Mackenzie cleared his throat. “You havnae attended church again.”
Cilla set her hand on her hip and gave him a teasing smile. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” He’d looked terrified and furious when his parents greeted her.
The lieutenant’s square jaw shifted side to side as he watched the birds below.
That day at church, Cilla had felt an unnerving tug—attracted by something she couldn’t name, yet repelled by something else she also couldn’t name.
Then Mrs. Mackenzie had greeted her with compassionwarming her brown eyes, and her concern for Cilla’s loneliness had spiraled deep into her soul.
Seen. Understood.
Cilla craved being seen and understood, yet flinched from it. She hated when people felt sorry for her. Hated even more how it made her feel sorry for herself.
“You should come,” Mackenzie said in a rough voice.
“Pardon?”
“To church.” He kept watching the birds. “Dinnae let me keep you away.”
The tempo of the music changed as the BBC organist started a new composition. Cilla also needed to switch tempos. She grinned. “Why? Because I’m a wretched sinner?”
“We all are.”
“Not you, certainly.” Cilla leaned her shoulder against the window. “Don’t tell me you cursed once? How shocking. Come, tell me. I want to know more about the man who’s stolen my heart.”
He raised one burnished eyebrow. “Are you ever serious?”
“Are you evernotserious?”
“Not around spies.” He passed her and set his portfolio on the worktable.
She rolled her eyes at his broad back. Despite her teasing, the man had nothing to worry about. Serious sorts—like her cousin Gerrit—were good friends to have in a pinch, but not for a lark.
Commander Yardley entered the lightroom with his cap in hand.
“Oh, Commander,” Cilla said with a dramatic sigh. “Why did you have to arrive now? The lieutenant wassoclose to kissing me.”
Yardley chuckled. “Don’t let my presence hinder you, Mackenzie.”
“Somehow I’ll muster my self-control.” The Scotsman opened his portfolio. “That’s the mark of an officer and a gentleman.”
“Why, that was almost humorous, Lieutenant.” Cilla took her seat. “If you aren’t careful, I might find myself actually falling for you.”
“Fair warning. I’ll be more careful.” No humor lit Mackenzie’s brown eyes. “Your log?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she said in a deep voice and spun her log around to face him.
With Yardley peering over Mackenzie’s shoulder, the men compared the log to their papers, muttered to each other, and made marks on her log.
When they finished, Yardley returned the log to her and pointed to the stars and arrows and cross-outs. Cilla opened her notepad, uncapped her pen, and composed the message she’d transmit by wireless at midnight.
She wrote, “10 Jul 0805 W 3 fishing boats. 1127 E 4 freighters 1 destroyer. 1835 NW 1 4-engine bomber, very high.” After she finished, Yardley would approve the final message, and she’d encipher it, including her security key.
“Yes.” Leaning over Mackenzie’s shoulder, Yardley poked at the portfolio. “That’s excellent chicken feed for Cilla’s next letter. Tell this to her as if telling your girlfriend.”
Knots formed on the lieutenant’s forehead. “I would never tell this to a girlfriend.”
“Pretend.”
