Page 33 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore
33
Dunnet Head Saturday, March 21, 1942
With the smallest stitches her impatient fingers could muster, Cilla anchored another pebble to her gray fabric beach. From the wireless on the worktable in the lightroom, Vera Lynn sang “Do I Love You?”
Cilla knew the answer to Vera Lynn’s question. Yes, she loved Lachlan, and she sang louder to shift her thoughts away from the memory of falling on the slick pavement, the firmness of Lachlan’s sturdy arms around her, the nearness of his face. His lips. His beautiful scarred lips.
What would he have done if she’d kissed him?
Cilla belted out the chorus, her off-key notes bruising her own ears.
“We can accuse you of being a selkie ...”
Lachlan’s voice, and Cilla sprang to her feet and spun around.
Mirth danced in his dark eyes. “But no one could ever accuse you of being a siren.”
Because she sang poorly, and she let out an exasperated sigh. “Why, thank you. No one could ever accuse you of being a flatterer.”
“No one ever has.” He tipped his chin to the side. “What are you hiding?”
She’d spread her arms wide along the edge of the table, shielding her project from view. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“You’re not as good of an actress as you claim.” He ducked to her left.
She shifted.
His teeth flashed in an easy grin.
Oh, she loved him like this. But he wouldn’t smile when he heard today’s briefing, and her heart writhed.
Lachlan gave her a comical mock scowl. “Hiding your nefarious spy plans, aye?”
Her shoulders squirmed. “It isn’t nefarious. Just silly. Playing with fabric and pebbles and such.” She groaned, stepped aside, and braced for his laughter.
Instead, he studied her project for quite some time, and a smile edged up. “It’s a seascape, aye? It looks like the beach at Brough.”
Or the beach by his home where they’d met almost a year earlier, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.
“These wee downy feathers ...” With a thick finger, he traced one of the feathers she’d sewn on her blue fabric sea. “They look like seafoam.”
“Do they? That’s what I wanted.” Cilla waved one hand over the fabric. “I’ve never done anything like this before. But then I’ve never had so much time to myself.”
“Aye.” Lachlan straightened up and crossed his arms. “Boredom sparks creativity.”
Cilla dropped her voice into the basement. “Yet another profound saying from Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie.”
He gave her a sheepish look. “No, a profound saying from Rhona Mackenzie, uttered whenever Neil or I complained of boredom.”
Cilla laughed. “My mother would give Hilde and me a list of chores.”
Footsteps thudded up the spiral staircase.
“Excuse me.” Cilla eased past Lachlan, turned off the wireless, folded her fabric into her basket, and cleared the tiny table. If only she didn’t have to ruin the lighthearted mood.
After Yardley greeted them, Cilla and Lachlan sat at the table and Lachlan reviewed Cilla’s log.
Cilla had told Kraus winter weather had kept her boyfriend “Samson” from visiting as frequently as desired, and she’d provided less intelligence from Scapa Flow, whilst still sending MI5-approved sightings of ships and aircraft. The Abwehr hadn’t shown interest in the salvage information from “Rahab” but grew increasingly interested in the Free Caledonia information from Fergus. She’d given him the code name “Joshua.”
“My notes.” Lachlan returned Cilla’s log, marked up in his strong, neat script.
Yardley leaned back against the window behind Lachlan and lifted his prominent chin. “On Wednesday night, Kraus sent Cilla a new order.”
Cilla cringed. “You won’t like it, Lachlan.”
Yardley lifted one soothing hand. “Before you get angry—”
“Angry?” Lachlan turned in his chair, and his gaze bounced between Yardley and Cilla, narrowing with each bounce. “What is it?”
“They ordered Cilla to commit sabotage at Scapa Flow.”
“At Scapa?” Lachlan’s voice elevated. “Absolutely not.”
“I told you not to get angry.”
Cilla released an indignant huff. “He has every right to get angry.”
“Aye, I do.” Lachlan shoved back his chair and stood. “From the very beginning, I said I willnae endanger the base, the ships, or the men at Scapa.”
“You did say so,” Yardley said in his maddeningly calm way. “And now we’re telling you to commit sabotage there.”
With a furious groan, Lachlan planted his hands on his hips. “This involves more than British ships. This week the Americans agreed to send a task force to Scapa to escort convoys, freeing the Home Fleet to sail elsewhere. I willnae endanger the ships of our allies, our guests.”
Cilla’s chest ached for him. She loved him relaxed and playful, but she loved him most when he fought for what was right.
“You needn’t endanger our guests.” Yardley gave his uniform jacket a tug. “But find something to blow up.”
“Are we taking orders from Germany now?” Lachlan edged past Yardley and paced a curved path around the Fresnel lens. “I will not. I refuse.”
“You’re taking orders from MI5.” Yardley’s voice hardened. “Come up with a plan. Quickly.”
“I will not.” He paced back in their direction.
Cilla gentled her voice. “Commander, give him time.”
Lachlan fixed his gaze on her. “I dinnae need time. I willnae do it. Even if I wanted to, it cannae be done.”
She gave him a slow nod and addressed the commander. “Kraus understands a plot like this takes time. Besides, we’ll need the Abwehr to send more explosives, yes? So give Lachlan time. You know how his mind works. Give him a week to think about it.”
Lachlan flipped up his hands. “I dinnae need a week. I willnae blow up one of our ships.”
“Of course not,” Cilla said. “Is there a derelict old boat you could blow up? A wreck? A beached boat?”
Lachlan marched away. “No. All refloated or scrapped.”
“You’ve mentioned sinking ships to block channels.”
“Aye, but we’re constructing barriers across those channels. We only need two more blockships to tide us over until construction is complete. The blockships ... no, it’s too soon. Too soon. They’re already scheduled to be sunk in the next fortnight. Cannae make it look like sabotage.”
An annoyed expression crossed Yardley’s face, and he opened his mouth.
Cilla shot him a warning look and tapped her wristwatch. Lachlan needed time.
Lachlan strode back toward the table, shaking his head. “Sabotage at Scapa would be a serious breach of security. My command would be blamed. I dinnae mind taking the blame. My career in the Navy ends when the war does, and my father will hire me no matter what. But I willnae allow Commander Blake or the other men in my command to be blamed.”
A man of sacrificial integrity, and Cilla hugged herself so she wouldn’t run and embrace him.
Lachlan stopped in front of Yardley, his chest rising and falling, his countenance dark. “I’ll do it only if I can take all the blame myself.”
Yardley let out a sharp sigh. “We can’t do that. If the blame fell on you, the Admiralty would have no choice but to remove you from Scapa Flow, possibly even dismiss you from the Navy. You’re far too valuable to us to allow that.”
A loud groan, and Lachlan wheeled away.
“Commander, please?” Cilla said. “Give him a week to think about this. If there’s any possible way, Lachlan will find it. And if Lachlan can’t find a way, no one can. I’ll simply have to tell Kraus it’s impossible.”
“Aye.” Lachlan marched back with a light in his eyes. “Tell him that now.”
“A week, Lachlan?” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Promise me you’ll think about it for a week?”
“Aye.” The word spilled into a big puddle on the floor.
Cilla leaned her arms on the table. “Even if you think of a solution at Scapa, we have a problem at this end. Fergus and his friends live here in Caithness. They’d need to travel to Orkney, but with their history in Free Caledonia, the government would never grant them passes—and even if they did, it would take months.”
“It’s impossible.” Lachlan returned to his chair, and his face relaxed. “They cannae travel to Orkney.”
“Figure it out.” Yardley jabbed a finger at them. “Both of you. MI5 orders. You have one week.”
Cilla met Lachlan’s gaze across the table, and she nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
A rebellious little flip of his chin, but Lachlan sighed. “Aye. We’ll do our best.”