The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  An American nun in the second seat leaned forward. “Will the ferry still run at Iona?” Her accent marked her as a native of the deep American South.

  “Dunno. It’s wee. Canny sail if it’s too rough.” When the last cow ambled onto the shoulder, he put the bus in gear.

  Ann was glad now she’d reserved a room in Fionnphort. If the ferry wasn’t running, those planning to stay on the sacred island would have no way of reaching their inns.

  For forty-five minutes, the bus veered around corners and negotiated hills. Just as Ann felt the first tinges of motion sickness, the driver made a hard right and headed downhill. He parked the bus beside the ferry office, then hopped out to light a cigarette and lift the luggage compartment door. The European girl beside her traveled light. She bolted off the bus before the other passengers stood to retrieve their bags from the overhead bins.

  This is it, Ann thought. Iona. A thin place.

  She felt the rush of adrenaline, and as she hauled her suitcase out of the luggage compartment, she became tearful. There was no such emotion at the cairn in Paisley, nor any at Saddell Abbey, but here . . . here there was something powerful and magnetic, something she had to explore as quickly as possible, bad weather or no.

  She hurried to The Puffin, an inn near the pier, where her room awaited her.

  “Is the ferry still running?” she asked Moira McGuinness, the innkeeper. She hoped her fellow passengers made their connections.

  Moira’s black hair had been razor-cut to frame her face. It made a striking contrast to her ivory skin. “Aye, ye can make the three-thirty if ye have a mind to go. There’d be enough time to visit the abbey, at least. Let’s get ye sorted, and then away ye go.”

  Ann followed her up the steps to the second floor.

  “Here we are.” Moira opened a door labeled Abbey View.

  Ann stepped inside. A white duvet cover featuring red poppies covered the single bed.

  “Is it okay?” Moira asked.

  “It’s lovely, thank you.” Ann could write in this room. She would write in this room.

  “I’ll see ye doon the stairs, then. Ye have aboot fifteen minutes before the next ferry.”

  Ann used the restroom, washed her hands and face, then ran a hairbrush through the fiery tangle created by wind and humidity. She stood on tiptoe to peek out of the octagonal bathroom window. The ferry chugged across the ruffled waters of the sound. The sacred island lay beyond it, obscured by low clouds.

  Somewhere over there, shrouded in that mist, is Somerled. I . . . feel him.

  Ann planned every step of every vacation to the nth degree, and this one was no different. She should stick to her perfectly doable and sensible itinerary—meditate in the safety of her room tonight, while the storm raged, and be on the first ferry tomorrow morning.

  Mike popped into her thoughts. He grinned and held his perfect baby.

  Screw it. What did caution get me so far?

  She changed into a black sweater that accentuated the flecks in her green eyes, then paired it with the MacDonald Ancient mini-kilt she purchased in Glasgow. Black leggings and a pair of Brazilian riding boots completed the outfit. She felt nervous, but excited, like a bride flawlessly dressed for her wedding day. Her tablet caught her eye. Damn it, she didn’t have time to email Maggie. She’d do it later, after a warm bath. Something told her she’d have interesting news to share by then.

  “Ferry’s coming,” Moira yelled up the steps.

  Ann grabbed her hoodie and purse, then bounded down the staircase, an enigmatic joy blossoming in her chest.

  “Have a lovely time,” Moira said. “Door’s locked after eleven.”

  “I’ll be back long before then. The last ferry docks at eight, right?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll be here at 8:02.” She left Moira and jogged to the pier, where the ferry awaited its fifty passengers and one car. She would have just enough time to get to the Street of the Dead, where, if she wasn’t mistaken, she would find the man of her dreams.

  ~ ~ ~

  The moment she stepped onto Iona’s pier, she knew what Eamon MacKenzie meant by a “thin place.” The rugged land felt alive beneath her feet. It was an incarnate being capable of rearing up to fling her into the sea. Instead, it welcomed her with maternal bliss, drawing her toward the abbey as a hen might wheedle a vagrant chick to its breast. Everything seemed to have a soul and a story, from the waves lapping at stones to the white sand beaches and windswept hills.

  Most of the tourists headed straight for the abbey. Ann followed the pilgrims, but cut away from the crowd at the gate to Saint Oran’s cemetery. Here, a cobbled track stretched through a small field of gravestones.

  The Street of the Dead.

  She stepped through the gate, then wandered up the track, her flesh prickling at the thought of forty-eight Norse, Scottish, and Irish kings—including Shakespeare’s MacBeth—resting beneath her feet. Somerled would want to be among them, she guessed. She searched the markers, so certain of his nearness that she nearly missed the chapel, a modest stone building in the middle of the graveyard. It looked older than the abbey, and plain except for an exquisitely carved doorway framed by a Norman arch. She took a step toward the chapel, drawn by its serene beauty.

  A heavy raindrop soaked the top of her hand. As she glared skyward, a gust of wind slammed against her chest, nearly knocking her off balance. A second, sustained blast pelted her with sideways rain and hail that came out of the blue to sting her cheeks.

  Son of a—

  Tourists squealed and struggled with umbrellas that turned to tulips. Everyone raced for the abbey.

  Ann’s first thought was to seek shelter inside the chapel, but it appeared to be a fully operational place of worship. She didn’t wish to disturb any services or prayers. Instead, she whirled on her heels to join a group of sightseers ducking inside The MacDonald Centre.

  It was just as well. She wanted to visit the Centre anyway. She entered, then slid her soaked hood off her head.

  Revolving racks held postcards and trinkets. Two of the walls held artwork. The paintings were good, really good, especially a large oil on canvas featuring a galley. She was certain it was Somerled’s vessel, the very one she saw in her vision. Even the carved tiller was the same. She smelled paint as she leaned in to read the artist’s name.

  William somebody.

  Something warm brushed against her thigh. She jumped back from a huge, furry hound with a white muzzle and toes, then crouched to pet him. His eyes were cloudy with age. “Well, hello there, old timer.”

  A scratch behind the dog’s ear made his hind foot thump against the floor.

  Man, she loved dogs. Mike was allergic to them. He wasn’t allergic to girls with working fallopian tubes, though.

  “Shower’s lifted,” someone said. The room emptied quickly, leaving her alone with the dog and an elderly man who stared at her from behind a counter.

  She gestured to the dog. “He’s certainly an old guy, isn’t he?”

  The man had a grandfatherly face and white, tufted eyebrows. He looked tearful, and she wondered whether he had a medical condition or bruised feelings. The travelers had used his shop for shelter, after all. That might have offended him.

  “We’re both old.” He eyed her kilt. “You’re a MacDonald?”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess I am. McConnell is my family name.”

  “Ah, yes. And you’re an American?”

  She braced herself for assault. “Please don’t hold it against me. I’m pretty sure people think I have a direct line to the White House. I’ve never even been to Washington.” She’d encountered a great deal of anti-American sentiment on the train to Oban.

  “Sorry about that,” the man said. “I hope you find the residents of Iona less judgmental than
those on the mainland.” He eyed a clock on the wall. “Where are you staying?”

  “I have a room booked over in Fionnphort. I was hoping to spend the day on the island and take the last ferry back to Mull, but this weather . . . I’m Ann, by the way.” She offered her hand.

  He looked stunned, but took it tenderly. “Alasdair MacDonald. Nice to meet you. What brings you to Iona? Have you come to see the abbey?”

  “I . . . I was hoping to find a grave.” She probably would have, too, if the rain had held off. She pulled her wilted maps out of her purse, intending to open the street map and ask a few questions about Iona.

  The old man mentioned the map of Scotland first. “I see you’ve been to the stone cairn marking the Battle of Renfrew.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty disappointing. There’s not much to it, is there?”

  “Sadly, no. The battle is all but forgotten. I’m surprised an American would have any interest in it.” He pointed at the X near Kintyre. “Were you to see Saddell Abbey?”

  “Yeah, beautiful place,” she said. “Didn’t find what I was looking for, though.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She didn’t mention a sheep found her, though—and the rented Mondeo. She turned instead to a wire rack. It squeaked as she spun it to look at the postcards it displayed.

  “Well,” Alasdair said, “if you’ve been to Renfrew and Saddell, then I must assume you are looking for Somerled of Argyll.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of Somerled’s name. “I thought maybe he was here, but I have been to the Street of the Dead, and there is no marked grave.”

  “No, there isn’t. Were you to see Saint Oran’s Chapel?”

  “The tiny building in the Street of the Dead?”

  Alasdair nodded.

  He seemed familiar, like family. “Not yet. I was just heading for it when the rain hit. Some weather you have here. On the news this morning, the weatherman predicted a sunny day. Thought I’d hit the jackpot, weather-wise.”

  Alasdair strode to the front window with grace that belied his advanced age. “I hate to tell you this, but it looks like they’re tucking in the ferry behind Frenchman’s Island. Forecast must be for a gale.”

  Fear shot like lightning to her fingertips. “Oh my God, will I be stuck here?” So much for taking risks. She reveled in her security earlier when she thought others might be stranded. Now, she was the one with no roof over her head.

  “There are worse places to be stuck.”

  Sheets of icy rain pelted the window.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend. This is the most amazing place I’ve ever been in my whole life. It’s just that there are only a handful of inns, and I’m pretty sure none of them will have any vacancy.” She had to get back. Her suitcase was on Mull, along with her tablet. Maggie would lose her mind if she didn’t email tonight.

  “No one on Iona would put you out on the street. You can stay here. I have a spare room upstairs, a sitting room with a warm fire, and a cupboard full of tea and biscuits. If you’re worried I might try it on with you, I might . . . if I were about a hundred years younger.” He chuckled as he snapped out the lights in display cases. “I’ll be glad for the company, especially since you share my fascination with Somerled of Argyll. Besides, the dog seems to like you.”

  She ruffled the fur on top of the dog’s head. “I like him, too.” It wasn’t the worst situation. A lifetime of caution had gained her nothing. Heck, the curator of The MacDonald Centre probably knew more about Somerled than anybody. Besides, what choice did she have?

  “Most people who come to Iona are searching for something.” Alasdair glanced at the clock again. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

  Am I keeping him from something?

  She walked to the front window. Rain distorted the image of a man approaching from the street. “Looks like I won’t be your only company. Someone’s running up your walk. I hope you have enough beds.” She stepped away from the door just as the visitor flung it open.

  “Jaaaaaysus!” the man shouted, entering the room and spattering rain. The door slammed behind him, whacking a string of bells against the frame. “Holy God, Alasdair, that’s a bad one.” He strode toward the main counter shaking droplets from plastic bags covering what looked like paintings.

  The artist. Ann’s eyes traveled down his back. He had broad shoulders that tapered to a terrific ass, where a flask had worn a faint outline in a jeans pocket.

  Can’t get too far from your drink, huh?

  “Boked my guts oot o’er the side of that ferry,” he said. “Afraid ye’re stuck wi’ me for a day or three.” He squeezed water from a low, dark ponytail. “Hope the pub stockpiled enough whisky.”

  Alasdair looked apologetically at Ann.

  The younger man turned and flushed.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didnae realize ye had anyone here.” He leaned his paintings against the counter, then whirled off his jacket, revealing a snug black tee shirt. He rushed toward her, drying his hands on his jeans. “I’m so sorry.” He extended a chilly hand.

  She took it.

  “Please excuse my language. I thought it was just us pig-ignorant men. I’m William McDonnell, painter and offender of innocent tourists. I should have looked before I . . .”

  When his steely eyes met hers, he looked as if he suffered a painful shock.

  A cloud of Somerled’s scent billowed then, ribboning through cologne and whisky fumes to writhe around her like tendrils of ivy. It was clear by the strength of his fragrance that William got a double dose of the warrior king’s genes. The thought—coupled with the intoxicating scent—sparked a desire low in Ann’s belly that spread like wildfire to a budding ache between her legs.

  He was rough and crude and downright gorgeous, with deep crow’s-feet that indicated he liked to laugh.

  The proper thing to do would be to let go of his hand.

  Don’t be proper.

  Not yet. Not ever. The hand in hers tethered her to the memory eluding her since she first donned the torc. It was a hand she waited her whole life to hold—unfathomable, since it belonged to a complete stranger. She wasn’t the only one affected. By his tortured expression, she knew William struggled, too. He took ragged breaths and licked his lips repeatedly as he ran his paint-spattered thumb across her knuckles.

  His soft touch—so at odds with his coarse exterior—set her blood ablaze. The warmth of recognition singed every inch of her. It flared into passion with a sense of joyful reunion that bordered on lunacy. William McDonnell was a stranger, yet she belonged with him, and like the torc, not just for today, but forever.

  Don’t just stare at him, for God’s sake. Say something!

  “I’m . . . Ann. Ann McConnell. Pleased to meet you.”

  Chapter 12

  For a moment, William thought the woman would faint. She dropped his hand and steadied herself against the dog, that animal having adhered itself to her thigh.

  He should say something, or at least, lead her to a chair.

  “Jesus,” was all he could manage. Brilliant, ye eejit. “I mean . . . I’m sorry. Forgive me.” He rubbed his eyes. He was drunk—he had to be—drunk and hallucinating. “This canny be happening.”

  “I . . . Are you okay?” Her voice was shaky.

  Her tenderness hammered at his chest, where his heart threatened to burst through bone. She was no hallucination. She was the real deal, beautiful and caring and right in front of him.

  “I’m in shock, to be honest.”

  “I’m sorry?” She lifted a brow.

  Of course. She didn’t know. How could she? He marveled at the brilliance of her searching eyes. They were as vivid as the phthalo green he’d been using to paint them since he was a child. How h
e longed to reach for her cheek, to lay his palm on the milky skin there and see if it was as soft as he always imagined. Instead, he took her trembling hand again, a hand that belonged in his. “Perhaps it would be easier to show ye.”

  He led her around the corner, where Alasdair displayed the paintings depicting the only subject William painted more than Hebridean galleys: a woman. Not just any woman, but the one whose hand he now held.

  When Ann saw the paintings, she gasped and glided closer to the canvases, her struggle to process the mind-boggling coincidence evident by the swift rise and fall of her shoulders. She studied them for what seemed like an eternity, then turned and asked, “They’re yours?”

  Some unseen assailant socked William in the gut when she faced him. He managed a nod as the room melted away and left her standing where he always saw her—at a sun-speckled standing stone backlit by a shimmering loch. How many times had he painted her? How many dreams had she haunted? Hell, she’d even ruined his marriage.

  For the love of Christ, he said countless times to Pauline, why are ye so jealous? She is nae real. Our James loves the paintings of her. Ye want our son to be happy, no?

  She wasn’t supposed to exist. She was supposed to be a goddess of his imagination. Sure, there were times when he pictured meeting her, even wanked off a time or two fantasizing about it, but in those moments, she’d been Norse or Scottish, maybe even Irish. Never American.

  Bloody hell, an American. Wasn’t that just his luck? American women didn’t surrender their pampered lives to exist on a foreign artist’s wages, and he sure as hell couldn’t go to America, not with a custody petition pending. Getting his son back was more important than anything. Besides, he had a criminal record. America, with its tight borders, would never give him a visa.