Page 24 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Chapter 5

Brady folded his arms across his chest and watched Emerson make a slow circle around the barren chamber, as if she were an interested buyer rather than a childhood love. He wondered what had caused the shift in her expression. His mind reeled at the letters. True, he was glad that Corbin had taken care of her when he knew he would have only caused her hardship, but he could never let her know how much it stung to have been labeled so unworthy by her uncle, and manipulated to boot. Emerson had felt heartache, thinking he’d forgotten her when in fact, he’d bled his love for her onto those countless pages, and she’d been denied ever knowing. Anger sparked within him, knowing how she’d been hurt.

She made a full circle around the parlor, then returned to his side. “Have you thought about refurbishing your manor and taking in boarders?”

“Ah, a boarding house. That would bring the cream of society to my lands, wouldn’t it?” he jested.

She shook her head. “No, rather, a holiday venue for those with the means to travel somewhere rustic. You have the space, and you could charge a decent penny, quite easily turn a profit and employ your tenants on your earnings.” She looked around again at the cobwebs clinging to the corners and chipping plaster, as if all she saw were gilded sconces and ornate friezes. “I admit, the wealthier folk in England speak of Scotland like some exotic novelty and often come north to visit.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, Brady conceded, and he swallowed down the anger he felt at her uncle, now deceased. Her Aunt Bess had been right. Emerson should have been a barrister, or at least a businessman, he deduced, considering her keen mind. He could see the millstone grinding her thoughts into clarity. But where would he get the capital to invest in such an endeavor as refurbishing his estate?

“It takes coin to make coin, lass. I’m making do. As long as I can keep from evicting anyone.”

She faced him, her smile apprehensive, and she was close enough again that he could smell her perfume. Lavender. Intoxicating. He hadn’t paid close attention when he’d carried her in, for he’d been too worried, nor had he paid attention as his heart broke all over again while reading the letters and squeezing her hand. But he breathed it in deeply now.

“But…but I have money,” she said. “And this would be a worthy investment—”

“Absolutely no.” He sliced the air with his hand, his brow hardening. He turned away with his hands perched on his hips. Be damned, but the last thing I want is her pity thrown at me in the form of a stack of notes.

“Why not?” she asked, but he couldn’t fathom an immediate response.

The humiliation of taking her money would be enough to do in a proud man, and even though he was little more than a titled pauper, he certainly had MacInnes pride.

“What kind of a man would I be if I took a lady’s charity?” he finally asked, glancing sidelong at her.

“‘He that is proud, eats up himself.’” A grin curled up her beautiful lips as he crinkled his brow. “That was Shakespeare, my dear Brady, or have you forgotten?”

She laughed a disarming laugh, and he couldn’t resist a chuckle. He liked the idea of being her dear. He’d always wished he had been.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” she added. “If you need another adage, I’m sure I can think of one.”

He rolled his eyes at her cheek, much like he remembered her doing, when her coachman breezed in from the cold, bringing a draft into the parlor. Brady noted the tea service and a plate of sliced brown bread with cuts of ham upon the table, and was reminded of his manners in the coachman’s presence.

“Please, do have some refreshments, Lady Emerson.” He gestured to the table, then turned to her companion. “Make your way through that back door to the kitchens, man. The cook is expecting you and prepares you a meal with a pot of hot tea.”

The coachman dismissed himself.

“In truth,” Emerson began as he, too, came to sit across from her. “I was thinking on what you said yesterday. ‘You cannot help them all,’ or some such remark.”

He watched her sweep her skirts aside and pour herself a cup of tea, perfectly comfortable to wait on herself in lieu of the servants he didn’t have. The soft flesh of her lips pressed to the rim as she took a sip. He’d kissed those bonny lips once, though it had been such a fleeting gesture, he remembered more the feeling afterward when he realized she’d been pleased. He’d skipped all the way back around the house, shimmying up the drainpipe and in through an upper window, and hadn’t slept a wink as he remembered Emerson in her billowing nightgown with curls tumbling over her shoulders like a downy waterfall.

He’d been mad for the lass then, and gazing at her now, he realized he still was, even if life had given them both separate experiences. But his heart still burned at the way in which they’d both been deceived, and that his father had left him with accounting books that had offered her uncle nothing attractive to a prospective wife’s family. Now his ledgers were causing Emerson to pity him.

Look at Emerson now, so elegant, so refined, like she always breezed through her afternoons as if on the Strand in London shopping for expensive hats, eating cucumber sandwiches, and attending the theatres where he’d once longed to act, even when she was in freezing bloody Aberfeldy. And yet, she had remained so generous. What lady of breeding would take in a street urchin? He’d missed her, and now that she was in his parlor, drinking tea and eating luncheon, he wanted to touch her again. Needed to.

“I owe you an apology, for I thought the worst of you at that remark,” she said. “You seemed cold-hearted toward their plights, and it frustrated me. Now I know such a comment was made out of your own frustration.”

The idea humored him, that a stack of letters and a guilty conscience would inspire her to brave the cold just to come see him, when she had no business trotting about in such temperatures. She still cares for you, too.

“I’m quickly coming to realize that Emerson doesn’t let much hinder her even if illness has rendered her frail,” he remarked.

“Right you are,” she said, smiling fondly at him. “I’m beginning to wonder if hosting a Christmas party this year would be a good idea.”

His eyebrow quirked and although he was seated, he folded his arms. Just being around her was softening his edges.

“You do remember not long ago being carried inside and realizing I have no household, no candlesticks, no staff, and only peat to burn in my hearth—which I harvest each summer myself—correct?”

She smirked at him and put down her bread, dusting her fingers off. She was eating heartily, uncaring that such behavior was deemed unfeminine. It was refreshing, the naturalness with which she comported herself.