Fiona's Wish

By Daisy Banks

Only the ultimate sacrifice will save her timeless love.

Left shattered by her lover, Fiona Murray believes not one good man lives on this planet. She leaves civilization to work on a lonely isle off Ireland's coast.

When lonely Selkie Ronan hears Fiona's passionate call, he can't help but answer her. She is all he desires, and for her, he will leave all he's ever known--the deep blue sea. But Fate and the sea are fickle mistresses, and want him back. Will he find the strength to surrender all he is to be with Fiona?

And can Fiona, knowing her destiny without him, let him live the life he deserves?

21,000 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781616503567

Daisy Banks

An obsessive writer Daisy Banks is passionate about her stories. Her focus is to offer the best tale she can to readers. Daisy is married, with two grown up sons. She lives with her husband in a converted chapel in Shropshire, in England. Antiques and collecting entertain Daisy when she isn’t writing. Please visit her at daisybanks.wordpress.com.

Book preview

Also by Daisy Banks

A Matter of Some Scandal

Fiona’s Wish

Timeless

FIONA’S WISH

By DAISY BANKS

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

For Mary, my dear friend and mentor, because she loves this tale.

Foreword

This story is my take on a very ancient story. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Fiona Murray blinked against the spray flicking up from the white-tipped surf. The small boat she sat in juddered, and as it turned to avoid the swell rolling around slick, weed-covered rocks, her stomach lurched. The weathered face of the man who held the tiller above the chugging engine showed no concern for their lumpen ride, and the small boat scudded along.

Swallowing her disquiet, she took a deep breath of salt-laden air. Snowy white gulls wove and dove above. A flash of petrol blue-gray blasted down, spear-like into the waves, and the bird arose after a second or two with its trophy, a silver scaled fish. Dark rocks loomed a little closer and a shiver of anticipation replaced the queasiness in her stomach. Are we nearly there, Mr. McCluskey? Past caring what this taciturn man might think, she couldn’t stifle her child-like question.

Soon enough, Miss Murray. His brow furrowed and bushy eyebrows narrowed. ’Tis a lonesome place, the Isle. I wouldn’t have thought any lady might want to spend a summer here, he grumbled, reiterating everything she’d heard since the plane landed in Galway, Ireland, two days before. The cab driver from the airport had shaken his head, and even the hostess at her hotel glowered when she’d mentioned her destination on checking out. No one seemed to understand her reason for travelling here.

I’m not on a vacation. I’m here to do some research, marine research. I’ve been sent by my company to look into the biodiversity of the sea in this area.

The small engine powering the boat gave a cough, drowning out the terse reply which accompanied McCluskey’s frown.

She closed her eyes. Let the lot of them think what they would. She’d snapped up this job after waiting years for a research opportunity and nothing, but nothing would get in the way. Once on the island she’d have the chance to push her career forward, and more importantly, to forget the sorrow she’d left behind.

McCluskey shut down the engine and the boat lurched with a startling clunk.

Here yer are, Miss. He dropped over the side and waded to pull the boat the last few meters toward the shore.

A tremble ran though her when she stared across the shingle and sand beach, up to the rolling hills and along to where an eggshell-blue cottage nestled in a grassy hollow. A wooden railed set of stone steps led straight up from the beach to the cottage. Birds soared in a sky of such brilliant blue it could have been photo-shopped. The place appeared magical.

She made to rise to go ashore.

Hold hard, Miss, McCluskey growled. Let me drop the anchor.

She stripped off her shoes and socks, rolled up her jeans and waited, clutching the bag containing her precious laptop. After what seemed an eternity, he took the bag from her and gave her a hand to climb into the chill water, which eddied and rolled around her knees.

Wet sand and small gritty stones squeezed between her toes. McCluskey handed her the laptop case, eyeing the leather bag as though it held something wicked. I’ll get your luggage.

Thank you, Mr. McCluskey. I know the cottage isn’t locked. I’ll go up there straight away.

Aye, there’s no need for locks on the Isle, unless you’re afeared of the gulls. There’s boxes of your stuff already been took up.

Thanks again. She strode through the shallows, across the beach and away from his disapproval.

The shingle stones left behind, she walked slower, savoring the sensation of sun-heated dry sand beneath her feet. The weathered stone steps leading up to the cottage offered a warm welcome, and she brushed the clinging sand from her toes but didn’t bother to put her shoes back on.

Halfway up, puffing and dizzy, she clung to the rail. She’d not realized the steep incline of these stairs. Resting for a few seconds, she glanced out to the horizon. The distant mainland, a faint smudge against the sky, brought home the sheer isolation. She took a deep breath in satisfaction. She had four months of pure peace to look forward to. The only interruptions would be the weekly reports for her boss, James Redfern, CEO of Moxon Oil, and the emails from her mother.

Well, she didn’t have to email every day. She smiled. Redfern wouldn’t care as long as her reports came on time and gave him the information he wanted.

She’d get her head together here and forget Gareth’s lying promises of all they’d share.

A sigh swelled, but she carried on up the last of the steps. At the top of the cliff she slipped her shoes back on to walk the rest of the way to the cottage.

The green door, cross-banded with black iron, could have opened into a pirate’s cave. Instead, it led her into a room running the length of the frontage of the house. The bright rag rugs on the cleanly swept, wooden floor, a huge, wide stone hearth with a basket of cut peat blocks ready and a sofa with plump fat cushions all promised comfortable evenings when she could relax and read. Her spirits lifted another notch.

Shutters open, the bay window offered wide views across the sea. An oak dining table with two chairs stood in the recess of the bay window. Just in case she might have a guest. She smiled and put her laptop bag on the table.

She crossed the room, passing the three boxes of her things brought over already by the ferry man, opened the door to the small kitchen and smiled to see an old AGA stove. More peat there, ready for her use. The fridge and freezer had been fully stocked to her specifications and the cupboard held all the dry goods she’d ordered. Deliveries could be interrupted by the whim of the Atlantic, so she’d ordered plenty.

The back door led her to one of the small outbuildings. Here stood the generator. Its low thrummed purr of life filled her with more confidence. Electricity and her means of communication were ensured. Everything seemed to be as promised in her contract.

She returned to the sitting room and found McCluskey waiting with her bags.

I’ll bring fresh deliveries the end of the month, Miss Murray, he said as she picked up one of her cases.

"Thanks, I’ll call