Page 38 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

38

Creag na Mara Sunday, April 5, 1942

Mother passed a plate around the table. “Hot cross scones instead of hot cross buns this Easter, but we’ll make do.”

“They look grand.” Lachlan took a square scone, marked with an icing cross.

“So clever, Mrs. Mackenzie.” Sitting to Lachlan’s left, Cilla wore her yellow floral dress and a sunny smile to match, despite the chaos of the past few days. “No eggs in scones, yes?”

“Aye, and I saved up butter and sugar rations. I even found sultanas in the pantry.”

Cilla took a bite of the scone. “Delicious.”

Lachlan resisted the urge to squeeze her hand, to embrace her and swing her in circles to make her laugh. Yesterday had been sweeter than great heaps of icing. And it could never be repeated.

Father brushed crumbs from his fingers. “Did you hear? They caught a German spy in Thurso yesterday. Everyone was talking about it at church this morn.”

Across the table, Neil locked his gaze on Lachlan. “I heard.”

“Dreadful.” Mother’s shoulders shuddered. “Can you imagine having a spy so close to Scapa Flow?”

“And to the airfields in Caithness,” Cilla said. “And Dunnet Head. So dangerous.”

Lachlan took a large bite of scone so he couldn’t talk. He’d spent the past year imagining the danger of a spy in the area.

“They caught him.” Father gave a firm nod. “Hitler will think twice about sending another spy.”

“I hope so.” Cilla’s voice wavered. Then she shook herself and smiled. “Thank you for including me in your Scottish Easter. Isn’t it fascinating? We all celebrate the same holiday but in different ways.” She went on to describe Dutch traditions including a bread called Paasbrood and willow branches decorated with tiny wooden eggs and animals.

She’d changed the subject to raise everyone’s spirits—and her own—and Lachlan clamped his left hand under his thigh so he wouldn’t wrap his arm around her shoulders and draw her close. She fit so nicely to his side.

After everyone discussed holiday traditions and finished every scone crumb, Cilla stood and picked up her plate. “Mrs. Mackenzie, may I help with the dishes?”

“Nonsense. Enjoy your afternoon before the rain comes.”

“I’d rather stay safely inside, out of the wind. But you wanted a walk, Lachlan, yes?” Cilla stacked Lachlan’s plate on top of her own and subtly inclined her head toward Neil.

Lachlan had said nothing about roaming. He didn’t want to leave Cilla alone, but she’d said she’d be safe inside—meaning something quite different from what his parents would hear.

Cilla skewered him with her gaze, then spun away with the stack of plates.

He had told her he wanted to talk with Neil. Until now, when that talk stared him in the face. A promise was a promise though, and he firmed his jaw. “Neil, would you fancy roaming?”

Neil’s eyebrows hiked up. “Aye. I would.”

From her spot in the corner, Effie raised her head and perked her ears. She loved roaming.

Ducking his chin to avoid his parents’ gazes, Lachlan clucked his tongue at the collie and headed out the back door toward the sea.

A bumpy layer of clouds hung low, a gray veil of drizzle blurred the firth to the east, and the wind ruffled Effie’s fur as she trotted alongside the brothers.

Neil fell in step beside Lachlan, and his kilt swayed around his knees. “The rumors in town dinnae mention me or Free Caledonia. Thank you.”

“Aye, the newspapers willnae mention you either, but you can take satisfaction in knowing your description of the man led to his arrest. Thank you.”

“What’s going on?”

Lachlan’s black officer’s shoes trod the springy heath. “I know you have questions, but we cannae discuss this.”

Neil shook his head. “The spy knew about Free Caledonia. How? Why did he think we wanted to commit sabotage?”

Because of Cilla’s messages, but Lachlan shrugged.

“We’re not violent.” Neil’s blue eyes blazed. “You need to understand. Aye, we want Scotland to be free, but not by attacking England and certainly not by committing sabotage in Scotland.”

“I know.”

“That’s what Germany wants, aye?” Neil flung his arm eastward. “To set the Scots and the Welsh against the English, so we tear each other apart. Then they can mop up the debris.”

Their path curved along the edge of the cliff, and Lachlan schooled his voice to softness. “Once you told me Scotland would be better off under the Germans.”

Neil grimaced. “Aye, I thought that. But the more I hear about what’s happening on the continent ... it’s wrong. I dinnae want that here or anywhere.”

“Aye. That’s why I’m fighting.”

“I know.” Neil’s glance carried respect and regret.

Lachlan cleared his throat. “Thank you for what you did yesterday. Not just telling the police but telling me. It was good of you.”

Neil gazed to sea and shrugged.

For weeks they’d been inching toward each other sideways, not looking each other in the eye, not addressing the offenses that loomed between them.

Offenses so large wouldn’t disappear for wanting them gone.

Lachlan tossed up a prayer and hauled in a deep breath of cool sea air. “I’m sorry my actions led to your expulsion, and I forgive you for getting me expelled. And I’m very, very sorry for taking over a decade to forgive you. We’ve been a house divided for far too long, and I bear a great deal of the blame.”

Neil stopped, set his hands on his hips, and lowered his head. The muscles in his neck and back tensed and shifted beneath his black jacket.

Cilla’s question about Neil rolled around in Lachlan’s head. “I don’t understand. You were the model cadet, and suddenly you started drinking and—”

“None of your business.” Neil thrust a finger at Lachlan.

Lachlan raised both hands in surrender, but his chest hollowed out. “Did something happen? Why—”

“None of your business.” Neil’s gaze burned.

That burning scorched a savage path into Lachlan’s heart. Something had indeed happened, and his hands drifted down. “Something happened. You didnae tell me.”

“Tell you? Why would I? You could never understand.” Neil marched in a circle around Lachlan, jabbing a finger at him. “How could you? No one did such things to you, did they? Shameful things, unspeakable. No one did that to you, I could tell. You were happy. Confident. Un—untouched. And I hated you. Hated you.”

Sickly green slime filled the cavern in Lachlan’s chest. In every boarding school, there were whispered rumors. Professors to avoid in private. Boys to avoid. Places to avoid.

“Oh no,” he murmured.

Neil cried out and shoved Lachlan’s shoulder. “You want to know why I drank, aye? To get out. To get away. To forget. You would have drunk too.”

“Aye. I might have done.” His voice came out ragged.

Effie growled and pressed herself to Lachlan’s leg, and Lachlan weaved his fingers into her ruff to reassure her. Unable to bear the pain, Neil had molded it into anger. And anger molded into jealousy. Jealousy into hatred.

Neil’s kilt swung hard as he marched. “I hated you. Hated that you didnae need to drink. That you had nothing to forget. That everything went well for you. That you were still so upstanding, so ... I knew you’d turn me in. How could pure, perfect Lachlan do anything else?”

Lachlan’s chest ached. “Yet you told me what you’d done—the motorcar, the cottage.”

Still circling, Neil slapped his hands to his hips and lowered his head. His chest heaved.

It all made sense. “So you could escape. I’m sorry.”

Neil snapped up his fiery gaze. “I dinnae want your pity.”

“I know, man. I know.”

With a groan, Neil shook his head hard. “You pitied me then, I could feel it, pitied the wretch I’d become. And I—it was better to be hated than pitied. It doesnae make sense, I know, but all—all I wanted was for you to hate me as much as I hated you.”

Lachlan stroked Effie’s ears and measured his words. “You succeeded.”

Neil slammed to a stop, and his face crumpled. “I—I was wrong. I was wrong to get you expelled. I shouldnae have done that.”

“All forgiven.” His chest swelled and pulsed. “I dinnae hate you anymore.”

Neil’s gaze dragged up to Lachlan. “And I dinnae hate you.”

Lachlan nodded. “I knew that the moment you met my boat yesterday. You could have turned in Cilla without telling me. But you told me first.”

“You love her.” Not a question. A statement.

He could deny it. Should deny it. Admitting it would take a great amount of trust. And trust would prove forgiveness more than words could. “Aye. I love her very much.”

“She loves you too.”

Lachlan cringed. “I hope not.”

“Are you daft, man?”

Lachlan shook his head heavily. “We cannae be together. I cannae tell you why, but we cannae be together.”

Compassion washed over Neil’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Och.” Lachlan waved him off. “I dinnae want your pity either.”

Neil jutted out his chin and crossed his arms. “Strong, stoic Lachlan Mackenzie.”

“Not at all.” A sad smile rose, and he shoved Neil’s shoulder, paying him back. “But I’m stronger when I’ve got my brother, aye?”

Neil huffed in a wry sort of way. “You’re right daft, man.”