“Aye, aye, sir.”
Lachlan leaned back against the cabin and watched the wee island of Lamb Holm diminish behind them.
Blake’s thin nose twitched. “I worry the prisoners might pose a security risk after all.”
“Aye?” Lachlan had once raised such concerns but now found himself in the odd position of trying to relieve worries. “They’re in a guarded enclosure on an uninhabited island surrounded by cold water without a boat.”
Blake drew in a deep breath. “Yes, but I’ve had second thoughts since that explosion at Dunnet Head. What did you hear this weekend? I haven’t had the chance to ask.” His voice dove low.
Lachlan needed to tread carefully and only state information that had been reported. “Commander Yardley said the explosion destroyed a hut, but the hut was under construction, so damage was negligible.”
“They’re saying sabotage?” Blake asked in a soft voice, but his light eyes pierced.
Lachlan nodded. “Someone came from outside.”
Blake’s lips contorted. “A saboteur with explosives. Do they have any leads?”
“Only speculation.” Lachlan glanced around, but the boat’s crewmen weren’t close enough to hear. “The men at the station think it was a local lad angry because one of the sailors stole his lass. But at church, the locals insisted it had to be an outsider, a juvenile delinquent.” At least no one had cast accusations on Free Caledonia—although Cilla would give the group credit for the sabotage in her reports to the Abwehr.
Blake harrumphed. “The Admiralty will get to the bottom of this.”
“Aye.” But MI5 would make sure the Admiralty’s investigation fizzled.
“Sabotage,” Blake said with a growl.
The wind captured Lachlan’s sigh. All at once, Lachlan was trying to prevent sabotage—whilst planning it. With a spy. Who wasn’t a spy at all.
He braced his hands against the cabin wall. The past weekend around Cilla, he’d felt dizzy and tongue-tied. Since he didn’t know how to act around her, his behavior had drifted to taciturn formality. The Saturday meeting had been brisk and business-like, and only Mother had saved dinner on the Sabbath from becoming like one of Lachlan’s failed dates.
Why hadn’t he inherited Mother’s ability to make conversation? Although she was quiet by nature, her warm interest in others stoked the fire of conversation. Lachlan threw wet blankets on the fire.
He crossed his arms, the source of his problem. For months, he’d kept Cilla at arm’s length. Even when teasing and bantering, one stiff arm kept her at a safe distance.
But now? His traitorous arms longed to pull her close.
He couldn’t allow that, so he crossed them tight, held his tongue ... and locked Cilla out.
31
Creag na Mara
Sunday, February 15, 1942
“Singapore is sure to fall any day, I fear.” Mr. Mackenzie frowned at the bread on his plate.
“Aye,” Lachlan said. “And the Americans are trapped on that wee peninsula in the Philippines.”
“And the islands in the Netherlands East Indies are falling one by one.” Cilla preferred to discuss good news, but she kept thinking about the curios her uncle had brought back after serving in the East Indies—and the people now enduring occupation there.
Mrs. Mackenzie traced the porcelain handle of her teacup. “The Japanese seem unstoppable.”
Neil shifted his gaze across the table to Lachlan. “Wouldnae you rather be in the Pacific?”
Cilla held her breath as she did whenever the brothers addressed each other, but Lachlan’s efforts to find common ground had brought forth fruit. Civility at the very least, and Neil came home more often.
Or was Neil coming home only to build support for Free Caledonia?
“Aye, I would like to be in the Pacific.” Lachlan rubbed the fork handle in his hand. “And I would like to be on a destroyer escorting cargo ships with food across the Atlantic, and I would like to be in the Mediterranean protecting the flow of oil. But I am only one man, and my work here is good.”
