Page 6 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

6

Dunnet Bay

Even with the wind at her back, Cilla breathed hard as she rowed the rubber boat toward the thin white line of beach glowing under the full moon.

The U-boat had surfaced only high enough to launch the boat and for Cilla to climb in from the conning tower—and only long enough to send a wireless message to Germany reporting that they’d accomplished their mission.

Then Cilla had been left alone. Free, but alone.

She preferred company in her freedom.

Cilla pulled her oars into the boat and lifted her binoculars to check her surroundings whilst catching her breath.

To her left, the sheer cliffs of Dunnet Head rose high. To her right and a bit behind her lay Thurso, but in the blackout she could barely find the town, even if it was the largest in the area.

Ahead of her in the bay, something was wrong at Dunnet Beach.

She struggled to focus the binoculars as her boat bobbed in the ocean in the chilly breeze. Black shapes marred the pale sands. Obstacles? Guns?

A rumble crossed the waters, and a small black shape lifted from the ground near the south end of the beach.

An airplane! Cilla ducked, although the plane was far away, and she wore all black in a black raft on the black sea.

That was an airfield. And the beach—that was no peaceful holiday beach, but one prepared to defend against invasion. Defend against boats like hers.

“Oh no.” Her gloved fingers clenched around the binoculars.

She couldn’t land there. But where?

Her breath puffed hard. The southern shore of the bay—the town and the airfield—she’d be captured in an instant. The northern shore—nothing but steep cliffs. If she wasn’t dashed on the rocks, she’d be trapped.

“Oh my goodness. My goodness.” Cilla lowered the binoculars and pressed her hand to her mouth. Her fingers dug in. “What now?”

The wind was blowing from the northwest, blowing her deeper into the bay.

No ... Dunnet Head seemed larger and closer. And the wind ... it had shifted. It was coming from the southwest.

If she didn’t start rowing, the wind would push her around Dunnet Head and into Pentland Firth. The dangerous waters.

“Oh no, no, no.” Cilla grabbed the oars and rowed hard.

But where to? No safe landing spots existed in the bay, and she couldn’t reverse course, fight the wind, and try to find a spot west of Thurso.

A sickening sensation convulsed her stomach. She had no choice. She had to follow the wind, circle Dunnet Head, brave Pentland Firth, and search for a beach, any beach.

“No.” Her eyes scrunched shut, and she bent over her oars. “I can’t. I’m already exhausted.”

But she had to.

The map of the area swirled in her mind. And a plan. Not a good plan, but the only one remaining.

Let the wind push her around Dunnet Head. Row lightly. Conserve strength. On the far side, the high cliffs might block the wind from the south. Then she’d row with all her might toward shore.

Cilla straightened up. The rims of her eyes tingled, as did her cheeks.

Tears drying in the wind.

She’d never been one to pray—she’d always let her parents and her cousin Gerrit do that for her. Perhaps now she should. But she could imagine what the Lord would say to her: “You got yourself into this mess, Cilla van der Zee.”

She had indeed. Somehow she had to get herself out.

Cilla turned her boat to the north and rowed.

****

Throughout supper, Lachlan had held his tongue. Mother had chatted about her volunteer work with the Women’s Rural Institute, although in a strained tone.

Then Father had talked about the latest projects with Mackenzie Salvage, a topic Lachlan would ordinarily enjoy. He’d worked for Father for five years after university, whilst Neil did whatever it was that Neil did.

Now Neil was asking questions about the company, and a new concern simmered. Was Neil aiming to steal the position Lachlan planned to take after the war?

Neil had stripped away Lachlan’s hopes for a naval career. Would he now strip away Lachlan’s hopes for a career with Mackenzie Salvage? Or would he simply use his presence to force Lachlan out? Because Lachlan could never work with the man.

Father turned a smile to Lachlan. “How goes it at Scapa Flow?”

Lachlan paused with a fork full of cod halfway to his mouth. What could he say in front of a fifth columnist? “All is well.”

“We heard you on the BBC,” Mother said. “We’re so proud of you.”

Neil snorted.

“Neil ...” Father said with a grumble in his voice.

“I’m sorry.” Neil raised both hands to his shoulders. “I cannae listen to this. Your son is fighting for the enemy.”

“Neil, please.” Mother’s voice warbled.

With every muscle in full tension, Lachlan lowered his fork and his voice. “I am fighting for the Royal Navy of the United Kingdom, which includes Scotland.”

Sparks flashed in Neil’s blue eyes. “Scotland as a vassal state. You fight for the English. And you have the gall to wear an English uniform with the Mackenzie tartan. You disgust me.”

“Neil Mackenzie,” Father said. “I will have peace at my table.”

“Please, lads? Please,” Mother said.

Lachlan stared his brother down, and his blood pulsed hot and hard. He cut his gaze to his mother. “May I please be excused?”

Mother’s mouth warped. “We havnae had the pudding.”

With every bit of strength, Lachlan restrained himself. “If you would have peace at your table, let me take my leave.”

With a heartbreaking crumpling of her face, Mother nodded. “Aye, love.”

Lachlan shoved away from the table, clucked his tongue at Effie, and strode out of the dining room with the collie at his heels.

At the front door, he grabbed a torch. He stepped outside and gulped down bracing air, but it did nothing to cool his blood.

As he marched away, the smooth woolen pleats of his kilt brushed his thighs. Muted light from the full moon shone gray on the moors, and Lachlan had no need for his torch.

The sea. Lachlan turned on his heel and headed north.

Effie whimpered and trotted beside him.

Would there be no end to Neil’s betrayals? To the wreckage he left strewn in Lachlan’s life?

After Lachlan’s expulsion from the Royal Naval College, he’d fought his way back into his previous public school, then into the University of Edinburgh. There he’d dedicated his studies to what would most benefit Mackenzie Salvage—metallurgy, oceanography, meteorology, physics, naval engineering.

Meanwhile, Neil dropped out of school, preferring pubs and poetry and politics.

Now Neil would usurp Lachlan’s position—or poison it so Lachlan would spit it out.

“Lord!” Lachlan’s prayer spewed out in one word. The only word he could form.

His chest heaving, Lachlan stopped at the low bluff overlooking the wee cove.

The waters lay still in the cove, and gray clouds spotted the starry sky. Across those waters, the Orkneys and Scapa Flow hid in the dark.

A rocky beach curved around the silver water. How often had he and Neil played down there, skimming stones and splashing in the sea? Back when they were truly brothers.

Lachlan’s chest caved in, and pain filled the hollow. Why could he find no peace?

A scraping sound rose from the beach.

Effie stepped forward, and her ears pricked.

A dark shape obscured the mottled rocks on the beach. Most likely a seal.

Lachlan almost smiled. Or was it a selkie? The mythological creature had the form of a seal but shed her skin on land to appear as a beautiful woman and entice unsuspecting men.

He ruffled Effie’s fur. “I’d better guard my heart, lass.”

The dark shape lengthened. A man? A pale face glanced up to Lachlan, then the man pressed against the bluff.

Now Lachlan’s blood chilled. Chilled to ice.

Men only hid if they were up to no good. Was he a smuggler?

Or a spy?

Without breaking his gaze on the intruder’s dark form, Lachlan leaned low and slid his sharp sgian-dubh from his sock. Several German spies had been captured after landing by boat or by parachute. If this man was a spy, he might be armed with more than a wee knife.

Regardless, Lachlan had a duty to apprehend him.

Staying hunched over, Lachlan eased his way down the path to the beach, never losing sight of the cowering coward.

Then he flipped on his torch and shined it directly at the man. “Who goes there?”

Only the soft lapping of waves answered him.

Lachlan took a few more steps across the flagstones. “No use hiding. I’ve seen you. This is the only path off the beach, and I’m armed. Surrender.”

“Please don’t shoot,” a woman said.

A woman? Lachlan’s step hitched, but he didn’t lower his torch or his sgian-dubh. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The woman wore a dark coat and a dark hat, and she raised slender arms. “My—my name is Cilla van der Zee. I’m a Dutch refugee.”

Beside her on the rocks lay a deflated rubber boat. How had a refugee from the Netherlands rowed a dinghy to the far north of Scotland?

Lachlan continued his slow approach, praying she wouldn’t notice he was armed with a knife not a revolver. “You traveled all that way in a dinghy?”

“A fishing boat brought me most of the way.”

“Why so far north? Why Scotland?”

“I—I was in Norway when the Nazis invaded. On holiday. I was—I was trapped.” Her voice shook. From fear? Or because she was lying? Or because she realized how ludicrous her story sounded?

Effie brushed past his legs. She should be growling or barking, but the dog trotted right up to the intruder. So much for being a good judge of character.

One of those slender arms stretched to Effie. “Oh, what a beautiful—”

“Hands up!” Lachlan cried.

“Sorry!” Her arms sprang into the air. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Effie, come. Now.”

The collie obeyed, hopping over a shovel on the ground.

A shovel? Flagstones had been shoved aside, exposing the sand beneath. A hole. To the side lay a stack of suitcases.

“Why are you burying your luggage?”

“I ... I ...” She let out a wee sob.

No doubt about it. “You’re a spy.”

“Please, sir. Please believe me. It isn’t what it seems.” In the torchlight, luminous eyes entreated him.

Lachlan’s heart and his mouth went hard. “What’s in the suitcases? Kick them over here.”

“Please. I know what it looks like, but I’m actually a member of the Dutch resistance. To help my friends, I infiltrated the Dutch Nazi Party. But I was afraid the Nazis would get suspicious. I had to escape.”

Her story had shifted like the tides. “A refugee wouldnae hide. A refugee wouldnae bury her luggage. You’re a spy for Germany.”

That spy fell silent. Her head dipped low, and pale hair curled around pale cheeks. Then she drew a long, ratcheting breath. “That’s what I wanted them to think.”

Lachlan sucked in cold air. She admitted it. “Them? The Germans?”

“The German Abwehr,” she said in a quiet voice, lightly accented. “I tricked them into thinking I’d spy for them, but I never intended to do so. I’m on your side, the Allied side. I joined the Abwehr only so I could escape to Britain. My aunt lives here. I beg you. You must believe me.”

All the burning heat from the evening’s events roared in Lachlan’s head. “You think me a right dafty. You’re a spy for—”

“No. Only so I could escape.” A frenzied tone raised her voice. “See? That’s why I’m burying my wireless set and my pistol. I don’t want them. I’ll never use them. Here—take them.” She kicked two steel cases his way.

Lachlan stretched out one foot and dragged the smaller case toward him—most likely the pistol. “Burying your dinghy too, I see. Your sealskin.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s what selkies do, abandon their sealskin.”

“I—I don’t understand.” The selkie teetered, unaccustomed to living on land. “Please. I’ve had a long and trying day, and I’m exhausted. I’ll take the suitcase with my clothes and be on my way.”

“You’re daft! I’m taking you to the police.”

“The police? No.” Her voice shattered. “Please don’t turn me in. They’ll execute me. I promise, I only want to live with my aunt, take a war job, help the Allied cause. Have mercy.”

“Mercy? For lying? For treachery?” His gut twisted in revulsion. “On your knees. Hands high.”

More sobs rent the air, but the spy dropped to her knees.

Lachlan tucked the torch into the waistband of his kilt, ripped off his necktie, and stepped behind the woman. “Hands behind your back.”

She complied, weeping. “Please have mercy.”

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul. I have none.” After he set his sgian-dubh between his teeth, he knotted his necktie around one of her wrists, which wasn’t easy given how hard her arms shook.

Then he secured her other hand and tied the far end of the necktie to his own left wrist.

With the torch in his left hand and the sgian-dubh in his right, he gestured forward. “Up the path.”

She lurched to her feet. “Please, sir. I only want to be free.”

He gave the necktie a light tug. “I guarantee, Miss van der Zee, you will never be free again.”