Page 7 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“You’ll never help them all.”

She turned at the sound of a deep voice rolling with an outland burr. A man, broad of shoulder, dressed in trousers accentuating his mile-long legs and draped in tartan cast over his shoulder leaned against the wall in the shadows. She hadn’t seen such a tartan for years, and now, with Highland heritage so thoroughly vanquished, they were a rare sight indeed. But the green and blue pattern was familiar.

“One can try one’s best,” she replied, lifting her chin.

“You can try, but the beggars just keep coming, and coming. ‘’Tis not enough to help the feeble, but to support him after.’”

So this man quoted Shakespeare. Interesting. Wariness tingled her arms, her stomach.

“And therein lies the problem,” he continued. “There’s simply no way to put so many folk on their feet when there’s no employ left. Giving them a penny won’t solve the problem, as I well know.”

Curious. If this man was a Highlander, it was a strange time for him to be in town. Usually the Highlanders came down to Crieff in the autumn for the Michaelmas Tryst, not now. But this man is no Highlander. Outland, yes. But with an accent from Perthshire. And yet, the man in the shadows made no attempt to introduce himself.

“‘How far that little candle throws its beams. So shines a good deed on a naughty world,’” Emerson replied. “How I choose to spend my time and money is my business, sir.”

“Ah, a Sassenach,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall. “Who knows her Shakespeare.”

“Anyone with a modicum of tutelage knows some Shakespeare. But I’m quite learned, sir. And Scottish. I was reared here before moving southward, and now I return in the wake of my dear aunt’s death.”

The man froze at her statement, obscured within the darkened archway preventing enough light for her to confirm her suspicions of who he was. But suspicion indeed danced a jig in her stomach. The man wore a shirt hanging loose from his frame, no cravat or coat, in spite of the harsh gales, and his plaid lifted on the wind surging mercilessly through the yard.

He turned and walked away. No, he would be running if he didn’t think it was cowardly to do so, she deduced. She furrowed her brow and looked down at the child, then, coaxing her along, Emerson followed the retreating Scotsman.

“Have you seen that man before?” she asked the girl while hastening her step to a dangerous pace to catch up with him.

She ought to know to have care with her health, after scarlet fever had so thoroughly weakened her stamina. She simply couldn’t handle the exertion anymore, but she needed to stop him, to see if her intuition was right.

The girl shook her head.

“Can you speak?”

The girl didn’t respond.

What had possessed the man to speak to her in such a fashion? What had scared him away? She looked behind her, but saw no one that might have put him off, no authority ready to demand a clansman leave town. Careful not to slip on the patches of ice that dotted the ground, she hurried until she was in speaking distance of his back.

“You’re awfully cynical,” she snapped.

His gait slowed. It was then that she saw a pistol holstered at his hip and a dagger in his belts. Perhaps she shouldn’t aggravate this man. His hair was wind tossed, dark blond, and scruffy. Certainly a sunny day would cause the blonder tones to shine more brightly.

He turned, a portfolio clenched in his fist at his side. Thoughtful brown eyes looked down at her. Her breath caught as she stared up at chiseled cheekbones, a square jaw and proud nose. He’d filled into his features since last she’d seen this man’s face. A crease in his cheek lingered where a dimple had once been. He was beautiful, if a man could be considered such, except for the despair that darkened his eyes. Her suspicions rang true and unsteadied her.

“Brady MacInnes,” she said on a breath.

She looked him over, from his tall, fleece-lined work boots to the haversack slung across his torso.

“I have my reasons for being cynical,” he replied, his words tight and abrupt.

What on earth had happened to him? Where was the lad who spoke of adventure and London lights? He was nearly feral. Did he recognize her? He still hadn’t acknowledged her name, and it caused a pang of hurt to grip her. She’d moved on after she’d recovered, and eventually married. Because after she’d written Brady so diligently, for so long, without a single letter in return, she’d realized nothing would come of a courtship between them. Did she dare ask him if he knew her still? She was twenty-one now, but she knew her looks hadn’t changed much. Everyone else in Crieff had recognized her on the spot, including Clara, who was now married with a babe in a basket and another in her belly and on her way to Aunt Bess’s house right now for Sunday tea.

“And I have my reasons for helping, even if it makes little impact. Especially with Christmastide upon us, I believe it my duty, as a woman with means. What’s your excuse for turning your back on others?” Of course, she didn’t mean when he had turned his back on her…did she?

His jaw hardened, but she held her head proudly, lifting her chin, in spite of the weakness in her body warning her that she was overexerting herself—such a cursed lingering effect that her physician said would remain with her for the rest of her life. The wind made a biting sweep through the street. Normally, she would cover her nose, but she held firm.

His eyes pierced hers, a color she’d always considered brown, but now realized was more complex, like rich black tea with a kiss of milk. A beautiful nuance.

His nose was still so stately, and his hands—goodness sake, he wore no gloves—were callused and broad. He, a man of the peerage, wore no Wellingtons or cravat, either. Clearly he worked with those hands like a carpenter, even if he donned his brooch at his shoulder, cast in gold. She pondered him. No vestige of the good-natured lad who’d teased her at school and climbed to her window with a cheeky grin on his face remained. Nothing about his appearance suggested a valet’s touch. Nothing indicated that he’d once worn stuffy waistcoats and played parlor games and boarded at a prestigious school. Certainly nothing, except his brooch, indicated he lived in one of the stateliest country manors in Perthshire, adorned with prized rose bushes beneath the magnificent Ben Vrackie.

“You married another, Emerson,” he finally said, a flat remark not meant for a reply.