by Carrie Lofty
War. Battle. Combat. She was not going to let him take this moment from her. “And you’ll stop at nothing?”
A muscle along his neck twitched. “Nothing.”
Polly straightened the ends of her shawl, where the gold, green, red, and purple strands formed a neat fringe—a reminder of her family and her community. “Very well. You’ve talked me into it. I’ll help you, and that means learning everything about the people who work for your profits.”
She grinned, surprising even herself. Let him think the idea was his.
“Just be ready to keep up, master. I intend to show you the real Glasgow.”
Five
Polly smiled to herself as she watched the church congregation disband following Reverend McCormick’s two-hour sermon. Not all congregants wore their relief so obviously, but she felt what could only be described as a collective sigh. Six-day workweeks and an entire morning in church meant few hours to breathe on one’s own time.
Voices came out to play. Laughter. Chatter. Although their planned picnic would be moved indoors because of a light drizzle, the congregants were abuzz with the welcome change of pace.
Polly was not as relaxed as she might have hoped. Following another conversation with her father, she was even more confident about the role she needed to play with Mr. Christie. She certainly hadn’t told Da about what took place at the factory. The fight. The kiss.
Her blush was even hotter in church.
The strategy remained sound. She would show Mr. Christie their ways, convince him of the union’s validity, and use what wiles she possessed to distract him while her people searched for the saboteur.
And she’d have a good time.
That particular goal had come upon her in the wee hours before dawn. She’d lain in bed, eyes wide and unseeing in the pitch darkness, as her family shuffled and snored. That kiss had been the most wickedly sensual moment of her life. To do it again would be no hardship. The man was simply too handsome and too intriguing for words. He was also infuriating, which made her want to fight harder.
Now she knew where all that fight could lead.
Passion.
Indulging in passion for a few weeks would be like frolicking in a dream world. She could have her fun, help the union, and collect a sweet, flirtatious batch of memories to keep with her until she was old and bent.
She snapped back to the busy church by quickly sidestepping a pair of boys in their Sunday best. A young widow called Justine O’Lachlan huffed after them with a determined expression. Polly hoped Reverend McCormick didn’t catch the lot of them, or their picnic would be replaced by a scolding. The old man was notorious for his upstanding view of the world—all black and white. He was the compass that pointed their small congregation toward Heaven.
But by Polly’s estimation, losing a husband at the age of eighteen, with two babes born of that brief marriage, was more earthly punishment than Justine deserved.
Wives and mothers prepared the tables, which stretched before the altar. Huge piles of sausages, fresh bread, boiled cabbage, and soups made from every root vegetable known to Britain were laid out in an array that spoke more of cooperation than bounty.
Her stomach rumbling and her mouth watering, Polly helped where she could. However, she was constantly interrupted by Calton citizens eager for news. Some asked for union assistance regarding illnesses, hardships, and scrapes, and she addressed each person with a hopeful heart. At events such as this, she truly believed they could make something better of their downtrodden little community.
“I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Hounslow.” She patted the old woman’s hand, which was gnarled by work and countless years. “Many are out of their winter stores of coal, but surely someone can spare a few until the warmer weather returns.”
“God bless you, my wee lassie.”
Polly hugged her before asking, “Is that a new shawl? It’s lovely.”
“Since Christmas last. My niece, Elaine, made it for me.” Mrs. Hounslow’s expression sobered. “Such a dear girl, with her little ones.”
She knew why the old woman hadn’t mention Elaine’s husband, John—a nasty, hard-fisted man. That Elaine wasn’t at church came as no surprise. Polly would need to send Doc Hutson around to their place while John was on the factory floor. The pattern was always the same, but it always weighed on her heart.
Ma had been lucky, because Da was just about the gentlest man in Glasgow. While healthy, he had worked tirelessly and always brought his pay packet home on Friday night. Other women stood outside the factory doors, hands outstretched, just to rescue the precious funds before their menfolk took to the pub. For saving their babes from starvation, such women were labeled nags and crones, their fears derided.
Polly wanted nothing of marriage if it looked like that.
Others came and went until she was finally able to gather a bit of the luncheon for herself.
“What looks good?”
So shocked by that unexpected accent, she nearly dropped her china and silver. Holding a plate and fork, Alex Christie stood beside her at the head of the banquet table.
Sunlight through a nearby stained-glass window pelted his face with dots of color. He was attired simply in a dark blue suit that complimented his sandy-blond hair and pleasant tan. But the suit strained to accommodate his height and baffling brawn. Had she known no better, she would’ve assumed him just another Scottish laborer dressed in his Sunday best. He was so roughly, undeniably male.
“Rising to my challenge, eh?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I go where you go until we both get what we want. If you wish to argue again, we certainly can. Surely, your church is the best place to make a scene.” His expression revealed exactly what she had expected to find: a quiet threat. “You’ll recover from that spectacle in no time.”
“I hate that you know you’re so clever.”
The radiant gold in his hazel eyes could melt glaciers. “Don’t expect me to find anything objectionable about that.”
The men Polly knew led with their fists. Although Alex Christie seemed capable of such, he led with those beautiful eyes. Every corner needed to be examined. Every face cataloged. She could almost see his mind working as he assessed what must be a wholly unfamiliar scene. She felt herself drawn deeper into his influence. He turned the ordinary new. All of a sudden, she had something that no one else in Glasgow could claim.
She had Alex Christie’s complete attention.
Alex. She was losing her mind over this man.
“Everything’s good,” she said at last. “Calton women can make a feast out of three potatoes and a piece of smoked ham.” She leaned in. A deep breath filled her nose with his freshly shaved scent—a bit like pine, a bit smoky. “Just avoid Mrs. McDonough’s pie.”
Alex’s mouth quirked into a near-smile. “You’ll have to stay with me.” His words were a low rumble, like hearing a distant train’s rattling speed. Powerful, yet still out of sight. “I wouldn’t want to make that mistake.”
“Too many other, more important mistakes for you to make. But none would taste so foul.”
He pushed down along the table, so close that their hips brushed. “You say that, yet I’ve already been talked into trying blood sausage.”
“Before or after learning the name?”
“After. Decidedly after.”
“Fine. Have a go at Mrs. McDonough’s pie, if you like. We seem to be the sort who thrive on dares, so consider this my gift to you. It’s right there.” She indicated what appeared to be something made of blueberries, then leaned in to whisper. “I swear she bakes with soap flakes rather than flour.”
“I’ll pass. But next time there’s a dare in the offing, do let me know. ”
He was even more handsome when he simply . . . loosened up. The line of his lower lip swelled to a pleasing fullness. His gaze stopped poking and prodding. While not grinning—yet, she vowed—he wore an expression of contentment. Not as desperate as the drunken lads who gra
bbed at happiness before falling face-first in the gutter. She quite liked it.
Despite her smile, Polly couldn’t help but acknowledge the sharp undercurrent to their conversation. He was a master. They were using one another. Time to remind them both of those bare facts.
“You left bruises, you know.”
Alex stopped in the middle of ladling gravy over fried potatoes. “I . . . what?”
“Bruises,” she whispered. “On my shoulders. And my hips. Barely there, mind you. But I thought you needed notice that our actions have consequences.”
“You’re just saying that to rile me.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes. I’m asking you politely to stop.”
“Oh, no. Not until you believe me.” She found a clear spot on the table and set down her half-filled plate of food. Without ceremony she reached for the lace trim that hugged her collarbone. “I could show you, if you like.”
He caught her hand. His jaw clicked as he gnashed his teeth. “Don’t.”
She shrugged and continued down the line of food, as if she hadn’t just knocked the daylights out of Alex Christie’s tranquility. The beast was back. Quietly, stealthily, the entire line of his body changed. The gold overwhelmed the green in his eyes, like those of a wildcat on the prowl. Clenched back teeth accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones. The mouth she had tasted but a few days previous flattened into a smooth, colorless skin.
Oh, she enjoyed that. Just a few words and she could send the clever master to his knees. She liked being on a more even footing.
“I should apologize,” he said hoarsely.
“Should? Interesting. Because that certainly wasn’t an apology.”
“Maybe because you don’t seem to be asking for one.”
Polly raised her brows. “A woman needs to ask? Is that how you Yanks do it?”
He sidestepped a cluster of lads, all of whom eyed him with the suspicion of youth on the hunt for trouble. Color deepened the tan along the back of his neck. Strong tendons stretched into his neckcloth, and down to where a familiar stiffness had invaded his shoulders. Polly had the oddest impulse to ease his muscles.
“Here or in the States, that’s not how a man should behave.” He turned the earnestness of his eyes to meet hers. For Polly it was like being hit by the full force with a cannonball. “Can you forgive me, Miss Gowan?”
How could she play dirty if he insisted on being gentlemanly?
“We’ll see.”
“That’s it?” A frown overtook his earnest concern. Just a glimmer of temper underneath. And who would react differently? He had offered his sincerest apology, and she had left him to twist. Good. She could understand a man of pride.
“Yes,” she said as she turned away. “We’ll see if I let you do it again.”
Using a hunk of dark bread, Alex sopped up the last of the juices on his plate. He sat with the mystifying Miss Gowan on the backmost pew. She gracefully balanced her dish on her knees. He wondered if society women in New York could’ve managed such a feat. And in their Sunday best, no less.
Yet “Sunday best” was a relative term. Polly’s dark blue gown, although of very good muslin, did no favors for her pale skin and auburn hair. She looked nearer to mourning than a young woman on the verge of springtime. The cut was also woefully out-of-date, perhaps fitted when she had achieved her figure.
And what a figure. Vulgarity was not an impulse in which he indulged—until meeting Polly. Her petite frame only accentuated a high, rounded bust. Already he’d held her hips and her round, firm backside. Those memories made him ache. Had he truly left bruises? To believe he’d behaved in such an ardent manner was too new to process, as if looking inside himself and finding a lion.
Why he wasn’t touching her again, when they sat side by side on the church pew, was even harder to understand.
Alex cleared his throat and set aside his dish. “Have I met all of the major players?”
“Who?”
“Your union allies.”
“It’s not my union,” she said with a shake of her head. Auburn was too tame a word. She was a redhead, pure and simple. Only the poor lighting and perpetual Glasgow haze stole its vibrancy. He wanted to see her in the bright light of a full summer sun. “It’s the weavers’ union.”
“And your role in it?”
“Just another member.”
“I don’t believe that.” He sat back against the pew and crossed his arms. “Come clean so we can stop the bickering before it begins.”
“Aw.” Her wide, guileless smile was almost too much to resist. “You’re no fun. The bickering is the best part. Otherwise we’d have nothing to say and nothing would mask how much we dislike one another.”
Was that true? It didn’t feel true.
He had the most splendid view of her profile, with her rounded cheekbones and full lips. Her willful nose had a bump on the bridge, which was the only feature even approaching a flaw. The curve of her jaw was delicate, but not so much that she appeared childlike—just graceful and very feminine. Skin without flaw.
She had the face of a woman who had never known softness, but who courted laughter. The combination was so novel as to be perplexing. He had never dealt well with snap decisions. New information took him days, sometimes weeks, to process. Rather than admit what manner of man she could tempt him toward becoming, he fell back on the role of master.
“Tell me,” he said solemnly.
“My father is the head of the weavers’ union, in a day and age when skips are king of the Clyde. We’re long past the glory days of the Calton Martyrs.”
“The Calton Martyrs?”
Her gaze floated across the rumbling bustle of the church. So many bodies packed into one space. At least they kept the late March chill at bay.
“During the time of my da’s father. Ordinary weavers faced off against an armed regiment in a fight for fair wages. They’re heroes to us all. But now we’re more likely to starve to death or die of typhus in a one-room tenement.” She shrugged—a habit she demonstrated when she skirted too near uncomfortable subjects. “Used to be good money for skilled workers. These days, the weavers are mostly women. Able menfolk have moved to the docks and the shipyards.”
A shade of bitterness spoiled her lilting words. Perhaps that was unavoidable. What she did was difficult and tedious, as worthy as anything a riveter or steelworker could manage. That didn’t change the timbre of Glasgow. The ships brought the money. The ships brought goods from all over the world. And the ships fostered an arrogant attitude that only men were hearty enough to contribute to the city’s prosperity. He’d learned that much within hours of his arrival.
“Does that explain why a woman leads their union?”
“My da’s still the union boss.”
Alex called her bluff by standing. “Perhaps I should talk to him instead. Maybe he’ll know more about the saboteur than you’ve revealed.” He reached for her arm but was beset by a moment’s hesitation. Would she really have tugged the edge of her bodice to show him proof of his ungentlemanly ardor?
The flicker of knowing mockery lit her eyes—their most vibrant green. Resolve shot through his limbs. “Come then,” he said. “Off to see your da. I won’t waste my breath on some feisty but useless lackey.”
Polly stood but did not fight his hold. Even her eyelashes were that same vibrant red. They seemed to glow beneath even the palest light. He could see every freckle across her stubborn nose. She smelled of lilacs. Some tonic to tame her unruly curls? He wanted to pull her close and lose himself in perceptions he rarely indulged. The senses were for analysis, not pleasure.
Even without the experience to know for certain, Alex knew she was a woman who could provide pleasure.
“My father is unwell.”
Alex stilled. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly. Sometimes there are things the heart accepts less readily than the mind.”
A wave of sympathy swirled through his chest. He kne
w that feeling. He’d known it every time he touched Mamie and felt her flinch beneath his slow, cautious fingers. That hadn’t stopped his hopes from envisioning a day when she would accept the affection he’d fought to keep gentle.
His mind, however, had known the truth. Josiah Todd’s perversions had ruined her forever.
“You have my sympathies, Polly.”
A wobbly grin shaped her lush mouth—a pouting lower lip, and an upper lip prone to curling with amusement. “So it’s Polly now? Speak to the weaver’s union boss with a little more respect, master.”
“About time you admitted it.”
Her grin was full and cheeky. “You flirt rather well when you don’t think about it.”
The realization that he had been flirting was difficult to reconcile. What else could he call it when he’d spoken with the hope of seeing her smile? How long had it been since he’d felt such an impulse? With Polly, the teasing came as naturally as quarreling and lust.
He would need to watch himself. His goals were simple, as if written on a list: find the saboteur, keep the board from selling Christie Textiles, earn his inheritance, protect his son. Polly Gowan figured in as a source of information. Nothing more.
Considering how he’d behaved the last time they were alone, that was for the best. Never had a woman affected him so strongly. He had been almost . . . bestial. Reliving those moments hit him without mercy—the shame and shock of knowing he was capable of sinking to such depths. Yet, quick on the heels of that disbelief, came a very different sort of shock.
He wanted to kiss her again. Just as he had. Without reservations—and this time, without regrets. That would mean ensuring she craved the passion as much as he did, but that was blasted unlikely.
Polly glanced back toward the pulpit, where the congregation’s women began to dismantle the remnants of the feast. “Now what, master?”
She didn’t offer the polite courtesy of letting him hide. She poked and prodded as if she had a right to know his every thought, no matter how unsavory.