Page 49 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

49

Dunnet Saturday, September 5, 1942

In a small room off the foyer of Dunnet Parish Church, Aleida fussed with the sashes tied over the shoulders of the traditional white Scottish dress Mrs. Mackenzie had loaned Cilla for her wedding day.

One sash in orange for her Dutch heritage. One sash in the Mackenzie tartan.

Cilla’s chin quivered. “I wish Vader could give me away.” And by now, Vader and Moeder believed she was dead.

Aleida’s soft-eyed gaze rose to her. “It’s bittersweet, ja? Marrying in exile? When I married Hugh, I was so happy, but I missed Moeder, Vader, Gerrit— you . I do wish Tante Margriet and Uncle James could have come to Scotland today.”

“I understand. It’s a long journey, and travel is discouraged. Neil couldn’t come either since he’s training with the army.”

Aleida adjusted the sprigs of heather in Cilla’s hair. “I’m glad Hugh found a story up here for the BBC to justify our trip. Oh, he’s beside himself that he can’t tell your story of escaping the Netherlands.”

“It isn’t as interesting as he thinks.” Nor was it her real story. And if Hugh broadcast an interview with her, the Germans could hear. What if someone recognized her voice? What if the Abwehr connected Cecilia Klaasen to Cilla van der Zee? More importantly, Cilla no longer wanted to focus on her old story, but on the new one she was writing with Lachlan.

“I can’t believe Hugh already met Lachlan.” Aleida chuckled and smoothed the bodice of her pale blue maternity dress. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Hugh has interviewed half the nation and wants to interview the other half.”

“I’m glad they like each other. And I’m glad Portsmouth isn’t terribly far from Hertfordshire.”

“I am too.” Hugh stayed in his London townhouse during the week, then joined Aleida and her son at the Collingwood country home every weekend.

Cilla patted her cousin’s belly, growing rounder each month. “I’ll certainly visit when the newest Collingwood arrives.”

“I hope so. I do wish you two weren’t moving from London to Portsmouth. Selfish, I know.” Aleida raised half a smile, as if she’d ever been selfish one day in her life.

“I will miss seeing you so often.” Despite a fitful start, Diamond was ready to begin her duties. Cilla had established rapport as a fellow continental exile, but her moral superiority as a member of the resistance lent her necessary authority. Diamond would never know Cilla had once been a double agent herself.

The door opened, and Mrs. Fraser peeked inside. “It’s time. Are you ready, dearie?”

A thrill of nervousness and anticipation ran through her. “I am.”

Aleida settled a kiss on Cilla’s cheek and billowed Mrs. Mackenzie’s wedding veil over Cilla’s face. Then she pressed a bouquet of heather in shades of pink and purple into Cilla’s hands.

Cilla followed Mrs. Fraser and Aleida into the foyer. Piano music drifted from the sanctuary, and Aleida proceeded inside.

With a deep breath and a deeper prayer, Cilla stepped into the doorway.

Dozens of smiling faces turned to her—Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Hugh Collingwood, Irene Goodwin, and several local families—including men she and Lachlan had rescued at sea.

At the altar, Lachlan stood with Arthur Goodwin and the minister.

Even the gauzy veil couldn’t diminish how handsome Lachlan looked in his dress blues, his red hair glinting in a beam of sunlight and his smile glowing.

His fierce devotion and compassionate honor and overwhelming love drew her—drew her down the aisle to him.

****

Lively bagpipe music swirled through the drawing room at Creag na Mara as couples performed a country dance.

Sitting to Cilla’s left, Lachlan now wore his kilt and a black jacket and a plaid over one shoulder. His good foot tapped to the music, and he caressed Cilla’s left hand with both of his own.

Lachlan sighed. “I should be dancing with you on our wedding day.”

She leaned close and set her free hand on his scarred knee. “If you hadn’t come for me that night, hadn’t taken that bullet, there wouldn’t have been a wedding day.”

He met her gaze with a smoldering in the rich brown of his eyes. A smoldering that never failed to jumble her insides and snatch her breath.

“Come with me, lassie.” He stood, grabbed his cane and her hand, and led her out the back door.

“Oh.” Mild disappointment pushed down the corners of her mouth. “I thought you were taking me upstairs.”

He laughed and shot her a look full of surprise, reproach, and delight. “Far too early. We’d set tongues wagging. I only wanted a kiss, but not a wee one.”

What was a little scandal in comparison to being alone with the man she loved—her husband?

Despite his injury, he set a brisk pace, and Cilla scrambled to keep up as he led her to the sea. To the low cliff around the little bay. “This is where we met.”

“Aye.” Lachlan stopped at the top of the footpath. “I was standing here when I first saw my selkie lass.”

So long ago. So much had happened since then, and her throat tightened.

Lachlan led her by the hand down the path to the beach. The tide was out, and grey seals lounged on the flagstones closest to the water and barked at the intruders.

“You were standing here.” Lachlan leaned back against the cliff, rested his cane beside him, and fingered the orange sash knotted over Cilla’s right hip. His eyes darkened. “Here you were, my Dutch refugee, telling me the truth.”

She smirked. “I was also telling you a lot of nonsense.”

“Aye.” The serious look remained. “You asked for mercy. I gave you none.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Because you might have been caught.”

Cilla shrugged. “If I hadn’t been caught and I’d gone to Tante Margriet’s, I’d never have changed. Because you did your duty, I learned much-needed humility, I found the truth that set me free—even in the trap, and—and I fell in love with you.”

His wonderful mouth relaxed into a slight smile. “If I hadnae captured you that day, I doubt I would have changed either. I’ve found freedom outside of walls and regulations, and I found mercy.”

Cilla ran her finger along his upper lip, lingering on the scar she adored. Why wasn’t he kissing her yet? “You’ve captured me permanently now.”

Lachlan fingered the tartan sash knotted over her left hip. “Now that you’re a Mackenzie, I need to recite a poem to you.”

“A poem?” She grinned. “Lachlan Mackenzie knows a poem?”

“Och, lass. Every Scot knows the works of Robert Burns.” The smolder returned to his eyes, but with a soft burnish. He lifted the plaid from his shoulder and wrapped it around her.

O, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.

Cilla snuggled into his shelter, the warm protection of his plaid, and the rolling lilt of his brogue.

Lachlan gathered her close to his chest, and his breath warmed her face.

Or did misfortune’s bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a’, to share it a’.

“To share it all,” she murmured. To share his love and his life, through misfortunes and laughs and joys and storms.

Lachlan opened his mouth, certainly to recite another stanza.

“Lachlan Mackenzie,” she said in a scolding tone. “I thought you were a man of your word.”

His eyes enlarged, blurred by nearness. “I am.”

“You promised to kiss me. And more than a wee kiss.”

A smile enveloped his face, and he kissed her—a kiss as big and fierce as the sea.