“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.
Long-dormant powers of observation and analysis stirred inside Louise as she and Liam trekked up the eight-hundred-foot hill flanking Edinburgh to the southeast. The views were lovely, of course, but the terrain, like what she’d seen of Perthshire, wasn’t much different from Maryland between the Appalachians and the Chesapeake shores.
And yet…
“I see differently here,” Louise said as they stood aside to let an older couple coming down the slope pass them. “I’m noting the details, the colors, the relationships, the geometry. Maybe it’s the light.”
“Maybe you’re on holiday,” Liam countered, starting up the trail. “You got a good night’s sleep, you’re in different surrounds, and you’re paying attention. One of the advantages of travel.”
Louise paid attention to him, and not only because from a three-hundred-word abstract, he’d described Robert Stiedenbeck, III, exactly.
“Men move differently in kilts,” Louise said, scrambling up a set of natural rock steps. “More freely. It’s attractive.”
Even the older guys with their walking sticks and stolid ladies at their sides moved with a certain assurance, but then, so did many of the unkilted men.
And all of the ladies.
“I was hoping I’d hate it here,” Louise said, because clearly, Liam wouldn’t dignify her comment about the kilts with a reply. “I’m not hating it.”
“Hating is a lot of effort. Mind your step.”
Liam needed to work on his charm, but he could hike the hell out of a Scottish hill.
“There are no guardrails here,” Louise said, taking Liam’s proffered hand to negotiate another natural incline. “No signs all over the place. Climb at Your Own Risk, or No Littering, or All Dogs Must Be on a Leash, or Scoop Your Poop.”
No litter either. Nobody taking stupid risks.
Liam tugged her over a scattering of loose rock. “Sounds like a lot of noise and blather. How could you see the pretty landscape for all those lectures and scolds?”
Liam’s question brought them to a stretch of gently rising grassy slope.
“Stop, please,” Louise said, keeping hold of Liam’s hand lest he conquer the summit on the strength of forward momentum alone.
He obliged as a quartet of teenagers went giggling and flirting past. “You’re in need of a rest?”
“How could I see the pretty landscape for all those lectures and scolds?” Liam’s words caught in Louise’s throat as she repeated them. “Lectures about posture, deportment, the family name. Lectures about appearance, the right people. Lectures delivered with the arch of an eyebrow or a serving of pecan pie.” Her breathing hitched, as if her lungs had been squeezed by a giant, familial hand. “Crap and a half, I thought I was done with all this.”
Liam didn’t drop her hand, and his grip was reassuringly warm. “Has your family come to call?”
He was quick—the Scots would call him canny—and his gaze was kind.
Louise managed a nod. “Anxiety along with them. I almost never have these episodes anymore. Damn.”
She’d learned to breathe through the dread, to count her breaths instead of hoard them. She didn’t have panic attacks. She had episodes, or—Auntie Ev had of course chimed in—little spells.
“Let’s sit, shall we?” Liam suggested. The trail was flanked by boulders and rocky outcroppings in spots. He drew Louise over to one, and she sank against it. Liam came down beside her, right immediately beside her.
And he kept her hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” Louise said, while the predictable elephant tried to sit on her chest. “New places, schedule whacked. Should have been more careful.” Mention of Robert, when he was supposed to be thousands of miles away, lecturing another, younger, more confident woman into a coma, probably hadn’t helped either.
Liam rubbed his thumb back and forth across Louise’s knuckles. “You should be less careful. Enough new places and pretty views, and you’ll get your heart back, but that takes time.”
And courage. “You speak from experience?”
His thumb slowed. A dog that looked like Irish wolfhound-lite sniffed at Liam’s knee, then went trotting off toward the top of the hill.
“I speak from experience, and from hope. Bad things happen, but then there are friendly dogs, beautiful portraits, delicious curries, and lovely views. There’s wee Henry, whom I will spoil shamelessly exactly as I do his cousins. There’s meaningful work, and a good sturdy piece of granite to oblige us when we’re a bit winded.”
A bit winded. Louise dropped her forehead to Liam’s shoulder, as the certainty that all creation faced imminent doom faded, replaced by a simple lump in her throat.
“Were you a bit winded, after your bad breakup?” she asked.
“I was flat knackered, but I’d already been going too hard and too fast for too long.”
“I’ve left the profession that was supposed to be my salvation,” Louise said. “I’ve moved, ditched a relationship that wasn’t right, and I have no idea where I’m going.” And she’d been going at the lawyer stuff too hard and too fast for the five longest years in the history of lawyering, too. Trying to build a practice, trying to be a solid partner to Jane, who’d been born quoting Marbury v. Madison.
Liam’s arm came around Louise’s shoulders in a bracing squeeze. “Catch your breath, and we’ll take the last part slowly. The hill isn’t going anywhere, and we still have some light.”
For one more moment, Louise had the blessed pleasure of Liam’s hand in hers and his arm around her shoulders in a friendly hug. Then he stood, though he remained beside her.
Louise gave herself the space of three more slow, medium breaths—deep breaths could lead to hyperventilation—then got to her feet.
“I’m not going back to Georgia for Christmas,” she announced. “Not this year, maybe not ever. Travel at the holidays is crazy, and I can see my sisters anytime.” Especially now that her life wasn’t ruled by the almighty court docket—though t
he academic calendar could be just as tyrannical.
“Onward, then,” Liam said.
He had the knack of companionship, of neither leading nor following, but staying mostly at Louise’s side. When the trail narrowed, he might go first, or Louise might. They didn’t need to talk about who led or who followed or which fork to take when they faced a choice.
Because the afternoon was well advanced, the very top of the hill was mostly deserted. They passed the occasional couple or family on a picnic blanket, or a lone walker contemplating a view, but at the highest, rockiest point, they had the hill to themselves.
The North Sea glistened off to the northeast, while beyond Edinburgh, green countryside stretched inland around the Pentland Hills. Louise got out her phone, wanting to capture the memory of a wonderful day.
Despite the visit from her relatives.
“You’re smiling,” Liam said. “Shall I take a photo?”
“Please, and try not to put any gargoyles in my hair.”
The same big, wire-haired dog came sniffing up the rocks, only this time his examination of Liam’s knee was cursory. As Liam fiddled with the phone, the dog came panting to Louise’s side.
“You smell the chapel kitty,” Louise said, offering her hand for inspection. The dog licked her wrist, then took a seat at her feet as if photobombing was all part of the service, ma’am.
“The local Scottish Tourism Board representative wants his picture taken,” Liam said as the camera clicked. “I expect the chapel cat sent him. You might smile now, Louise. Scottish deerhounds can be particular about the company they keep.”
Louise smiled, because she was particular about the company she kept. No more Roberts—he had been a weak moment brought on by a career transition and a sexual drought—and no more pecan pie topped with mixed messages.
For the next two weeks her company would be Scotland and Dougie.
Also Liam Cromarty.
“I think I’ll get a dog,” she said. “A nice big, friendly dog.” Blackstone would have to adjust, or join Jane and Dunstan’s practice.
“I like dogs,” Liam replied, as the camera clicked again. The breeze whipped his dark hair every which way, but his concentration as he tapped the screen was unwavering.
Down the hill, somebody whistled, and the deerhound trotted off.
“Your turn,” Louise said, taking the phone from him. “Think Scottish thoughts.”
“Just for that, I’ll introduce you to tablet,” Liam said, shifting so the wind blew his hair back, not into his eyes. “Or Jeannie’s whisky brownies.”
“You’re talking to a Southern woman, Cromarty. Don’t make me get out my bourbon cake recipe.”
Viewing him through the camera lens, Louise had to both look and see. What aspect of this guy belonged in his portrait? What would those painters whose works hung in the gallery do with this subject?
Louise shifted the angle, so wide blue sky got honorable mention, along with the cairn of red-brown rocks topping the summit. The sea shone behind the hill, a flat, silver mirror saying farewell to the late-day sun.
And yet the kilted man standing off-center in the frame dominated the image easily.
“What’s tablet?” Louise asked.
Just as she hit the shutter button, Liam smiled. Not a Scottish Tourism Board grin, not a pained male, “for God’s sake, get it over with” smile.
“You would probably call tablet fudge,” he said, with a hint of a challenge. “Sort of a blend of sweetened condensed milk and butter. The perfect treat to tide you over until supper, and I have some in my sporran.”
Louise took a second shot of that slight, diabolical smile, but the fiend had dangled a lure her blood sugar couldn’t resist. She put her phone away.
“What do I have to do to get some of this magical treat?” she asked.
They were alone at the top of Arthur’s Seat, the light would soon fade, and Louise did not want to leave. The views were magnificent, and the climb—and the company—had done her good.
Liam dug in his sporran and passed her a bite-sized square the color of turbinado sugar.
“What you must do to earn this treat, Louise Cameron, is enjoy it.”
The texture was perfect, between fudge and hard frosting, the sweetness underlain with the richness of cream. Hot, strong coffee would hold up to such a delectable morsel.
“This stuff ought to come with a gym membership,” Louise said. “Chunky Monkey pales by comparison. You aren’t having any?”
“My treat,” Liam said, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her jaw, “is that right at this moment, you’re happy. Tablet is not as delectable as the smile you’re wearing, Miss Cameron.”
On that unexpected bit of gallantry, he moved off down the incline.
Louise finished her tablet, munching slowly, letting the pleasure dissolve on her tongue as the sun sank lower and the sea gleamed on the horizon.
“I’m happy,” she whispered, letting the realization replace all the anxious, dark, doubting feelings she often carried around inside. More baggage than she realized, heavier than she’d known. She lifted her arms to the sky, not caring if Liam was watching.
I’m happy.
When she’d clambered down to the path, she fell in beside Liam, content to walk beside him all the way back to the car park. The day had been magical, and some of the magic clung to her, even as she wondered:
What would it take for Liam to be happy too?
A prediction of rain saved Liam’s sanity, for yesterday’s frolics had about done him in. He took himself down the path to the cottage, intent on confirming with Louise that she’d not need her driver for the day.
Honesty compelled Liam to admit that Louise Cameron’s mouth—a perfectly mundane arrangement of two lips—had about done him in. Her mouth had moods— thoughtful, determined, merry, frustrated. He’d taken to studying her mouth when he ought to have been studying portraits of old Rabbie Burns or Mad King George.
Louise was leaving in less than two weeks, but the image of her smiling atop Arthur’s Seat would linger in Liam’s memory long after her departure. More excellent composition, which he’d e-mailed to himself, but he’d probably not share those photos with his classes.
He knocked on the front door of the cottage, and nobody answered. From the base of the picture window, Dougie blinked up at him.
“I brought cat food,” Liam informed his pet. “Though I suspect you’ve wheedled cheese and worse from the lady.”
Dougie replied with a squint—a self-satisfied squint.
The door was unlocked, practically guaranteeing another visit from Uncle Donald. “Anybody home?” Liam called as he walked into the kitchen.
Perhaps Uncle Donald had kidnapped Louise for a spot of fishing. She had Liam’s cell phone number, and might have called if her plans—
Somebody was down the hall in the studio, humming along to the strains of “Caledonia.”
Bless the rainy forecast. Liam set the can of gourmet cat food on the kitchen counter, slung his damp jacket around the back of a chair, and eased down the hall.
Louise sat before the pottery wheel, a small column of wet, reddish clay rotating slowly between her hands. Liam’s reaction was immediate, erotic, and inconvenient as hell.
He was going daft. First her mouth, then her hands. She pressed her thumbs into the top of the column, creating the beginnings of a dished shape, then continued to press, so the column developed a hollow interior.
Just like Liam’s mind. Arousal, visual pleasure, consternation, and surprise rocketed about inside him, but nothing as coherent as an actual thought.
“I know you’re there, Liam,” Louise said as the clay became a vase. “I thought I heard the door, and I can smell your aftershave. You’re allowed to watch. I’m not one of those artists who throws mud at someone who interrupts her work.”
From the CD player, Dougie MacLean—such a helpful fellow—sang gently about kisses, love, and going home.
; “Wouldn’t fiddle music be easier to work to?” Liam asked, leaning on the doorjamb. “There’s a Paul Anderson album in that stack that’s breathtaking.”
Everything Paul Anderson recorded was breathtaking.
Louise used the back of her wrist to scratch her chin and got a daub of wet clay on her jaw.
“I’ll listen to them all before I leave, possibly before the day’s done. The forecast said rain for most of the day.”
And thunder and lightning behind Liam’s sporran, apparently. For years he’d not been plagued with unforeseen arousal, with much of any arousal. His equipment functioned, he made sure of that from time to time, but Louise with her wet hands and her hair in a haphazard topknot had ambushed him.
“If you want to spend the day here, I have plenty of work to do,” Liam said. “Papers to read, lecture notes to prepare. If you need anything, you have only to—”
“I need a hard-boiled egg or two and a cup of coffee.”
Liam nearly told her, as he would have told any sister, cousin, or other presuming female, to get it herself or at least say please, but Louise hadn’t looked up from her project. She bent closer to the wheel, shaping the vase into a taller column, gently, gently, then spreading the base with the same deft, sure movements.
She’s happy. She was once again happy.
“You’ve done this a lot,” Liam said. Louise did it well, too. Her expertise was evident in her focus and in the results of her efforts. Some people had the gift of creating art directly with their hands—no brushes, knitting needles, or musical instruments required. They had art—vision, texture, composition—in their very touch.
Louise apparently owned that gift, an ability that went beyond talent to the very nature of the beast doing the creation.
“Used to stay up all night, throwing and re-throwing the same clay. If clay worked for God, why not for a high school kid dragging around thirty extra pounds in all the wrong places?”
More self-disclosure, or another nod to the Georgia pecan pie mafia. “I’ll fetch you an egg and a cup of tea.”
Must Love Highlanders Page 5
