Page 6 of Memory of a Highlander (Arch Through Time #27)

N iall ducked around the corner of the building, pressed his back against the rough stones, then peered around it, watching Charlotte walk away.

She didn’t appear to have a destination in mind. Rather than striding purposely, she ambled along the street, head swiveling from side to side as she looked around, glancing every now and then at that strange device in her hand.

That, more than anything, had set the alarm bells ringing in Niall’s head. What, by all that’s holy, was that thing? She’d called it a ‘phone’ and made no attempt to hide it, but that only confused him all the more. He’d never seen anything like it. Looking at it had made him feel...odd. It felt like an aberration, like something that didn’t belong here.

Just like the woman herself, in fact.

Ever since he’d met her last night, she’d set his senses tingling. There was just something about her. Something different. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. She was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out, and if there was one thing Niall hated, it was not understanding something.

So, he watched with interest as Charlotte walked off down the street, and when she was a good distance away, he followed.

He knew how to move silently, and so his boots made no sound at all as he dogged her steps. She didn’t notice him. He was too practised to let that happen.

He thought back to when she’d kissed him last night and couldn’t help the flush of heat that went through him at the memory. It had been totally unexpected.

Charlotte Douglas was brazen, full of confidence in a way that was decidedly alluring, and yet in other ways she seemed as innocent as a newborn lamb. She seemed to have no knowledge of Edinburgh or its ways. She claimed to have come from Cardiff and had a faint Welsh twang to her accent. And yet...

That might all be a ruse. Niall knew better than to take anyone’s words at face value. The world was rife with deception, and he had become a master of it himself.

But as he watched her from afar, there was a sense of vulnerability about her that felt genuine. It was in the way her brows furrowed as she looked around, the way she jumped at the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the way she clutched her strange device as if it were a lifeline.

He slowed as she approached a well-dressed gentleman. Was this her contact? But no, she just appeared to ask for directions and when the man shook his head, she started off again, moving no more quickly than before.

What was she doing? If she really was an agent, she was unlike any Niall had ever come across. He took out his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, and cursed under his breath. It was almost nine-thirty. If he kept following Charlotte, he would be late for his meeting. He glanced around. Where was Joseph? Hadn’t the old man seen the single word instruction Niall had hastily scribbled onto a corner of one of the pamphlets as he and Charlotte had left the townhouse this morning?

Follow .

A sudden rustling sound made him whirl, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the dagger concealed within his plaid.

Joseph stepped out of an alley and gave an appraising look at his hand clutching the dagger’s hilt. “Not bad. I see all the balls and liquor havenae entirely dulled yer wits.”

“Where have ye been?” Niall snapped. “I almost lost her.”

“But I didnae lose either of ye,” Joseph pointed out. “Have ye discovered aught?”

“No,” Niall replied, turning back to watch Charlotte stop at the junction of two streets and hesitate, looking down each one several times as if undecided which way to go. “But the bridal shop story was a ruse, as I suspected.”

Joseph nodded. “Ye go to yer meeting and leave this to me. I know what to do.”

Niall nodded. And yet he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to let Charlotte out of his sight, and it wasn’t just the fact that she was a mystery he hadn’t yet solved.

“Keep me informed.”

He gave a curt nod, then walked away. He moved swiftly through the labyrinthine streets, his boots echoing on the cobblestones. He darted around a corner, nearly knocking over a street vendor selling mutton pies, and quickened his pace. The tenement he needed was located at the end of a wynd filled with some of the city’s grander houses.

He approached a red door with a brass knocker and knocked three times in quick succession. After a tense wait, the door creaked open to reveal an elderly housekeeper. Her face was lined with age, eyes sharp and scrutinizing as she looked him up and down.

“Niall Campbell to see Alistair MacTavish,” he said with a bow.

The woman nodded and gestured for him to follow her through a long corridor adorned with finely woven tapestries and through an oak door into a grand parlor. Inside stood a group of young men, all impeccably dressed in the latest fashion. They were engaged in light conversation, sipping from glasses filled with amber liquid.

All conversation ceased as he entered, and he found himself the object of intense scrutiny.

“Well,” he said in that mocking tone he’d developed so well. “If I’d known I would cause such a reception, I would have worn red breeches. I’m told the color compliments my eyes.”

“Niall!”

The owner of the house, and the architect of this little gathering, detached himself from the group and sauntered over.

Lord Alistair MacTavish was as oily as he was arrogant. His red hair was tied back into a tail and his attire, like that of his friends, was impeccable. His waistcoat bore intricate designs of ivy leaves embroidered in gold thread, whilst a diamond brooch glittered at his throat.

“Apologies, my lord,” Niall replied, inclining his head in respect. “A matter of urgency detained me.”

“No need for such formalities, Niall,” Alistair chuckled dismissively, his hand landing heavily on Niall’s shoulder. “We’re all friends here.”

Friends? Niall thought. Hardly.

He’d met Alistair MacTavish on several occasions, the latest being last night at Lady Murray’s ball. Each time they’d met he’d plied his host with whisky, griped about the injustice of his station, and offered hints that he wanted to do something about it.

But friends? Never. This was a nest of vipers, and he knew any one of them would strike if he made a wrong step.

But he only nodded, offering a polite smile as he was led further into the room. MacTavish began making introductions. As Niall had known they would be, each of them was a younger son of a noble house, full of vitriol and bitterness at having elder brothers inherit family lands, leaving them with a ‘pittance’ of a stipend to live on.

As he listened to their complaints, Niall nodded and responded in kind, whilst inside he seethed. Fools and ingrates, the lot of them. Coddled and spoiled all their lives, what did any of them know about what hardship really meant?

“And now they want to sell us out to the English!” one of the men by the name of Robert Caldwell said. He sloshed his glass of brandy around as he gestured, spilling most of it on the floor. It might be barely midmorning, but his words were already slurring. “We willnae stand for it! These articles of union will be the ruin of Scotland! It will go ahead over my dead body!”

There were mumbles of agreement around the room and many thumped the tables, their eyes alight with righteous zeal. Oh yes, these were rebels all right, but they were not the ones he was looking for. Arrogance and wind, that’s what these men were made of. They would bluster and whine, drink whisky and plot, but they were cowards, the lot of them, and wouldn’t stick their necks out when it really mattered.

But he was here for a reason, and even in the midst of these fools, there might be information to be gleaned.

Niall’s gaze swept across the room again, taking note of the faces. Robert Caldwell, for all his bluster, was known to have ties to certain unsavory groups. And Alistair MacTavish was from a family that had a history of playing both sides of any conflict to their advantage.

They were fools, aye, but fools with resources and influence. And as history had shown time and again, such men were capable of causing great harm.

Niall listened to them all, tallying up their grievances and their boasts, their threats and their promises. He sipped at his brandy, nodding along with their rants, contributing the odd word of agreement here and there. All the while, his eyes flickered from face to face, taking note of every twitch of an eye, every clenching jaw, every suppressed snarl.

His attention, however, was pulled towards a group of men gathered in the corner of the room whom he had yet to meet. A low hum of conversation emanated from their corner, much quieter than the loud boasting and grandstanding of their compatriots.

One man stood at the center of this group, his back to Niall. Unlike the rest of the men in the room, there was no drink in his hand, and his voice, though low, carried a certain weight that commanded attention.

This might be Alistair MacTavish’s house, and he might be the one that had arranged this gathering, but Niall got the impression that it was the man in the corner who held the real power. Niall moved closer and as he did, the man turned around. Niall stopped dead.

“Ah! Niall Campbell!” the man said. “So good of ye to join our little... gathering.”

Niall scrambled to regain his composure. He plastered his usual arrogant smile onto his face and gave a small bow. “Boyd MacAllister. I hadnae expected to see ye here.”

MacAllister smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Well, isnae life full of little surprises?”

“Ye two know each other?” Alistair MacTavish asked.

“Indeed we do,” MacAllister replied. “His family and mine own neighboring estates out in the country. We’ve known each other since we were bairns.”

“Aye, we have,” Niall replied, fighting for a calm he didn’t feel. Neighbors, aye. Friends? Not even close. MacAllister was the kind of man Niall loathed: a bully who used his power and position to get what he wanted, regardless of who he hurt in the process.

“I didnae think ye were one for politics, Campbell,” MacAllister said. “According to the gossip, ye’ve whole-heartedly embraced the life of drink and debauchery in our dear capital. Ye are quite the talk amongst Edinburgh society.”

Careful , a voice warned in the back of Niall’s head. Careful.

“I find the talk of society often strays far from reality,” Niall responded smoothly, a touch of humor playing at the corners of his mouth. “And as for debauchery, well,” he gave a noncommittal shrug. “One cannot simply live on bread alone.”

Laughter sounded from the group around them, but MacAllister didn’t join in.

“I see ye were late to our meeting,” he said instead. “Anything to do with the ‘Countess of Argyle’?”

Niall almost choked on the brandy. He didn’t miss the slight stress that MacAllister put on the title. MacAllister obviously knew that Charlotte was not the real countess of Argyle as the real one had turned up after she left. He also obviously knew that she’d accompanied him home.

“I dinna know about a countess,” he said with a shrug, pulling on the arrogant mask as easily as donning a cloak. “But she was certainly a lady of unique...talents.” His suggestive tone earned another wave of laughter from the crowd.

MacAllister’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed. “Is that so? And what might these unique talents be? Perhaps she’s a dab hand at card games?”

Niall allowed himself a small smile. “Well, let’s just say she knows her way around a man’s...coin purse.”

The room erupted into laughter again, and Niall felt his stomach twist. He should not be talking about Charlotte like this. Yet it was better that these men think that she was no more to him than a notch on his bedpost. If they began to suspect otherwise...

He took another sip of his brandy, using the moment to collect his thoughts and steady his emotions. He could feel MacAllister’s calculating gaze on him, and he knew he was treading a dangerous line. One wrong move, one hint of true emotion, and he might as well draw a target on Charlotte’s back.

The door swung open with a creak. The housekeeper walked in, her arms laden with platters of food. The arrival of the meal provided a welcome interruption to the conversation, and Niall was glad of the reprieve.

As the men’s attention turned to the food, Niall joined in the conversations but said nothing of import, content to listen and catalog what he heard. It was amazing what information people would let slip in a seemingly innocuous comment or innocent conversation.

Niall’s gaze flicked around the room, taking in the faces and making note of everyone present. His superiors would want that information. But he frowned when he saw that one chair sat vacant.

He turned to MacTavish, who was sitting by his side. “Where’s MacAllister?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

MacTavish looked up with a slight furrow in his brow before answering. “He left not long ago. Said he had business to attend to for Lady Murray.”

“Lady Murray?” Niall repeated, a knot of unease twisting in his gut. “What kind of business?”

“Something about the ball,” MacTavish said with a shrug. “She wants to know who was impersonating the Countess of Argyle. Seems like she’s keen on getting to the bottom of that mystery.”

The words hit Niall like a cold wave. If Lady Murray was investigating the impersonation of the Countess, that meant there were still people poking around—people who might discover more than just Charlotte’s involvement.

Charlotte.

With MacAllister’s sudden departure and Lady Murray’s interest, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this whole affair. Something was wrong . And Charlotte might be in danger.

“I need to leave,” Niall said abruptly, shoving back his chair and moving toward the door.

“Everything alright?” MacTavish asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Niall replied. “But I have some business to attend to.”

He made his excuses and left. He had no time to waste. Whatever Boyd MacAllister and Lady Murray were planning, he had no intention of letting Charlotte be caught in the middle of it.

He had to find her. And fast.