Page 24 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

24

Lachlan drew his heels together and bowed to the room, his chest heaving. He hadn’t performed the sword dance for years, but the steps were ingrained in his mind and his legs.

His gaze sneaked to Cilla, watching him, smiling and bonny and flushed from the warmth of the room. He dragged his gaze around the gathering before the gossips could notice his attention.

Douglas Bain rushed over with Allan Munro, and Lachlan squatted down to the lads’ level.

“Teach us the sword dance, please?” Allan bounced in his wee kilt in his clan’s red tartan.

Lachlan rested his forearms on his knees. “Are you ready to become Scottish warriors, lads? No matter what, you cannae let your feet touch the swords or the enemy might win.”

Douglas’s light blue eyes stretched wide in his freckled face. “We cannae let the Germans win.”

“Or the Japanese,” Allan said.

“No, we cannae.” Lachlan fought the heaviness in his chest. After the horrific attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese armies were sweeping throughout the Pacific and Asia. Hong Kong had fallen, and the Prince of Wales and the Repulse had been sunk with heavy losses.

At least Britain had a new ally in the United States. And with the British chasing the Germans and Italians into full retreat in Libya and with a powerful Soviet counterattack in Russia, Lachlan insisted on indulging in hope for the new year.

Mother stood and clapped her hands. “Time for the country dancing.”

“The sword dance will need to wait, lads.” Lachlan patted Douglas and Allan on the shoulder and returned to nestle his bagpipes properly in their case.

Father was tucking his pipes in for the night too, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Fraser pulled out violin and accordion for the country dancing.

“I wish Neil had come,” Mother said to Father. “We’re short on men.”

Lachlan kept his head down as he arranged the drones in the case. Neil’s absence made for a happy Hogmanay, free of rancor. “I’m sure Neil is having a grand time in Inverness.”

“Aye.” Mother’s voice drifted low and sad.

By now, Neil would be thoroughly drunk, reveling, ranting, possibly plotting against the crown.

Lachlan latched his case shut and set it under a bench. Would the fake sabotage shine attention on Free Caledonia? As much as Lachlan despised what his brother was doing, he didn’t want him imprisoned again.

Somehow Cilla wanted what was best for her sister, despite what Hilde had done. Remarkable. Could Lachlan do the same? Want what was best for Neil?

Such mercy would have to come in the Lord’s strength, not Lachlan’s, and he sent up a prayer.

Father and Mother stood hand in hand at the top of the room by the musicians, and Mr. and Mrs. Bain joined them.

Across the room, Irene tugged on Arthur’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

“I don’t know the steps.”

Lachlan strode over. In one move, he could help Arthur and Irene—and avoid dancing with Cilla.

He bowed to Irene. “May I have the honor?”

“Aye, thank you.” She set a tiny hand in his, and he led her to the line of four ladies, whilst he took his place among the men.

The violin played “The Machine Without Horses,” and Father and Mother danced to the center and clasped right hands.

Irene knew the steps and danced well, but her attention kept sliding to Arthur, who was laughing with Cilla as she tried the steps on the sidelines.

When the dance ended, Mr. Fraser announced the next dance to be “The Duke of Perth.”

Cilla bounded over to Lachlan and Irene. “Arthur and I are ready.”

Arthur laughed. “I am most definitely not ready.”

“This is a different dance,” Lachlan said. “Different steps.”

Cilla’s blue dress brought out the blue in her brilliant eyes. “We’ll stand at the end of the line. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

“At least one person in each pair should know the steps.” Irene took her boyfriend’s hand. “Besides, I want to dance with you.”

Cilla thrust both her hands toward Lachlan. “No protesting. You can’t say you don’t know the steps, and you can’t say you don’t like to dance. You can only say you don’t want to dance with me , which would be unspeakably rude.”

Aye, it would. He stifled a groan, bowed to her, and extended his hand.

Her hand slipped into his, and his fingers contracted with a rush of satisfaction and completion, as if playing the final note in a scale.

Lachlan set his jaw and led her to the ladies’ line. She was a bonny lass, but not for him. For a naval officer to step out with a double agent would violate all regulations.

Yet as she grinned and bounced on her toes in anticipation, he couldn’t help but smile.

The tune began, and Cilla watched Father and Mother intently. As the dance progressed, Lachlan extended his hand to Cilla, instructed her, pointed her in the right direction, nudged her shoulder when she went the wrong way.

Never once did she stop smiling, laughing, trying—and he couldn’t stop smiling and laughing too.

What a talent she had, to step into something new, without any training, and let herself be imperfect, to laugh at her own mistakes, to take correction, to smile and make others smile.

As they danced, a weight lifted from his chest—the weight of war and duty and censure and expectations and responsibility. All that remained was light, Cilla’s light directed at him, filling him, and radiating back out in his own smile.

Far too soon, the final chord sounded. Lachlan bowed, and Cilla curtsied.

Another set of eight dancers clamored for a chance—lasses still in school and only two lads, the young Gunn brothers.

“Would you fancy some tea?” Lachlan asked Cilla and Irene.

“Yes, please,” the ladies said.

In the dining room, teapots and cups lined the sideboard, and Lachlan and Arthur filled two cups each.

To Lachlan’s right, Arthur raised one of his crooked smiles. “Cilla has a boyfriend, you say? Too bad, old chap.”

A rumble built in Lachlan’s chest. “I’m not—”

“Dinnae give up hope, love.” Mother sidled up on Lachlan’s left, her eyes aglow.

“Hope?”

“Aye. Cilla said she hadnae been dating her boyfriend long, and she never mentioned him until I asked her. I dinnae think they’re close. And I’ve seen the way she watches you.”

“Mother.” Lachlan glanced behind him to make sure Cilla wasn’t near enough to hear.

She wasn’t. But from where she stood in the drawing room, she met his gaze and grinned.

He grinned back before he could stop himself.

“Aye,” Mother said. “Dinnae lose hope.”

Lachlan spun back and topped off the final teacup. “I’m not hoping. I’m not interested. She’s a friend.”

Arthur and Mother leaned forward and exchanged a knowing glance.

Frustration churned inside. He had to stop this. “Wheesht. She has a boyfriend. That’s the end of it.”

He took both teacups and strode out of the dining room. He’d told a lie. How could he blame Cilla for acting when he did the same?

The ladies thanked Lachlan and Arthur for the tea, and they stood and watched as the young folk danced “The Eightsome Reel,” holding hands in a circle and sashaying around.

Cilla sipped her tea. “I hope we can dance this one. It looks fun.”

“Aye, it is.” Although lukewarm, the tea quenched his thirst.

A few weeks earlier, Cilla had said that when she acted for too long, she grew comfortable and forgot to act. And the truth came out.

Lachlan’s thumb rubbed the smooth porcelain of his saucer. Cilla had been at Dunnet Head for over six months. After their first chaotic encounter on the beach, her story had never changed. Not once.

Was she telling the truth about helping the Dutch resistance and joining the Abwehr only so she could escape? About her loyalties lying with the Allies?

Beside him, Cilla hummed and swayed to the music, occasionally bumping Lachlan without notice or apology.

If she was telling the truth, everything changed, and Lach lan forced himself to breathe evenly. More than anything, he wanted it to be true because he liked her and wanted to respect her. Did, in fact, respect her.

The song ended, and Mr. Fraser said the next dance would be “Petronella.”

Cilla set her cup and saucer on the bench behind them and grabbed Lachlan’s arm—so quickly, he struggled to set down his own cup—and dragged him to the center of the room.

“Hold on, lass. Hold on.” But he laughed and took his position opposite her. “Pay close attention to the steps. This dance is different.”

“Good. I like a challenge.”

“Aye. I’ve noticed.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bain started as first couple, twirling around each other in the Petronella turn, then they glided up the center and back.

Lachlan extended both hands to Cilla and guided her around in a circle as they did a quick setting step—rather, Lachlan did the step and Cilla simply hopped around, her blond hair bouncing and her eyes shining the same bonny greenish blue as her dress.

Lachlan returned to the line as the Bains continued their set, but soon it was his turn to take the lead with Cilla. They twirled around each other, gazes meeting, parting, meeting, parting. He took her hand and led her up the center, turned, and led her back.

She set her other hand in his and they danced in a circle, spinning, and he lost himself in her eyes and her smile and the warmth of her hands.

He could lose himself completely.

Wasn’t that how the selkie escaped in the legend? Once the man was hopelessly lost, he let down his guard, and she found her sealskin and abandoned him, brokenhearted and alone.

But if she wasn’t a selkie, if she was telling the truth, what then?

For the first time, losing himself held great appeal.