The morning sunshine showed Mr. Cromarty to be north of thirty by a few comfortable years and to have a smile both sad and friendly. Louise could not recall meeting a man with eyes that blue. Those eyes made her want to work with color again, and not simply with line.
“If you want to paint, you must paint,” he said. “You’re on your holiday. You should spend it as you please. My family has enough artists that we’ll find you an easel, brushes, and paints.”
He resumed walking, but paused at a curb. “Get in the habit of looking the wrong way before crossing the street, Miss Cameron, or you’ll step out in front of a taxi.”
On the sidewalk before Louise a white arrow pointed off to the right, underscored by the words, “Look right.”
“This is all very different.”
“And you’re very tired, also hungry and thirsty. The car’s this way.”
Louise waited until Mr. Cromarty had stepped off the curb, then trundled after him. He knew where he was going, which was why she’d paid Jeannie for his services, and he was easy to spot in a crowd because of his height.
More than his height, though, the way he moved caught Louise’s interest.
Liam Cromarty conserved his energy by staying relaxed. Dancers learned this lesson early in their careers or courted injury. As Louise followed him to a small black Mercedes on the ground level of a covered garage, an extraordinary thought emerged from her tired, travel-fried mind.
She’d like Liam Cromarty to model for her.
Perhaps Scotland could learn a thing or two from the United States about spinsters.
Liam had traveled extensively in the United States, though, and all his lectures and gallery openings and interviews didn’t support the theory that American spinsters were on the whole astonishingly pretty, and grace itself in early morning sunshine.
Louise Cameron wore her height regally. She regarded the world from slanting chocolate brown eyes that hinted of both disappointment and determination. Her mouth required study, not only because her accent held beguiling traces of the American South, but also because she didn’t speak much, and Liam didn’t want to miss what little she said.
“I won’t mind if you want to nod off,” he said as they tooled away from the airport. Traffic, fortunately, was inbound toward Edinburgh at this hour, while Liam’s destination was to the north.
“I didn’t travel 3,500 miles so I could take a nap, Mr. Cromarty. Will we cross the Forth Road Bridge?”
“In about ten minutes, traffic permitting. You’ll find water in the glove box.”
Liam allowed her a bit of crankiness. International travel wasn’t for everybody, and she had to be exhausted.
She cracked open a bottle of Highland Spring still and took a delicate sip. “What do you do, Mr. Cromarty, when you aren’t driving Americans around?”
She was an attorney. Of course, she’d ask questions.
“I teach art history and art appreciation.” The answer Liam gave even friends and family, though that wasn’t all he did.
Another sip of water. Miss Cameron’s hands on a mere plastic bottle managed to look elegant.
“Do you have a favorite period or artist?” she asked.
“Many, but mostly I’m drawn to particular works. I noticed you’d like to visit Rosslyn Chapel, for example. It’s well worth an afternoon and this early in spring, it won’t be crowded.” Liam enjoyed Rosslyn Chapel because it was quiet, the setting was lovely, and the grounds always had at least one friendly cat.
Jeannie had passed along an itinerary that was a curious mixture of the predictable and the puzzling: Culloden Battlefield and the Robert Burns museum, but also “Glasgow.”
The entire city? The Willow Tea Rooms? The School of Design? What did an attorney want to see in “Glasgow”?
Or, “The Highlands,” which, when taken with the islands, comprised more than half of Scotland.
“What sort of law do you practice, Miss Cameron?”
“General practice. In a small town that means wills, divorces, barking dogs, contracts, guardianships. Lots of variety.”
This recitation did not animate her as the simple morning sunshine had, but then, what manner of people went to court over barking dogs?
“Are you hungry?” Liam asked.
“Probably.”
“You’re not in the United States, Miss Cameron. Women are expected to eat in Scotland, and we like them better for it.”
Her lips quirked. Because Liam was dodging around a lorry, he couldn’t tell if she’d been about to smile or grimace.
“The traffic is all backward here,” she said. “The fast lane is the slow lane, and we’re on the wrong side of the road, and I’m on the wrong side of the car. I like it.”
She wouldn’t like the gas prices, but then, the distances were generally much smaller in Scotland than in the Unites States.
“You can give driving a try when we get out to the country,” Liam suggested. “In a lot of places, we have only one-lane roads and that simplifies driving considerably.”
Miss Cameron was daintily, relentlessly, swilling down the entire bottle of water. Each time she’d twist off the cap, take a sip, then replace the cap snugly on the bottle. Her hands were long-fingered and ringless.
She wore no jewelry, in fact, which was either a visual sort of quietness, or a precaution against airport security delays.
“I want to see the places with one-lane roads,” she said. “I want to see cows and sheep too.”
The lady was decidedly odd, even for an American. “You haven’t any of those in Maryland?”
“I want to see them in this light, Mr. Cromarty, and we don’t have those shaggy, red cows with long horns, at least not that I’ve seen. Those are cows, not some prissy bovine selectively bred to produce low-fat milk and six genetically identical calves a year.”
From what Liam could recall of his carnivore days, the Highland cow was exceptionally good eating, too.
“The Forth Road Bridge, Miss Cameron, and to the east of us is the rail bridge.”
She fell silent as they crossed over the Firth of Forth estuary. To their right was one of the most photographed bridges in the world, a bright red, century-old marvel of engineering and perpetual maintenance. To cross either the rail bridge or the Forth Road Bridge was to leave Edinburgh behind.
Always welcome, that.
“How much farther?” Miss Cameron asked about ten minutes on. The North Sea danced under morning sunshine to their right, while green hills and the occasional farmstead lay off to the left.
“About an hour, all of it pretty. I picked up some scones on the way to the airport. You’re welcome to have at them with me.”
“Scones,” she murmured, apparently going for a Scottish pronunciation. From her, the word came out halfway between “scuns” and “sco-wans,” which was nearly spot-on for Perthshire.
“With butter,” Liam said. “You’ll find a plastic knife in the bag as well. I’ll start with cinnamon, and don’t spare the butter.”
He’d chosen four different varieties—plain, cinnamon, raspberry, and chocolate chip. Miss Cameron slathered butter all over his, then passed it to him wrapped in a serviette.
“But-ter,” she repeated under her breath.
Liam took a bite of very good fresh scone. “Are you mocking me, Miss Cameron? I can show you accents that make mine look like English public school.”
Defying both his first and second guesses, she chose plain for herself, though she did apply a decent amount of butter.
“Your voice is like the sunlight to me, Mr. Cromarty. Your accent illuminates vowels and consonants I’d stopped hearing. You make words shine.”
Louise Cameron liked the sunlight in Scotland, she liked the driving patterns, and she liked Liam’s accent. Perhaps these two weeks wouldn’t be such a trial after all.
Whoever said the occasional modest dose of gluten was bad for the body was an idiot. Louise nibbled fresh-baked heaven, the scone balancing on t
he edge between bread and pastry, between sinful and delicious.
And the butter had to be organic. But-ter. Mr. Cromarty’s elocution was a revelation, a more athletic, energetic rendering of the English alphabet than Louise could muster, plus some vowel sounds she was sure hadn’t crossed the Atlantic with the pilgrims.
She opened the second and last bottle of water.
“Thirsty, Mr. Cromarty?”
“A wee nip will do,” he said, accepting the bottle from her. The second half of his scone was balanced on his thigh, and he handled the steering wheel and the water bottle easily. No speeding for Mr. Cromarty.
He passed the bottle back, and Louise took a drink before twisting the cap back on. Even the water here tasted—
“Holy Ned,” Louise muttered, staring at the bottle. “I can’t believe I did that.”
Mr. Cromarty maneuvered the car off the four-lane highway and onto a side road.
“Did what? Shared the bottle with me? I’m in good health. We’ll be breathing the same air for the next few weeks, touching the same doorknobs. I think you’re safe enough, Miss Cameron.”
He was laughing at her. Louise was too tired to smack him, and besides, she hadn’t figured out how to drive here yet. Liam Cromarty was necessary to her plans, and she liked listening to him.
“Sharing a bottle is biologically comparable to kissing,” Louise said. “I don’t kiss guys I’ve just met, no matter how much I enjoy their vowels.”
That was the last thing she recalled saying, until a large hand gently shook her shoulder.
“Wake up, Miss Cameron. Welcome to your temporary home.”
Louise was in the middle of preparing a Motion to Reconsider while Robert pranced around the courtroom wearing nothing but a Greek drinking vessel on his head.
“I’m not finished,” she muttered.
“The rain will start any minute.”
Courtrooms suffered excesses of hot air, but no rain. “Go away.”
The next thing Louis knew, she was scooped out of the car and hefted against a broad male chest. Her first instinct was to cuddle up to soft wool and woodsy aromas, but she instead heaved open her eyes.
“You, sir, are carrying me.” Carrying her up to a little house snuggled among big trees.
“American ladies are a sharp bunch,” Mr. Cromarty said, “but they can’t hold their scones worth a damn.” He deposited Louise on a padded porch swing, produced keys from his jacket pocket, and opened the door just as thunder rumbled off in the distance.
“Welcome to Dunroamin Cottage, Miss Cameron. The temperature’s dropping, and we can’t have you falling asleep in the wet.”
“Give me a minute, please.” Or an hour or an entire season.
The sun had fled behind steely clouds, leaving the cottage surrounded by gloom and forest primeval. The leaves had a self-illuminated quality visible only as new foliage passed through the chartreuse phase of unfurling.
The surrounding trees were a mix of conifers and hardwoods, and the yard was mostly rocks and bracken.
Mr. Cromarty picked up Louise’s suitcase and disappeared into the cottage. The dwelling was cozy, a two-story stone structure that begged for pots of flowers by day and mysterious dancing lights at twilight.
Thunder sounded again, and a chipper, woodsy breeze gusted through the clearing.
“Shall I start you a fire?” Mr. Cromarty asked, closing the door behind him and rejoining Louise on the porch. “The rain wasn’t supposed to start until this afternoon, but Scottish weather has a mind of its own.”
“I don’t want to go inside,” Louise said. “I’ve always loved storms, and one of the things I didn’t like about being a lawyer is that I always worked inside.”
Though Louise had only now realized that. Long, long days in the courtroom, sitting, sitting, sitting, and trying to stay mentally sharp in an environment budgeted to dull the senses before the morning recess.
No courtroom had ever smelled as lush and intriguing as the breeze wafting around this little Scottish cottage. Neither had the drawing studios at the art school.
Mr. Cromarty took the place beside Louise, the chains creaking as the swing dipped.
“Shall I show you the studio now, or would you like to finish that nap you started?”
All the useful pieces of Louise’s mind had been flung 38,000 feet in the air, and they weren’t floating back to earth in the right order. The lawyer part of her couldn’t seem to connect with the art teacher part of her, and neither of those had quite hitched up to her body or her usual sense of organization.
A sensible woman would take a nap—or finish the nap she’d started.
“Would you sit with me for a few minutes, Mr. Cromarty?” Louise wanted his warmth, wanted that comfortable-in-his-own-skin vibe right by her side.
“This is a pretty place to bide,” he said, ranging an arm along the back of the swing. “I have good memories of this cottage. I wrote my doctoral thesis here.”
A yes, then. A friendly yes to her request for company.
He was Dr. Cromarty, PhD, but hadn’t bothered with the academic title when introducing himself. More evidence that Liam Cromarty knew exactly who he was, and had nothing to prove to anybody.
Whereas Louise—
“Why the sigh, Miss Cameron?” He pushed off with the heel of his boot and set the swing in motion.
“I cannot recall being this tired since finals week my third year of law school,” Louise said. “I think I’ve been tired for a long time, but that plane ride did me in.” Or maybe she hadn’t had anybody to sit with in years. “What’s your PhD in?”
“Art history.”
A rosy sense of good cheer took up residence in Louise’s middle. Liam Cromarty liked art. How many guys liked art, much less made it their primary area of study?
“I like art too.” Good to recall that. At one time, Louise had loved art with a stupid passion.
“Right—you’re a potter.”
Pot-ter. Once upon a time, Louise had been a ceramic artist. The hottest talent to hit the galleries in years, supposedly, though hot talent and galleries struck her as a contradiction in terms now.
“I’ve thrown some pots. I’d like to do more of that while I’m here.” Louise would also like to rest her head on Liam Cromarty’s shoulder, but snatched the last scintilla of dignity from her carry-on brain and resisted that temptation.
The wind died as the thunder rumbled yet closer.
“The studio’s stocked and waiting for you, Miss Cameron. My cousin Morag works in ceramics, and if her own facilities ever come a cropper, the wheel and kiln here are her backup plan.”
“Everybody needs a backup plan. What’s a nice PhD like you doing driving tourists around old Scotia? Am I your backup plan?”
The first soft patter of rain hit green leaves, faded, then resurged into a steady downpour.
“You’re a favor to my cousin Jeannie, with whom you did most of your corresponding. For the next two weeks I’m between terms, and I know my way around fairly well.”
Louise had lost her way. With thousands of miles between her and a cookie-cutter apartment in nearby York, Pennsylvania, she could see that. What she could not fathom was why Scotland should feel so welcoming, irrespective of the man sitting next to her.
“I’ll fall asleep if we stay out here much longer.”
Mr. Cromarty was off the swing in one lithe movement. “Come along, then. I’ll show you around, and you can catch forty winks.”
Chapter Two
* * *
Mr. Cromarty extended a hand to Louise, and she took it, though such was her fatigue that when she stood, she needed a moment to get her bearings. He kept her hand in his, until Louise was the one to let go.
The cottage was designed with recessed lighting that brightened up an interior the surrounding trees could have made gloomy. In the kitchen and dining area, which sat to the left of the front door, the floors were flagstone. To the right, the living room had polished o
ak floors, a fieldstone hearth along the inside wall, and picture windows looking out on the woods.
“The photos on the web site don’t do this cottage justice,” Louise said. “They don’t show the trees, the skylights, the ferns, the books, or,”—the sense of homecoming welled again, higher this time—“the kitty.”
Mr. Cromarty left off opening drawers and cupboards in the kitchen.
“So this is where the damned hairy bugger has got off to. Please tell me you’re not allergic?” He scooped up what had to be twenty pounds of long-haired black feline from the sofa, and from across the room, Louise heard a stentorian purr.
“I’m not allergic. I like cats.” Robert had detested them. Louise suspected he’d been less than gentle with Blackstone when she hadn’t been home to referee.
“There’s a cat door in back,” Mr. Cromarty said, “but I thought I’d locked it shut. Dougie won’t be any bother, but I can take him home with me if you’d rather.”
The cat booped Mr. Cromarty’s chin with his head then turned golden eyes on Louise as if to say, “I saw him first.”
“I can use the company,” Louise said, stroking a hand over the cat’s back. “His name’s Dougie?”
“Black Douglas. He ought to be Black Shameless.”
Another head boop. Mr. Cromarty loved his shameless cat, and the cat—if ever a cat were to admit such thing—loved Mr. Cromarty.
“Leave Dougie with me,” Louise said. “I’m sure he’ll find his way home when he’s hungry enough.”
“Starvation plagues him unceasingly.”
Mr. Cromarty didn’t turn loose of the cat, but kept him cradled in a purring, contented embrace as Louise was given a tour of the cottage. In addition to the kitchen/dining area and living room, the downstairs held a half bath and a small ceramic studio complete with fridge, kiln, shelves, tools, and a small plastic trash can for clay.
Upstairs was divided into a bedroom that felt like a treehouse—much of the ceiling was a skylight—and a study with computer and reference books. Both the study and the bedroom had floor-to-ceiling picture windows, and from the bedroom a placid river was visible through the trees.
Must Love Highlanders Page 2
