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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,