Page 22 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“Apologies. Fresh out of serving staff apart from a cook and a couple maid servants from the tenancy. But they share duties with their own homes and so only bother to keep the essential chambers clean. The parlor isn’t one of them. It’s only me here, so what use do I have for a butler?” He gestured around, but she could tell he was only making a show to hide his embarrassment. Humorous, that even when his life had become so serious, he was still theatrical. “How arrogant an arse would I be to force staff to work for my comforts when they have no comforts themselves?”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” she said, dropping her eyes to her lap. “I’m unfamiliar with such strife as I’ve seen since my homecoming, but I’m trying to understand. And I want to help how I can.”

“Emerson…”

She felt Brady’s fingertips lift her chin and looked up. His brow had softened with forgiveness and the corner of his mouth quirked up wearily, but he said no more as his hand dropped. She took in his full appearance, now that her vision no longer swayed, as he returned his gaze to the hearth and untucked his plaid. He stripped his coat, and tossed the plaid back over his shoulder to secure in his belt. He wore a work shirt of dark green, partially untucked, and the kerchief at his neck hung in a loose knot. As he rolled up his sleeves, her eyes followed his muscled forearms dusted in light brown hair, over his belt storing a utilitarian dagger and his pistol, to his work boots. The crests of his cheeks were still red from the cold. He towered over her in height. He had always been taller than her, lanky too, but she had been nearly her full height at the age of fourteen. Brady, on the other hand, appeared to have sprung toward the clouds as lads were wont to do.

Emerson pushed aside the blanket to stand. The coddling was flattering, but unnecessary. He sensed her movements.

“Sit. And just rest.”

“I was merely going to come closer to the fire.”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Are you always so argumentative?”

She laughed. “I do try. Aunt Bess always told me I was born a barrister like my uncle and father, and that clearly I inherited the trait of arguing, if only my sex didn’t hinder me.”

He chuckled, then moved behind the settee and scooped her playfully backward onto the seat again. She plopped down on a gasp as he squatted behind her.

“I admit I was always quite glad you were ‘hindered by your sex,’ as she said,” he murmured by her ear. “I’m glad to see the fever didn’t take your cleverness.”

Her gasp turned into a laugh and she flashed him a smile over her shoulder. To her surprise, he flashed one back, brightening his firm brow and making use of the dimple that still lurked within the crease, for he was only twenty-two.

“Hold steady,” he said, then shifted the settee even closer to the flame.

She gripped the back to keep from tipping.

“All this fuss over nothing, Brady…”

His finger lay across her lips from behind her, silencing her. She could feel his body warmth with his arm encircling her, could feel his breath ruffling the back of her head.

“I need to check on your coachman. Then you can tell me about your reason for coming.”

He departed again, taking his warmth with him, and she took off her gloves to rub her hands together. The fire heat made them sting, and she massaged her fingertips. Moments later, the cook pushed through the back entrance, carrying a tray that she placed upon the table beside her bonnet.

“Good day to you, Lady Emerson,” the cook greeted her.

“Good day to you as well,” Emerson replied.

“It’s been some time since we’ve had a guest here.”

“And it’s been quite some time since I’ve had the pleasure of a visit to this fine home.”

The cook smiled, but looked around with resignation. “We make do nicely in these tougher times. Laird MacInnes always makes sure we have enough. He takes good care.”

Emerson could see that he did, and smiled. She’d thought herself under no illusions about her rich life, for she knew most orphans were never so fortunate, but between the beggars at St. Fillan’s, Clara’s rebuke of her rich life, and Brady’s offense, she was beginning to see that she still had much to learn. She thought on Brady and smiled as the cook scuttled away, hoping he still harbored a fancy for her as strong as she did for him. A fanciful and ridiculous notion, she thought, as if her Aunt Bess spoke the scolding. But in spite of all logic telling her otherwise, she couldn’t shake the thought of Brady with Colleen. What if Colleen’s bastard really was his, and that had been why his father, and now he, searched so fervently?

Stop it, Emerson! His betrothal had fallen through and his finances had plummeted, not to mention that she’d lost everyone in her family by now. Life had clearly been hard enough for both of them without her accumulating insecurities.

“And so, why did you come, Emerson?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Brady’s reentry.

“As you can see, the gossip is true, and Aberfeldy Manor is fairly well disgraced,” he said.

“True about what?” Emerson argued. She’d seen the appreciation on the cook’s face. Brady was no disgrace. He was more honorable than most noblemen, with a determined resolve to see to his tenants when every other lord was evicting them. “I see only a man who’s been a champion to many when other lords have been cruel.”

He shook his head, coming to stand beside her and depositing her traveling satchel beside her.