“Och, love, I’m sorry.” Mother rushed behind him and set her hands on his shoulders. “I shouldnae have said that. Not today.”
“No. No, you’re right, Mother. You’re right.” He straightened up and gave her a wry smile. “And I didnae want sympathy anyway.”
She clucked her tongue at him, patted his shoulders, and returned to the sofa. “By the way, I’ve also talked to Neil, told him to stop goading you. But you know how strongly he feels about Scottish separatism.”
With effort, Lachlan lightened his voice. “Is he seeing his friends from Free Caledonia?”
“Och, I hope not. What a bad crowd. Did you hear the police raided homes of Scottish nationalists in the past month? Arrested a few men?”
“Aye.” His brother’s movement twisted an understandable desire for more home rule into treachery. Fomenting division when unity was vital, urging able-bodied men to defy conscription when every hand was needed, excusing Germany when fourteen hundred British men had just perished at German hands.
As if Hitler himself spoke into their ears.
Perhaps he did.
Father entered the drawing room carrying two wooden bagpipe cases. He set Lachlan’s on the floor in front of him.
Not today of all days. “Och, I havnae played in over two years.”
“All the more reason.”
“I—I have no heart for it.”
“We’ll play ‘Flowers of the Forest.’ For the men of theHood.”
The ancient song had been played to mourn the fallen at the Battles of Flodden and Culloden and had been played at every Scottish funeral Lachlan could remember.
His eyes and his throat tickled, and he nodded.
He picked up his bagpipe case and followed his father outside, to the bluff overlooking the sea. Overlooking the beach where he’d captured Cilla van der Zee.
More of that obnoxious tickling, and he cleared his throat. Whatever had led a seemingly intelligent woman to such a treacherous path? She would die for it.
He winced. He’d turned her in, and she’d die.
But he’d done the right thing, the only thing. He might not have shown mercy to her, but how could he have let her escape? How would that have shown compassion to his family and friends, to release a spy into their midst?
Lachlan drew a strengthening breath of brisk sea air. He tucked the tartan-covered bag under his arm, rested the three drone pipes on his shoulder, and put the chanter in his mouth. After he inflated the bag, the first discordant notes erupted.
He played a scale and missed a note.
One of Father’s eyebrows shot up. A renowned piper, he’d taught both his sons.
Lachlan repeated the scale until it ran smoothly. Bagpipes could play only nine notes, but the artistry came in the embellishments and the length of the notes. He’d have to rely on Father for any of that artistry.
Father caught his eye, nodded once, and tapped his foot four times.
Together, they played “Flowers of the Forest.” The mournful notes curled up into the air, over the bluff, across the beach, and over the sea.
For the men of theHood. For Fitz and Johnny and Neville and Clive. Dying far too young.
And why? Why had they died? Because of Nazi greed for more land, more power. Because of their need to destroy, to poison minds and hearts to hate their fellow man, to lure young ladies to sacrifice their lives for that cause.
How many thousands had already died? How many more thousands—millions—would die before it ended?
A warm sensation streaked down Lachlan’s left cheek. Quickly chilled and tingled.
Tears.
