Wispy clouds streaked and swirled over the blue sky, and a cool breeze brushed Cilla’s cheeks. Subtle beauty, but exquisite. She quite agreed with Mrs. Mackenzie.
At the village of Brough, the path headed up an incline to Dunnet Head.
Lachlan Mackenzie, the stalwart officer, had a brother who refused to register for conscription.
How interesting. So was Neil’s conversational topic, as uncomfortable as it was for his parents—and Gwen.
“Free Caledonia,” Cilla said. “It sounds like a Scottish separatist group.”
“It does.”
“My handler has been asking about separatists.” She sent a sidelong glance to the Wren. “A lot.”
Gwen sniffled and shook her head. “Yardley decided not to pursue that.”
Not a soul to be seen on the empty green plateau. “Because Lieutenant Mackenzie—or Samson, I should say—isn’t a believable source.”
“That’s right.”
Cilla could play with the idea, find a way to make it work. “How about the salvage company? That made me think. A salvage company knows where ships are sunk, how many, what types, how they sank—my handler would be very interested in that.”
“Maybe.” Gwen pedaled around a slight bend.
“It would confirm their own records, yes? But not reveal anything new.”
Gwen brushed light brown hair from her eyes and clamped her hand back on the handlebar. “We’re already sending information on ship and aircraft movement, on radio direction finding readings, on security at Scapa. And Yardley is pleased with your work. I doubt he’ll want to expand it.”
He was pleased? He hadn’t shown it. But a smile edged upward. If she expanded her work, how much more would MI5 be pleased?
18
Dunnet Head
Saturday, August 23, 1941
Lachlan’s breath came hard as he pedaled to the lighthouse at full speed. Up ahead, Cilla stood in a yellow dress, holding something up to the sun like a gift, and the sun returned the favor by sprinkling golden light all over her hair.
A bonny picture, aye, but he wouldn’t let it cool his anger.
Cilla turned to him and waved. “A fine morning, yes?” she called.
Lachlan pedaled even harder.
Cilla put her hand on her hip and turned toward Third Officer Reese, who was leaning against the stone wall enclosing the lighthouse grounds. “Apparently Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie despises fine mornings.”
He stopped a few feet away from Cilla and straddled his bicycle. “Stay away from my parents.”
She took a step backward. “I—they invited me.”
“They just told me.” He shook a finger at her. “For two months, you didnae attend church. Then, on a day you knew I’d be away, you returned.”
With a flick of her chin, she glanced away. “You made it clear you didn’t want to see me there.”
“I said you should go.”
“Your words said so, but your behavior said otherwise.”
How dare she turn it around as if he were to blame? “You waited until I was away so you could prey on my parents.”
