The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  “Stay down!” he shouted.

  They would never make it across the machair. Not in this wind.

  He wasn’t about to let her go. Not now. Not ever. He spied two low crags rising up like dorsal fins. If he could get her between them and lie on top of her, she’d be safe until he could figure out what to do next.

  With his hand a vise around her wrist, he scaled the dune, dragging her behind him. She did her best to walk, but the wind was too strong. New slashes appeared in her tights as vegetation scratched at her legs.

  He pulled her between the crags and eased his body on top of hers. The wind scattered her pleats like daisy petals, and she clawed at the tartan in a feeble attempt to preserve her modesty. Her curves pressed against him.

  In spite of the danger, his cock began to swell.

  “I can’t walk in this!” she shouted. “It’s too strong!”

  “I know. We’ll never make it across the machair. We’ll have to wait a while.”

  “Here?” Her self-assurance blew out to sea. Genuine terror sparked in her eyes.

  “As long as the rain holds off, we’ll be all right.”

  He knew he was in trouble the moment the statement left his lips. For him, tempting fate meant negative results, and as the skies opened up above them, he saw that today would be no exception. It poured so hard that the raindrops stung his back through his jacket.

  Ann shivered and started to cry.

  It was his fault she was out here in the first place. He slid his hand under her head and pressed his cheek against hers, feeling the rasp of wet sand between them. “Och, pet, do nae cry.” He spread his hood for a cover. In the dark shelter of its fabric, his hot gasps ricocheted back to him. “I will nae let ye go.”

  His words reverberated in his mind. He meant, of course, that he intended to keep her safe from the storm. But once spoken, his promise hovered inside the hood and took on a deeper meaning, one that agitated him until he saw so clearly how easy it would be to just say what was on his mind.

  “Stay,” he said.

  She sniffled. “I can hardly go anywhere else.”

  “I do nae mean here. I mean stay in Scotland.”

  He expected her to drive her knees up to his chest and launch him off her belly, or at the very least, to laugh at the absurdity of his request. She didn’t. Instead, she brushed her lips across his and stilled the storm. The wind vanished, along with the driving rain and the risk of tumbling off the dune and into the pounding sea. In the dark shelter of his hood, nothing mattered but his throbbing pulse and the velvety lips that just teased his.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she whispered against his ear. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  For a moment, he considered pulling away. He thought about lifting his hood and exposing her humiliation. Instead, he said, “Ye’re right. I should have.”

  He kissed her hard enough to bruise her lips.

  She met his ferocity with a passion that exploded in a dizzying torrent of pleasure. It washed him away as surely as if he slid into the sea. He drowned in waves of desire, his cock threatening to burst when she wound her hands behind his neck in a silent invitation to take whatever he wanted. She arched her back to him, pressing her firm breasts against his chest.

  He slid a hand into the sand under her to cup her arse.

  Her chassis was built like nobody’s business, a neat little Made in America frame covered with corn-fed muscle. Her insides would be every bit as tidy. The thought of penetrating her consumed him until all he could think about was unzipping his jeans and freeing the heaviness straining against her mound.

  He parted her lips and glided his tongue into her mouth, meeting hers in a circular dance that sent shivers up his spine. She tugged his soaked shirt out of his jeans and slid her hands up his back. Her nails scraped his skin.

  He groaned from pleasure and pain.

  The hood blew off their heads, exposing her eyes, half-closed by desire.

  He could have her. Here. Right now. But he wouldn’t. Not in the dirt.

  It took all his strength to stop kissing her. “We canny stay here.”

  “Oh, God, please . . .” Her lips sought his again.

  “Ann, I will nae take ye in the dirt.”

  Her head flopped back. She blinked at the raindrops spattering her face.

  “There’s another cave not far from here,” he said. “Hold on to my belt. Stay low to the ground. Watch for sheep shite.”

  How romantic, ye bloody eejit.

  With the rain pummeling their backs, William hauled her toward The Cave of the Anchorite, so named for the zealot who lived there centuries ago. It was barely a fissure in a crag, but it would keep them safe and dry until the storm eased.

  He stopped once, his shaft hot and throbbing miserably, to look back at her. She clung to his belt with all her might. Her hood flapped behind her head, its drawstring choking her. There was determination in her verdant eyes, and trust.

  What a woman. What a defiant, strong woman.

  At the foot of a black escarpment, he pulled her eastward into the safety of the anchorite’s cave. She was soaked and quaking, and he guessed the chill was only partly responsible for that.

  “Sit here.” He righted one of two overturned buckets lying next to the remains of a previous fire. The buckets—along with litter and a pile of driftwood—had probably been left in the cave by carousing teens.

  She eased down onto the bucket while he gathered up a paper bag, an empty beer carton, and half a Pringles can. He patted his pockets, knowing he had no lighter. “If ever there was a time I wished I smoked, this is it.”

  Ann’s teeth chattered behind bluing lips. She reached into her pocket stiffly, then withdrew an Altoids tin. “H-Here.” She handed it to him.

  “Ye got to be shitting me,” he said, opening the tin to reveal a steel striker, a piece of flint, and some char cloth. “Ye carry a fire starting kit?”

  “You n-never kn-know.”

  She was amazing. It infuriated him that she would never be his.

  Chapter 18

  Ann huddled beside an impressive blaze that warmed her bones and painted a ruddy hue on the cave walls. William draped their sodden outerwear over sticks next to the fire. On the far wall, the shadows made by their clothes danced hand in hand. Ann stared in wonder at the frolicking silhouettes, the peaty taste of William still on her lips.

  “I still canny believe ye carry a fire starting kit.” He ducked in, hair dripping, with another load of driftwood they didn’t need.

  “I have ever since I took a survival course.”

  “What on earth made ye want to take a survival course? Ye reckon Pennsylvania will be Ground Zero for Armageddon?” The flames swayed as he passed them.

  His sarcasm was back, apparently. “I took it because I was researching a post-apocalyptic novel at the time.”

  The driftwood clattered onto the superfluous heap in the corner. William strode to the fire, faced his palms to it, and avoided meeting her gaze. Steam rose off his tee shirt. He sat for the first time since they stumbled in from the storm. Regret lay like a pall on his face.

  “Do many people read your novels?”

  “I do okay, I think.”

  “Did ye always want to be a writer?

  “Yes.”

  He was making small talk, avoiding the elephant in the room—the kiss. He said he didn’t want to lay her down in the dirt. She thought him a gentleman at the time, but now . . . now, she knew he’d found a way to escape the situation without hurting her feelings.

  He bit his lip and poked the fire with a stick. Apparently, she put him in something of an awkward spot. Good. What was the big deal anyway? It was just a kiss. No matter what he was working up the courage to say, he’d been into it
at the time. For crying out loud, she stole a kiss from Bobby Klinger in kindergarten and he—the five-year-old—had been more mature about it.

  “Listen, Ann, I, uh . . .”

  Here we go.

  He trembled—probably craving a drink—and rubbed the creases on his forehead.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I get it.”

  “No, ye see, it’s—”

  “Look, we don’t have to talk about it.” It didn’t matter, really. Nothing mattered. She’d escape this whole nasty business tomorrow when she headed home. There was a brief moment—out there—when she thought he wanted her. He even said so. He asked her to stay. That was before he got busy—too busy—with fire and driftwood and jackets and finding litter dry enough to burn. And that was okay, because deep down, she knew she couldn’t snag a guy like him. It was like that movie—what was it called?—when the pathetic chick accepted the jock’s invitation to the dance, only to have her heart dashed under the spotlight of public humiliation. At least nobody witnessed Ann’s disgrace. Nobody but William.

  He sighed. “I want to—”

  “Really, William, it’s—”

  “Would ye shut up and let me talk!” Water from his hair sizzled in the fire as he whirled to face her.

  Ann recoiled, stunned. No one ever yelled at her like that. Certainly not Mike. But then, Mike didn’t kiss like William, either.

  “Stop that.”

  She crossed her arms. “Stop what?”

  “I can see the cogs turning inside your noggin. Just stop. Stop thinking for one bloody minute and let me say what I have to say.”

  “Fine. Talk.”

  “Jesus, I’d gi’ anything for a drink.” He sliced his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “Ye make me crazy, do ye know that?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a finger to silence her. “Nope. Shut your gob.”

  She grinned in spite of herself.

  He stood, firelight glimmering in his eyes. “I want to explain why I’ve been acting like an arse.”

  Here’s where he tells me he was drunk, that the kiss was a mistake, that he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, that we can be friends . . .

  “It’s a long story. Get comfortable. Here.” He lifted her hoodie off the stick and handed it to her. “It’s dry enough.”

  It reeked of smoke, but she put it on.

  “Mine’s not dry yet.” He turned the back of his jacket to the fire, then shoved his hands into his damp jeans pockets and stared at the flames. “Right then, here goes. I started painting the woman when I was nine. While the other lads played football, I was at my easel. In my teens, when my pals were sneaking hooch and chasing skirts, I shut myself in my room wi’ a paintbrush in my hand. My parents claimed a demon possessed me. When I turned eighteen, they gathered up my supplies and donated them to a charity shop, then called the priest. Instead of exorcising my demon, the priest bought five of my oil paintings. I used the money to make my way to Glasgow.”

  Ann flinched as burning driftwood shifted and discharged a shower of sparks. William was too engrossed in his story to notice.

  “I found enough odd jobs to afford a shitty flat in the Gorbals. Within a year, I was painting again, and selling my work to galleries across the city. Within two, I had my own gallery. She kept me alive, the green-eyed woman. So a few years later, when Pauline—my wife, at the time—asked me to gi’ her up . . . well, how could I, after all she did for me?”

  William rubbed his chest as if pained. “When I first saw ye, I thought I’d been rewarded for my loyalty, that I’d somehow . . . painted ye into existence. When ye looked at me that first time, I could have sworn ye recognized me, too. Then ye spoke, and I saw just how cruel Fate can be.”

  “Because I’m an American.”

  “Aye, and not because I hate Yanks. I made that up . . . to piss ye off, to keep a safe distance between us.”

  “But why?”

  “Because”—the corners of his mouth sagged, and his voice lost power—“we have no future. I have a son.”

  “Alasdair told me. William, that’s a blessing, not a curse.”

  He smiled and looked more than a little relieved. “Ye’d be surprised at the number of women who canny see children as the gifts they are.”

  She knew he meant Pauline, and she longed to tell him she understood more than he could possibly imagine. Instead, she allowed him to continue uninterrupted.

  “My boy means everything to me. Did Alasdair tell ye he’s in foster care?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, ye see the sticky mess I’m in. I’m fighting for custody. In fact, I have my first unsupervised weekend wi’ him soon. I canny go running off to America. Not now. Not ever.”

  Whoa, hold on. Ann’s breath caught in her throat. “Had you been considering that? Running off to America, that is?”

  William strode to the cave opening and braced himself on the basalt framing its mouth. He patted the faint outline his missing flask wore into his back pocket. “Jesus, I need a drink.” He came back to the fire, bringing with him determination that was hard to miss.

  “I have a question. I already know the answer, but I canny let ye go home wi’oot me asking it again.” He tossed another stick on the fire and took a deep breath. Without looking at her, he said, “Woman, if it was nae for my son, I would follow ye to the ends of the earth. I meant what I said oot there. Is there any chance ye’d stay in Scotland?”

  Shock surged and rendered her mute.

  William dragged his bucket next to hers, then sat to take her hands in his. “I have little to offer. I live in a tiny flat overlooking the rubbish bins in a Tesco’s parking lot. We’d be poor at first, but we’d build oursel’ up again. Ye’d be lumbered wi’ my wain, but he’s a good lad, Ann. Hell, ye would nae even be a stranger to him. He’s seen ye on canvas his whole life, begs me aboot every other month to paint ‘that pretty lady’ again. It’s a lot to ask, I know, but Ann, he deserves a mother, a real one. I know it sounds crazy, but”—he squeezed her hands—“stay in Scotland. Marry me.”

  “William, I . . .” Her mind raced. Stay in Scotland . . . could she? Did she want to? Good lord, was he saying he wanted her, like, not just for tonight, but . . . what about the farm . . . her career? She could write from Scotland . . . couldn’t she? But Mike . . . maybe Mike emailed or called. Dear God, a son. William had a son. Could she be a mother to him? Would he let her be a mother to him?

  She looked into William’s eyes and saw his truth, knew he saw hers, too.

  He brushed her hair away from her face and pressed his palm to her cheek. “We could make love tonight, and by God, woman, ye canny know how much I want to do just that.” He shot off the bucket, tipping it. It banged against the cave wall. “I’ve never wanted a woman this much, but if we make love and ye leave tomorrow, I do nae know how I’d ever be able to settle for”—his voice broke with emotion—“anyone else.”

  She rose and quivered before him, then wilted against the hard muscles of his damp chest. His heart drummed against her ear. His intoxicating scent coiled around her and trussed her to him. She tilted her face up to his. There were tears in his eyes, and evidence of a torturous craving that threatened to kick her legs out from under her.

  “Stay wi’ me, pet.” He trembled and planted a lingering kiss on her forehead. “Put me oot of my misery and say aye.”

  She smiled at the sheer madness of his proposal—and her equally insane eagerness to accept it. Somerled’s scent led her to Iona so she could fall for . . . a stranger. No, not a stranger. William was anything but a stranger. She knew that the moment they met. His hot-blooded intensity and unpredictability were as familiar to her as a well-worn blanket—and just what she wanted. What she needed. She thought of Mike—slack, whining, passive-aggressive,
cheating Mike—and nearly laughed out loud. She wasted far too much of her life on that milquetoast. It was time to show him to the door.

  How did one say yes to such a crazy proposal?

  “William, I, uh—”

  He cut off her acceptance with a solid kiss, his tongue meeting hers and driving all else from her mind. Heat exploded in her belly and liquefied between her thighs. She arched against him, moaning into his mouth when she felt his bulge press against her in a foretaste of rapture.

  The sound seemed to craze him. He backed her against the cave wall, one hand behind her head and the other sliding underneath her sweater to tease her nipple. “Oh, God, Ann . . .” He kissed her cheeks, her lips, her throat. “Say aye.” His frantic gasps and playful bites scorched her skin.

  She wanted him to keep going, to kiss every inch of her. His whiskers scraped her cheek. “Tell me ye’ll stay, or I’ll paddle your wee bum.” His flirtatious snicker singed her ear. He pulled on her hair, forcing her look up at him. Desire darkened his eyes and strained his voice. “I’ll nae take ye if ye’re leaving on the morrow.”

  Say yes.

  He planted firm hands on her shoulders. “Say something, for the love of Christ. Come on, Ann, something sparked when we first met! Och, be honest, something sparked long before. Ye feel it, too. I know ye do.” He pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Make me the happiest man in the world, and I’ll spend the rest of mine making sure ye never regret it.” He pushed her away to offer a tremulous grin, his eyes sparkling. “We could have wains of our own.”

  Oh, God. Her heart sank, and her throat closed up. He doesn’t know. She thumped her forehead against his breastbone and fought back tears. “I can’t stay.”