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A large hand clamped round his arm. “Who the devil are you?” a deep voice boomed.
“It’s all right,” Alice said, “he’s not here to harm me.”
“I should bloody well hope not!” Ross said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Ross.” Alice lowered her gaze to the vase in Ross’s hand, then she addressed the stranger. “Edward, this is my husband. I trust you’ll forgive his outburst.”
“Edward?” Ross glared at the man, jealousy flaring inside him. “Who the devil are you, to command such familiarity?”
“He’s the man who saved my life,” Alice said, smiling. “Look.”
She pointed to a box beside the bed. No—not a box, a crib. Swaddled in a soft, pink blanket was a small, perfectly formed little human. A baby—its face still wrinkled from a birthing, with a head of thick, dark hair. As he watched the tiny creature, it yawned and stretched, and a perfect little fist appeared from beneath the blanket. Then the baby pursed its lips and gave a contented little grunt—a gesture which gave him a shock of recognition, for it was exactly the same gesture Amelia had made when she was born.
“Say hello to your daughter, Ross.”
“M-my daughter?” He shook his head. “But your confinement was a month away!”
“Your daughter clearly thought differently,” she said, pride in her expression. “Did I not tell you she’d prove to be a troublesome Trelawney?”
The man in the doorway cleared his throat, then shuffled back, retreating from the room.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Alice said firmly. The man stopped, as if, despite his size, he were a child being scolded by his nanny. Ross smiled to himself. His wife might not admit it, but the Trelawney children had not inheritedalltheir troublesome traits from their father.
“Come here, Edward,” she said. “Let me introduce you to my husband. Ross, there’s no need to remain armed. As you see, I’m quite safe.”
Ross set aside the vase and took a look at the fellow. Though he was a physically imposing man and would very likely trounce even Stiles in a fist fight, his face bore a gentle demeanor, with a high brow, soft, brown eyes and a sensitive mouth. His shirt was unbuttoned half to the waist, sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat adorned his brow. He carried a cup of steaming brown liquid, and Ross inhaled the scent of chocolate.
“Edward,” Alice said. “This is my husband, Ross Trelawney. Ross, my love, this is Edward, Mr. Scrimgeour.” She gave Scrimgeour a saucy smile, “…neighbor, savior, midwife and cook—all rolled into the one man.”
Scrimgeour approached the bed, and handed the cup to Alice. “Mrs. Trelawney, I only did what any man would have done.”
She caught his wrist and he stilled.
“No,” she said. “You didn’t.” She glanced at the sleeping child. “You brought about a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”
Scrimgeour looked down, discomfort in his eyes, as if he had no idea how to react to a compliment.
Perhaps he had never experienced compliments.
Or kindness.
Ross approached him, and held out his hand. Scrimgeour’s eyes widened, as if he were trying to figure out what to do with it.
“Permit me to shake your hand, my good man,” Ross said. “It’s woefully inadequate to express my gratitude, but it’ll have to do for the present. I am forever in your debt, sir. And, if my wife has no objection, it would give me great pleasure if you would spend Christmas Day with us, at Pengarron, tomorrow.”
Scrimgeour colored and glanced at Alice. “Your wife—would it be safe to move her?”
“Of course it’s safe!” Alice said. “And Ross is right. I insist on your joining us tomorrow. Nobody should be alone at Christmas, not when there’s good friends to spend it with.”
“Friends?”
“Yes,” Ross said. “From this day on, I would be honored to call you my friend.”
Scrimgeour took Ross’s hand, then looked up, his gaze clear and unashamed. He blinked and a bead of moisture formed in the corners of his eyes.
Then he smiled and nodded.
“The honor is mine.”
