Must Love Highlanders (6 page)

“Do you do that at home?” Liam asked when she opened her eyes. “Do you stop in the middle of the street and gather freckles?”

“I should do it at home. Freckles are where the angels kissed you.”

“I suppose you kiss angels on first acquaintance?”

Louis smacked him gently on the arm, smacked him out of his bad mood, as Jeannie or Morag might have. Karen hadn’t been a smacker, and she’d valued her complexion.

At the portrait gallery, the punctual, dainty, quasi-Yankee tourist disappeared, and a different woman entirely emerged: quiet, focused, capable of remaining still for long moments before a portrait or bust.

Unfortunately, Liam liked that woman—liked her too—and found himself again speculating about her kisses.

No wonder Scottish men could bebop around in skirts.

They knew
who they were
, knew where their people had set up camp thousands of years ago, knew where they’d stood as the Roman legions had trooped past along the coast, hundreds of feet below the lookouts, and knew where they’d watched as those same Romans had gone scampering back south, willing to leave “the last of the free” to their hills and lochs.

The Scots knew where their battles had been fought, knew who’d won, and who was still losing.

Liam shared local history with Louise as a conscientious host would, but after twenty minutes at the portrait gallery, Louise put her foot down.

“Turn off the history lecture, professor. I don’t know what manner of art historian you are, but to me, the joy of a good painting is that it shows us the painter as well as the subject, and sometimes even the entire society in which the painter created. I’d rather spend a good long while with three interesting paintings, than whip by three galleries in the same time. Go read a newspaper or something. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Liam’s chin came up in such a manner that had Louise been a Roman, she would have started her southerly scamper at a dead gallop.

“I have a wee cousin, Louise. Henry cries, he wets, he burps, he does more objectionable things. Him, I babysit. This is a gallery. Here, I frolic.”

Liam had a somber version of frolicking, standing before some paintings as if he could hear them, smell them, and slip through time to see the artist applying the paint to the canvas. One portrait in particular, of a brown-haired fellow in plain late-Georgian attire, held his attention longer than any other.

“Who’s that?” Louise asked.

“Robert Burns.”

“The Auld Lang Syne guy?”

He gave her a look that said clearly,
God spare me from American ignorance.

“The very one. Shoo. This is an interesting painting. I’m busy. Be off with you.”

Louise bopped him on the arm—he’d smiled at her the first time she’d done it, a sweet, surprised, genuine smile—and moved off to some magnificent royal portraits.

There was probably no explaining Scotsmen, but by God, they could paint. The gallery also had a number of busts, and those Louise found as fascinating as the paintings.

“We’re behind schedule,” Liam informed her when she’d finally reached the limit of what she could absorb. “Rosslyn Chapel closes at five p.m. this time of year, and you don’t want to rush your visit. I propose we see the chapel and then take our walk up Arthur’s Seat.”

“Why didn’t you tell me I was running over?” A schedule was important. Law school had taught Louise that, and private practice had taught it to her all over again. Even an art teacher had to be organized, or papers never got graded, office hours weren’t kept—

Liam looked off, his expression vintage stoic-unreadable-Scot as a breeze flapped his kilt around knees that also managed to look stoic.

“You were happy, Louise. I didn’t want to intrude.”

She had been happy
. Utterly absorbed by symbolism, brushwork, technique, palette, conventions, innovations, politics, images, noses, costumes—captivated by art in a way that renewed and exhilarated even as it drained.

And Liam had
noticed
that she was happy. Louise wished
he
could be happy, and not simply content.

She kissed his cheek and resisted the urge to hug him.

“Thank you, Liam. I had a wonderful morning. Let’s grab a bite, hit the chapel, then do Arthur’s Seat.”

His smile was shy and a little bewildered. “Right.
Grab
a bite,
hit
the chapel, and
do
Arthur’s Seat. Brilliant.”

Rosslyn Chapel was a cathedral in miniature, a gem of fifteenth-century extravagance intended to ensure the St. Clair family a warm welcome in heaven. Thanks to well-timed preservation work and mention in a little book by Dan Brown, the chapel also welcomed tens of thousands of visitors every year.

“Who’s that?” Louise asked when they’d paid their fare and crossed onto the green surrounding the building.

Liam saw nobody but— “That is the chapel cat. I don’t know his name.”

“Even the chapels have kitties in Scotland. Do you know how lucky you are?”

Louise picked up the cat, a well-fed black beast who, apparently sensible of the relationship between tourist revenue and his diet, began to purr.

The cat also gave Liam a “she likes me best” look.

Dougie had worn the same expression, last Liam had seen him. “I’ll be in the building, Louise. No photos allowed inside.”

Without setting the cat down, Louise passed him her cell phone. “My first photo in Scotland, and I’m with a handsome, dark-haired man of few words. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Liam had held the camera up to his eye before he realized he’d been teased. “Shall I leave that gargoyle perched on your head?”

“You will do exactly as you please, Liam Cromarty.”

He positioned the shot so the blue Scottish sky and the massive stone of the chapel—no gargoyle—formed the backdrop to an image of a smiling woman and a smug cat. The composition was perfect, the sort of balance that often came from careful contrivance, while the content was anything but contrived.

Before Liam handed the phone back, he e-mailed himself a copy of the photo. An art appreciation class could learn a lot from it.

While Louise read every bit of literature inside the chapel, and peered at length at stonework so delicate as to defy modern comprehension, Liam studied
her
.

The lady did nice things for a pair of worn jeans, and she did nicer things for Liam’s mood. She had the knack of challenging without threatening, of offering insights instead of hurling them at him, cousin-style.

Rather than intrude on her further acquaintance with the chapel, Liam went outside, found a sunny bench, followed his phone call from Stockholm with a text to Copenhagen, and then took out the latest of the many art periodicals he tried to keep up with.

He was slogging through another attempt by Robert Stiedenbeck, III, to be profound and witty on the subject of fur as symbolism in American colonial portraiture when Louise joined him on the bench.

“I suppose you’ve seen the chapel a dozen times?” she asked.

“At least, and I’ll see it a dozen more. When I teach in Edinburgh, we bring the class here. The chapel makes an excellent starting point for discussions of the economics of art, and how art can make a different contribution to society as that society changes over centuries.”

“They stabled horses in there during the Reformation,” Louise said as the cat leaped onto the bench. “Horses, Liam. One swift kick from a cranky mare, and wham, a detail on a carving somebody labored two years to create could have been gone.”

Americans had had a revolution and a civil war, but without the oppression of a state religion, they were baffled by the complexity and violence of the Reformation.

The cat walked right into Louise’s lap, with the same casual dignity as old ladies walked onto the ferry at the conclusion of an afternoon’s shopping.

Liam offered the cat a scratch to the nape of its neck. “Fortunately, the mares were either equine Papists or more interested in their hay than architecture. What is it with you and cats?”

“Have you ever been to Georgia?”

“I have. Friendly place.” And the food, holy God, the food… Fried heaven, even for a vegetarian, though the accent was baffling.

“I grew up there. Everybody’s nice, but nobody’s real, and then,”—she cradled the cat against her shoulder—“they can slice you to ribbons, all the while blessing your heart, darlin’, and you poor thang, and that is such a shame-ing. I’m convinced the mixed message was invented by women of the American South.”

“Family can be a trial.” Liam had the sense Louise’s family was worse than that. They were an ongoing affliction that bewildered her and wouldn’t go away, like persistent grief.

“I grew up with cats,” she said. “Cats are honest. If they don’t want you to pick them up, they hiss and scratch. I love them for that. Love that they are simply what they appear to be, and if they enjoy your company, they are honest about that too.”

Liam enjoyed Louise’s company. He ought not. She wasn’t precisely reserved, though she wasn’t quite friendly either.

“Georgia is far away,” Liam said, closing the periodical. “Family often means well as they’re wreaking their havoc, and if you’re lucky, they find somebody else to plague with their good intentions before you’ve committed any hanging felonies. Have you seen enough?”

Louise set the cat on the ground, and the beast went strutting off to its next diplomatic mission for the Scottish tourist industry.

“Your family was hard on you?” Louise asked.

She was a perceptive woman, so Liam gave her a version of the truth.

“I went through a bad patch a few years back. One of those bad breakups you mentioned earlier, followed by a bit too much brooding for a bit too long. They worried.”

If Louise regarded that as an invitation to pry, Liam would have only himself to blame, because he never disclosed even that much. He’d done a bit too much drinking, too.

She picked up his magazine, a quarterly journal useful for inducing sleep or lining Dougie’s litter box. Liam intended to cancel his subscription, but hadn’t got ’round to it.

“You seem to have found your balance now,” Louise said. “You read this stuff?”

“I read the abstracts. Somebody needs to teach most academics how to write. The article I attempted was worse than usual, though the learned Dr. Stiedenback will cite it at every lecture he gives for the next three years.”

Louise made a face, as if the milk had turned. “You know him? This is an American journal.”

“The art world is small, especially the gallery art world.” And that world was the last topic Liam wanted to discuss with Louise Cameron. “Do you ever visit those people in Georgia?”

“Every other Christmas. They tsk-tsk over all the boyfriends I don’t bring along, cluck about the New Year being full of new opportunities, and tell me I’m nothing but skin and bones.”

Well, no actually, she wasn’t. “They’re of Scottish descent, then?”

Ah, a smile. At last another smile. Part of Liam had been waiting hours to see that smile, and now the image he beheld—pretty chapel, pretty spring day, pretty lady—went from well composed to lovely.

“You’re hilarious, Liam Cromarty. As a matter of fact, they are Scottish on my father’s side. Mom’s DAR royalty—Daughters of the American Revolution—and related to Robert E. Lee, too. Daddy is the reason my sisters and I ended up with middle names like Mavis, Fiona, and Ainsley.”

“Good names.” Beautiful names. “Shall we head back to town? The temperature will drop as the sun sets, and Arthur’s Seat can be windy.”

Louise passed him the periodical and stood. “You really think that Professor Stiedenbeck doesn’t write well?”

Odd question, but at least she wasn’t interrogating Liam about his family.

“Somebody has taken pity on the bastard and assigned him a decent editor this time around, but he offers nothing original and takes a long-winded, self-important time to do it. Not very professional of me, but I imagine he’s the sort who lectures his lovers into a coma before he gets on with the business, and then doesn’t deliver much of a finish.”

Lovely became transcendent as Louise fought valiantly against Liam’s unprofessional humor and lost, heartily, at length, in happy, loud peals. She was still snickering when they got back to the car, and Liam was smiling simply because he’d made her laugh.

“Cromarty, please don’t ever become an art critic,” she said, opening a bottle of Highland Spring. “With analysis like that, you will develop a following wide enough to end the career of anybody you take into dislike.”

Liam pulled out of the car park, and when Louise offered him a sip from the bottle, he politely declined.