Page 23 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“Your coachman said to bring this to you.” He placed his hands at his back and gazed stoically into the fire. “I haven’t even coal for my hearth, Emerson. My valuables are sold off and my money is stretched to its limit. What kind of an earl do I make?”

She turned to see his profile, his stately nose and brow. He would have looked beautiful on the stage taking his curtain call. And before she could think, her hand was reaching to him, taking his fingers from behind his back. He looked down at her, his eyes furrowed.

“A good one.”

His gaze flitted to his hand in hers, then back to her eyes. Heat burgeoned up her neck to flame her cheeks, but his gaze never faltered, and his eyes grew distant.

“Why didn’t you wait to marry me?” he finally asked, his voice soft.

“I…”

The question was unexpected and laced with hurt. She dropped her eyes and severed their connection again. For some reason, admitting that her uncle had deceived them was hard to put into words.

“My uncle thought it best if I remained southerly. It took me some months to regain my strength after my illness and much of that was attributed to my uncle’s seaside holiday cottage and the warm, country air. I never heard from you, and when Clara wrote of your betrothal, I assumed you’d moved on. So I acquiesced to my uncle’s desire to see me wed. We all knew Corbin’s health was poor. But he was prepared to compensate me well, and with my body much more frail than my mind, I suppose I felt it was the best offer I could procure.”

“Someone must have intercepted our letters, Emmy,” he frowned. “I wouldn’t lie about writing you. But my betrothal fell through shortly after discussions started, something that I can’t say broke my heart for I wasn’t eager to marry her. I wish I’d have known you never received my correspondences,” he finally replied, stepping to the mantel to rest his arm upon it, but keeping his fingers laced with hers. He glanced back at her, though his eyes didn’t lift to meet hers this time. “Maybe I could have changed your mind about Corbin”—He cut off his response.

It was a bold thing to say and Emerson could feel blush once more upon her cheeks.

“I wish you would have received mine, too, for I poured my tears into them that you would forget me so quickly.”

“I could never have forgotten you. But now that we’ve seen how the fates have played out, it’s probably a good thing you married someone who was able to take care of you. Turns out, I couldn’t.”

“Someone did intercept our letters,” Emerson said, sitting upright and shifting her feet to the floor. “I’m grateful to Corbin, but I would have raced back to you had I known what was truly afoot, for we were both deceived.”

“What was afoot?” He gave her his full front, his brow wrinkling. The easy nature in which they’d reconnected now caused hope to burgeon in Emerson’s chest, and she reeled him closer with a tug of her fingers. He resigned himself to sit beside her.

“In here.” She lifted the satchel and unknotted the ties. “My housekeeper brought these to my attention as the staff cleaned out my Aunt Bess’s belongings yesterday.”

She withdrew the stack of missives, handing him the one on top. He studied her solemn face as he withdrew it, then looked at the address.

“From Frederick Lindt?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped to her lap and she nodded.

“Do I dare read it?” he croaked.

She nodded again, though this time, felt her eyes mist over and her throat thicken. “It’s for the best that you know, for I cannot bear for you to think any longer that I wasn’t in love with you.”

“In love with me?” he whispered, and she looked up to meet his eyes once more.

So many questions swirled in his gaze, but he finally unfolded the letter and began to read. Moments later, his hand reached to hers and took it, squeezed it, as his eyes skimmed over the words again and again. He dropped the letter to the floor, then withdrew another one, his face stony, then another, until he’d read the whole stack. The final letter fell to his feet and he scoured his palm over his mouth and stubble, still clenching her hand.

“‘Please tell the MacInnes family that his son is henceforth forbidden from writing to her further. Corbin makes a much more respectable suit and Emerson’s future is more important than her childish whims,’” Brady finally recited.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I feel responsible, for he was my family—”

“It isn’t your fault. None of it is.” He turned to face her, taking both her hands now. “What your uncle did was cruel to both of us, but he made the choice with his concern for you at heart. I cannot fault him that. It’s not your fault that my father left a financial entanglement for me, or that you were used in this scheme without your knowledge. And as much as it pains me, hearing this”—he cleared what sounded like anguish from his throat—“I’m glad you weren’t dragged into poverty with me. I’m sorry for Corbin’s loss.” Brady push the words over his lips and squeezed her hands. “Did he take care of you?”

Emerson nodded. “He was kind-hearted. We were fond friends.”

He quirked his brow. “Friends?”

Emerson nodded again. “I knew him through our families. Neither of us were head over heels for each other, but being friends made it possible to live peaceably together. He was a good man.”

Brady nodded, as if her answer eased some sort of concern. Her hands sufficiently warmed, Emerson withdrew from their clasp and lifted aside the blanket, standing. This time, he didn’t argue with her.

“Had I objected to marrying Corbin, perhaps my uncle would have listened to my wishes, but I didn’t because I thought you’d forgotten me. Have you at least found love, Brady? At least once?” she added carefully.

He stood too, his height imposing and plaid so rustic against the ornate carvings decorating the mantel. The mere suggestion was scandalous to discuss, but she felt she could be open with him. And although the idea put distaste in her mouth, she had to know he had found happiness with a woman, too, that he hadn’t been completely miserable all these years. Even if that woman had been the daughter of his tenant and a prostitute at that. Mercy, but the way Brady’s face heated while he looked askance, made her wonder morbidly at his answer.

But pain contorted his brow. “I may not be naïve anymore, Emerson, but I’ve only met one lass I wished to court and she was given to Corbin Pritchard.”

He didn’t elaborate, but her heart soared at his answer. Now that she was widowed, did they finally have a second chance?

“I wondered all the time what became of you,” she said eventually. “I asked my aunt about you, but she never replied in much detail.”

“And no wonder.” He scoffed. “Now you know.”

She began to walk around the chamber. Enough of this reminiscing. It was causing her heart to flutter at both curiosity to know him now, and pain that things had come to this. But if he could see fit to exploring a future and letting go of the pains of the past, such a thing could still be wonderful… Aye, as she looked around the, forgotten parlor, another idea came to mind and swirled to life. Inspiration burgeoned. Inspiration that might help Brady immensely, and give them reason to spend more time together until her aunt’s house sold, so long as he agreed.