Page 21 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“The stables are over yonder. You may take your horses there and rub them down, man,” he called over his shoulder to her coachman, then whisked her inside, swishing her skirts over the threshold.

His chest was warm. Clearly, he’d been exerting himself all morning if the smell of sweat and peat upon him meant anything. She tried to resist resting against him, but the urge overcame her, and she sagged against his pectoral, closing her eyes to feel the cadence of his heartbeat. The haste in which he’d picked her up did much to answer her questions about his feelings for her and his hold caused more wariness to skitter over her skin.

Once inside, he carried her into the parlor. Memories poured through her mind like an overturned pitcher. It was in this very room that Brady had once stood before her, his eyes blindfolded, feeling her cheeks and hair and lips. Instinctively, she looked up. Mistletoe had hung from the ceiling. Of course, no such thing hung there now.

He followed her gaze, glancing at the ceiling as he settled her back to her feet, then paused. His eyes dropped to hers. They stood together in silence.

He remembers, too.

Finally, he stepped away, then turned on his heel and gave her his back.

Just as he did so long ago.

But this time, instead of ignoring her, he picked up the end of a settee and dragged it forward, whipping away the white sheet draped over it and wadding it into a buddle. He tossed it aside as if a washrag in the scullery, and swooped her back into a cradle.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed, scrambling to grip his neck so as not to fall.

“Easy, lass. I’ve got you,” he assured her beside her ear, his voice low and soft.

But as he bent to place her upon the settee, he slowed, then pulled upright again and simply cradled her. They held each other’s stare as his grip tightened, holding her snuggly against him. She breathed in, breathed out, repeating it consciously, for her heart began to gallop away at a pace that would most certainly send her fainting once more.

As if sensing her nerves, his own breathing became more measured. His heart thumped against her, a solid beat, gaining speed. His lips, so close, parted, and she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her forehead. So silent was the parlor, that she could hear the creaks of the old floorboards and the wind whistling down the chimney.

Finally, he set her sideways upon the settee, propping a pillow behind her back. There was no mistaking the shiver that racked her frame when he lifted her long spirals of hair out of the way, sweeping them over her shoulder so they wouldn’t be crushed behind her. Only Corbin had fondled her hair. And to feel Brady’s fingers upon it now sent a surge of pleasure through her. She could tell when a man was being tender, and in this moment, Brady was overcome with it.

He held her locks, looked at them, and ran one curl between his thumb and finger with a wistful gaze.

“Be back in a moment,” he said, his voice gruff.

He pushed back to standing and walked out through a side door. A moment later, she realized she’d forgotten to breathe, and sucked in a lungful. Her cheeks burned in spite of the frigid draft that compelled her to keep her gloves and cloak on. She finally took a moment to look around. The fire basket beneath the mantel sat cold, and white dust sheets were draped over the other furnishings. The chandelier of cut glass overhead was burdened by cobwebs, and no candelabra or accessories remained. No family portrait and gilded frame hung over the mantel. This parlor hadn’t seen a guest in some time by the look of it, neither had it seen a maid.

Brady returned with dried peat slabs bundled in his arms and a woolen blanket.

“I apologize for causing you a hardship,” Emerson said, watching his efforts. “You needn’t fret about my comforts. I only came to show you something I discovered last night.”

He leveled an incredulous glare at her, then proceeded to fill the fire basket, only to return to whence he had gone and come back with a lit wick to ignite them.

“Your lips are blue and you nearly made me run for the doctor,” he replied as he came to her now to drape the blanket over her legs.

She looked away, that warmth that had filled her at his first touch keeping her burning now as he took care to tuck her in. Such an intimate thing to do.

“How could I not start you a fire? And now, do I need to fetch a doctor or are you done swooning?”

She shook her head, laughing at her frailty when she was anything but frail at heart.

“Scarlet fever took its toll on my body. My physician tells me the illness has forever weakened my constitution.” She looked away, shame, of all things, creeping up her neck. It wasn’t her fault, but it was embarrassing admitting it. “It’s only one of the reasons my uncle thought it best for me to remain at Apple Grove.”

“I didn’t know.” Brady gentled, then reached to her bonnet strings to untie the hat from her chin. The hardened man of yesterday had disappeared. He removed it, setting it aside on a table. “It distresses me to learn that you suffer still.”

“I’m fine, truly, I am.” She encased his hand in hers and held it.

At her cue, he took charge and shifted his hand so that it covered hers instead.

“What did you wish to tell me that was so important on a cold, winter’s day, Emerson?” he said. His grip felt so good. It felt comfortable and right. “Traveling to Aberfeldy isn’t an easy trek for a lady of the finest health, even in warm spring weather. Hell, even I was miserable yester eve on the ride home.”

He rose, their hands falling apart, and strode to the fire to prod it and rouse a larger flame.

“Make no mistake,” Emerson said, eyeing him with the poker in hand. “I’m not frail… Have you no housekeeper to tend to this task?” His jaw clenched in profile at her question and instantly, she knew she had offended. This was one of those times she spoke too quickly without thinking about it first. “Brady, I didn’t mean to—”