“Ye can, and ye will.”
The bleak hurt in his voice slammed a lead blanket over her heart. She wrenched free of him, dashed to her seat, and dropped her face into her hands. The dampness at her groin grew chill, making a bad situation worse by reminding her of a paradise that was forever beyond her reach now.
William faced the cave wall, his shadow and blatant humiliation his close companions. His voice turned throaty. “I’m sorry I asked. I’ll nae bring it up again.”
She winced at his tone and saw by his fists and posture that he felt utterly rejected. How could she tell him the truth, that she could never give him what he wanted, what he deserved? She couldn’t reach him now, and worse, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Outside, the wind died down. The storm was spent, and so was she. The ferry would be back in business tomorrow. She should be happy about that. Instead, she couldn’t help feeling like she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
Chapter 19
“I am going to miss your tea.” Ann took a sip. Tiny scratches marred her cheek. Her leggings were slashed in several places.
Alasdair guessed she would be glad to see her suitcases again. The innkeeper on Mull held them for her. Moira McGuinness was a good woman.
He rubbed the back of his neck, knowing his next question was pointless. He asked it anyway. “Are you certain you can’t stay a little while longer? I’m sure William will want to see you off.”
He glanced at the couch, where a blanket lay neatly folded near one of the arms.
“Believe me, Alasdair, I’m the last person he wants to see.” Ann picked up her purse. “The walk across the machair yesterday was the longest of my life, thanks to him.”
“I’m sorry.”
Something horrible had happened on the western side of the island yesterday, something that returned Ann with swollen eyes and had William up with the sun, the latter an unprecedented occurrence.
Ann offered a weak smile. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s not your fault.” She gathered her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a scrunchie. “Anyway, who cares what he thinks?” The dog tottered next to her. She ruffled the fur on its neck. “Take care, big guy.”
Alasdair set his cup on the coffee table and then looked at his watch for the millionth time. He was out of time, out of hope, out of ideas. “I really don’t know where he could have gone at this hour. He’s not an early riser, and the pub’s not open yet.”
William was letting her go. Again. Hadn’t he learned anything in his lives?
“You’ll just have to say goodbye for me.” She hugged him, still smelling of campfire smoke, then pulled away to lock her vibrant eyes on his. “I can’t thank you enough for letting me stay here.”
“It was no bother at all. I’m only sorry we never got our chat about Somerled.”
“Me, too.” She fiddled with the zipper on her hoodie. “Maybe next year.”
It was time to bring out the big guns.
“I’d venture to say neither Somerled nor I will be leaving anytime soon.”
Her hand froze mid-zip. “He’s here?”
“In Saint Oran’s Chapel, though it’s not widely known.”
“Shoot.” She looked at her watch. “I wonder if I have time to see the chapel before I go.” Her eyes began to well. “It’s all I have, you know?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Those who came before me. I’m infertile.”
Alasdair nearly gasped. Of course! How could he have missed it? William wasn’t Somerled after all!
“I’m sorry.” He swelled with joy, but tried his best to look sympathetic while strategizing. A plan solidified as he watched Ann tug on the zipper, which appeared to be stuck.
“Let me try.” He reached for the metal pull tab.
How could I have been so blind?
“Och, it’s broken, lass. Some of the teeth are missing. Thank goodness.”
“What?” She tipped her head to one side.
Had he really said that aloud? Her expression said he had.
He fumbled for a reply. “I didn’t mean thank goodness it’s broken. What I meant to say is . . . it is good the zip broke this far up.”
“I’m sure it happened yesterday. It was pretty rough out there.”
She probably referred to more than the weather.
“How fortunate William found you.”
“Yeah. Lucky me.”
“You know, it occurs to me that if you end up on the ferry deck, you’re going to wish you had something that zips all the way up. Let me give you a jacket from the shop.” He stepped toward the door separating the sitting room from the shop.
She shook her head and took his arm. “I couldn’t possibly accept anything else. You’ve done enough.”
He patted her hand. “I insist. It’ll be something to remind you of us.”
If she followed him, his plan would fail. “Just you stay here. I’ll be right back.”
To his relief, she offered no further argument. “You have to be the nicest man I’ve ever met.”
While she busied herself stuffing her old garment into her purse, Alasdair brushed past her and headed for the shop. In order for his plan to succeed, he needed a jacket with a back pocket. He found one in her size on a rack near the window, stripped it off its hanger, then headed for the counter.
She appeared in the doorway.
“I’ll join you in a minute,” he said, hoping to stall her. He reached for the scissors, his panic mounting. “I just want to take the tags off.”
“Now listen.” She stepped toward him. “I want to pay for that jacket.”
The old dog moved broadside in front of her.
Alasdair laughed and pointed his scissors at the animal. “Our old friend objects to that. The jacket is our gift.” He held it up to her. “Look, it says Iona, right here on the spot that covers your heart. You’ll think of us every time you wear it. Mind, lass, I’ll entertain no more objections. You’ll do as you’re told. Even the dog insists.”
“It’s a conspiracy.” She chuckled and patted the animal’s withers. “I can’t fight both of you.”
The dog knew. How it knew was a mystery, but it knew.
Ann swallowed the last of her tea. “That was delicious, as always.” She disappeared to wash her cup.
Alasdair worked swiftly. He cut off the tags, then opened a drawer, where a smiling photo of William and James lay atop a mountain of pencils. How fortunate he neglected to send for a frame. Under the dog’s watchful eye, he slipped the photo into the back pocket of Ann’s new jacket.
“You should have told me,” he whispered to the grizzled canine, now at his hip and wagging its tail. The dog sniffed the pocket as Alasdair secured the Velcro flap. He ran his gnarled hand across the hidden photo, touched by his son’s ingenuity and kindheartedness. He nearly laughed aloud at his own stupidity. How could I have been so wrong?
The dog looked up at him, tufts of hair jutting over its eyes like thatch.
“We did our best,” he whispered to the dog. “The rest is up to her now.”
Chapter 20
Ann entered Saint Oran’s Chapel with the reverence of a novice nun. A sunbeam sliced through a window and struck one of the graveslabs making up the floor. She sank to one knee on the stone, melancholy dogging her, to run her fingers across the ridges of the ancient carving. Time erased everything but the faint outlines of a warrior’s legs and sword. Was this Somerled’s final resting place? The warrior gripped a claymore, a weapon that didn’t exist before the fifteenth century. The grave could not be Somerled’s.
She rose, padded to a solitary bench, then dropped onto it. How silly to think she could find Somerled’s bones by intuition alone. Had she really believed he would ap
pear to her, or at the very least, draw her to his corpse like iron filings to a magnet? Yes, she had. She expected him at the plinth in Renfrew, and again at Saddell Abbey, and now here.
She shook her head and released a derisive snort. What utter madness.
Her gaze shifted to the south wall, where an arch of cut stones framed a tomb recess. It was lighter than the red granite of the wall and arranged in a pattern resembling the overturned keel of a Viking ship. Fitting for sea kings, she reckoned. A perfect final resting place for the Lords of the Isles. But where was the big Daddy Mac himself?
The carved crowns resting on the shoulders of the arch piqued her interest. A dog jutted out below the right crown. A different animal rested below the left crown, too worn to identify. She knew at once it was a dragon’s head.
There was suddenly no doubt whose shrine it was. The discovery came with no elation. Instead, a chasm in her soul deepened, exacerbating the emptiness of her womb. Many links of chain connected her to the great man buried here. None would follow; she was the final link.
Barren.
It was a word she despised. Today, it seemed perfect.
An iron candelabrum marked the place of a missing tomb chest. His tomb chest. Where was that marble box now? Where was he now? She sought answers in the tiny chapel.
Modern concrete blocks patched a wall behind the candelabrum. The chapel must have fallen into ruin along with the abbey, but unlike the grand abbey—now painstakingly restored—the historians overlooked the significance of Saint Oran’s Chapel.
Her cheeks heated at the injustice. Somerled’s tomb should have been restored with the dignity he deserved. After all, he spent much of his life guarding Iona and its monks. He died protecting the island, though no one knew why. His tomb was important enough to restore with the same consideration as the abbey. Even a sign commemorating him would have been good, but there was nothing, nothing to mark the final resting place of a great, forgotten man.
She focused on the place where Somerled would have lain. Her gloom deepened. They would have stretched him out right there, dressed in his finest.
Although he died in his late sixties, Ann found it impossible to imagine him as anything but the athletic sailor from her vision.
Remember me. Remember me. Remember me.
If she called for him, would he appear? She rubbed her arms to quell a shiver. “Are you there?” she whispered.
The only reply came from her beating heart. Her eyes dried out while watching for any sign of movement. She rubbed them, disappointment weighing her down. What a dumb idea. Of course, he wouldn’t just materialize in the middle of the room. The notion was a writer’s folly and no more.
The alarm on her watch startled her. The first ferry of the day would dock in thirty minutes. It was time to say goodbye. Again, she nearly said aloud, for something told her this wasn’t their first farewell. It wouldn’t be their last, either. She would return, maybe lobby for a plaque to identify his remains . . . just as soon as she could think about Iona without picturing William’s wounded face.
The chapel door squealed open.
Ann flinched.
“I’m so sorry,” a woman said from the doorway. “Did I interrupt?” Her accent marked her as German.
“It’s all right. I was just leaving.”
She brushed past the German tourist. At the door, she savored a final glance.
The alarm on her watch beeped again. She was out of time.
“Goodbye.” She headed for the pier—and home.
~ ~ ~
The line for the ferry stretched halfway to Iona’s ridiculously small post office. Most of the people standing up to their ankles in storm-deposited seaweed were American tourists. They looked as battered as the island. Ann took her place in line behind a couple lost in each other’s eyes. Newlyweds. Not even a gale could wreck the excitement of their fresh union. How she envied the joy of their early days, that deliciously innocent first leg of their mutual journey. She took a trusting heart on that voyage with Mike. He wasted it, threw it away like an empty Taco Bell bag, leaving her unfit for any man.
She thought of William, and regret dropped a noose around her neck. Given his ex-wife’s betrayal, asking her to stay must have been especially difficult. If he only knew how much she wanted to say yes, how much she still wanted to say yes . . . but he wanted more children—deserved more children—the one thing she could never give him, no matter how many times he painted her.
It took her a moment to realize she was staring absentmindedly at the girl in front of her. She offered an apologetic smile, then turned to watch the ferry approach. Her lifeline to home chugged through sun-kissed waves that looked like polished sapphires.
A roofer hammered at slates on the ferry terminal. She looked up at him.
He tipped his tweed cap to her. His smile was nice, like William’s, though he had a gap between his front teeth.
If William rounded the corner with his hair loose and windblown, she wondered, could she resist him? She imagined him carrying wildflowers picked from the machair. In her fantasy, he dropped to his knees in front of everyone, took her hand, and said he loved her. He would refuse to let her go. That was the stuff of romance novels, the stuff that fed her checking account. Heroines in novels were rarely divorced. They were never barren.
William wasn’t coming. He was long gone, probably by the first available charter. Maybe a fisherman took him across. Hell, given their last exchange, maybe he swam the sound to get away from her. Men who suffered outright rejections didn’t belly-crawl up to a woman in public and beg her to stay. At least, not men like William.
A wailing siren announced the lowering of the ferry’s ramp to the jetty. A crewman in a bright rain slicker unhooked a rope barrier, then waved a van ashore before allowing the foot passengers to board. He counted as they passed. Ann grew nervous when he hit the forties. The ferry only held fifty.
She couldn’t bear another minute on the island.
The line inched forward.
“Forty-eight,” the crewman said. “Forty-nine.”
Ann stepped across the yellow strip of paint on the ramp.
“And fifty. Sorry folks,” the crewman said to the family behind her. “Fifty’s the limit.” He rehooked his rope barrier.
With the siren wailing again, the ferry’s ramp lifted. Engines foamed the water and pushed the vessel toward Mull. By the time Ann gathered with other passengers braving the chill to watch the view, Iona was sinking into the sea. She’d been so anxious to leave, to get away from the heartbreak she experienced on the island, but now, as the houses faded, her sorrow mounted and stole her breath. She clawed at her jacket’s hood string, but loosening it did little to free her throat. She clung to the portside rail, her knees weak and threatening to buckle.
She dropped onto one of four plastic chairs lined against the rail, then fell over her lap, not wanting anyone to witness her meltdown. A tight throat made swallowing painful. She rubbed it until her grief eased enough to sit up. By then, only the abbey remained visible. She sought the tiny rooftop in its shadow, the final resting place of the warrior king who led her here.
He wanted to show her something. It was a shame William got in the way.
Leaving the island felt like tearing off a limb. She was incomplete now, a puzzle with a missing piece. That piece remained on Iona and clawed at her emotions. She searched the shoreline for the thing pulling at her.
There.
He stood on the white sands just south of the pier, a mere speck. William did not leave as she supposed. He watched her go, was watching her still. They had a bond between them now, a velvety rope that would span the globe to tether their hearts together.
His agony became hers.
Ann raced into the restroom. In the privacy of a stall, she bla
sted a silent cry that threatened to turn her inside out. She dropped her face into her hands, feeling the wetness of tears.
There was a cure for what ailed her: go back. Joy swept over her like a rogue wave. Yes! I’ll go back! She must go to Glasgow first and explain everything to Maggie. Maggie would understand. Shit, she’d probably applaud. Going back was the right thing to do, even if it meant rejection. William deserved the truth. He bared his soul to her, and instead of being honest with him, instead of letting him decide whether he could see past her infertility, she acted like a coward. Why? Because she was afraid he wouldn’t want her. After all, Mike hadn’t.
William probably thought she rejected him because of his low means. She never gave a damn about a man’s salary. Hell, she made enough money for both of them—or, at least she did when she was writing. She’d live under a tarp with a man like William, if she had to.
By the time the siren announced the vessel’s arrival on Mull, Ann had a solid plan. She broke away from the crowd shuffling toward the idling bus. There was just enough time to collect her things from The Puffin and board the bus before it left for Craignure.
Chapter 21
Nigel knelt on the carpet and used a trembling knife to unscrew a wall plate. ScotPower restored electricity to the inn at dawn, not a moment too soon. He was getting weaker. The Fiat’s battery pulled him through the night, but he shorted that out shortly after midnight. He had a wicked cheek burn to prove it.
The socket’s wall plate tipped forward to dangle on its wires. He yanked the brown and blue wires from their terminals, then settled back on his heels to stare at them. Like tiny arms, they beckoned him to fall into their dreadful embrace. He sighed, licked his fingers, then reached for their exposed ends.
Blinding pain vibrated his muscles and turned them to stone. His heart pulsed, and his fingers and toes turned to molten lava. Everything in him begged him to let go, everything except that distant voice demanding more.
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