Must Love Highlanders (4 page)

“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.

“There’s food in the fridge,” Mr. Comarty said as they trooped downstairs. “The basics, and a few things Jeannie says are essentials. We can pick up anything else you need tomorrow. You’ve a charger for your phone and laptop?”

“I do, one for each.” Jane and Dunstan had seen to that, and the requisite adapter plugs. “When shall we leave tomorrow?”

Louise had scheduled a trip to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, a hike up Arthur’s Seat, and a visit to Rosslyn Chapel, none of which would happen unless she was thoroughly rested.

“I’d like to get an early start,” she added.

“We’ll want to miss traffic, so there’s not much point leaving before eight thirty a.m. Does that suit?”

They’d returned to the porch, where the eaves dripped damply, though the rain had either paused or moved on.

“I will probably sleep until then,” Louise said, “which seems a shameful waste of a day in Scotland.”

Mr. Cromarty shifted the cat to his other shoulder with the ease of a parent handling a sturdy baby.

“You take a nap, Miss Cameron. After an hour or two at most, get up and go for a walk. If you look in the desk drawer in the study, you’ll find a map of the walking trails, and the one along the river is mostly level as far as the waterfall. Go for a ramble, check your e-mail—we’re five hours ahead of the East Coast—and curl up with a book and a sandwich. That’ll set you up for the rest of your stay.”

Louise scratched the cat’s chin, though that meant sharp claws dug into the shoulder of Mr. Cromarty’s jacket.

“You’ve done this?” she asked. “Flown across the Atlantic?”

“Many times, though not as often in recent years. If you need me, my house is straight out the back, through the trees about fifty yards. You can’t miss it, and the door’s never locked.”

Louise’s apartment in York was locked and alarmed, though what would anybody steal? A lot of sketchbooks featuring portraits of her own feet, Robert’s hands, or a sleeping Blackstone.

“Thanks, Mr. Cromarty. I’ll expect you tomorrow at eight-thirty.”

Louise meant to pluck the cat from his shoulder, but Dougie was a cat, and thus her efforts were resisted by virtue of several claws hooked deeply into Mr. Cromarty’s lapel.

“Drat the beast,” he muttered, trying to extricate the cat’s claws one by one. Dougie, however, had no intention of parting with his owner, and grabbed on with his free paw just as the first paw was unfastened.

“Let me,” Louise said. “You hold him, and I’ll—”

She slid a hand between Mr. Cromarty’s jacket and his chest, which was covered with a black T-shirt. The result was a few moments of tactile intimacy nobody—except perhaps the cat—had planned on.

Mr. Cromarty smelled delicious. Against the back of Louise’s hand, he gave off an animal warmth, and this close he was pure, solid male. She was hit with a wave of stupidity—fatigue, female awareness of the man she touched, and bewilderment at the entire situation.

“Dougie, let go,” Mr. Cromarty growled. “Bad kitties get no tuna fish.”

Having destroyed Louise’s composure and perhaps some of Mr. Comarty’s, the cat turned up docile and cuddled against Louise’s middle.

“Stay with Miss Cameron,” he said, shaking a finger at the cat, “or I’ll throw you in the river where the fishes can make sport of you. You can be our own local river monster.”

The cat blinked and, if anything, purred more loudly as his owner thumped down the porch steps.

“Mr. Cromarty?”

He paused amid the rocks and bracken at the foot of the steps, a man whose looks would not substantially change for the rest of his life. Liam Cromarty wasn’t exactly handsome, but he was attractive. Very attractive. Also patient, considerate, fond of cats, and interested in art.

“Miss Cameron?”

“Could you—? I mean, I don’t know what’s expected here. In Scotland. Between relative strangers. And you have to be honest if it’s not appropriate. Could you call me Louise?”

“Liam,” he said, without an instant’s hesitation. His smile had nothing of the wolf, but it crinkled his blue eyes and lit up his face with a breathtaking warmth. “And I shall call you Louise.”

“The American spinster stole your man,” Liam informed Helen. She cocked her shaggy head, tongue lolling, but didn’t leave her bed.

“We’re getting old,” Liam said, closing the door behind him. He’d taken the dog for a good hike before going to the airport, but the larger breeds tended to age sooner, and one walk a day was Helen’s limit anymore.

“C’mon,” Liam said. “Up with you. We’re not quite decrepit, and the back porch awaits.”

Helen got to her feet, shook her head hard enough to make her big ears flap, and obediently followed Liam through the house to the screened back porch. The rain had left the woods damp, fragrant, and sparkly with midday sun. Rather than go bounding off through the bushes, all Helen did was squat among the bracken and then commence sniffing a few rocks.

“I resent that Miss Cameron has borrowed my cat,” Liam told the dog. “You don’t appear to miss him.”

Helen glanced his way and went back to her investigations. She was mostly deerhound, with some mastiff thrown in and perhaps a bear or two on the dam side.

Liam was debating whether to have lunch or grade the last of the term’s papers when his phone rang.

Jeannie. He debated letting the call ring through to voice mail, but she’d simply keep calling and texting until he answered.

“She’s here,” Liam said, “and likely asleep by now, and yes, I changed the sheets last night.” From flannel to cotton, a pattern of roses that smelled of the lavender sachets Jeannie stashed in the linen closet.

“Hello to you too, Liam,” Morag said. “Jeannie’s putting the baby down, so I’m using her phone. Did you know she and Harold have been fighting?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re getting a divorce,” Liam said, gently, because Morag was angry in proportion to how badly she hurt, and lately she’d been very angry.

“You’ve not been married for a long time, Liam,” Morag said. “There’s fighting and there’s fighting. Henry doesn’t sleep through the night yet, and nobody fights fair when they’re exhausted. What’s the latest American like?”

The latest American was tall, pretty, and had a weakness for Scottish vowels of the male persuasion. She would like Liam’s back porch, and probably like Helen, too.

“Seems a sensible sort, but then, lawyers often are. Thanks for kitting out the pot shop.”

“If she wants more than the basics, send her to me. We’ll throw mud together. Jeannie says to tell you Miss Cameron has been to art school.”

“Bugger what Jeannie says.” Bugger all of Liam’s interfering relations, rooting about in his life like Helen on the scent of a rabbit. “Just because a woman has taken a class in throwing pots doesn’t mean she’ll fancy a fellow who’s fascinated by brush work in Low Country Renaissance masters.”

Though Miss Cameron—
Louise
—also liked cats. A fine quality in any woman.

“Jeannie wants to see you happy, Liam.” Morag’s scold was all the more effective for being uncharacteristically gentle.

“For the next two weeks, I’ll burn up a fortune in gas, see all the sights we were dragged to repeatedly as children, and pretend yet another loch is the most beautiful scenery on earth.” Moreover, Liam would be
cheerful
for those two weeks, because Jeannie had asked this of him. “Enough about my non-holidays. How are you, Morag?”

Liam could do a credible version of the older-cousin inquisition with Morag because he
was
older, and because she’d been away at university for most of the year following Karen’s death.

“I’m fine.”

Liam could picture the exact “I’m fine” smile Morag wore. Helen growled through such a smile when confronted with a small, male dog intent on taking liberties.

“Jeannie says you’ve lost weight, Morag.”

A pause ensued, during which Morag might have been taking the phone to a more private location—or counting to ten.

“Jeannie is a mother,” Morag said. “Their vision changes when they give birth, so everybody looks in need of a meal or three. I think she’s fallen asleep with the little rotter, Liam.”

Morag was asking a question, as best Morag knew how to ask anything of anybody.

“Don’t let her sleep in the same bed as the baby, but before you kidnap Henry off to his crib, tell me how you’re doing, Morag Colleen Cromarty.”

“I hate you, you know.”

“That well?”

“I’m goddamned lonely, Liam. I’m glad to be free of Dean, but I’m lonely. He was at least somebody to resent, and now…” Her voice dropped. “Jeannie said you went a little crazy when Karen died. I can’t imagine being this lonely and grieving too. How did you stand it?”

Not well. Not well at all.

“Your vision becomes impaired,” he said, as Helen’s pale, plumed tail waved among the bracken like a flag of surrender. “You learn not to see very far behind you or in front of you. You do the next necessary thing, and time and pride eventually pull you up out of the ditch.”

“I’m making the ugliest gnomes you’ve ever seen. Nasty little fellows that ought to bring exorbitant sums.”

They were probably merry, fat, and cute. “Watch the drinking, love.”

“No worries. Can’t throw a decent pot when I’m blutered.”

Then thank God for Morag’s pottery wheel. “Tell Jeannie the American is fine, and I’ll take good care of her.”

“I’ll tell her the American is a right terror, and this will be the longest two weeks of your life.”

“Save me a gnome. Love you, More.”

The line went dead.

Liam was something of a thorn in his family’s side because he
told
them he loved them. Said the words often and in public, Scottish reticence be damned.

Helen’s head lifted, her gaze turning toward the river. Down on the path along the bank, Miss Cameron went marching by.

“Sit,” Liam said softly. “We have papers to grade, and we’re too old to go chasing after tourists. Besides, she doesn’t kiss men she’s just met.”

And for her scruples, Liam liked her all the more.

Robert Stiedenbeck, III, had wanted to remain friends with Louise.

“We’re colleagues, too, aren’t we, Lou?” he’d asked as he’d packed for New York. “We’ll keep in touch, and you can read my stuff for me, the same as always. If you want to visit the Big Apple, our couch is always available.”

Our
couch. His and his Sweet Young Thing’s.

Louise had watched him go, feeling as much relief as heartache. Robert had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he’d also reminded her of Dr. Allan Hellenbore, professor of studio arts, seduction, and ceramic forgery. Same friendly, self-mocking arrogance, same quick intellect coupled with an instinct for self-interest that boded ill for anybody else’s dreams.

Louise could go for months without thinking of Allan Hellenbore. She’d learn not to think of Robert. Not to be angry at him, not to wonder what in the hell—

The first step toward not thinking about somebody was to not think of them.

“Rise and shine,” Louise muttered to the cat plastered to her side. Dougie lifted his head, stared at her, and stretched to a magnificent length.

“My, what impressive claws you have,” she said, dragging the cat onto her belly. Overhead, the skylight framed a leafy canopy, birds flitted, and morning sunshine poured across it all at a low angle.

While in Louise’s lavender-scented bed, Dougie was a comforting, warm, rumbly weight.

“I’ve been here only a day, and already, I know I won’t want to go back to York,” Louise murmured. “This is not good, Cat. I don’t want to teach drawing to a bunch of giggling children. They’re either texting their weekend hookup, or convinced they’re the next Michelangelo. I’m even more sure I don’t want to go back into the courtroom.”