“Is Burns Night like Hogmanay?” Arthur asked.
“It’s festive, aye. Food and music and dancing.” Lachlan secured the hawser to the stake, trying not to think of Cilla dazzling him as she danced. “We recite poetry and eat haggis and tatties and neeps—but mock haggis now with the war on.”
“Mock haggis, mock goose, mock custard. Infernal war.”
“Aye.” Infernal war indeed. In the past week, Luftwaffe bombers had killed a man at Out Skerries Lighthouse and the wife and daughter of the principal keeper at Fair Isle South Lighthouse. Cilla’s position at Dunnet Head might save that lighthouse and its inhabitants, but only if the Abwehr informed the Luftwaffe.
A sigh crystallized to ice inside Lachlan’s scarf. Infernal war, damaging lighthouses and sinking fishing boats. The antisubmarine vessels had found no sign of a U-boat. And why would a U-boat attack a lowly fishing boat when rich targets like warships and cargo ships sailed nearby? A naval mine was the likely culprit.
That should help soothe Cilla’s guilt.
“As we speak, your family is in their warm house eating warm mock haggis and reciting poetry,” Arthur said. “Without you.”
“Aye.” On Burns Night, “Address to the Haggis” was recited, but another Robert Burns poem felt more appropriate for this stormy night.
Lachlan leaned against the well-lashed shed and clapped his hand to his chest.
O, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Arthur’s ice-encrusted eyebrows arched high. “Why, Lachlan Mackenzie, you’ve a romantic soul.”
“Never.” If he had, he would have recited the poem to Cilla on the boat, not to Arthur at the naval base.
Shouts arose up the road, hurled by the wind, and Lachlan and Arthur tugged their hoods tight about their faces and went to investigate.
Leaning forward at a sharp angle, Lachlan shoved one foot in front of the other, through several inches of snow.
If he had a romantic soul, when Cilla came downstairs with his mother after her ordeal, Lachlan wouldn’t have said, “Are you all right? You look right peely-wally.”
