Must Love Highlanders (16 page)

“I gave you some early wedding presents this afternoon, Liam Cromarty.”

Had she ever.
Liam drew Louise to her feet. “And what lovely gestures those were. Now I want another kind of lovely gesture.”

The recessed lighting around the mezzanine had dimmed, and staff were clearing off the buffet.

“Will I need my shoes?” Louise asked as Liam led her back to the display area.

“Not for this. I want a guided tour, Louise. I want to hear the story of each piece, to know what decisions you had to make, where the ideas came from, and what comes next.”

“I know what comes next,” she said, stopping before a loving cup with braided handles. The lights had been turned down in here too, and yet, the greens and golds of the glaze seemed to glow with warmth. “What comes next, Liam Cromarty, is we live happily ever after.”

Every artist needed a spouse, a Liam Cromarty, to handle all the pesky financial details associated with sales, to offer the occasional—though never unsolicited—comment on a work in progress, and to impersonate a romantic bunny several times throughout the day.

Liam had the knack of leaving Louise alone her in studio precisely long enough to accomplish a goal, but not long enough for her to grow hungry or unproductive. He was often at work elsewhere in the house, grading papers, preparing for class, or transacting art rental business with clients a dozen time zones away.

Or, when the mood struck, cooking.

“You made sambusas,” Louise said, snatching a clean towel from the stack near the work sink. “What do you want to bet Uncle Donald will be here in the next fifteen minutes?”

Liam set down a tray laden with a pile of golden, flakey sambusas, two bottles of Deuchars beer, and a roll of paper towels.

“Donald is off working on his golf game,” Liam said. “Seems another one of your lawyer friends from Maryland has decided to come to Scotland for a golfing holiday.”

Louise opened both bottles, taking a sniff of hop-py loveliness.

“The only lawyers in Maryland I’d call my friends are Dunstan and Jane.” Mostly Jane, though Dunstan had grown on her. “I certainly know a few more, and most of them are decent people.”

None of whom she missed.

Liam took a sip of his beer, and what did it say about a woman who’d been married for nearly two months, that she still found the sight of her husband
drinking beer
sexy?

Liam passed her two sambusas on a paper towel. “Shame on you. You know better than to look at me like that, Mrs. Cromarty.”

Mrs. Cromarty.
She was Louise Cameron Cromarty now, soon to be a master’s degree candidate at the Glasgow School of Art. She and Liam had decided to first take a year to enjoy being married, and for Louise to settle into her Scottish home.

A fine plan, but like all plans…

“That’s a lovely piece,” Liam said, gesturing with his bottle at a pot Louise had taken from the kiln earlier in the day. “You meant what you said, about purple and green having a lot to say to each other, and the peach goes surprisingly well.”

Louise took a bite of food still warm from the oven. “This is your best recipe yet. If you give it to Donald, he might leave us alone for more than three days at a time.”

Though Louise knew why Donald was stopping by so often. Auld Donald was a canny fellow.

“A fine notion,” Liam said, chewing contemplatively.

Marriage had changed him, added peacefulness to his quiet, and smiles to his conversation. Louise was about to upset that quiet, but also, she hoped, to inspire more smiles.

“Who’s the next guest in the cottage?” she asked. “The bar association was full of golfers, though I had the sense they played mostly to get out of the office.”

Niall Cromarty was the family golfer and Jeannie’s brother. He had Liam’s broad shoulders, also a thriving little golf operation in the wilds of Perthshire, and form most pros could only envy.

Niall did not, however, lay claim to any charm.

“The next guest,” Liam said, “is a lady by the name of Julie Leonard. She’s quite focused on her golf apparently.”

For a prosecutor, Julie had been pleasant to work with. “
Niall’s
supposed to brave the midgies to take her golfing?”

“Which is why Jeannie sent Donald off to the links. One must always have a backup plan. I don’t suppose you play?”

Plans again.
Please, Liam, be the kind of husband who can adjust to a change in plans.

“I don’t play golf worth a hoot,” Louise said. “Niall might not make a bad golf buddy for Julie.” Who was used to dealing with trial attorneys and criminals.

“He’ll be awful,” Liam said, finishing his first sambusa. “Niall’s in want of cheer, unless you happen to be a drooling, cooing wee bairnie by the name of Henry.”

Louise set her beer down after one sip. Deuchars had become her favorite, but she wouldn’t be drinking much for the foreseeable future.

“Everybody can use a devoted uncle,” Louise said, “or first cousin once removed.”

Liam paused, his bottle halfway to his mouth, while Louise’s heart turned over. She would recall this moment, just as she recalled the moment Liam had confused her for a little old lady at the airport. She had an entire mental portfolio of images of Liam, each one beloved. Arthur’s Seat, Culloden, walking the banks of the river with Helen, their wedding day.

And their wedding night.

“Niall’s first cousins once removed would be…
our children
,” Liam said, peering at Louise.

“Got it in one, Mr. Cromarty. Don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to names?”

Liam set his ale down carefully. “Louise?”

“That name’s taken, and wouldn’t work for a boy.”

“Louise Cameron Cromarty. I’ve wondered what the change is. Your pots have gone from beautiful to sublime, and I didn’t think holy matrimony the entire explanation.”

The explanation sat across from her, smiling the sweetest, dearest,
hottest
smile.

“Expectant mothers nap a lot,” Louise said. “I don’t want to nap alone.”

Liam grabbed the plate and both beers and nearly ran for the kitchen. Louise beat him to the bedroom, where they did, indeed, enjoy a nice long nap.

Eventually.

On one of my trips to Scotland, I crossed paths with fellow traveler Heitzi Epstein, a ceramic, jewelry and textile artist and teacher. Heitzi is also one of few people who really, truly knows what my foster care lawyer gig involves. In a past life she was the attorney in charge of the Child Welfare Project of the National Association of Child Advocates…. and she loves Scotland… and she loves music… and she lives in Maryland.

Yikes! No wonder the time spent with her inspired a story with a great big, pretty happily-ever-after ending. Heitzi was very helpful answering my questions about ceramics, though of course, any boo-boos are exclusively mine.

If you’d like to see some of Heitzi’s creations, take a gander at her website at heitzi.com. I’m telling you, you meet the nicest people in Scotland…

Grace Burrowes loves to write, and has more than forty romance titles to her name. She’s happiest when she’s toddling around Scotland or Merry Olde, looking for story ideas and scarfing down whisky flavored tablet (sort of a sweetened condensed milk fudge/rocket fuel blend). Scottish traditional music, breathtaking rural scenery, and the odd friendly cat (waves at Tobermory) are among her dearest delights. When she’s not wandering around the Highlands in the name of research for her books, she’s a child welfare attorney practicing in Western Maryland. Grace loves to hear from her readers, and can be reached through her website at
graceburrowes.com.

“This can’t be!” Sophie wiped the condensation away and pressed closer to the Land Rover’s window.

She’d figured Hugh McGillivray’s wool mill would be a shed and his house a lean-to. But at the gate entrance, she could see he had a castle! Kilheath Castle—if she was reading the sign correctly. On either side of the entrance stood two snow-dusted watchtowers with the wrought-iron gates hinged open. Quite a sight for a small town lass who was used to stone cottages and clapboard.

“Sophie? Are ye listening, lass?” her mama said from the front seat of the vehicle.

Her mama wasn’t the only one in the car with her. Deydie, the village’s matriarch and head quilter, had been lecturing Sophie, too, all the way from Gandiegow, her home on the northeast coast of Scotland.

“Aye, Mama, I’m listening.”

Her mother, Annie, turned the car down the long lane leading up to Hugh’s home. Conifers, tall and thick, hid the castle, which could be seen only at the bends in the road. Sophie cranked her head this way and that to make out the complete structure.

Apparently, neither her mother nor Deydie were impressed with the grounds or the view around them—they didn’t gasp the way Sophie had—but the closer they maneuvered toward Hugh’s house—correction, Hugh’s castle—the more the lecture intensified.

“Make sure to do your bright-light therapy every day, nighean,” Mama reminded her for the umpteenth time. “None of us want a relapse.”

For God’s sake, Sophie was twenty-five and able to care for herself. True, she’d suffered from SAD, seasonal affective disorder, her whole life. But now that she’d been diagnosed and treated, she felt so much better. Emma, Gandiegow’s therapist, had agreed that Sophie was well enough to venture out and do something on her own…even though it was still January and the days were short. The winter months were no longer painful and full of despair for Sophie, now that she was using her bright-light lamp, which simulated sunshine. She felt fine. Wonderful actually. More like summer Sophie than the depressed mess she usually was this time of year.