Page 20 of Christmas Wore Plaid

The lane wound toward the manor house—not the polished finery she recalled from her youth, even if the house was as imposing as she remembered it. Once, it had boasted wealth with the latest window fittings and refurbishments, but now it was falling into disrepair. Decorative crenellations along the top ended in stately towers on either end, although a window on the upper floor was boarded over. Eight chimneys topped the roofline. Smoke only curled from one. Judging from its placement toward the back of the house, it was likely the kitchen fire that burned. “MacInnes” had always been a proud name, but the inside of that house must be as cold as ice and drafty to boot.

They arrived in the circular carriage path beneath the front door and their horses clopped to a halt. Dormant ivy clung to the sides, expertly bonded to the stone despite the wind that gusted mercilessly here. The mortar sealing the steps together bore cracks of neglect, and scraggly grasses sat in grey, winter tufts along the building’s foundation. No butler opened the door to greet them.

Goodness, his house is crumbling right around him. What on earth do his mother’s prized rose bushes look like now?

In spite of their rocky reunion the day before, the same pity she’d felt as Clara gossiped in her parlor overtook her heart again. Clara had been right when teasing her about her opulent life in Oxford. What did Emerson know of her fellow Scots’ hardships from her comfortable English manor? She could pass out pennies all day, and yet, she didn’t have to visit the impoverished corners of Scotland where people suffered.

Here at Aberfeldy Manor, she could see that hardship had spared no one, no matter their station.

What did she understand about Brady’s life, a life that would see a lad thrust into manhood upon the tragedy of his parents’ deaths and heap such responsibility upon him? She knew what it was like to live without parents, but had been blessed to lose them when she was too young to remember. Not Brady. He must have grieved miserably. And alone. When her relatives had died, they’d left her in good standing with vast sums invested, but the fates had done the opposite to Brady, quelling a lad’s ambitions and booting him into manhood unprepared.

And yet, she could see Brady was making do. The fields were plowed and prepared. The bleating of sheep huddled in the distant pens was loud—there were likely several hundred head. And though disrepair had fallen upon the house, things were tidy, the road pavers weeded and in good condition. He was keeping it maintained and afloat, and doing a fine job given the circumstances.

He doesn’t need your pity and you would insult him if you gave it.

Her coachman dismounted and reached to her waist as a blast of icy wind washed over them, swirling snowflakes around them. He helped her down, when the dizziness that had warned her at the gates about her overexertion finally claimed her.

“I…I think I’m…” Emerson’s eyes went dark.

A moment later, she was upon the ground, her coachman holding her upright by her arms and her vision spotted as her head lolled.

“Lady Emerson… Lady Emerson…”

Her coachman’s voice sounded muffled and confusing as a steady pounding in the distance grew louder. She blinked.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked again, hearing the thundering and feeling the pounding vibrate the ground. Foggy-minded, she turned toward the sound. Galloping horse hooves. A flash of tartan swung and an exclamation burst on the wind in a low, masculine bellow.

“Bloody hell…Emerson!”

She noticed the horseman’s face now as he drew closer. He leaned over his horse’s mane, his arms moving in unison with the thrusting of the beast’s neck.

Brady. A fine sight he made, disheveled and proud in the wind.

He wore a coat and old trousers while his tartan mantle cast over his shoulder billowed behind him. His face was contorted in worry. Wariness warmed her stomach, mixing pleasantly with the fogginess of her mind. A silly sentiment to have, and yet, she still had it. She smiled, watching Brady pull back on the reins while he swung a leg over the saddle and jumped down before the beast had stopped.

He was in front of her now before she could register his strides, squatting down, his knees straddling her as he lifted her face to his and examined her eyes. His thumbs pushed up her brows and prodded her cheeks to determine if she was lucid. A burst of tingling shot up and down her arms, standing her hair on edge, even if his touch was purely sensible. My, he loomed over her, even though he was on his knees and his boot toe was soiling the hem of her skirts. He was still so beautiful, even if his appearance was rough and hardened and his hair unkempt from his excursion. His jaw was stubbly—he’d neglected to shave this morning. The brown of his eyes shone like smooth, liquid chocolate in the day’s stark sunlight.

“What’s the matter, lass? Can you see? Are you ill?”

She cleared her throat. His grip was tight, his hands like clamps holding her head straight as if it might droop the moment he relinquished it.

“I’m fine,” she managed, and brought her own hands up to encase his. He sucked in at the unexpected touch. But after a moment, she felt his littlest finger curl around her little one, and his eyes focused hard on hers. “Just a bout of dizziness.”

“Like hell you’re fine. You crumpled to the pavers.”

He rocked back on his heels and scooped her into a cradle, standing.

“I’m quite well. I only need a moment to compose myself,” she protested.

He harrumphed. “You blacked out. You’re nay fine, lass. Why in the hell did you make such a journey to Aberfeldy? And unannounced at that?”

“Lord MacInnes—”

“It’s Brady to you, and hush. I didn’t mean for you to answer me.”

Ignoring her further protests, he climbed the steps two at a time, grasping the door handle with his hand supporting the undersides of her knees, dragging it back. There was no housekeeper to take her cloak and coat. Just an empty foyer. And she had been right. It was freezing inside.