Page 31 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

31

Creag na Mara Sunday, February 15, 1942

“Singapore is sure to fall any day, I fear.” Mr. Mackenzie frowned at the bread on his plate.

“Aye,” Lachlan said. “And the Americans are trapped on that wee peninsula in the Philippines.”

“And the islands in the Netherlands East Indies are falling one by one.” Cilla preferred to discuss good news, but she kept thinking about the curios her uncle had brought back after serving in the East Indies—and the people now enduring occupation there.

Mrs. Mackenzie traced the porcelain handle of her teacup. “The Japanese seem unstoppable.”

Neil shifted his gaze across the table to Lachlan. “Wouldnae you rather be in the Pacific?”

Cilla held her breath as she did whenever the brothers addressed each other, but Lachlan’s efforts to find common ground had brought forth fruit. Civility at the very least, and Neil came home more often.

Or was Neil coming home only to build support for Free Caledonia?

“Aye, I would like to be in the Pacific.” Lachlan rubbed the fork handle in his hand. “And I would like to be on a destroyer escorting cargo ships with food across the Atlantic, and I would like to be in the Mediterranean protecting the flow of oil. But I am only one man, and my work here is good.”

“It is.” Cilla smiled at his profile. “Scapa is a haven for all those sailors coming in from the sea.”

“Aye.” Lachlan didn’t meet her gaze.

Cilla’s smile wavered. The past two weekends, he’d scarcely looked at her or spoken to her. Not cold. Not angry. Not ignoring her. Just detached.

And it turned her inside out.

“I’m sure you dinnae mind such a cozy assignment.” A challenge twitched in the corner of Neil’s eye.

Lachlan raised half a smile. “I have yet to find a man who would call Scapa cozy.”

Cilla chuckled. “I can imagine. The weather alone ...”

“Aye.”

She wanted to shake him, make him look at her, talk to her, yell at her ... anything.

A great restlessness wiggled inside, and she directed it to the conversation. “Look at us. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the days are growing longer, and the wind is even taking a Sabbath rest. And here we are, talking about the end of the world.”

Laugh lines spread around Mrs. Mackenzie’s brown eyes. “Aye. It’s a bonny day, a day the Lord has made.”

“Yes.” Cilla clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “Someone tell a funny story. Anyone. Lachlan, tell me something funny that happened this week.”

He folded the napkin in his lap. “I cannae think of anything.”

“Nothing? Nothing humorous at all?”

“No.” He set his napkin on the table and smiled at his mother. “I should take advantage of the bonny weather and escort Cilla home.”

“Oh.” She’d been dismissed, and she fought to keep the disappointment from her voice and face. Somehow she mustered a smile. “How time flies. Thank you again for your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“Haste you back, dearie. You are always welcome here.” Mrs. Mackenzie directed the last sentence to her eldest, with a hard tone.

Her eldest either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

After they put on hats and coats, they pedaled up the drive.

When they turned onto the road, Cilla’s frustration bubbled up and over. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Lachlan’s bicycle wobbled, and he shot her a glance over his shoulder. “Pardon?”

Cilla pedaled hard so she could pull alongside him. “For the past fortnight, you can’t bear the sight of me, and you only say ‘aye’ or ‘no.’”

Lachlan’s lips folded in, and he kept pedaling with his head down.

A strangled cry erupted from Cilla’s throat. “For heaven’s sake, I preferred it when you hated me. At least you acknowledged my presence.”

His head jerked up to her, and his jaw fell slack.

“I know I made a fool of myself,” Cilla said through gritted teeth. “I ran away from Yardley, jumped in the water when you told me not to, and sniveled about my failings. I know you’ve lost all respect for me, but—”

“No,” he said in a gruff voice. “No, I havnae.”

“You haven’t? So why are you acting this way? I can’t bear it.”

Lachlan stopped his bike and planted his feet.

Cilla did the same.

With his head bowed, he kneaded the handlebars. His cheeks pitted. At the base of his neck, below the band of his cap, his hair glowed like copper.

He said nothing.

Dread snaked around her stomach. “Lachlan?”

He hauled in a loud breath without changing his posture. “For the last eight months, you’ve been my enemy. Aye, I came to appreciate the work you did and to—to enjoy your company, but always, always remembering who you were.”

“Your enemy.” Of course, he saw her that way. Why had she fooled herself into thinking they had become friends?

“I knew how to act with you.” He opened one hand and struck the handlebar over and over. “I dinnae know how anymore.”

She blinked a few times as if it would help her comprehend. “I don’t understand.”

His face scrunched up. “That day. You said you made a fool of yourself. No. You proved yourself a loyal ally. You proved you’ve been telling the truth all along. And you proved you are a woman of the highest character. I trust you completely, and I dinnae know how to act.”

Then he lifted his head and looked her full in the eye with something new in his gaze. Something heartbreaking.

Vulnerability.

She sucked in a cool breath. He didn’t give his trust easily, because when he trusted, he trusted deeply. That meant when someone betrayed him, as Neil had, he was wounded deeply.

By giving her his trust, he’d given her a potent weapon.

More than anything, she wanted to tell him she could never hurt him, could never hurt a man she loved so much, so dearly, a man who had given her the sweetest gift she could imagine.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a blunt tone. “I dinnae know how to act, but that’s no excuse. I’m ... not known for social graces.”

No, he wasn’t, so she’d have to help him. “Can we try to work together as we used to? I miss it.” Her voice warbled.

A softness washed through his expression. “Aye.”

Her eyes tickled, and she stretched them wide, blinked. She refused to cry, but she had to ask, ask for what her heart wanted most. “Do you suppose—could we ever—could we be friends someday?”

“Not someday.” A spark lit in the soft brown of his eyes. “Now. Consider me your friend now, if you’ll have a right dafty for a friend.”

A gift bestowed to only a few. Her chin quivered, and she turned away. “Thank you.”

“To prove it, I’ll give you your sealskin.”

“Pardon?”

He aimed his chin seaward. “My family’s boat—the one you tried stealing that day—”

She gasped. “It’s your family’s?”

“Aye. Her name is Mar na Creag , and I’ll teach you how to start the motor.” With a serious face, he jabbed a finger toward Dunnet Head. “If you ever need a boat, ever encounter a similar situation, I want you to be prepared.”

He was indeed proving his trust by handing her the means to escape, if she were so inclined. “My sealskin,” she whispered.

“Aye, selkie lass. Come. I’ll show you right now.”

“I’d like that.” She climbed back on her bicycle and pedaled beside him, through the village of Brough and down the bumpy path to the boat ramp.

A dozen grey seals sunned themselves on the flagstone beach, cushioned by kelp.

Cilla leaned her bicycle against the stone wall at the top of the concrete ramp. “In the legend, the selkie is trapped against her will, yes?”

“Aye.” Lachlan set his bicycle beside hers and adjusted his cap. “She prefers the sea to the land.”

“What if she doesn’t see herself as trapped?” The cliffs in the bay sloped gently, covered in verdant growth, radiant in the sunshine. “What if she prefers the land? This land?”

A slow smile climbed up Lachlan’s face. “Then she’s an uncommon selkie.”

“No one has ever called me common.”

“An uncommon selkie, aye.” His nose wrinkled, and he frowned at the sky as if searching for words above. “A peculiar selkie. Odd even. Aye, right bizarre.”

“Lachlan!” She laughed and gave him a playful shove.

His laughter broke out, lighting his eyes and crinkling his smile.

She did indeed prefer this land. And this man. This uncommon man.