The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  “Can you move?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She faked a severe limp.

  “Come on.” He dragged her toward the windowless bathroom.

  She pretended to fall twice, dropping her new clothes.

  “What is wrong with you?” He frowned and picked up her garments.

  “You threw me into a ditch, remember?”

  “Yes, well, you’ll have to do better than this tomorrow, or people will stare at you.” He flicked his head toward the bed, where the photograph reflected the ceiling light. “And that wouldn’t be good for them, would it? Wait here.”

  She braced herself on the doorjamb, wondering if she could run past him. “What am I going to do, run outside half naked on feet I can barely feel?”

  “I’ll be right back.” He tossed her clothes into the bathroom, then raced into the kitchen.

  She glanced at the front door. It would take some time to undo the brass chain guard. Can I make it?

  Nigel answered her question by returning with his screwdriver. “Seeing you naked and being unable to do anything about it is more than I bear right now. I need to conserve my energy for tomorrow.” He knelt and started unscrewing the doorknob at her belly. “But we can’t have you locking yourself in there, can we?”

  Less than a minute later, the bathroom’s lock and doorknob lay on the carpet.

  Ann hobbled into the small room, then pretended to brace herself on the bathroom vanity while Nigel ran a bath.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” He whirled out of the room.

  When she heard the shopping bag rustling in the bedroom, she quietly opened the vanity door. Inside, a pink, handheld mirror lay next to a hairdryer and a stack of towels. The hairdryer was of no use, but she snatched a towel and balled it around the mirror. Seconds later, her potential weapon lay beside the sink.

  Nigel returned with a bottle of lavender-scented bubble bath. “I bought this for you.” After pouring half the liquid into the tub, he blew out a breath that rattled his lips. “Women and their fripperies.”

  When she shuffled toward the tub, he said, “The hot water will do you good. I’ll be right outside. Let me know when you’re in.”

  She stripped out of her smelly clothes, then stepped into the tub and sank under the foam. It felt glorious. “I’m in.”

  His face appeared in the doorway. He entered the room, then turned his back to her. “I, uh . . .” He rubbed his wrist and stared at the floor. “Are you under the bubbles?”

  He was apparently serious about not seeing her naked.

  “Yeah, I’m under.” She scooped the fragrant foam toward her chest.

  He slid down the wall to sit on the tiles beside the tub, then grabbed his hair in clumps and looked at the ceiling. “You are so beautiful.” He gave a heavy sigh.

  She fought the urge to look toward the sink, where salvation lay wrapped in bleach-scented, poly-cotton blend. How would she retrieve it now with the asshole watching her every move?

  Nigel trembled and licked his lips.

  What if she tempted him? Would it send him into a rage . . . or out of the room?

  “Nigel?”

  “Yes.” He looked at her, his eyes dreamy with lust.

  She sat up, feeling the tickle of suds sliding off her nipples. “Is there any shampoo?”

  He slammed his hand across his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you do that?” He crawled to the toilet, then braced himself on the bowl. “Bitch,” he muttered. “You bitch!”

  Oh, shit. She covered her breasts.

  Looking angry enough to combust, Nigel reached for a receptacle. He stopped short of laying his hand on it, as if evaluating whether or not he should touch it. He dropped his hand, saying, “I ought to pull you out of that tub and do you right here.”

  Riight.

  Ann launched an Oscar-worthy performance. “Oh, please, Nigel, no.” She hugged her knees. “I’ll be more careful. I promise. Please, I’ll do what you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

  “I need to rest.” He wobbled up to his feet, then ran out of the room.

  Ann heard the bed creak as he flopped down on the mattress. She carefully reached up to retrieve the mirror. It was a cheap, Chinese product, a round looking glass held in place by a square piece of double-sided sticky foam. It popped apart easily. She returned the empty handle to its hiding place, then slipped the glass under the bubbles.

  A washcloth hung on a chrome bar. She used it to make the mirror less slippery as she held it against the edge of the tub. She wrapped the cloth around the glass, then pounded once with her fist. The mirror broke.

  “What was that?” Nigel shouted.

  She slipped the shards under the bubbles. “I dropped the bubble bath.” She set the bottle on the floor, just in case he didn’t believe her.

  When she was sure he hadn’t budged, she inspected the broken mirror. Two pieces were too round. A third, slender shard tapered to a point.

  Perfect.

  It was small enough to hide and sharp enough to cut something—or someone.

  She slid the useless fragments of broken mirror under the bathmat. The pointy sliver would stay under the bubbles until she dried off. Then, she would find a way to hide it—either in her mouth or in the cleft of her ass, if she had to.

  She sank deeper into the tub, relishing the hot water that soaked away both grime and despair.

  Chapter 33

  “The bastard!”

  Ann flinched as Nigel hurled his mobile phone against the wall. “High seas indeed. If he’s too bloody yellow to sail on anything but bathwater, what’s he doing advertising charter services?”

  “Who?” she asked.

  Nigel ignored her. “Now, how are we getting from Oban to Portrush?” He pulled his laptop out of the duffel bag and tossed it onto the bed. “Fucking wanker! I already checked us out!”

  Ann leaned as far forward in the chair as her bound wrists would allow. The shard of mirror tucked between her buttocks was on the verge of cutting her. If that happened, the evidence of her treachery would bloom red on the back of her new underpants. That would spell disaster.

  “We’re not leaving, after all?” She didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic.

  Nigel slapped her, a violent strike that left her ears ringing. His indifference concerning a new welt was answer enough.

  “Are you deaf or just stupid? Didn’t you hear me say I checked us out? I already turned in my key! Just shut your gob while I think.” He paced the room with his hands pressed against his temples and his fingers stabbing his hair. “Inn’s closed for the weekend. They’re going away. A wedding, I think the lady said. We have to be out by eleven.” He halted and looked at Ann, then dropped his hands, sending his hair spilling in daggers over his eyes. “I suppose we could simply stay. I mean, how would they know?” He opened the curtains. “No, no. That won’t work. Someone will surely come to clean, if not today, then tomorrow.”

  Ann winced at the bright light.

  “I can’t risk it.” He looked at his watch, then returned to the bed for his laptop. “I need Wi-Fi if I’m going to find us another boat.”

  Wi-Fi meant the tea house—and at least an hour to make her escape, maybe more if Nigel had trouble finding another boat for hire. She longed to ask why they didn’t just take the train back to Glasgow and then the ferry to Belfast, but she guessed his reasons for sticking to routes less traveled were fairly obvious. Besides, her cheek still stung from asking the last question.

  Nigel carried his duffel bag into the kitchen. When he returned, he stormed to the nightstand. The photograph made a snapping noise as he snatched it away from the base of the lamp. He held it before her eyes while pinching her chin, a painful ha
bit she detested. “If anyone knocks on that door, you better find a way to make them go away. If you go missing, I promise you”—he shook the photograph—“these two will pay the price. Do you understand me?”

  His viselike grip prevented her nod.

  “Do you understand me?” he shrieked again. The rage in his eyes could ignite a soaked blanket. “Say it!”

  “I do, Nigel. I understand.”

  He snapped her neck when he released her chin.

  Fury spread from her chest to her cheeks as she watched him retrieve his phone. She would give nearly anything to see his face when he returned to an empty cottage.

  Nigel paused at the door to give her one last look at the photograph. “Remember, their fate is in your hands.”

  When his footsteps faded, she went to work. It had been difficult to hide the shard of mirror through the night. At first, she kept it in the cup of her bra. When Nigel mentioned binding her to the chair, she asked to pee first. In the privacy of the bathroom, she slipped her weapon into its current hiding place.

  Ann groaned and arched her back, squealing as the hot spear of impinged nerves stabbed her biceps. Overwhelmed by throbbing pain and frustrated by her body’s rebellion when she needed it most, she hung her head and cried.

  William. James. They needed her.

  She clenched her jaw, held her breath, and ignoring her agony, tried again. Her trembling fingers plunged past the elastic band of her panties. She withdrew the shard, grateful to be relieved of its sharp edge. Panting from pain and exertion, she allowed herself a moment to recover. The next step was vitally important. It could not be bungled. Taking great care not to lose her grip, she blindly flipped the sliver until the pointed end faced up. With that accomplished, she poked holes in the tape at her wrists. The weakened band tore easily.

  When her arms fell free, she yelped, but ignored the desire to rub her shoulders. Instead, she focused on slicing through the strap around her middle. With that band slashed, she bent forward, head pounding, to release her ankles.

  She stood, wondering if her faltering legs would truly hold her.

  I did it!

  She heard her own gasps as she limped on numb feet. Blood roared through her ears when she donned her jeans and jacket, then her socks. She was really getting out of here! With shaking hands, she tied her shoelaces into sloppy bows that looked like a three-year-old made them. Didn’t matter; they were tied.

  Sniffling, and wiping away her earlier tears, she raced into the kitchen. Nigel’s duffel bag lay on a white table. Its contents rattled onto the Formica, revealing nothing of value but the slotted screwdriver.

  Stanley!

  She slipped the tool into her back pocket and set about looking for something better. If Nigel caught up to her, she wanted a way to defend herself.

  He’d been thorough. The utensil drawer was empty. He’d reduced the knife block to a useless hunk of bamboo.

  She banged open the cabinet doors, finding only a set of vintage Melmac plates on top and light pots and pans on the bottom. None of them would break a water balloon, let alone Nigel’s skull. The cupboard below the sink held extra sponges, some dishwashing soap, a plunger, and a plastic jar of lye. Apparently, the proprietors of The Staghorn Manor expected lodgers to not only wash their own dishes, but fix plumbing issues, too.

  Ann tapped her hands against her hips as she scanned the room. She wasn’t sure what to do next. Should she run for the main road? If she hadn’t been blinded by terror on the day Nigel abducted her, she might remember what it looked like. It was probably the same road Nigel used to reach the tea house, and thus, too dangerous to use now.

  Her only option was to find the manor house, break in, and use the phone.

  To call who? Maggie? What could she do? How did one make an international call from Scotland anyway? Surely, there was a code . . .

  She yanked open a hutch drawer. It held nothing but tea towels and a Blessed Mother night light.

  Cops. I’ll call the cops. Nine-nine-nine. She remembered the number from the Fodor’s travel guide Maggie made her read on the plane.

  Then what? she wondered as she sprinted into the bedroom to inspect the dresser drawers. An officer would come. Nigel would see the patrol car and know she escaped. He would make a beeline for Iona while she sat for hours in a police station answering questions.

  She squatted to open the bottom dresser drawer, then rifled through the extra bedlinens.

  Think, Ann. Think!

  If she knew William’s mobile number, she could simply call him. When she moved to open the television cabinet, she imagined that conversation.

  Hi, William, this is Ann. I know you thought I left, but huh, get this, a funny thing happened on my way to Glasgow. Long story short, there’s a madman on his way to kill you and your son. Well, that’s about it, I guess, except I love you.

  She did not recognize the hollow-eyed woman staring back from the television’s dark screen.

  I love you.

  It was possible to fall in love with a man she’d just met, wasn’t it? How unfitting that she should question the existence of love at first sight when her first two novels were based upon it.

  The heart was greedy; it mostly got what it wanted. And what Ann’s wanted was William, the man who took her hands and whispered, “I know it sounds crazy, but stay in Scotland. Marry me.”

  Her laugh pierced the room.

  Crazy? If there was one thing she knew now, it was crazy, and William wasn’t that. He was vulgar and damaged and two hairs short of Complete Bastard, but he was also a brilliant artist who would brush vivid colors across the blank canvas of her heart. They had a future together, a good future . . . if she could keep Nigel from stealing it. And that task, she realized, would fall to her alone. Not Maggie. Not the police. Her.

  You’re wasting time.

  “Shit. Shit! Shit!”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. A manor called The Staghorn would have weapons, maybe a gun or an old claymore. Hell, even a pitchfork would be better than nothing.

  She headed for the door. Her hand barely touched the brass knob when the answer hit her.

  Lye.

  She didn’t need to go to the manor house after all. Not yet, anyway.

  As she changed from prey to predator, serenity warmed her limbs and banished her fright. With steady hands, she filled a pot with water, then dumped the entire container of lye into the liquid. It boiled instantly. She carried it toward the front door, careful not to let its caustic steam into her lungs or onto her skin.

  Nigel would pause when he opened the door and saw the empty chair. Then, he would see no more.

  ~ ~ ~

  As time passed, a thousand questions eroded her resolve. What if she stumbled? What if some of the lye splashed on her? What if it didn’t burn him badly enough? What if an innocent person entered the cottage, like cleaning staff?

  NO DAILEY MAID SERVICE.

  Anything could happen. She was on the verge of abandoning her plan and simply running for the manor house when pebbles crunched outside the door. It was now or never. She reached for the pot, still scorching in spite of an hour’s cooling.

  Please, God . . .

  She didn’t know how finish that prayer. Please, God, help me maim another person? That didn’t sound right.

  She held her breath.

  Nigel stepped into the room. He froze when he saw the empty chair.

  “Hey,” Ann said.

  He flinched, then whirled to face her.

  She flung the liquid too soon, pot and all, drenching only the right side of his face.

  He gasped as his hands flew to his eye. He dropped to his knees, squealing like a freshly castrated boar, then fell onto his side across the threshold.

 
; She leapt over him.

  Despite his agony, he flailed his arms and caught her by the ankle. “Oh, no you don’t!” he shrieked.

  She landed beside him, striking her elbow on the concrete.

  He rolled on top of her, his breaths rasping and labored, his hair spattering her cheek with lye. “You filthy bitch!”

  She closed her eyes, then beat her fists against his back and tried to wrench free of him. With every ounce of strength left to her, she arched her torso to hurl him off her belly.

  He landed near the foot of the bed.

  She scrambled away, her breaths squeezed by despair and panic.

  He clawed after her, his unholy shrieks goring her back.

  “Let me alone!” She kicked wildly at him. Her heel connected, and he fell back.

  She clambered to her feet, then raced through the door to freedom.

  ~ ~ ~

  What now?

  Sobbing, Ann limped up the tree-lined driveway to the manor house. She rubbed her burning cheek, where a drop of lye brought the bite of a hornet’s sting. How much worse was Nigel’s agony? She felt no remorse about that, only regret that she hadn’t dealt him far worse.

  She glanced behind her for the hundredth time, her heart in her throat, finding only a butterfly soaring on a gentle breeze.

  The driveway ended at an empty parking lot. Across the gravel, a stone, Georgian mansion rose up from a small garden. A sign on the front door confirmed what she already knew.

  CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY.

  Panting, she tried the knob.

  Locked.

  There must be a phone inside. She had no choice now but to call for help.

  She rang the doorbell. Westminster Quarters summoned no one.

  Searching for a hidden key proved fruitless.

  Two sidelights flanked the front door. If she smashed one, she might be able to reach the lock. The damage would be minimal. Insurance would cover it.