Yardley studied the key in his hand.
“She risked her life for these men.” Lachlan lowered his voice to a fierce whisper and stepped as close to the commander as he dared. “She risked her freedom, aye? You can never doubt her loyalty again.”
Yardley raised his head, his gaze cool. “Yes, I know.”
Lachlan’s mouth drifted open. The commander had already realized Cilla was loyal. Why had it taken Lachlan so long?
Because he was stubborn and guarded and lacked mercy. But Cilla ...
She drew his gaze, huddled and shivering and diminished inside, but loyal and brave and ferociously compassionate.
Lachlan trusted her fully. And if he could trust her, he could ... love her.
His heart wrenched from one side of his chest to the other, and he gasped from the pain.
Yardley sniffed and held out the key to Cilla. “They give medals for less than this.”
“Aye.” Lachlan choked out the word, and he guided her to a waiting motorcar.
27
Near Dunnet
Sunday, January 11, 1942
Cilla lay in the damp boggy field, cold and miserable. Not even a full day had passed since the drama with the sunken fishing boat, but she had work to do. Kraus’s midnight transmission had confirmed that at two fifteen in the morning, the Luftwaffe would drop the supplies she’d requested.
An MI5 officer, an airman who had introduced himself as Philo, lay a few feet away, gazing through binoculars, and Imogene waited in Yardley’s staff car.
A half-moon illuminated the clear skies, and a chilly breeze fluttered the heather.
Cilla shivered. Cold again.
Jumping in the icy water had served as the slap in the face she deserved for her selfish ways. She didn’t deserve Yardley’s praise or his trust or the freedom he offered. For so long she’d thought she deserved all of it, and now she knew she didn’t.
She also didn’t deserve Lachlan’s kind words and kinder actions. When Yardley drove Lachlan home to change clothes,Lachlan had recommended postponing the meeting until afternoon and leaving Cilla at Creag na Mara, saying she needed maternal sympathy.
She did. Cilla had never missed her mother more, so Lachlan loaned her his.
At the sight of Mrs. Mackenzie, Cilla fell into a blubbering heap. Mrs. Mackenzie rushed Cilla upstairs into a hot bath, a warm dressing gown, and an even warmer embrace as she let Cilla sob into her shoulder and spill out all her shortcomings.
Mrs. Mackenzie told her, “‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.’” That’s what Cilla was doing, she said. Mourning her sins. Now that she’d lowered herself, poor in spirit, the Lord could lift her up and comfort her.
Cilla rubbed her chilly gloved hands together. Did Mrs. Mackenzie know her son had quoted the Beatitudes to her not long before?
A rumbling rose to the north. Aircraft engines? “Is that it?” she whispered to Philo.
He raised a hand to hush her. Silence was vital so as not to awaken the local farmers. If they called the police, Cilla’s cover—and her case—would be blown and she would be interned.
Which was why she’d whispered.
A dark shape emerged from the dark, a two-engine bomber—a Junkers 88, Cilla remembered from her aircraft recognition lessons.
Philo turned on his torch and flashed a signal in Morse code.
The bomber roared overhead, and a parachute drifted down, bright in the moonlight.
Cilla and Philo raced to the parachute. They had to recover it before anyone noticed.
