Page 27 of Christmas Wore Plaid

“Clara mentioned what?”

“Nothing—”

“That the bastard is mine?”

Emerson’s eyes widened at his growl. Then she looked away. “She did mention that, though you know how she chatters on about rumors and it’s none of my business…for even I bore a child. Once.”

He lifted her chin, his irritation at Clara replaced by surprise. Had he heard her correctly?

“Pardon?”

She pulled her face away, the lively smile that had lit her eyes with teasing before, now brooding. “I bore a daughter.”

His hand fell. A battle of conflicting emotions filled his heart. Corbin had put a babe in Emerson’s belly? Any married man with blood in his veins would ensure to claim his marital rights, but a babe made it real. Her Aunt Bess had never mentioned it, in any of the news she shared around Perthshire over the years. Emerson hadn’t brought a child north with her, either. A sad feeling sank its claws into him.

“Christina was her name,” she whispered, clearly wishing to master the tremble to her voice.

“What happened to her?”

Emerson swallowed, and a hand migrated to her stomach. In his shock, he’d severed his touch, but he could see she needed it now. He caressed back her hair. Sweet Emerson who had lost so much—her parents at birth, her health to scarlet fever, her letters from him, her husband, and now her aunt, had also lost a child. He didn’t need to hear her put it into words.

“She was born with no heartbeat and blue. Corbin had already passed on. They say her heart was weak, like her sire’s.”

He pulled her into his embrace, encircling her as the fire popped and radiated heat upon their bodies.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he muttered, and placed a peck to the top of her head.

Damn! He cursed inwardly, but Emerson didn’t seem put off by the liberty he took, and he kissed the crown of her sweet-smelling hair again, savoring the feel of her against him. In fact, she nestled more tightly to his chest. The news she had just shared with him required solemnity, and yet, the feel of her seeking his embrace for comfort caused that lust to stir in him again.

“I no longer grieve,” she said.

Bollocks, he thought. How would a mother ever stop grieving?

“At least, not like I used to. She was fortunate that she didn’t live long enough to suffer in any measure of discomfort. But I suppose it’s why I haven’t the heart to evict the lass from the churchyard. I, too, was an orphan. How can someone toss out a child so? When others like me would do anything to have one?”

He caressed his broad palms up and down her back steadily.

“It’s why I search for the lad, too,” he finally added.

She looked up at him, but he continued to rub her back.

“My tenants’ daughter, Colleen, died shortly after delivering, but none of us knew she had become pregnant by some whoreson”—He’d forgotten his company, but Emerson didn’t cringe at his vulgar language. “Think what you will about Clara’s untruths. The child isn’t my bastard. I would have never touched one of our tenants. Besides, I was still pining for you.” I still pine for you.

“I cautioned Clara about her rumors, although I’ll admit, once she planted the seed, I couldn’t stop thinking on it. But I hadn’t a right to be upset at the thought, for I had married another and—”

“Wheesht,” he whispered, silencing her. “I have you now, and that’s all that matters.”

He froze. Had he just said that? He didn’t have her. But he bloody-well wanted her. And he could see relief unknit her brow hearing that Clara’s rumors were false. Why was that? He tightened his hold, feeling her arms coil around his waist to hold him in return.

“My trail has run dry,” he said. “I only have two more avenues to search for this fated bairn, before I’m out of options. Hope at finding the child is bleak, and then, what would I do with him? For the Widow Thomson has no money, and no way to keep a child when she’s already one foot in the grave herself. And I certainly cannot adopt him as a lone bachelor with nary a coin to my name, simply to keep him near to her. Yet still. How can one forget a child as if they don’t matter?”

Emerson squeezed his waist. He reveled in the wash of heat setting his senses aflame at her show of affection. He’d only had eyes for Emerson Lindt, the girl whose carriage he had watched roll away to Oxford as his bouquet fell to the road. Where he’d left it.

“And so, you see, I have a valid reason for going to town. I’d be pleased to escort you home.”

“My housekeeper would worry if I don’t return tonight, as would the lass in my care.”

She tried to pull away. He didn’t want to relinquish her.