Page 32 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

32

Pentland Firth Saturday, March 7, 1942

Snow flurries billowed over the sea and stung Lachlan’s face as the motorboat crossed to Brough, several hours late for the Saturday meeting.

After fearsome weather had kept Lachlan from Dunnet Head for a fortnight, Commander Yardley would probably be relieved by Lachlan’s presence rather than annoyed at his tardiness.

In front of Lachlan, Arthur leaned back against the forward cabin. “I’m glad the wind died down enough for us to cross. Irene has her heart set on meeting my family in London.” He ducked down and smiled at his fiancée sheltered inside the cabin.

Yet not his fiancée. Irene refused to officially accept Arthur’s marriage proposal until she met his parents.

“Your family will love her.”

“Without a doubt.” Arthur turned his lopsided grin to Lachlan. “She’s also eager to see Cilla again.”

Lachlan’s heart lurched. Arthur and Irene would be spending the night at Creag na Mara before catching a train to London in the morn, and Lachlan had promised to invite Cilla to dine this evening with the happy couple.

He hadn’t seen her since the day she’d confronted him for his boorish behavior. Showing her how to operate the boat had helped, and occupying his mind and eyes on that task had diffused his awkwardness. But a restaurant meal in a setting reminiscent of a date?

“Aye,” he said. “Cilla will be glad to see Irene too.”

A gleam grew in Arthur’s eyes.

Lachlan had to divert him, and he studied the overcast sky. “The weather will be clearing soon. Spring is coming.”

“Spring, when ‘a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’”

“Spring, ‘when kings go forth to battle.’”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Lachlan peered over the roof of the front cabin. He couldn’t hear the crew’s conversation over the roar of motor and wind, so they couldn’t hear him either.

He leaned back against the cabin beside his friend. “The war will heat up in the spring as always. We’ll have to assess base defenses for damage from winter storms.”

“We’ve kept the booms and vessels in shape throughout the winter.”

“Aye. Commander Blake says your command is one of the finest at Scapa, and he is right stingy with praise.”

A satisfied smile settled into Arthur’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

“We’re expecting stronger attacks on the convoys—we’ve already had attacks in the Arctic, a couple of losses. The Home Fleet will be busy bottling up the German ships in port.”

“If only the RAF could sink those ships in Norway.” Arthur huffed. “How many bombing raids have they sent? All in vain.”

Lachlan shrugged. “I’m not a pilot, but they say it’s very difficult to bomb a ship deep in a fjord.”

“A shame. Think how the Admiralty could use all our ships patrolling the North Sea.”

“Aye.”

“Say.” Arthur turned and rested his shoulder against the bulkhead. “What’s the latest on the Churchill Barriers? Any progress?”

A smile rose. “They identified the rabblerousers among the prisoners of war and sent them to camps on the mainland.”

“Very good. Did that help?”

“Aye, that and ... an unconventional use of facts.”

“Unconventional use of facts?” One of Arthur’s dark eyebrows arched high. “Lying?”

Lachlan grimaced. “More like emphasizing one aspect of the truth.”

The second eyebrow rose.

Lachlan tipped his head to the side. “The barriers are defensive works, aye, but the roads on top are a civilian project, which prisoners are allowed to work on. The Provost of Kirkwall and the commandant of the prison camp, Major Buckland, talked to the Italians. They convinced them that causeways connecting the outlying islands would be very good for the Orcadian people.”

“Clever.”

“Aye.” Several months ago, he would have bristled at the thought. But Joe Pizzuto and his friends were working hard and cheerfully. They were indeed constructing civilian roads—and barriers to defend their own enemies. And they accepted it.

Lachlan did too. All his life he’d followed conventions in a rigid line. The past nine months had tugged and stretched him out of line, into using unconventional means to accomplish good goals.

It ached. Yet it seemed a proper ache.

****

“And the cricket pitch was never the same again.” Arthur finished his boyhood tale with a mischievous glint in his dark eyes.

Lachlan joined Cilla and Irene in laughter as they sat around the table in the dining room of the Thurso Hotel, the dishes long cleared and only teacups remaining.

“Oh, Irene.” Cilla patted the table between her and her new friend. “How can you marry such a man?”

Irene leveled a serious gaze at her. “Someone needs to reform him.”

Lachlan chuckled. Arthur needed no reforming.

“She has her work cut out for her.” Arthur’s gaze brimmed over with adoration. “A lifetime of work.”

Irene’s big blue eyes turned to Lachlan. “How about you? Did you get in trouble as a lad?”

“Aye.”

Cilla gasped. “Never.”

“Och aye. My mother and father could tell many a tale.”

“One.” She took a sip of tea and glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. “I’d settle for one story.”

Mother’s favorite tale floated to the top, and he rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “When I was a lad of eight, one of the local lads told me his mother used peat fires for cooking. So I dragged Neil to the closest bog and used my mother’s best kitchen knives to carve out bricks of peat. We wheeled a wheelbarrow of peat into the kitchen and filled Mother’s oven. Her modern coal-burning oven.”

“Oh no,” Cilla and Irene said in tandem.

Lachlan nodded. “We stashed the spare bricks in her pots and pans and smeared peat all over her clean floor in the process.”

Cilla clucked her tongue. “Your poor mother.”

“Aye. We spent the rest of the day cleaning our mess.”

“Poor little Lachlan.” She nudged his shoulder. “Only trying to help.”

“Sometimes we make the greatest mess when we’re trying to help.”

Cilla narrowed her eyes at the ceiling. “That’s true. So true.”

“Stay tuned,” Arthur said, imitating a BBC announcer’s voice, “for more profound thoughts from the mind of Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie.”

“Profound?” Lachlan flapped a hand at him. “Wheesht.”

In her red suit jacket, Cilla crossed her arms on the table and sent Lachlan a sly look. “I can’t imagine you playing in the dirt.”

His chin drew back. “Och? How not? What wee lad doesnae love playing in the dirt?”

“You.”

“Wheesht.” He curled his lip in indignation.

Cilla turned to Arthur. “Have you ever seen him with his tie askew or one hair out of place?”

“I would hope not,” Lachlan said. “It wouldnae be fitting for an officer.”

A smirk rose on her bonny face, and she grabbed the knot of his tie and jerked it to the side.

“Och!” He righted it. “Arthur’s tie is straight too—why pick on me?”

Cilla gestured to Arthur. “He looks as if his tie could be askew.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I’m not quite certain that’s a compliment.”

“It’s not,” Lachlan said.

With a burst of laughter, Cilla ruffled Lachlan’s hair.

The warmth of her touch shot through him and stole his breath. He forced his lungs to work and aimed a finger and a mock glare at her. “Watch yourself, lass, or I’ll muss your hair.”

Her eyes widened into turquoise seas, and she drew back. One hand rose to her blond locks, styled in a smooth wave above her shoulders, the front bits gathered on top of her head in curls and such. Was her hair as silky as it looked?

Lachlan swallowed hard and ran a hand through his own hair to fix it. “Wise decision, lass.”

Irene let out a deep sigh. “It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s getting late.”

Lachlan glanced at his watch. “Aye. We need to catch the bus.” The whole party would spend the night at Creag na Mara.

After Lachlan paid the tab, they donned coats and hats and flipped on torches shielded by tissue paper to meet blackout regulations.

Strolling along a brick pavement dusted with snow, they headed north on Princes Street toward the bus terminus at Thurso Town Hall.

Cilla gasped, and one leg swung forward.

Lachlan grabbed her arm. “Careful.”

“Thank you. It’s icy.”

And dark. “Here, hold my arm.”

Cilla hesitated, then complied. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded as thin and crystalline as the frost on the hotel’s windowpanes.

Her gloved hand pressed lightly on his arm and spun his thoughts into a whirlwind. With effort, he forced his breath into an even rate.

A man with a white beard passed Arthur and Irene, and he halted and stared at Cilla. “Miss van der Zee?”

“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Henderson. How are you?”

“Fine.” He scowled at Lachlan and marched away.

Lachlan waited until they crossed Manson’s Lane. “Who was he?”

“One of Neil’s friends,” she said in a quiet voice. “From the Claymore and Heath.”

Free Caledonia. Lachlan slowed his pace to increase the distance from Arthur and Irene. “He wasnae happy to see you on the arm of a naval officer. This is a problem.”

“Nonsense. I’ll simply explain who you are. They know I met Neil because you and I are friends.”

Lachlan grumbled. “It is indeed a problem. You’re supposed to be—”

“Sh!” She pressed her shoulder against his arm. “It isn’t a problem. I haven’t joined their group, haven’t even expressed an interest in doing so. I ask questions and I listen. Sometimes I agree with them, sometimes I don’t. And when Mr. Henderson says Scotland would be better off under German rule, I tell them what life is like for the Dutch under German rule.”

“All right.” He squeezed his elbow closer to his side to squeeze her wee hand. “Your work is too important. I dinnae want to cause you to sli—”

His left foot shot out in front of him. Down he went, onto his backside, his back.

Cilla screeched and collapsed on top of him.

He grunted from the weight of her. “Och, lass. Are you all right?”

Arthur and Irene dashed back to them. “Cilla! Lachlan!”

Cilla laughed and kept laughing as she pushed herself up, her face a mere foot from Lachlan’s. “You—you didn’t want to cause me to slip?”

Lachlan’s laugh merged with hers, great rolls of laughter synchronizing and melding. Her light hair curled about her cheeks, shaking in time with her laughter, and all he wanted was to draw her back down and kiss those laughing lips, over and over.

But he could not. He could never.

Cilla pushed back onto her knees, still laughing, and Arthur and Irene helped her to her feet and gathered her handbag and torch.

Lachlan sat up and caught his breath. His cap lay on the pavement, and he lifted it. The badge gleamed—a crown of gold and silver wire, an anchor of silver, and wreaths of gold.

He was an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. To consort romantically with an enemy agent—even an MI5 double agent proven loyal to the Allied cause—would defy all protocol and regulations.

Lachlan set on his cap and accepted Arthur’s assistance in rising to his feet.

His heart—his own heart—had betrayed him.