Page 25 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“I would be willing to pay for it—”

“Emerson,” he huffed, shoving back to his feet and startling her. He turned away. “Stop. Why would you suggest such a thing? Pride indeed goeth before a fall and a MacInnes man has been known to fall hard, as my father’s example should well exemplify with his debts and his secrets about it.”

She remained silent at his back, then cleared her throat, changing the subject. “I’m fostering that wee girl from yesterday. But she cannot—or will not—speak. She’s either impaired or has been traumatized.”

He didn’t turn around, but held still and listened to where the comment might lead. Colleen Thomson’s bastard son also weighed heavily on his mind, considering he had just come from the widow’s cottage to find Emerson fainting on his front step. Bloody hell, I never wish to see that again. He’d never galloped so fast as he had when he’d rushed to scoop her up, fearing her fainting was actually something worse.

“I’m beginning to think, as I look around at the potential here, that a party like the ones your parents used to host, would also be a grand idea—”

“Emmy—”

“Hear me out.”

He refolded his arms at her interruption, but decided to let her speak her piece. “A party, to collect coats and cloaks for the poor, would be a wonderful way in which to honor my Aunt Bess this Christmas, for she was more charitable a woman than any other I’ve met.”

And she passed that trait onto you, dear Emmy, he thought.

She continued. “The wee lass in my care has neither a coat nor good boots. A wretch like her doesn’t stand a chance when winter blows harshest. I would wager that this is her first winter on the streets, for I find it hard to imagine her lasting so long with nothing to wear. And now that Clara has told me about how you no longer host parties in your parents’ stead—”

What Emerson meant was how he was too poor to spend on such extravagance.

“I’m wondering if we might be a force to contend with if we join together our efforts,” she continued.

He turned around at her remark, seeing her confident upturn of the lips at having gotten his attention.

She continued. “You provide the party space, and I provide the foods and goods.”

“How would I staff such a thing?” he huffed.

She stood too.

“I would hire locals who need the work. Perhaps we could employ a number of your tenants to refurbish the house or to prepare and serve the foods. Give work and a bit of extra coin to those who need it most. Maybe not even coin, but pay them in trade, goods for services. I don’t know…it was just a thought, and one in its beginnings, obviously.”

She looked away sheepishly. But in spite of his bruised pride, it did, in truth, hold promise. It would see this old parlor repaired, and it would give his tenants the means to pay their rents for a while. Then, he could put out an advertisement for holiday boarders and know that he was proud of the house he offered them. Perhaps a charity Christmas party could become part of the holiday experience and a tradition of Aberfeldy Manor once more. He could see the ad now: “Spend Christmastide in the wilds of Scotland, with all the comforts of a stately home…” And I’d have this woman at my side to plan it. Maybe in the process, I could convince her to stay longer. That final sentiment was enough to keep him talking.

“Tell me more,” he finally said, wishing to wipe away the embarrassment he saw reddening her cheeks.

Her face brightened again, which softened his irritation at having earned her pity. Her entire face shone when she smiled, brightening the crystal blue of her eyes, and he felt warmth flood through him as he remembered how she’d looked framed by her window while she’d scolded him to leave before her aunt walked in and caught them. Now that they were grown, he felt his lust stir, imagining her vivid blue eyes half-lidded as he kissed her more deeply, the way a man kissed a woman, not a lad sneaking to a lass’s window. Even now, when he was so fallen that Emerson’s uncle had rejected him and she was taking pity upon him, he still felt himself twitch to life at the idea of having more with this woman. A force to contend with. He liked the way that sounded. But as he stared at Emerson, felt her presence, listened to her voice, basked in her smile and bright blue eyes, he realized those urges needed slaking, and right now, he was in the same room as the lass he was so certain had been lost to him.

It did nothing to calm the burgeoning impulse at being unchaperoned with Emerson—now widowed.

Each time his eyes reconnected with hers, he could see interest reflected in her smile and a flirt lifting her lips, and possibilities with her at his side. He’d felt her quickened breathing as he carried her, felt her rest her cheek to his chest and nestle into his embrace. And damn, but her sweet lavender smell mixed with the scent belonging only to her made him want to taste it, a fine perfume he needed rubbed into his pillows and clothing so that he carried it everywhere. They’d been so young once upon a time, but he’d waited his entire youth for her. Had he known Emerson was inviting suitors, he would have ridden all the way to Oxford to whisk her away from her uncle’s scheme.

No I wouldn’t have. I barely survived my father’s debts. There’s no way I would have brought her north to suffer with me.

Had Corbin been a good lover? She’d implied he had taken care with her. But had he been passionate? Had he been in love with the woman who claimed they had only been fond friends? Had he taken care with Emerson’s naivety? By the look of it, and the affection in which she had spoken of him, it would seem Corbin had. Cease this line of thought. He resisted a shake of his head at himself so as not to confuse her. But damn if he wished he’d been the one to join her in matrimony, and damn if he wasn’t dwelling on another man’s boon and scheming now on how he could make it his own.

“I initially thought that everyone would bring a worn coat and a shilling,” Emerson said.

She was speaking. He needed to quit torturing himself and pay attention.

“The money would go into a coffer, and the coats collected. Both could then be brought to the church on Christmas day and passed out to the needy. We cannot help them all, as you say, but we can continue to help how we can, as I say.”

“But what if the church should keep the money, to distribute as it sees fit? And what if then it isn’t used for alms at all?” he asked.

She shrugged. “What other idea do you suggest?”

He thought about what his tenants needed the most. Work. Not coats. If they had work that paid them, they would have coats they’d paid for. They farmed for him, but they couldn’t afford his rent unless he lowered it. Which was leaving him thinned to the brink. It would serve many of them if they could find work in towns or cities, or better yet, provide a service of their own.