Page 18 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

18

Dunnet Head Saturday, August 23, 1941

Lachlan’s breath came hard as he pedaled to the lighthouse at full speed. Up ahead, Cilla stood in a yellow dress, holding something up to the sun like a gift, and the sun returned the favor by sprinkling golden light all over her hair.

A bonny picture, aye, but he wouldn’t let it cool his anger.

Cilla turned to him and waved. “A fine morning, yes?” she called.

Lachlan pedaled even harder.

Cilla put her hand on her hip and turned toward Third Officer Reese, who was leaning against the stone wall enclosing the lighthouse grounds. “Apparently Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie despises fine mornings.”

He stopped a few feet away from Cilla and straddled his bicycle. “Stay away from my parents.”

She took a step backward. “I—they invited me.”

“They just told me.” He shook a finger at her. “For two months, you didnae attend church. Then, on a day you knew I’d be away, you returned.”

With a flick of her chin, she glanced away. “You made it clear you didn’t want to see me there.”

“I said you should go.”

“Your words said so, but your behavior said otherwise.”

How dare she turn it around as if he were to blame? “You waited until I was away so you could prey on my parents.”

She gasped and gaped at him. “Prey?”

Officer Reese dashed over. “Please, Lieutenant. I was guarding her the entire time.”

Lachlan softened his gaze for the shy Wren. “Do you understand? I am bound by law. I cannae warn my parents about her. I cannae tell them who she is. I want to protect them, but—”

“Protect?” Cilla’s mouth fell open, and her lips quivered. “You think I’d hurt them?”

Lachlan’s tongue froze. What exactly did he think she’d do?

The quivering spread up Cilla’s reddening face. “Why would I hurt the only people who have been kind—” Her voice broke, and she shook her head as if embarrassed by her own emotion.

Guilt welled up inside him.

“I—I apologize, Lieutenant.” The Wren clamped one hand on her hat. “I’m the one who accepted the invitation. Cilla tried to make an excuse, but she’s supposed to be an innocent civilian, a refugee. What excuse would your parents have accepted?”

None. Lachlan drew a deep breath into his cooling, hollowing-out chest. “I’m the one who should apologize. I do apologize, to both of you. Please forgive me.”

“I understand.” Cilla squared her slim shoulders. “You love your parents, and you mean well.”

Meaning well didn’t always mean acting well. “You meant well too—both of you.”

“We had to leave early anyway.” Officer Reese’s light brown eyes stayed round with contrition. “I’m allergic to dogs.”

“Aye, my mother mentioned that.”

“We didn’t discuss anything dangerous, did we, Cilla? Your father talked about his work, and your mother asked where I was from.”

Cilla sniffed. “I’m afraid your brother was rather rude to her.”

Mother hadn’t mentioned that, and the simmer returned to his chest. “What did he say?”

“He asked how she—as a Welshwoman—could justify wearing an English uniform.” Cilla slung a basket over her elbow and crossed her arms.

“Neil ...”

“I gather you two don’t get on.”

“No.”

“I wish I was as clever as Cilla,” the Wren said. “She stood up for me.”

She did? Lachlan raised his eyebrows at the double agent.

Cilla shrugged. “Neil said he believes in home rule free of English oppression. I said Officer Reese also believes in home rule—free of Nazi oppression. I admit I liked seeing him taken aback. I don’t like bullies.”

Neither did Lachlan. And he’d always admired those who defended the vulnerable.

Cilla took one step closer, her gaze intense. “Neil said he belongs to Free Caledonia. It’s a separatist group, yes?”

“Aye, a radical one.”

A spark danced in her eyes. “That’s why you told Yardley you could provide information about the separatists.”

“Aye. He knows my family history.”

“Kraus wants to know about these groups.”

Officer Reese sighed. “Yardley doesn’t wish to pursue that.”

Cilla didn’t break her gaze with Lachlan. “How could we use this to England’s advantage? Is it better if the Germans think Free Caledonia is a small group of bumbling clowns? Or that it’s strong and influential?”

To the west, a fulmar glided along the cliff edge in a white streak, beat its wings, and glided again. Which approach benefited the nation?

Lachlan returned to Cilla’s unrelenting gaze. “The Good Book says, ‘If a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand.’”

“Exactly. The Germans love to divide. It’s how they conquer.” Cilla flung her hand eastward. “The Netherlands, Belgium, Norway, Denmark—we all insisted on neutrality. And the Germans promised to honor it. Why? So we wouldn’t band together or with England or France. Then they picked us off one by one.”

The light in her eyes flooded his mind. “Aye, and they’d love to do that here. Set England and Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland against each other, have us tear ourselves apart so they dinnae need to do the tearing.”

“Yes,” the Wren said. “Then they could march right over.”

Lachlan nodded. “It’s best we convince them Free Caledonia is of no account.”

“Or—or—don’t get angry. Let me think.” Cilla glanced over Lachlan’s head, and she raised one hand before her chest, her fingers wiggling as if typing her thoughts on the air. “What if we convinced them Free Caledonia was strong and well organized?”

Officer Reese frowned. “Why would we want to do that?”

Cilla broke into a smile with a conspiratorial gleam. “What if we convinced the Abwehr to send money and supplies to the Free Caledonians, maybe even ammunition and explosives?”

Lachlan grunted. “Why—”

That wiggling hand thrust in Lachlan’s direction. “Your brother’s friends would never see it, never even know it was coming. MI5 would intercept it.”

But the Germans would spend precious time and money and resources—in vain. “A wild-goose chase.”

“Yes!” Cilla bounced on her toes. “You see it.”

He did. And her liveliness and cleverness invigorated him more than the sea air.

Cilla dropped to her heels and broke her gaze and the connection. “We should return to the original problem—your parents.”

“Oh.” He struggled to reverse the current of his thoughts.

“The solution is simple.” A new smile rose, but it looked fake. “I won’t go to church.”

Why would he want that? “That wouldnae help. My mother will never relent. She knows I see you here. She’ll invite you.”

Her face crumpled. “What can I do? I need an excuse your parents will accept.”

“My allergies,” Officer Reese said.

“That’s an excuse for you, but not for Cilla.”

“I can’t go by myself. It isn’t allowed. But I can’t explain that to your parents.” Cilla’s eyes pleaded. “You know them best. What should I say?”

Something softened in Lachlan’s spine. She wanted to honor his wishes and stay away from his parents—from the only people who had welcomed her.

That softening released a sigh. “Go to church and accept their invitation.”

Cilla’s eyebrows shot high. “Pardon?”

“She can’t go without a guard,” that guard said. “Yardley wouldn’t permit it.”

“I’ll accompany her. Yardley would accept that, aye?”

The Wren chewed on her lower lip. “I suppose so. He’ll be here soon. We can ask.”

Speaking of the upcoming meeting ... He gestured to the lighthouse. “Shall we?”

After he leaned his bicycle against the stone wall and removed his satchel from the rack over the back wheel, he strolled down the path with the ladies. The Wren said goodbye and headed into the side door of the keeper’s quarters.

Cilla raised a shaky smile to Lachlan. “Thank you. I do like your parents.”

“Aye, they’re grand.”

She blinked a few times and glanced away.

“I have one condition,” he said. “None of your jokes about being my girlfriend. In fact, I want you to tell them you have a boyfriend in the Netherlands.” He didn’t want to raise his parents’ hopes, and he could never date a double agent—nor could he tell his parents why he couldn’t.

“Those are two conditions, not one. But I agree.” Her lips quivered again, but with amusement. “I wouldn’t want them to think you were stepping out on your girlfriend in the Orkneys.”

Lachlan coughed. “My girlfriend?”

Cilla grinned. “They said you had a date.”

“Aye.” Lachlan groaned. “But we willnae be having another date.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

Nothing. Nothing happened at all, and he motioned her through the gap in the wall surrounding the courtyard. “Jean is a friend of Irene, Arthur’s girlfriend. The four of us stepped out a few times, and all went well. Then I took her to a restaurant alone.”

“Yes, and ...”

“Jean is very quiet.”

“Oh no. You had no one to stoke the conversation. How awful.” Then she snickered. “You poor thing.” And snickered again.

Lachlan grumbled. “I’m glad my misery amuses you.”

“And I’m glad the love of my life will no longer be stepping out on me.” She swung open the door to the lighthouse and beamed a smile his way.

He deflected the beam with a mock glare and followed her inside.

She laughed. “One thing you’ll never have to worry about—I will never step out on you with your brother.”

“Neil.” His groan echoed in the small entryway. “We are different in every way.”

“Not in every way.” Cilla headed up the spiral staircase.

“Aye, every way.”

“I disagree.” Her yellow floral dress swished around her knees. “You are both passionate about what you believe in and dedicated to your cause. Nothing can sway you, no matter the cost.”

“He has the wrong cause.”

She ducked around and sent a grin past her shoulder. “That isn’t my point. You share that passion and dedication.”

“I share nothing with that man.”

She crossed a landing, where a door led to a storage room. “What was it you said about a kingdom divided against itself? How does that happen? How does a kingdom become divided? When we look only to our differences. I prefer to look at what we have in common, what binds us, what we share. That’s what unites us and makes us strong.”

The staircase spiraled up, and Lachlan clutched the handrail, a bit dizzy. Cilla van der Zee was a most attractive woman, not only shapely legs and gleaming eyes but intelligence and surprising wisdom. And passion. Dedication. Dedication even to his cause.

At the top of the staircase, Lachlan paused to catch his breath and order his dizzied thoughts. He couldn’t let himself be fooled by her.

In the lightroom, Third Officer St. Clair spread papers on the table. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Everything is set up. I’ll be leaving now.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

Cilla went to the table, picked up a piece of newsprint—and blanched. Then she raised a smile so stiff it almost creaked. “Thank you, Officer St. Clair. I’ll add it to my scrapbook, along with the article you tucked into my pocket last Sunday.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it.” St. Clair’s tone fairly rotted Lachlan’s teeth.

He edged past Cilla to reach his seat and glanced over her shoulder. The headline of the article screamed, “Nazi Spy Hanged!”

He pinned his gaze on the Wren. “Was that necessary?”

“Pardon?” Her blue eyes stretched wide. “I’d think you, of all people, would approve.”

Lachlan set down his satchel, opened it, and drew out his portfolio. “She already knows the fate she escaped. She knows the penalty if she betrays us. That was most unnecessary.”

St. Clair hefted her chin high, spun on her heel, and departed.

The muscles under Cilla’s chin worked, and her forehead bunched up.

Lachlan tapped the article and lowered his voice. “Someone you know?”

She gave her head one sharp shake. “No.” She wouldn’t meet his eye.

He plucked the article from her hand and balled it up. “I dinnae like bullies either.”

Her gaze flicked up to him—vulnerable, grateful, embarrassed—then away.

Lachlan sorted through his portfolio, seeing nothing before him. When had he started to feel compassion—for a spy? And why did it seem right, not wrong?

Soon Commander Yardley arrived to break the tense silence. Lachlan compared his shipping timetable to Cilla’s log and to MI5’s approved list, and he marked up Cilla’s log. She continued to observe well enough to provide convincing reports—but inaccurately enough to soothe his conscience somewhat.

One set of entries made him frown, and he pointed it out to Yardley. “She didnae observe the Dervish Convoy—but she did observe the Gauntlet Force.”

Yardley consulted his own papers. “She won’t report on either.”

“Good.” Dervish was the first Arctic convoy to the Soviet Union, with cargos of wool, rubber, tin, and Hurricane fighter aircraft. The ships wouldn’t arrive in Russia for another week, and the longer their presence could remain undetected, the better.

Operation Gauntlet was even more daring. A force, including HMS Antelope , was heading to the Norwegian island of Spitsbergen, which hadn’t been occupied by the Germans. The Gauntlet Force planned to evacuate Norwegian and Soviet coal miners and to destroy mining facilities and radio towers. The plan depended on strict secrecy.

“We have enough innocuous shipping reports to fill her transmission tonight,” Yardley said. “Why don’t you tell her how the labor shortage is affecting the Churchill Barriers?”

“What are the Churchill Barriers?” Cilla’s eyes shone bright and curious.

With his finger, Lachlan drew an invisible circle on the table. “The harbor of Scapa Flow is ringed by islands. The channels on the east are narrow, but wide enough for a U-boat to traverse.”

“Is that how that U-boat sank that battleship?” She leaned her forearms on the table and clucked her tongue. “Simply dreadful.”

“Aye.” Lachlan poked at spots on his invisible circle. Since German reconnaissance aircraft could observe the construction activity, disclosing the information wouldn’t compromise security. “We’re building barriers to block the channels.”

“And protect the fleet. How clever. But oh, you can’t build them with a labor shortage, can you?”

“No.”

He went on to describe the construction and the difficulties, whilst Cilla listened, nodding with sympathy, asking questions and making comments to encourage him to tell her more.

Dining alone with her wouldn’t be painful, but pleasant.

Heat rose in his cheeks. The only protection from a selkie was to resist her charms.

And to never let down his guard.