Daddy, please do nae go.
Rage glittered in Liam’s eyes. “It’s pure shite, I tell ye. All a woman has to do is allege violence and a man loses his right to see his own wains. Doesn’t matter if she’s a feckin’ liar.” He patted William’s back. “Just ye hang in. She’s shown her colors. Ye’ll have your wain back before that mingin’ whore is out of rehab. Sure, ye’re well on your way now, Will.”
“I hope ye’re right.”
“I am.” Liam jabbed a calloused finger at William’s nose. His expression turned serious. “And when she gets out, ye’d better not take her on.”
“I doubt I’ll hear from her.”
“Och, ye will, sure. Mark me on that.”
William laughed. “Ye think she’s grown feelings for me in rehab?” That would be something. She never had any before.
A wain needs a da, Pauline. We can do this. Ye’ll learn to love me.
Liam said, “Feelings have naught to do wi’ it. It’s security she’ll be after. Let her rot, the feckin’ waster. Get yoursel’ a good woman, like me Mary. Took a while to find her, by Jaysus, but she was worth the wait. Speaking of”—he pulled out his phone—“I told her I’d text her.”
William drank another half of whisky. His lips were numb and his ears were beginning to buzz, but his erection surrendered, at last.
Liam thumped his fingers against his phone. “There, that’s that sorted.”
“Can ye get the Internet on that thing?” William asked. He left his old pay-as-you-go Nokia in the glove compartment of his van, over on Mull.
“Aye, as long as there’s signal.”
“Will ye look something up for me?”
“Nae bother. What am I lookin’ for?”
“See if there’s anything aboot an American author named Ann McConnell.”
“What are ye on about? Who’s this bird?” Liam tapped his phone. “Blessed Mother of our Lard Jaysus Christ, it’s that woman ye’re always painting.” He turned the phone toward James MacPherson, sitting at his right. “Jimmy, look at this!”
James lifted his glasses and leaned back. “That’s the lassie in your paintings, William.”
Men slipped off barstools and out of booths to crowd around Liam’s phone. William could feel the heat of them as they pressed closer.
“Ye got to contact her,” Jock Macken said.
“I already spoke to her.”
“On the phone?”
“Here.”
“On the island?” Liam asked. “Oh lads, this is gettin’ good.”
“Go on then,” Stephen Gordon said. “Fill us in.”
“She got stranded in the storm. Alasdair took her in.”
Liam grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “Our Alasdair? The one who puts ye up when ye’re on Iona? The same Alasdair who has only one spare bed? That Alasdair?”
“Oh, come on, lads,” William replied. “I know what ye’re thinking, but—”
The room erupted with prognostications and advice that bordered on abusive.
“What the bloody hell are ye doing here, ye bloody eejit? . . . Mother of God, ye fookin’ wanker, if I was nae married . . . Are ye slow? . . . Ye must be slow. . . Oh, Lord Jesus, are ye gay? . . . Jimmy, William’s one o’ them gays.”
Liam held up his palms. “Wait, wait. Let the man talk.” He waited for the room to settle. “So what’s the story? She married?”
“I don’t think so. I only know she’s a writer. I met her, I offended her, and I came here to drink.”
“How did ye offend her?” Stephen Gordon asked. “What did ye say, ye ballocks?”
“Well, she’s an American, and I sort of went off on . . . Americans.”
“What’s wrong wi’ Americans?” Liam asked, his voice going up an octave.
“Naught, I just—”
“Some of the most generous people on the planet.”
“There’s naught wrong wi’ Americans. I do nae know why—”
Liam shook his head. “Oh, wait, no. See, I know what this is.” He called for another Guinness. “Ye did this same thing wi’ that woman from Dumbarton, remember?”
William remembered.
“She was a keeper, William. Ye scared her off, and ye did it on purpose.”
Sensing the conversation’s private turn, men returned to their seats to discuss what they would do if they were in William’s shoes.
Liam lowered his voice. “See, here’s what I think. I think when a woman interests ye, ye shut down so ye don’t have to risk gettin’ hurt again.”
“Thanks, Doctor Phil.”
“Fine then. Wank yourself stupid for the rest of your sorry life.” Liam finished a full beer at once, then slid off his stool to address the bar. “Right, lads, that’s me finished. I’m knackered. If the weather clears, I’ll be gettin’ an early start. Walk wi’ me,” he said to William.
William followed him to the door.
Liam zipped up his coat. “This is the last I’ll say on the matter. Drink enough to muster up the courage to apologize to that woman, but not so much that your willie conks out on ye. Go back to Alasdair’s. Ye never know where this could lead. Anything could happen on a night like this.”
“I’ll think aboot it,” William lied.
~ ~ ~
Two hours later, he squeezed through a flock of sheep sheltering in the glen. He forgot about the garbage bin, fell over it, and skinned his palms on the pavement. The wind rolled him into the grass and lashed him with ice. He laughed and crawled toward the Centre, his coat flapping on one arm. Near The Curragh, a gust sent him sprawling and stripped him of his coat. He thought about trying to catch it, but it was gone before he could sit up.
He wobbled to his feet, then staggered to the Centre, where he clung to the gatepost. Above him, an oil lamp burned in the second floor window. Ann would be in that room, perhaps naked between the paisley sheets Alasdair kept on the bed.
Liam was right. He should apologize to her. Maybe he should even tell her the truth—that he wanted the impossible, that he wanted her. Shite, what did he know about her, really? Aye, he painted her often enough, but for all he knew, she was just like Pauline. The memory of his ex-wife straddling her drug dealer crossed his mind. He shook his head, dizzying himself. He dropped to his knees and giggled, his thoughts derailed.
Where was I? Aye, apologize. I’ll do it now.
He turned the doorknob and fell into the gift shop along with an assortment of leaves and Alasdair’s string of bells. They tinkled as he rolled over. He pushed with all his might to close the door. When he heard it latch, he lay gasping on his back. He was drenched and shivering, although he didn’t feel especially cold. Fire. He needed a fire.
The sitting room was still warm. By the vibrant glow in the hearth, he knew Alasdair and Ann only recently went to bed. She might yet be awake.
He stripped off his soaked shirt, then slung it over the back of a chair. He was sober enough to apologize, wasn’t he? Ann’s hoodie caught his attention as he staggered past the couch. He lifted it to his nose and climbed the stairs.
~ ~ ~
Irregular footsteps banged up the staircase. William was back from the pub. He tripped over something at the top of the stairs.
The old dog yelped.
If he hurt that dog, I’ll scratch his eyes out.
A thud meant he probably fell to his knees.
“Ye bloody mongrel, what are ye doing here?” he mumbled. “There now, did I hurt ye? Och, I’m sorry, old man. Come here, ye sweet, old bloke. There’s a good man.”
Wow. He was capable of decency, just not with her. What was he doing here anyway? She knew by the scent of the sheets and pillow that the spare bed was his. Had he forgotten she was in it? Surely, he wou
ldn’t climb in beside her, all rain-soaked and stinking of the pub.
The squeal of the door rose above the howling wind. She closed her eyes to feign sleep, too late to avoid seeing him in the soft glow of lamplight. The image set her heart to racing. He was shirtless, with patches of hair across his pecs. They merged into a sensual dark line that flowed down his middle and disappeared behind the button of his jeans. On his arm, a tattooed galley sailed across hard muscle.
Of course it did.
She’d seen want in his eyes. One look from her and he’d cross the room.
Keep your eyes closed. Keep your eyes closed. Keep your eyes closed.
The silence stretched until curiosity demanded she open one eye, just a crack, just enough to see him through her lashes.
He leaned against the doorframe, his expression strained. His arms hung at his sides, and his exhales carved deep lines into his taut belly. Her strangled hoodie brushed against his thigh. Desperation replaced the roguish flicker in his eyes. He had the countenance of a predator, a hungry one.
Passion drilled into her secret depths and rippled outward. Slumbering places awoke in frenzy and spread desire like contagion, plumping her folds and drawing her nipples into tight buds.
Do it. Open your eyes. Tell him to come.
No. Call her old-fashioned, but she wouldn’t sleep with a man she didn’t love. She was horny, that was all. Who could blame her? She couldn’t remember the last time she had sex. Mike had avoided her during the last three months of their marriage. There had been no one since their divorce . . . for her, at least. Mike was probably getting laid on the hour.
The thought poured ice on her passion.
Maggie would murder her when she relayed details of this night—after she murdered her for not emailing.
William stalked closer.
The scent of whisky strengthened her resolve. He was drunk. He’d already proved himself to be abusive. Alcohol and abuse, the main ingredients of her parents’ unhappy marriage.
No, thank you.
She rolled over, leaving him with nothing to gawk at but the back of her head.
He sighed and left the room.
Chapter 15
“Do I smell rashers?” Alasdair glided down the stairs, still in his robe.
He is one fit old man.
The fire heated Ann’s face and bare knees. She knelt at the hearth, where wide bacon sizzled in a pan. “I hope you don’t mind. The stuff in the freezer is starting to thaw. We should cook the meat right away. I can make a pot of soup with the chicken you have in there. Anything perishable should go in a pan of water or outside where it’s cooler.” She pointed to a kettle sitting on the coffee table. “Water’s still hot, if you’d like some tea.”
Dawn banished the wind, but the power company had not yet restored electricity.
“You really are a pioneer, aren’t you? My goodness.” Alasdair dropped a tea bag into a cup of hot water. “How is it you are so self-sufficient?”
Divorce had a way of doing that to women.
“I took a survival course once when I was working on a post-apocalyptic romance. The book flopped, but if you ever need to make a rope from plants, I’m your gal.” She decided not to tell him necessity forced her to hand wash her panties and tights. The old man didn’t need to know she was going commando while her underthings dried on the floor vent above their heads.
Alasdair approached with his tea. He pulled William’s stiff tee shirt off a chair back, then tossed it onto the covered heap snoring on the couch. “Looks like someone had a late night.” He sat down across from Ann.
“I’d say so.” She shook away the memory of William’s bare torso.
“You’ll have to forgive him. He’s had a rough few years,” Alasdair said.
Haven’t we all?
“This may seem hard to believe, but he is actually a gentle man, a trusting sort, and easily hurt. He hasn’t always been so . . . troubled. He’s been in the bottle since his wife left with his son.”
She tried to imagine William as a father. “Should we be talking about this? I mean, he’s right there.”
“Trust me, he can’t hear us. He’s sailing a galley right now or holding a woman in his arms who looks very much like you.”
Her heart raced. She diverted her thoughts to check it. “How many children does he have?”
“One. James. He’s eight now, I believe.”
A boy. She wanted a whole tribe of them. “What happened?”
“To the marriage?”
“Yeah, why did they split up?” She guessed it was William’s fault. He was an abrasive asshole, after all. An artist’s epic highs and lows were difficult to live with. Or so Mike said. He also said he would love her forever, that he didn’t find younger women attractive, and that Ann could stand to lose a few pounds.
Alasdair swallowed a sip of tea. “Their marriage was doomed from the start. There’s little room in William’s heart for anyone but the woman he paints, but of course, a man’s body has cravings. He shared a night with Pauline, she got pregnant, and the rest is history.”
“There must have been love between them, right? I mean, he married her.”
“I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe this, given how he’s treated you, but William is an honorable man, and a stubborn one. He finishes what he starts. For James’s sake, he tried his best to build a happy home, but nothing solid can rise up on a shaky foundation, can it? And then, there were his paintings.” The creases above the bridge of his nose deepened. “Pauline was always jealous of the woman in William’s work. She demanded he find another subject, but little James loved those paintings, and William refused. Pauline found another way to remedy her pain. Nobody knew until after Ruairi was born.”
“Wait, who’s Ruairi?”
“Their second son.”
“But you said he has one son.”
“I should have been clearer. William had another son. He lived two days.”
Ann’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, dear.” She glanced at the couch. “What happened?”
“Pauline numbed her sorrows with narcotic painkillers. Nobody knew until Ruairi was born early and the doctors ran tests.”
Ann tried to imagine William’s pain.
“William stayed in that loveless marriage. Despite his best efforts to keep his family together, Pauline got gloomier, and he grew rancorous. She turned to more powerful drugs, shooting up and exchanging sex for heroin while James watched telly in the next room.”
“How awful.” Ann transferred the cooked bacon to a paper towel, then cracked an egg in the pan.
“It gets worse.”
She failed to see how it possibly could. “Please, don’t tell me anymore.”
“I think you should know. To help you understand, you see. Pauline wanted rid of William, but he refused to go. He came home from his gallery one night and found her in bed with her dealer. Oh, she probably looked surprised, but the discovery was no accident. She knew William would never willingly leave his son.
“The impetuous chap took the bait. He flipped the bed against the wall with the lovers still in it. The police charged him with assault. Pauline got a restraining order against him. A month later, she overdosed and the authorities took the boy. William’s been fighting to get him back ever since.”
“Where is James?”
“Foster care in Inverness.”
“And his wife?”
“Ex now. Rehab facility outside Aberdeen.”
“Jeez.” She turned the egg.
No wonder he was a mess. She felt sorry for him—and for his son. What she wouldn’t give to have a family. A son. What a gift . . . and yet, William’s wife couldn’t see the blessing in it, because hey, making babies was the easiest thing i
n the world.
“And what about you?” Alasdair asked. “Are you married? Do you have children?”
She shook her head. The question never failed to hurt her. At her age, she should have a few kids. People expected it. So did she.
“I was married. He left me for a younger woman.” One with working girly parts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. But you’re young yet. There’s plenty of time for a family.”
There wasn’t, actually. He was being kind. The fat lady was gargling and getting ready to go on stage. If only she took the advice of her fertile friends—and sometimes complete strangers—who suggested she do everything from relax, stop drinking coffee, go on vacation, adopt, take a colorful mixture of Chinese herbs, and her personal favorite: make sure she had sex the right way.
“How about you?” she asked. “Were you ever married?”
“Once, to a woman I loved very much. She died giving birth to our fifth child.” He stared wistfully at the window in the corner, as if he could see his late wife through the steamy panes.
“I’m sorry. You must miss her.”
“I do, but I take great pleasure in the lives our love created.”
Ann scanned the room. It was odd that he displayed no photographs of his family. “Where are your children now?”
“All are gone but two.”
“I’m sorry. Do you ever see the two remaining?”
He set his empty cup on his lap. “Oh, they find their way home once in a while.” He smiled. “When they do, it’s as if they never left.” He patted the back of her hand. “Now, I’m going to get dressed, and when I return, we shall enjoy our breakfast.” He stood to place his cup on the mantel, then ascended the stairs. “See if that whisky-stewed ballocks wants to join us,” he yelled from the landing.
The Scent of Forever Page 8