“Van der Zee,” Father said. “Is that Dutch?”
“Yes. I escaped from the Netherlands in April.”
Escaped? The muscles in Lachlan’s neck went taut, and he clasped his hands behind his back. A German U-boat had ferried her to Scottish shores. Commander Yardley had confirmed that the RDF station at Dunnet Head had indeed failed to detect the U-boat that landed Cilla. The equipment had quirks and flaws.
“You poor dear.” Compassion for Cilla swam in Mother’s brown eyes. “Is it as bad over there as they say?”
“It is.” A shadow crossed Cilla’s face. “Food is scarce. The Germans take it all for themselves. And they’re cruel to Jewish people. To anyone who dares oppose them.”
Lachlan’s fingernails dug into his palms. How could she say that when she supported the Nazi cause?
“I’m glad you were able to escape,” Mother said. “But why Dunnet?”
“I wanted to help in some way. Since I’m not a British subject, I can’t join the Wrens or the ATS. But my grandfather was a lightkeeper, so this position seemed perfect. It isn’t much, keeping the lighthouse clean, but it frees men to fight.”
Frees men to fight? Heat rose in Lachlan’s chest. How many men and women had been assigned to keep this woman under control?
Mother frowned. “Aye, but it’s lonely work at that.”
A sheen filled Cilla’s eyes. “It is.”
Something twisted inside Lachlan’s chest, and the heat diffused. What if shewaslonely, not simply acting?
“Come along, Miss van der Zee.” Officer St. Clair motioned with a gloved hand. “Shall we leave?”
Cilla nodded to the Wren.
Mother reached for Cilla’s hand again. “I’m glad you have other young ladies at Dunnet Head to keep you company.”
“They—they keep themselves to themselves.” Cilla’s voice barely reached Lachlan’s ears.
“Oh dear.” Mother squeezed Cilla’s hand. “If you need anything or simply want a friendly face, we’re right up the road. Ask for the Mackenzie place—it’s called Creag na Mara. It willnae do for you to be lonely.”
Cilla’s face puckered and turned pink.
Lachlan winced. For the past two months, she’d been imprisoned and treated as an enemy. That had to be difficult for asociable sort of lass. Was Mother the first kindly person she’d met?
Cilla flicked up a smile, her eyes fluttered shut, and she spun toward the door with the Wrens on her tail.
Mother clucked her tongue. “The poor dearie. We’ll invite her to dinner sometime.”
“Aye,” Father said.
“No,” Lachlan said through clenched teeth.
“Och, Lachlan.” Mother swatted his arm. “You’ve been so long in the company of men, you’ve forgotten how to welcome a bonny lass.”
He’d already welcomed that bonny lass. With his sgian-dubh.
Lachlan gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
He followed his parents outside into a cool and cloudy day, and he put on his cap as they wended their way through the graveyard. The wind blew strong from the northwest, and the early morning’s drizzle had departed.
So had his compassion. Cilla van der Zee was treated as the enemy because shewasthe enemy. The worst sort of enemy. The sort who masqueraded as an ally.
He strolled with his parents away from the clay-colored church with its slate roof.
He had to keep Cilla far from Creag na Mara. He couldn’t risk his parents forming an attachment to her.
