“Uncle, what a surprise.” Liam clearly wasn’t pleased to see Donald, and neither was he surprised.
“Liam, good day to ye. Help yourself to a scone, and the coffee’s hot.”
Liam wore a kilt, another black T-shirt, and a wool jacket. The only resemblance between the two men, though, was size and blue eyes.
“I have an aunt just like Uncle Donald,” Louise said, patting Liam’s chest. “Every bit as presuming, though not half as likable. You might as well have some coffee. I’m not quite ready to leave.”
“Liam doesn’t eat meat,” Uncle Donald observed as he dusted his fingers. “Makes him skinny and cranky, but a day in the city will do the boy good.”
“At least I don’t housebreak uninvited,” Liam remarked, taking up Dougie’s empty green bowl and running it under the tap. “You’ll cost Jeannie her business one of these days, old man. Miss Cameron’s a lawyer. She can sue you for unlawful entry and pilfering her scones.”
Liam sounded more Scottish—“auld mon”—and he looked more Scottish in his kilt and boots. He smelled the same, though. Spicy, woodsy, delightful.
“Save me the last raspberry scone,” Louise said, “and Uncle Donald, it was a pleasure to meet you—mostly.”
With two Cromarty men in the kitchen, the space became significantly smaller. Louise took herself upstairs, grabbed a shower, finished dressing, and came down to find Liam alone, putting the last of the dishes away.
“You can relax,” Louise said. “Uncle Donald hadn’t really warmed up before you got here, and your deep, dark secrets are safe for now.”
Liam draped a red plaid towel just so over the handle to the oven. “You have an aunt like him?”
“She has to let everybody know I graduated first in my law school class, and that business with art school was a funny little idea I picked up from the Yankees, bless their hearts.”
Liam stared at the towel, his hands tucked into his armpits. “And every time she says it, you hurt a bit, but you’ve learned not to show it. I don’t drink spirits.”
Every time Aunt Evangeline dismissed four years of hard work and heartbreak as a silly little phase, Louise died inside. When Aunt Ev started in on that awful man and the silly business about the pots, Louise spent days in hell.
“Sobriety is a fine quality in the man who’ll be driving me all over Scotland, Liam.”
His shoulders relaxed, his hands returned to his sides. “I enjoy a good ale, and I’ve been known to have a glass of wine.”
The topic was sensitive, though, and personal, so Louise changed the subject. “Do we pack lunch, or eat on the run?”
“We’ll eat atop of Arthur’s Seat, unless you have an objection to picnicking?”
Louise had not gone on a picnic for… she couldn’t recall her last picnic. “No objection at all. Let me grab my jacket and purse, and last one to the car is a rotten egg.”
When she joined Liam at the car, he held the door for her, and she climbed in, prepared to enjoy a day that combined art, architecture, exercise, and natural beauty.
Also some company, though who would have thought: Liam Cromarty, that Scottish male monument to relaxed confidence and easy grace, had deep, dark secrets after all.
Liam enjoyed art—sublime art, ridiculous art, functional art, art that struggled, art that failed, art that did both.
The greatest work of art ever conceived, however, was the human female.
He’d forgotten that.
Louise Cameron first thing in the morning was a different creature entirely from Louise striding around the busy airport terminal, Louise making pronouncements about whom she did and did not kiss, and Louise marching down the river trail.
Louise in the morning was sweet, a little creased around the edges, and intriguing. Liam wanted to kiss her, wanted to bury his hands in long skeins of dark red hair, wanted to sit her on the counter and learn the fit of their bodies.
Which, of course, he would not do. Spring was in the air, and he’d been forced into proximity with a pretty woman—who had artistic inclinations, didn’t censure a man for avoiding spirits, and was punctual.
She came swinging down the cottage staircase at eight twenty a.m., dewy and neat in jeans, trainers, and a purple-and-green tie-dyed T-shirt. Her hair was coiled into a low bun held up by no means Liam could discern, and she appeared to be free of makeup—probably the secret to her punctuality.
“I’ve stashed the last two scones in my sporran,” he said. “We can finish them off on the way to Edinburgh.”
Louise opened the fridge and passed him four eggs.
“Hard-boiled,” she said. “Woman does not live by carbs and fat alone, as tempting as the prospect might be—unless you’re vegan?”
Damn Donald’s big, presuming, well-intended mouth. “I eat eggs and dairy happily and in quantity.” Liam had also been known to enjoy the occasional hapless fish when his body craved protein and the menu offered no vegetarian fare.
“My kinda guy,” Louise said, tucking an orange into her purse. “Do we have water in the car?”
“We always have water in the car, trail mix and energy bars.” Also a first aid kit, a pair of thermal sleeping bags, waterproof matches, and a pup tent, none of which Liam had ever used. “Do you want to practice driving?”
He’d surprised her—also himself, the Mercedes being less than a year old—but he’d pleased her too.
“How about if I take a day to get acclimated and watch the master in action?” she said. “I missed the countryside yesterday, and I don’t want to make that mistake again today.”
“The countryside is worth a look,” Liam said, getting the door. “And you’ll have plenty of opportunity to drive.”
He, however, had seen the countryside between Perthshire and Edinburgh countless times. He had not seen a woman lick her fingers one by one, when she’d finished her scone.
“Are you happy, Liam?”
Americans. “I hardly know you, Louise.” Probably the other half of why he’d thought—fleetingly—of kissing her. “Why would I answer such a personal question honestly?”
“It’s only a personal question if the answer’s no. I’m not happy either, and I don’t enjoy admitting it.”
Nobody had asked her to. “Sometimes contentment is the more reasonable goal. Why did you choose the portrait gallery over the National Gallery?”
She allowed him to change the subject, explaining that she wanted the more Scottish collection. Talk wandered to the various galleries in the Washington, DC, area, which were many and varied.
And she knew them well, including their most recent exhibitions.
“Edinburgh looks old,” she said when Liam had wedged the Mercedes into a parking space. “But pretty-old, like your grandma. Not tired-old, like you feel after a bad breakup.”
She said the damnedest things. Liam’s phone buzzed, probably the call he was expecting from Stockholm.
“This is the less old part of town,” Liam said. “The New Town, in fact, though if we’re to hike Arthur’s Seat, we’ll nip over to the Old Town.”
Liam dealt with his call when Louise took photos of the Walter Scott monument, and as they wandered in the direction of the gallery, he explained aspects of Edinburgh history every schoolboy took for granted. Louise paid attention to his ramblings and to their surroundings. More than once, she simply stood in the middle of the sidewalk, face upturned to the morning sun, eyes closed.
“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 wom
an 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.”
Chapter Three
* * *
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 Ame
rican 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?”
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