Lachlan nodded. “We stashed the spare bricks in her pots and pans and smeared peat all over her clean floor in the process.”
Cilla clucked her tongue. “Your poor mother.”
“Aye. We spent the rest of the day cleaning our mess.”
“Poor little Lachlan.” She nudged his shoulder. “Only trying to help.”
“Sometimes we make the greatest mess when we’re trying to help.”
Cilla narrowed her eyes at the ceiling. “That’s true. So true.”
“Stay tuned,” Arthur said, imitating a BBC announcer’s voice, “for more profound thoughts from the mind of Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie.”
“Profound?” Lachlan flapped a hand at him. “Wheesht.”
In her red suit jacket, Cilla crossed her arms on the table and sent Lachlan a sly look. “I can’t imagine you playing in the dirt.”
His chin drew back. “Och? How not? What wee lad doesnae love playing in the dirt?”
“You.”
“Wheesht.” He curled his lip in indignation.
Cilla turned to Arthur. “Have you ever seen him with his tie askew or one hair out of place?”
“I would hope not,” Lachlan said. “It wouldnae be fitting for an officer.”
A smirk rose on her bonny face, and she grabbed the knot of his tie and jerked it to the side.
“Och!” He righted it. “Arthur’s tie is straight too—why pick on me?”
Cilla gestured to Arthur. “He looks as if his tiecouldbe askew.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “I’m not quite certain that’s a compliment.”
“It’s not,” Lachlan said.
With a burst of laughter, Cilla ruffled Lachlan’s hair.
The warmth of her touch shot through him and stole his breath. He forced his lungs to work and aimed a finger and a mock glare at her. “Watch yourself, lass, or I’ll muss your hair.”
Her eyes widened into turquoise seas, and she drew back. One hand rose to her blond locks, styled in a smooth wave above her shoulders, the front bits gathered on top of her head in curls and such. Was her hair as silky as it looked?
Lachlan swallowed hard and ran a hand through his own hair to fix it. “Wise decision, lass.”
Irene let out a deep sigh. “It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s getting late.”
Lachlan glanced at his watch. “Aye. We need to catch the bus.” The whole party would spend the night at Creag na Mara.
After Lachlan paid the tab, they donned coats and hats and flipped on torches shielded by tissue paper to meet blackout regulations.
Strolling along a brick pavement dusted with snow, they headed north on Princes Street toward the bus terminus at Thurso Town Hall.
Cilla gasped, and one leg swung forward.
Lachlan grabbed her arm. “Careful.”
“Thank you. It’s icy.”
