More.
He would lose fingers or worse.
More!
The lights flickered, then went out.
Nigel collapsed to the carpet, breathless, the taste of blood like sweet metal in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, careful to avoid his tender cheek.
The innkeeper’s muffled shouts reached him through the floor. “Bloody hell, there go the lights again. Ye’d think they could keep the power regulated. We blew three fuses already.”
After checkout, she’d allowed him to wait in his room for the Craignure bus. It had arrived fifteen minutes ago, but he had yet to board. She would soon wonder why.
He had to be sure Ann boarded the bus. He would know soon enough; the first ferry was almost in.
Sated and sore, Nigel pushed the socket into the wall without reinserting the wires into their terminals. He refastened the wall plate with a single screw, a task made difficult by numb fingers. He’d be long gone—and the room booked several more times—before the innkeeper noticed his tampering. By then, she wouldn’t know which guest to blame, not that it mattered.
He crawled onto a chair he dragged into the dormer. From here, he had an unfettered view of the pier. The ferry’s siren squealed. The ramp lowered. There she was, ponytail swinging and pleats strumming like fingers on her thighs. The hairs on his arms and nape rose. Sensation returned to his fingers, producing a voracious need to touch her. He leaned forward, drowning in gratitude when she walked toward the inn—and him—as he knew she would. He slipped his hand inside his jeans where a lifeless cock turned his joy to fury. If she hadn’t gone to the ends of the earth, he might have met her with a solid boner.
She would pay for making him wait.
He crept out of his room to eavesdrop from the staircase landing. Her voice was pleasing, her vowel sounds drawn out in that melodious American way. She had a youthful innocence in her tone, one he was anxious to pluck.
She offered thanks and a farewell.
The front door closed.
He hoisted his duffel bag to his shoulder and raced down the stairs. “Thank you again,” he said to the innkeeper, who slid a curtain panel aside to look out the window. He caught a glimpse of Ann making her way to the bus.
“I hope everything was—mercy, what did ye do to your face?”
Shit. He forgot about his cheek. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, then flattened it over his ragged wound. “Cut myself shaving.”
“Did ye shave wi’ a chainsaw?” She dropped the curtain. “Let me get ye a plaster.”
The bag’s strap cut into his shoulder. He shifted its weight, jangling the supplies and laptop—and his knife—inside. “No time. Bus is leaving.” He left before she could argue.
Diesel fumes choked him as he tossed his bag on top of the suitcases already in the luggage hold. He climbed into the bus.
The driver gawked at his cheek.
“Cut myself shaving.” He covered his wound again, then paid his fare with his free hand.
The driver nodded and tendered a receipt that Nigel accepted without much notice. He scanned the bus and found Ann halfway back with her temple pressed against the steamy window. She seemed unhappy and lost, her faraway gaze locked on the waters of the sound.
Nigel made his way to an aisle seat three rows behind her. He sank down, still holding the cloth to his cheek. His fingers soon lost circulation, so he dropped his hand to his lap.
“Oh, my!” A nun in the window seat beside him began rooting in her tote bag. “I might have a bandage in here.”
“There’s no need.” He wanted to punch her in the throat. Nobody was that nice. Nobody.
“Oh, but there is. That cut should be stitched.” She pulled a hairbrush out of her purse, then a wallet and a journal. “Now, where did I put—”
Nigel grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Hard. “I said there’s no need. Now back. Off.”
Her face blanched. When he released her wrist, she palmed her crucifix and mouthed a prayer.
Nigel’s glare stuck her to the bus wall like a cornered alley cat.
“Forgive me, I’m sorry.” She returned her things to her purse, clutched it against her belly, then turned to look out the window.
No one seemed to notice the commotion. Everyone looked sleep-deprived, thanks to the gale. In the warmth of the bus, the passengers sat silent and dull-witted. The long haul back to civilization would only worsen their sluggishness. All of them, Ann included, would stumble ahead unobservant.
Easy pickings.
Beeps announced the closing of the luggage hold. The driver ground the gears. The bus lurched up the hill. They were off.
Nigel settled back and went over his strategy again. He would take her in Taynuilt, a remote Highland village with a railway station no bigger than a cowshed. The station had no surveillance cameras, no armed security, no people.
He’d use the Wi-Fi on the Oban ferry to find a self-catering cottage within walking distance of the railway station. Close, but not too close. They needed privacy, after all. If that plan failed, he’d build a lean-to in Inverawe Forest.
The nun cleared her throat and glared at his bouncing leg. That was probably damned annoying. Well, up hers. He leaned to the right, caught a glimpse of Ann’s blazing ponytail, and imagined wrapping it around his wrist while he shagged her.
He reached in his coat pocket to caress the panties hidden there. They would have to be enough for now.
Chapter 22
Ann fired up her tablet on a café table aboard The Island Princess as it made for Oban. The crossing was smooth, allowing her to change her clothes in the ferry’s bathroom.
Maggie had sent an even twenty emails. The first ten conveyed a few words and thumbs-up photographs in front of kilted men. The next five progressed from mildly concerned to hysterical. The last five turned hostile.
I swear, Ann, if you don’t contact me soon, I’m calling the police. I know there’s a storm out that way, but surely, you can find somebody with a phone. I mean, you’re not in a third world country. It’s Scotland, for the love of Christ. Call me, or swear to god, I’m coming out there and kicking your ass. You better have a REALLY GOOD REASON for not staying in contact with me, and THAT REASON’S NAME had better be Angus or Archibald or Alasdair!
Ann chuckled at that. Yes, she spent a crazy weekend with an Alasdair all right, and damn if she didn’t go and fall in love with him. She thought of the old man’s kind face, his warm hearth, his ancient dog . . . William. Tears pricked her eyes. Those moments and that place felt a million miles away now, like a wonderful floating dream slipping farther away with each thrust of the ferry’s bow.
Did it really happen?
She sniffed her hoodie.
Yep.
A man bumped into her table, spilling her tea.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry! How very clumsy of me.” He was English, though she couldn’t place his accent.
He raced to a counter for a wad of napkins, which he tossed onto the puddle. “I do hope I haven’t destroyed anything.”
She tried not to stare at the bandage covering his cheek. “Didn’t hit anything important.”
“At the very least, I owe you another cuppa.”
She shoved her hoodie into her bag. “It’s not necessary, really.”
“Please, you must allow me.” He was scary, with a too-white face, black hair, and a wide smile that added no glimmer to his pale eyes.
“Well, all right. If you insist,” she said, thinking acceptance might be the fastest way to lose him.
She watched him purchase the tea and make his way back to her.
I hope he doesn’t ask to join me.
He handed her the cup, apologized again, then moved to
a window seat.
Thank God.
She returned to Maggie’s emails, the last festooned with profanity.
Goddammit, Ann, I’m at the end of my fucking rope. I could kill you for not packing your cell. I tried to call the inn at Fionnphort, but the landlines are still down out there. I feel like getting on a train and coming to find you, but I’m scared I’ll end up there when you land here. Your last email to me was from the Oban ferry. You should be back on that by early afternoon today. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll know you didn’t make it to the ferry, and I’m coming to get your sorry ass. This business of pacing in my fucking hotel room doing nothing is complete bullshit!
Ann looked at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. If Maggie had boarded a train, she would have emailed by now. Unless, like Ann, she thought there’d be Wi-Fi on the train.
What a mess. What a honking mess.
Ann checked Skype to see if Maggie might be online; she wasn’t. She composed an email and prayed her friend hadn’t done something rash.
Hey, it’s me. I’m safe, so stop your worrying. That stupid gale hit the minute I got to Iona. Of all the rotten luck! The freaking ferry stopped running and stranded me on the island without my stuff, because all of that was across the water on Mull. I had no way to contact you. Phones were down. No Wi-Fi, nothing. Everything was booked solid on Iona, but the guy who manages The MacDonald Centre lives in a house attached to his museum/shop, and he took me in. Nice old chap with the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.
I made the 11:00 a.m. ferry. Seriously, Maggie, this is the first Wi-Fi service I’ve had, so don’t be pissed. Contrary to what the brochures say, the trains and busses here do not offer free Wi-Fi. I’m hoping you didn’t get on the train expecting to email me from there, because if you did, I’ll probably pass you around Dalmally. We’re almost at Oban now, so I’m about to lose my Internet connection. I’ll arrive at Queen Street Station on the three-thirty train. We’ll be sipping Bloody Marys and catching up by four. If not, I’ll go to the hotel room and wait to hear from you. Boy, do I have a lot to tell you.
She had a few minutes before the ferry docked at Oban, so she signed on to TreasureFinders.com. Her meetings with Doctor McFadden and Nigel Lynch must be rescheduled. The torc wasn’t going anywhere, and she was beat. She wanted nothing more than to hole up in the hotel with a hot bath, a thousand bottles of wine, and her best friend.
Maggie would help her sort things out. Maggie might even stay at the farm this winter so Ann could return to Scotland without draining the pipes in the house. There were book signings and speaking engagements to cancel. Janet would shit a brick, but at this point, she’d encourage anything that might bring a new manuscript her way.
Ding!
Ann’s attention snapped back to her tablet. A new message from Nigel Lynch flashed blue. She opened it.
Lynch_Mob: Hey, I saw you lit up there.
Shit, how am I going to get out of this? It was pretty rude of her to want to. He was putting himself out to travel from London to Glasgow. Maybe she should just go through with it.
Moles_Gold: Hi, Nigel. I don’t have long to chat. Gonna lose my Internet in about 10 minutes.
Lynch_Mob: I’m glad I caught you, then. I feel terrible about this, but I’m going to have to cancel our meeting. This is really embarrassing to admit, but I forgot tomorrow is my ninth wedding anniversary.
Phew.
Moles_Gold: I hope you aren’t in too much trouble.
Lynch_Mob: I’m really sorry.
Moles_Gold: Hey, it’s no problem. I got caught in a gale on Iona, and I’m wrecked. I’m anxious to just get back to the hotel and crash.
Lynch_Mob: I heard it was bad up there.
Moles_Gold: It was. I’ll be back in Scotland in a few weeks. Maybe we can meet up then?
There was a long pause that made her question whether he lost his Internet connection. The green dot beside his ID indicated he remained online.
Lynch_Mob: So soon? What takes you back to bonnie Scotland so soon?
She stared at the screen, knowing she owed him no explanation, knowing he didn’t really care, that he was simply making polite banter. Her response heated the waters of her soul until she cried mercy and the truth bubbled out.
Moles_Gold: I met someone.
The klutz who spilled her tea choked on something. He shot out of his seat, coughing over the open laptop on the table before him. His face and corded neck turned crimson.
“Ye all right, there, mate?” a man at the next table asked.
The klutz cracked his neck from side to side, then limbered up his shoulders before replying, “Wrong pipe.” He looked at Ann, then sat again.
She offered him a fleeting smile before returning to her chat.
Lynch_Mob: Sorry about that. Had to let the dog out. I’m curious. Who’s the lucky bloke?
The captain’s voice announced they would arrive in Oban on time. Ann checked her watch. Plenty of time to catch the train.
Moles_Gold: Listen, I gotta run. We’re about to dock. I’ll message you when I know my travel dates.
Lynch_Mob: Sounds good. Have a safe journey home.
Ann closed the chat and checked her inbox. Maggie replied.
Oh my god, don’t you ever do that to me again! I was literally about to walk out the door and head up to Queen Street Station for a ticket. I was so fucking worried, you dim-shit. Hey, you won’t believe who texted me. Mike. Said he’s been trying to reach you. I didn’t mention where we are. You have NO IDEA how much I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. We’ll talk when you get here, okay?
Mike. Did he already wear out the new meaning in his life, or did Chelsea tire of his shrouded insults? Ann expected this eventually, even prayed for it, God help her. Here it was: The Big Moment.
She dashed off a reply to Maggie:
Interesting. After this week, he’s a little late. I met somebody, Mags. Fell hard, in fact. Yes, in a single day. Can’t wait to tell you about it. I’m at Oban now. Peeps are getting their luggage and lining up at the exits, so I gotta run. See you real soon.
Chapter 23
William stood on the scaffolding and slid a stack of slates up to Liam. He checked his watch. Noon.
“Your belly bitchin’?” Liam asked.
William shook his head. “Was just thinking she’d be on the train now.”
“The writer?”
“Aye.” Two bodies of water separated them now, and a third would take her away from him for good. He imagined her staring out the train window at his homeland, and his heart sank. He went over their conversation a hundred times. She was about to say aye, that she’d stay. Then, he kissed her and something stole her acceptance. He couldn’t figure out what. Had his breath been rotten?
Liam’s contrived cough snapped him out of his reverie. On the steep roof, the Irishman sat looking impatient with a leg folded under his rump. “Ye reckon those six slates ye sent up will cover the whole feckin’ roof?”
William slid up another stack. “Sorry. My mind is elsewhere.”
Liam tucked the slates behind the rung of a ladder lying flat against the roof. “I can see that. Distraction is a dangerous companion two stories up, mate.”
He was right, of course. There was no room for daydreams on a wet, windy roof.
Liam descended the ladder to hop onto the scaffolding. He poured a cup of tea from his flask, then took a sip. “What’s eatin’ ye?”
William threw down the slate ripper, then balled his fists. “I canny stop thinking of her! I just want to climb doon off this scaffolding and run after her.”
“Did she give ye reason to think she’d welcome that?”
“Not especially.”
“Ye think she even likes ye?”
He recalled
her half-closed eyes and her body arching to meet his. Oh, he was sure. “After ye left us . . . something happened.”
Liam’s eyes sparkled. “Oh?”
William blew out a breath that rattled his lips. “Not that, but close. I asked her to stay. Felt like she was gonny say aye.”
“But she didn’t.”
“Said she could nae.”
Liam gazed across the sound as he finished the last of his tea. “She could have a legitimate reason, ye know, like some big, bean-eatin’, coffee-drinkin’ Yankee man wi’ a langer like a rhino.”
“Maybe.” William looked at his watch again, ignoring Liam’s attempt to rile him.
Liam returned to seriousness. “How’d ye leave it?”
“What do ye mean?”
“What’s the last thing ye said to her?”
“I said I would nae ask again.”
Liam beamed. “Och, but ye’re a liar, aren’t ye, Billy boy?”
William unbuckled his tool belt. He handed it to the Irishman. “Aye, I’m pretty sure I am.”
Liam accepted the belt, then smacked an arm across William’s shoulders. “Go on, sure. The ferry’s comin’ in now. Ye can be in Glasgow by nightfall.”
Chapter 24
Ann desperately needed sleep, but there’d be no chance for that on the train. A hen party boarded at the last stop, and the bride-to-be was already drunk. Her bridesmaids snapped pictures and howled as she gave a pretend blowjob to an oversize rubber penis.
Maggie would love this. Too bad she didn’t have a camera.
“Up next, Taynuilt,” the conductor announced through the overhead speakers. “Taynuilt.”
The Scent of Forever Page 12