Page 20 of Memory of a Highlander (Arch Through Time #27)

T he wind rushed past Charlie’s face, cool and sharp. She held tight to Niall, one hand gripping the saddle horn but the other gripping the arm he held around her waist, feeling the solid strength of him beneath her fingers. Around them, the landscape flashed by in a kaleidoscope of purples and browns, and Glennoch was already disappearing behind them.

They began passing through a wilder, more rugged landscape with little evidence of human habitation. Instead, sheep were their only companions as Niall guided the horse along a path that only he seemed to know.

Neither spoke, but Charlie could feel the urgency boiling in him. She shared it. After what they’d discovered in those letters...

She knew they were walking a tightrope, that if this went wrong, it could get grim for the both of them. Her heartbeat went up a notch whenever she thought about it. She was just a potter from Cardiff. How had she gotten embroiled in seventeenth century Scottish politics?

She glanced over her shoulder at Niall. His brows were pulled into a frown, his gaze like a raptor’s as he stared ahead. The urgency of their mission was a steady pulse in her veins, but still, she couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between them at the loch. The way he had looked at her. The way he had touched her, as though she was something precious.

She had never thought she could love someone like this. Never thought she could feel this fiercely, this completely. And yet here she was, holding on to him as if letting go was impossible.

Is this what you meant, Irene? she thought. Is this my story? Is he my story?

Niall shifted slightly in the saddle. “We’ll be there soon,” he murmured against her ear, the heat of his breath sending a rush of warmth through her. “The path through the glen will save us time.”

As they crested a gentle rise, the land sloped down toward a vast, moonlit expanse of water. The loch stretched out before them, its surface rippling with the wind, catching the silver gleam of the quarter moon. The air smelled different here—fresh, tinged with the scent of the water and the faintest trace of woodsmoke drifting from the castle that loomed on the shore.

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze settled on the Campbell ancestral home.

The castle was immense. Towers rose high against the sky, their stone walls pale and imposing. A fortified curtain wall wrapped around the castle, its gate standing open but flanked by two watchful guards. The building itself was a far cry from Glennoch—this was power and history woven into stone, a place built to withstand centuries of conflict and rule over the land.

“You lived here?” she asked, her voice hushed with awe.

“Aye,” Niall said, his tone unreadable. “Dun Haymore. It’s where I grew up.”

She glanced at him, catching the flicker of something she couldn’t quite name in his expression. Nostalgia? Regret? Perhaps both.

He clucked to the horse and they began moving again. As they descended from the rise, the landscape became softer, more tamed. The wild heather and rugged hills gave way to rolling pastureland, dotted with the occasional stone croft and small fields enclosed by low, moss-covered walls. The loch stretched beside them, vast and dark, its surface rippling beneath the night breeze. The air smelled fresh—earthy from the damp soil, with the faintest tang of peat smoke drifting from unseen hearths.

The road took them through a small village nestled at the foot of the castle walls. It was quiet at this late hour, but lights still burned in some of the cottages, warm and golden against the dark. As they rode through, a few villagers stepped out of their homes, drawn by the sound of hooves on the packed earth.

“Lord Niall!” A man called out from the threshold of a thatched house, his voice carrying in the still night air. “Back at last, eh?”

A woman further down the lane peered out of her window and gasped. “Saints above, it is him!”

More voices joined in, murmurs of recognition and surprise spreading through the village like ripples on water.

“Is that really the young lord?”

“I thought he was dead!”

“Nay, we’d have heard if he was dead. He left, that’s all.”

Some of them nodded respectfully as he passed while others stood frozen in shock, as if seeing a ghost. Charlotte felt their eyes on her too, curious and questioning, but none of them spoke to her directly.

Niall gave a stiff nod in greeting but did not slow their pace. His shoulders were rigid, his grip on the reins just a little too tight.

Charlotte leaned in slightly. “They know you.”

“Aye. I spent more time in the village than in the keep when I was a lad.”

Before she could ask any more questions, they reached the gates of the castle.

The guards standing at their posts snapped to attention, their eyes widening as they recognized Niall. One of them, an older man with grizzled hair and a thick beard, stepped forward.

“Well bugger me,” he said, voice full of disbelief. “Look what the cat dragged in! Never thought I’d see yer ugly face again, Lord Niall.”

Niall grinned, then leaned down from the saddle and took the man’s hand. “Nor I ye, David, ye old bastard. Elsie still feeding ye well I see.”

David laughed and patted his belly that wobbled like a water balloon. “Aye. Well, what’s the good of getting old if ye canna get fat and lazy along with it?”

Niall’s grin widened. “It’s good to see ye, my old friend.” Then he sobered abruptly. “Is he home?”

David rubbed at his grizzled cheek. “If ye are referring to yer brother, then aye, ye are in luck. I think it best I walk ye in and announce ye though. He’s not been in the best of moods lately.”

Niall snorted. “Ye do surprise me.”

David grinned at that, turned towards the gates and led them through. Charlie swallowed hard as they passed beneath the archway and into the shadow of the castle.

David led them through the doors and into the corridors of the keep, their footsteps echoing on the polished flagstones. Unlike Glennoch, where everything was sturdy but practical, this place exuded wealth. Ornate tapestries hung on the walls, their colors rich and vibrant even in the dim torchlight. Thick runners ran the length of the corridors in a chequerboard pattern and little alcoves along the walls held marble statues, small paintings, and even vases of dried flowers.

Charlotte barely had time to take it all in before David pushed open a heavy door and led them into the main hall.

It was similar in design to Glennoch’s—high-beamed ceilings, a massive hearth at one end, and a long wooden table stretching down the center. But here, everything was on a grander scale. The hall was vast, the beams polished to a dark gleam, the stone walls were decorated with great banners bearing the Campbell crest. But for all its grandeur, the hall felt...empty.

There were no servants bustling about, no laughter or conversation, only the quiet scratch of quill on parchment. At the far end of the hall, a man sat alone at the great table, his head bent over a book. A half-empty goblet of wine rested beside him.

The man’s hair was the same sandy brown as Niall’s but streaked lightly with silver at the temples. His features were finely carved, but there was a deep weariness in his face, in the way he rubbed his temple absently with ink-stained fingers.

David cleared his throat. “My lord?”

The man lifted his head, eyes sharp, but warming when they landed on David.

“David,” he said, closing the book in front of him. “What news? Have the traders come to lower their prices or is Campbell wool still worth less than MacDonnell dung?”

David chuckled, but before he could reply, the man’s gaze drifted past him—to Niall.

The warmth drained from the man’s face instantly. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone.

“Niall?” His voice was quiet but edged with anger. “What, by all the saints, are ye doing here?”

***

A S NIALL STEPPED INTO the great hall it was as if time folded in on itself. The tang of wood smoke, the flickering torchlight on the stone walls, the long shadows stretching across the flagstones—everything was just as it had been when he was a boy. And yet, it wasn’t the same. The air was too still, the silence too deep, like the hush before a storm.

He had spent his childhood in this hall. He could still remember the way it had once been—alive with sound and movement. Laughter had echoed off these walls, the clatter of tankards and the rumble of voices filling the space as the Campbell brothers jostled and jested, their mother and father looking on with indulgent exasperation. He and his four brothers had turned this very floor into their battlefield as children, practicing their swordplay with wooden weapons, their shouts mingling with the warm din of a home that had felt solid, unshakable.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now, the hall was a shadow of what it had been, just as the Campbell brothers were only ghosts of the boys that had laughed and played here.

His boots felt heavy against the stone as he moved forward, his gaze settling on the man at the far end of the table.

Bryce.

His eldest brother’s face, once filled with easy confidence, was now lined with exhaustion. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, his shoulders carrying a weight that had not been there years ago. But it wasn’t the weariness that struck Niall the hardest—it was the way Bryce looked at him.

Not with the warmth of a brother long separated. Not even with wary curiosity. But with anger. And worse—mistrust.

The sight of it stung in a way Niall hadn’t expected. He had known there would be no welcoming embrace, but still, some foolish part of him had hoped for something other than this cold, scrutinizing stare as Niall entered his family home for the first time in years.

“I’ll ask again. What are ye doing here?” Bryce’s voice was quiet, but the edge in it was unmistakable.

Niall swallowed down the bitter taste in his throat. He wasn’t here for sentiment. He wasn’t here to mend old wounds. He was here to save his brother’s life.

He met Bryce’s cold stare head-on. “I need to talk to ye. It’s important.”

Bryce didn’t reply. His sharp eyes flickered over Niall before shifting to Charlotte, assessing her with the same cool scrutiny. “And who is this?”

Charlotte stepped forward, chin lifted. “Charlie Douglas,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. And if you’ve got even an ounce of sense in that head of yours, you’ll listen to what Niall has to say.”

Bryce raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that might have been amusement—or intrigue. “Is that so?”

She held his gaze, unwavering. “You bet it is. We’ve ridden a long way to get here. Will you hear us out?”

For a moment, Bryce simply studied her, as if trying to decide whether she was mad or impressive. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he turned to David.

“Tell the cook to bring food and drink,” he instructed. “I’ve not lost my manners and was always taught to be hospitable.”

David hesitated, his gaze flicking between the two brothers, but he gave a short nod and left the hall.

Bryce gestured to the long table. “Sit.”

Niall hesitated. It felt strange, being here like this. The last time he’d sat at this table, he had been younger, angrier, and had stormed out of the castle for what he’d thought was the last time. Now, as he lowered himself onto the bench, a different kind of unease settled in his chest.

Bryce took his seat at the head of the table—their father’s old place. It was a jarring sight. Their father had always been larger than life, a man who had ruled with wisdom and strength, and now... now Bryce sat in his place, wearing the weight of responsibility in the tight lines around his mouth and the exhaustion in his eyes.

What would their parents think if they could see them now? Would they be heartbroken by the mess Niall and his brothers had made of their family?

Niall pushed the thought aside. There was no time for ghosts. Instead, he met Bryce’s gaze across the table and said, “We need to talk about Boyd MacAllister.”

The heavy oak doors creaked as a serving man entered, carrying a wooden tray laden with a jug of ale, a loaf of dark bread, and a wedge of cheese. He placed it on the table with a respectful nod to Bryce before stepping back, awaiting further orders. Bryce, however, waved him away with a flick of his fingers, never taking his sharp gaze off Niall.

“MacAllister? Ye’ve ridden all the way here to try and turn me against my business partner? I dinna know what game ye are playing, little brother,” Bryce said, reaching for the ale and pouring himself a cup. “But if ye think ye can ride in here after all these years and start stirring up trouble again, ye are mistaken.” He took a long drink, his eyes glinting with anger.

Niall leaned forward, his fingers pressing against the worn wood of the table. “Ye canna trust him, Bryce.”

Bryce scoffed, slicing off a piece of cheese with a knife from his belt. “So ye have already said. I’m not a fool, little brother. MacAllister and I have a business arrangement, that’s all.”

“Aye?” Niall said. “And do ye know what that business arrangement is?”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed. “What concern is that of yers?”

Niall slammed his fist against the table, making Charlotte jump. “It’s my concern if it’s going to get ye killed!”

Bryce’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “I knew this was a mistake. David! Get in here and escort these two out—”

“Will ye listen to me for once if yer life!” Niall growled. Dear Lord, why was it so hard to speak to his own brother? How could two people who had once been so close become such strangers? “Whatever business arrangement he’s talked ye into, it’s a lie. And it’s going to get ye killed.”

“What are ye talking about? We’re setting up a business to export our wool for Flemish textiles. Where is the danger in that?”

Niall clenched his jaw. “That’s what he told ye. But it’s a lie.” He exhaled sharply, trying to keep his temper in check. “Bryce, the coin ye are giving him isnae going towards wool shipments. It’s financing something far more dangerous.”

Bryce narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly is that?”

Niall met his brother’s gaze, his voice low and firm. “An army. He’s using yer money to purchase weapons—to arm a French force that will land on Scottish soil. He and his conspirators mean to put a new king on the throne.”

The tension in the room tightened like a drawn bowstring. Bryce slammed his cup down onto the table, his expression darkening. “That’s a hell of an accusation, Niall.” His hands curled into fists. “Ye expect me to believe ye?”

Charlotte suddenly leaned forward, her voice cutting through the rising anger like steel. “Oh, for God’s sake, wind your neck in and listen! We risked our lives to get this information. MacAllister is planning to use you as a pawn, and if you don’t wake up and see it, you’re going to lose everything.”

Bryce stared at her. Then, slowly leaned back. “Prove it.”

Niall pulled the letters from inside his plaid and laid them on the table. “Charlotte stole these from MacAllister’s study. They were coded, but Joseph and I decoded them. Read them.”

Bryce hesitated, then reached for the topmost letter and Niall’s translation next to it. As his eyes scanned the inked words, his expression shifted—skepticism melting into something harder, something more dangerous.

Silence stretched between them.

Then Bryce muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Niall nodded. “Bloody hell indeed.”

Bryce’s fingers tightened around the letter as he read it again, his jaw clenching. When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable. He exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting from the papers to Niall.

“And why,” he said slowly, his voice edged with suspicion, “should I believe any of this? How do I know these aren’t forgeries? That this isnae some elaborate ploy of yers to drag me into whatever mess ye’ve gotten yerself into?”

Niall felt the old sting of his brother’s mistrust, the burden of their past pressing down on him. But he didn’t let it show. He only held Bryce’s gaze, steady and unwavering. He needed Bryce to trust him. And the only way he could think to do that was to tell him the truth. The whole truth. He knew it was a risk he might not be able to come back from. But what choice did he have?

He sucked in a deep breath. “Bryce, whatever ye may think of me, I have never lied to ye. I’ve hidden truths, aye, but havenae we all? What I’m going to tell ye now is the truth. Do with it what ye will.”

He met his brother’s eyes. “I know that all of Edinburgh thinks I’m a womanizing rake. It was necessary to allow society to think that so that they would let down their guard. It’s that persona that has allowed me to do my job. Bryce, since father died, I’ve been an agent of the crown. That’s why I spend so much time in Edinburgh. That’s why I attend balls and court the nobility. I’ve been tasked with rooting out rebellion and there is no greater hotbed of rebellion than the Edinburgh elite. That is how I knew about what MacAllister is involved in. What he’s trying to drag ye into.”

Bryce stared at him, unblinking. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I could sit here and argue with ye,” Niall said, his voice quiet but firm. “I could point out all the ways it makes no sense for me to fabricate something like this. But it’s not my words that will convince ye, Bryce.” He leaned forward slightly, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Search yer heart. Ye already ken the truth.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between them.

Bryce held his gaze, his fingers tightening on the parchment. His expression was hard, searching. Then, something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of something old—trust, maybe, buried beneath years of resentment. His grip on the letter slackened.

He let out a slow breath and muttered, “Damn it all.” He tossed the letter onto the table and sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked up again, there was no more skepticism in his eyes.

“I believe ye,” Bryce said, his voice rough with resignation. “God help me—I believe ye.”

Bryce exhaled sharply, his fingers drumming against the wooden armrest of his seat as he considered everything. Niall watched the tension play out across his brother’s face—the flicker of realization, the weight of betrayal settling onto his shoulders.

Bryce shook his head. “MacAllister played me for a fool.” His words were tight with anger. “And now he means to see me ruined.”

Niall nodded. “Aye. But we can stop him.”

Bryce shot him a sharp look. “How?”

Niall glanced at Charlotte, who was watching them both intently, then turned back to Bryce. “There’s another ball at Lady Murray’s Edinburgh townhouse tomorrow night. That’s where the conspirators will meet.” He tapped the letters they had stolen. “If we move fast, we can get them all arrested before they have a chance to act.”

Bryce frowned. “And ye think ye can just walk in there and take them?”

“I dinna mean to walk in alone,” Niall said. “I’ll inform my employers. They’ll send backup.”

Bryce considered that. Then he straightened. “I’ll bring my own men too.”

Niall raised an eyebrow.

Bryce’s mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile. “What, did ye think I’d sit idly by while MacAllister uses my name to fund treason? I’ll have my household guard ready. If my name is involved, I want to be part of putting an end to it.”

Niall studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

Bryce glanced at Charlotte again. “And what of ye, lass? Are ye planning to wade into the thick of this madness too?”

Charlotte lifted her chin. “I’m already in the thick of it. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bryce chuckled drily. “I can see why ye like her, brother.”

Niall ignored that. “We ride out at first light.”

Bryce hesitated for only a moment before inclining his head. “Ye must stay here. It’s likely that MacAllister has already moved against ye. His people might be descending on Glennoch as we speak. It will do us no good if the two of ye are taken. Ye will stay here tonight.”

Niall felt something settle in his chest at those words. It might be strange being under this roof again, but now it did not feel like he was entirely unwelcome.

Charlotte glanced at him, and she nodded.

Niall turned to his brother and for the first time since he’d crossed into his brother’s lands, he felt a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thank ye, Bryce.”