She gripped his wrists, and he dragged her up until she could swing a leg up and clamber onto the deck.
On hands and knees, she sought his face. “Are you hurt?”
“Aye. My knee.” Sitting on his backside, he stretched his right leg before him. His trouser leg was shredded and shiny with blood.
“Oh no. We need to stop the bleeding.”
Lachlan wrenched off his necktie. “Use this for a tourniquet.”
Cilla’s hands trembled with cold and dread, but she managed to knot the black silk above what remained of his knee.
“You’re hurt, lass.” Lachlan had removed his coat and jacket, and he was unbuttoning his shirt. Concern furrowed his brow. “Your head. Your arm.”
And her leg. “Superficial. I’m all right.”
Lachlan yanked off his shirt, tore off both sleeves, and handed her the remnant.
She wound it firmly around his knee, and a dark splotch bloomed on the white cloth.
“For you.” Lachlan’s hands shook as he wrapped a shirtsleeve around Cilla’s arm and tied it.
“You’ll be all right.” Kneeling beside him, she gathered his hand in hers. “The destroyers will be here soon. They can help.”
“No. We cannae be here when they come.”
“Pardon?”
“How could we explain? A civilian lass boards a U-boat and sinks it with an SOE limpet mine? We cannae tell them why you’re here.”
She stared at his pain-wracked face. He’d figured it out.
“The bravest, most generous lass I know.” He pressed a hand to her cheek, and his expression swam with emotion. “Laying down your life for your family and friends. I—I love you so much.”
Cilla had known it for weeks, but to hear him say it? Her throat clogged shut, and she smashed a kiss to his forehead. Somehow she had to speak, had to tell him she loved him too, loved him with everything in her, but her voice wouldn’t work.
Lachlan’s nose nudged up under her chin. She drew back a bit, and he lifted his lips to hers, and she met him, tried to tell him with her kiss what her voice couldn’t say.
Far too soon, he grunted and pulled back. “We need to leave. Before they come. Can you drive the boat?”
Dazed from the kiss, she shook herself, nodded, and swung her legs down into the cockpit. As she followed his halting directions to start the motor, he dragged himself into the cockpit and lay down on the bench.
“Full speed,” he said.
The motor roared, the boat leapt forward, and she headedfor Brough. A few miles away, three ships raced toward them. How were they going to explain all this?
Rivulets of seawater trickled from her hair down her back, and Cilla tucked her elbows to her sides, trying to get warm.
“You’re cold. Put these on.” Lachlan passed her his coat and jacket.
“Keep the jacket, my love. You need to stay warm.” The thin cotton of his short-sleeved vest wouldn’t shield him from the wind and cold. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she slipped on Lachlan’s overcoat, one arm at a time.
A beam of light slashed overhead, and it flashed in rhythm, the familiar rhythm of Morse code.
“The lighthouse,” Lachlan said. “They’re signaling to us.”
Never before had she seen the great Fresnel lens lit, and it was wondrous, a shaft of pure light dividing the night sky. “Commander Yardley—Mr. Hall—they must be raising and lowering a blanket in front of the beam.”
“You drive. I’ll decode.” Lachlan set his hand on Cilla’s lower back.
