he murmured, gazing at her until she flushed scarlet and began fanning herself once more.

“My Lord Campbell, ye are quite the flatterer.”

Niall glanced beyond her shoulder. “Ah, here comes yer lord husband. I will leave ye in his capable hands. Good evening, madam.”

He stepped away, smoothly losing himself amidst the throng of people that filled the room. The room itself was bedecked in the latest style—just like its guests—all copied from the English Court. Edinburgh’s finest might rail and rant about the proposed political union with England, but that didn’t stop them from trying to outdo each other when it came to emulating their larger, more powerful neighbor.

Niall navigated his way through the crowd, passing beneath the candle-filled chandeliers that hung from the gilded ceiling, casting dancing shadows across the polished floor. He moved with an ease that belied his discomfort, his hand brushing past the silk dresses of gossiping women and the stiff brocade waistcoats of their preening husbands. The sounds of a lively reel filled the room, the musicians playing with fervent zeal that was all but lost beneath the hum of conversation.

The scent of perfume and sweat hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of roasting meats wafting from the kitchens. Servants wove through the crowd, their trays laden with goblets filled to the brim with mead and whisky. From one corner of the room, a group of men roared with laughter at a bawdy joke and a group of women giggled behind their fans.

Through it all, Niall maintained his composure, his face a mask of polite interest as he moved, ready with a smile or a cordial nod for any who greeted him. But his attention was not on any of them. Instead, it was cast in a wide net, eyes and ears alert for any clue that would lead him to his quarry.

His gaze drifted to where Lady Murray—their hostess—was holding court.

Niall snagged a drink from a passing servant and sipped from his goblet, surreptitiously watching Lady Murray over the top of it.

She was a big, buxom woman with a booming laugh and a pile of golden ringlets on top of her head. On her fourth husband, rumor was that she’d had a hand in the demise of the first three, but only a fool would mention that to her face. With a wit as sharp as glass and an ambition only outdone by her wealth, Lady Murray was the real danger in this room—if the rumors were to be believed.

It was those rumors that had brought Niall here tonight. He watched as something caught Lady Murray’s eye. Following her gaze, he saw a man weaving through the crowd towards her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with his dark hair neatly tied back in a tail. He moved with the sleek grace of a hunting cat and with as much arrogance.

Niall did his best to keep the snarl from his face. Boyd MacAllister.

What was he doing here? The sight of him in this den of politeness and pretense was as jarring as a wolf among lambs.

MacAllister approached Lady Murray and bowed low over her hand, whispering something that made her throw back her head and laugh.

Niall felt a growl building in his throat. He had hoped to catch Lady Murray alone, to subtly press her for information. Little chance of that now.

He drained his goblet and put it down with more force than necessary. He watched as MacAllister leaned in to whisper something else into Lady Murray’s ear, the laughter lines around her eyes crinkling as she responded with a hearty guffaw. Niall’s hands clenched involuntarily at the sight. He had to be careful, tread lightly around MacAllister. He was too dangerous, too cunning. One wrong move, one question too many, and MacAllister was the kind of man who would see straight through Niall’s carefully crafted persona.

He decided to make another round of the room while keeping an eye on MacAllister and Lady Murray. As he moved, he brushed past a group of women who tittered behind their fans, their eyes following him with interest. He gave them a polite nod and made his way towards the drinks table, grabbing another measure of whisky.

“Are ye enjoying the show?” said a voice suddenly.

He turned and saw an old woman with a gray bun standing next to him. She was tiny, barely reaching his chest, and her eyes twinkled mischievously under the weight of her years. She wasn’t dressed in the latest court finery, but instead wore a shapeless brown coat held closed with a deer-shaped brooch. She stood out almost as much as Boyd MacAllister did, although for different reasons.

Niall nodded curtly, his gaze slipping back towards Lady Murray and MacAllister. “It’s certainly...entertaining.”

The old woman followed his gaze, a knowing smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Ah, yes. The dance of power is always so fascinating,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the pair across the room. “So many pawns moving at the whim of unseen hands. Which are ye, I wonder, Niall Campbell. A pawn, or the hand that moves them?”

Niall blinked in surprise, turning to look at her. “Ye know who I am?”

The old woman laughed, a rich, warm sound like a bubbling stream. “Oh, lad, every woman in this room knows who ye are! And why should they not? Ye are Niall Campbell, after all, Edinburgh’s most eligible bachelor! A man of wealth and influence who is no stranger to the dance we have before us.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the old woman, noting her twinkling eyes and the way her lips curled into an enigmatic smile. There was something about her that made him uneasy. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The way she looked at him, with those eyes that were as dark as a still pool on a moonless night, seemed to look right into him. He felt off balance and that was one thing he most definitely did not like feeling.

He cleared his throat. “And who might ye be?”

The old woman chuckled again, her laughter seeping into the air around them like a warm perfume. “Just someone who has seen more than her share of dances,” she said, smiling like someone’s kindly grandmother. “My name is Irene, lad. Irene MacAskill.”

The name stirred something in Niall’s memory, a whisper of a story told long ago, but he couldn’t quite grasp the connection. He felt a shiver run down his spine, as if an icy breeze had swept through the room despite the close-packed bodies.

Irene MacAskill. Why did that name seem so familiar?

His gaze slipped away from her face to the deer-shaped brooch at her chest, wondering if it held any significance.

Irene seemed to sense his unease. “Ah, lad,” she said. “Ye’re trying to fit me into a story ye’ve already written, aren’t ye? But sometimes, life doesnae follow the script we have in mind. Ye of all people should know that. If it did, ye wouldnae be here right now, would ye, so far from where the balance needs ye to be?”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Niall was at a loss for words. To cover his sudden flusterment, he sipped from his goblet, but the whisky tasted bitter on his tongue.

Irene MacAskill knew nothing about him and yet the words she spoke pierced him as surely as any dagger. She was right. If his life had gone the way he’d wanted, he would not be here. He would not be pretending to be something he was not, amongst people who represented everything he’d come to loathe. But such was life, and he didn’t need some strange old woman pointing out his many mistakes.

He wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond to her cryptic statement, so he did what he always did in these situations—he pulled on the mask. He gave Irene his most charming smile, the one that soon had ladies spilling their secrets and men boasting their exploits. “I’m forgetting my manners. It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Lady MacAskill. What brings ye to this dance?”

“I’m here for the same reason as everyone else, my lad,” she replied with a shrug. “To watch the game unfold.”

“And who do ye suppose will win this game?” he asked, gesturing vaguely towards Lady Murray and MacAllister.

Irene didn’t look in their direction. Instead, she cocked her head and regarded him with a shrewd expression. “Well, that depends, doesnae it? It depends what choices ye make, my dear.”

Niall blinked in surprise. “Me? What has this got to do with me?”

Irene’s black eyes seemed to bore right into him. “Everything, lad,” she said softly. She laid a hand on his arm. “There are some people whom time and history swirl around. Ye are one of them. Ye stand at the crossroads, with a foot in the old world and an eye to the new. The choice ye make will decide not only the course of yer future, but that of Alba as well.”

Niall swallowed hard, unsettled by the sudden intensity of her words. He didn’t like the strange feeling of vulnerability that the old woman stirred up in him, as though she was the one in control and Niall was just a child sitting at her feet. He was always the one in control. He was the one who wielded influence over others. He glanced around the room, but no one else seemed to have heard Irene’s words or noticed anything amiss.

“Choice?” he said bitterly. “What choice do I have?” What choice have I ever had?

“The choice of what path ye will tread,” she replied. “The choice of who ye want to be. Who ye want to become. Ye are trying to live in two worlds, lad. This one—” She gestured at the room around them. “And yer true one. But ye canna live in both. I think ye know that.”

Anger suddenly flared in Niall’s gut. Who was this old woman to lecture him? She didn’t know the first thing about him!

But as much as he wanted to dismiss her, he had a gnawing feeling that she was speaking the truth. He’d been walking a tightrope for so long now that he no longer saw the drop on either side. But it was still there, ready to swallow him whole should he falter.

“Thank ye for yer wisdom, Lady MacAskill,” he replied, his tone as polite as he could manage but still holding a hint of sarcasm.

He finished his drink and set the empty goblet on the table. The burn of the whisky was comforting, a familiar sensation that was more than welcome. He was about to walk away from this unsettling woman when she placed a hand atop his and gazed up at him. He fought the urge to step back under her commanding stare.

“Ye are not alone, Niall Campbell,” she said softly. “No matter what ye may think. Someone will come who will help ye find the path ye were meant to tread. One who will see ye, Niall Campbell.” She gave his arm another squeeze. “Yer choice is almost here, my dear,” she said. “I hope ye make the right one. History, the future, and the balance itself, may depend on it.”

With that, she walked away, quickly swallowed by the crowd. Niall stared after her, his thoughts whirling. Irene MacAskill. The name was like a bell tolling in his mind, but he still couldn’t think why. He shook his head, annoyed that he would let her affect him so.

Get a hold of yourself , he told himself. You have a job to do.

Pushing thoughts of Irene MacAskill out of his mind, he smoothed his features to the cocky half-smile people expected of him, an expression that suggested he was privy to a secret that others weren’t, and snagged another goblet of whisky from a tray.

Across the room, he spotted Alistair MacTavish, a younger son of Baron MacTavish. The red-haired man was talking loudly with a group of cronies. Niall smiled to himself. MacTavish was another of the people he’d come here to meet. If he couldn’t get close to Lady Murray, MacTavish would have to do. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be a total right-off after all. He tucked one arm behind his back and sauntered towards the group of men, letting the noise and bustle envelop him and wash away all thoughts of eccentric old women and their odd predictions.