Irene directed her blue eyes to the beams in the ceiling, then across the table to Cilla, dreamy yet serious. “After the first date, I could tell he was a man of fine character, a man who knew who he was and what he wanted in life. Then I knew whatIwanted in life.”
“That’s ... lovely.” Cilla had always fallen for men with many pretty words but little else to say for themselves. Now a man loomed to her side, hovered, filled her perception. A man of few words—and often the wrong words—but of genuine kindness and fine character.
With a billowing, sinking, brightening, darkening certainty, she knew what she wanted in life.
And could never have.
“Och, the Bains are here.” Lachlan stood from the table and strode to the drawing room door, where he greeted a couple with four sandy-haired children, all dressed in a tartan of green and blue with black stripes. Lachlan shook hands with a boy of about twelve, bowed to twin girls of about eight, who giggled and curtsied, and swung a little boy up onto his hip. “Come, young Douglas, shall we see where my mother hid the mutton pie?”
“Och aye!”
Lachlan turned back to Cilla and his friends with a relaxed smile. “Dinner awaits. Shall we?”
“Och aye,” Cilla said.
The dining room table was heaped with pies and more. Mrs. Mackenzie stood chatting with an elderly couple Cilla recognized from church, and Mr. Mackenzie talked to a curly-haired blonde and two sons grown into their height but not their comfort with that height.
“Steak pie is traditional for Hogmanay,” Lachlan said. “But with the war on, we’ll be having mutton and potato.”
Mrs. Mackenzie beckoned to Cilla, introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, then encouraged her to serve herself—as many of the others were doing.
Cilla took a plate and filled it with savory-smelling food. Across from her, Lachlan took careful instructions from young Douglas about what to put on the boy’s plate.
She stifled a groan. Why did he have to be good with children too?
By the time she finished, several other families had arrived, and the little ones chased each other around. Such a close community, so caring with each other.
Her feet froze in the doorway to the drawing room. What would happen when MI5 committed fake sabotage on Burns Night? Would these people look on each other with suspicion and fear? Would they turn on each other as some did in the Netherlands?
The plan gleamed on paper, but the light of community revealed ugly blemishes.
“Come on, lassie.” Lachlan’s deep voice rumbled behind her. “You’re standing between a hungry wee lad and his food.”
Little Douglas hunched his shoulders and gave her a shy smile.
She forced out a chuckle, entered the room, and sat at a table. Arthur and Irene joined her, as did Lachlan after he filled his own plate.
Irene asked Cilla her story, Cilla told it, and soon she was chatting with them about the differences between life in Amsterdam, London, and the far north of Scotland.
How long had it been since she’d freely talked and laughed with people her age? Only in this home, at Creag na Mara, did she feel truly like herself.
Yet she’d omitted crucial details from her story, about who she was and her work at Dunnet Head. Even now, she wasn’t truly herself. Would she ever be again?
Irene grinned at her. “You should visit me in Kirkwall. I could show you the beauties of Ork—oh, I cannae. You cannae visit—security, you know.”
“I know,” Cilla said. “Someday. When this is over.”
Mr. Mackenzie stood behind Lachlan and leaned over. “Your mother wants the room cleared for dancing.”
All around them, ladies collected plates and silverware, so Cilla did likewise. She and Irene carried stacks to the kitchen, where two older women instructed them to dry whilst they washed.
After they finished the dishes, the trestle tables had disappeared from the drawing room and the benches now lined the walls. Lachlan and his father held bagpipes under their arms, and a loud, discordant whine emitted from the pipes over their shoulders.
Cilla slid onto a bench beside Irene. “This will be fun. I’ve always liked the bagpipes. I didn’t know Lachlan played.”
“I didnae either,” Irene said. “But he’d never toot his own horn.”
“He’s tooting those pipes though,” Arthur said with a lopsided grin.
