by Carrie Lofty
“You tell me, Miss Gowan.”
Playful sparkles shone in her jewel-green eyes. “I think it’s time you found out what it is to be a real Scottish man.” She nodded toward the rear of the church, where Hamish Nyman and his cronies bunched together. They had changed out of Sunday suits, into much rougher fare. Their voices grew rowdy. “The boys will be wanting to blow off steam. Even with the mist, my money’s on a match of some kind. Probably footy. You have any experience with sport?”
“I played rugby at Harvard. Polo. Rowing.”
She looked him up and down. “Very posh. But at least it explains your body.” Before Alex could choke back his surprise at her bold comment—and the hot warmth that bathed his skin—she continued her baiting. “You’d better be good enough to put up a show. If you lose face against these men, you’ll never get anywhere with them.”
He had never been a stranger to competition or the masculine politics inherent in a good grudge match. A full decade older now, he still participated in the sports of his youth, as his only means of alleviating the physical frustrations of having been married to Mamie.
This would be harder. Tougher. With workingmen out for blood against their employer.
“No worries,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll survive a few minutes of running the ball around.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“All by your command, master. Don’t fault me for enjoying the spectacle.”
Les MacNider strolled over. His lanky posture and slow gait were at odds with his quick manner of speaking. He looked like a balding scarecrow but with less stuffing. Ragged. Hard-boned. Always moving. “Well, then, master. You up for a game?”
“Les,” Polly said. “The pitch is probably so rain-slicked you’ll knock out what few brains you have.”
He offered a toothy, unabashed grin. “Got that right. Nothing up here to damage.”
“That’s for certain, you mongrel.”
She smiled. At Les. Just the way she’d smiled at Alex. What he felt wasn’t jealousy so much as the disappointment of becoming just another man. For a few moments he had been someone almost . . . intimate.
He wanted that again. No. He needed that again.
Hesitation disappeared like a puff of smoke. Alex would stand as a man among these rough people. He would impress Polly Gowan. She was lightning and ragged impulses. The jeering in her eyes would transform into surprise and frank approval, or he’d be left like a fallen soldier on a field of battle.
He clapped Les hard on the shoulder. “I’m in.”
Six
Sarah Fitzgibbons met Polly at the church doors. “You’re going out there, too?”
“Would you rather stay in here and have Mrs. McCormick convince you to finish cleaning?”
“But it’s so cold! All to watch the men we see every day roll around like pigs?” She gave a disdainful sniff. “I’m sure I won’t bother.”
“Suit yourself.”
Polly grabbed her shawl off a hook at the back of the church, happy to be free of unwanted company. When she worried that others might see her as an ambitious climber, Polly thought of Sarah Fitzgibbons. The young woman talked of little beyond her list of potential well-heeled suitors. With her classically beautiful face, fine body, and unusually blond hair, she would probably succeed in snagging a prosperous husband.
Polly understood but could not relate to those ambitions. Did such an attitude hold merit? She had been working with her father so long that every thought, every action, tied into a better future. If forced to sit patiently and endure the present as it was, Polly would’ve gone mad a long time ago. The security of an advantageous marriage held appeal, but the cost of giving up what she valued would be too high.
And not even for the grandest mansion would she miss the chance to watch Alex Christie attempt to kick a football.
She spotted Agnes Doward and Connie Nells. That the latter was also heavily involved in union activities probably would have surprised the likes of Livingston. Tidy and quiet, with her two wee babes tended by an elderly grandmother while her husband worked the ship hulls, Connie hardly seemed the type. But not every advocate was a firebrand. Perhaps that was how they’d managed to keep the peace for so long. The weavers were lucky for the presence of so many clearheaded women, whose concerns boiled down to security for their children.
“Are you up for the match?” Polly nodded toward the male parade filing out of the church.
“They’ll bust their fool heads,” Connie said.
“That’s what I told them.” She leaned closer. “But Mr. Christie is playing, too. Tell me you’re not the least little bit curious.”
“Sure I am. And you seem doubly so.”
“Hardly!”
Connie shared a grin with Agnes. “And just who did you eat lunch with, Polly Gowan?”
“Oh, no. Don’t start painting me with that foul brush. It’s union business and you know it.”
Agnes put a calming hand on her arm, her smile more indulgent. “Connie’s only teasing. Aren’t you?” She arched an eyebrow at the other woman.
“Of course I am. As if the mill master would take a fancy to any of us beyond a quick tup!”
Despite her sudden flush of embarrassment, Polly forced a chuckle. “Are we allowed to say ‘tup’ in church?”
“Probably not,” Connie said. “Outside we go.”
They stepped beyond the threshold, into the struggling afternoon sunlight. The temperature wasn’t quite so biting, and the wind had dwindled to nothing. She might actually enjoy this.
Alex Christie was going to have his head handed to him. She was edgy and almost giddy at the prospect of seeing the mill master forced to swallow mud.
“Has either of you seen Tommy?” Connie asked. “I thought for sure he’d be here.”
“Not for days,” Agnes replied.
Polly inhaled past her nerves. “I wonder if we should be worried.”
Agnes leaned in close. “Do you think he had anything to do with what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Polly said. “But I’d like the chance to talk to him. He’s caused trouble before, but he’s never bald-facedly hidden. It’ll make him look even more suspicious.”
“He must be lying low with someone.” Connie’s cheeks looked even paler beneath the silvery spring sunlight. Mist sparkled in her dark hair. “I’ll ask around, especially his auntie. She has a fondness for cake and my wee girls. Maybe we’ll pay a visit.”
Polly nodded. “Thank you.”
Across from the church, in the park known as Glasgow Green, a score of men had bunched into two teams—one side red, the other side blue-and-white stripes.
“Oh, my,” Polly breathed.
She and the other women joined Justine O’Lachlan at the base of a towering monument dedicated to Lord Nelson. Justine’s young lads were running through a particularly large mud puddle, but her eyes were on the assembling teams. She cupped bone-white hands around a steaming mug of tea.
“I’m not having very Christian thoughts right now,” she said by way of greeting.
Neither was Polly. The men had stripped off their shirts. Although the slanting afternoon sunlight offered no warmth, it gilded those masculine bodies. She had seen as much before. Curiosity and boredom meant there was little about the male body she didn’t understand.
Her gaze, however, was drawn to one man in particular. Alex had yet to change out of his suit. He still wore a modest yet fine pair of woolen trousers. He shrugged out of his coat with particular grace. How could a man of such robust health have so little regard for what his body did? What it was capable of?
His stomach was flat, his shoulders wide and rounded. The narrow channel of his spine was flanked by wide ribs and sinuous ligaments that flexed and twisted as he warmed up. The graceful movements of his arms were underlain with powerful muscles. Long, study bones and potent flesh. Rough and raw. Coarse. Yet never common. The aristocratic line of his strong jaw would never let a
nyone forget that he came from good stock. Only, Polly hadn’t expected so much of his father’s hearty Scots build—a bear of a man underneath his finery and respectability.
Energy shimmered off of him, all around him. Or maybe that was just the steam of hot skin meeting cold air. He looked like a pagan god of war descended to Earth for a contest among mere mortals. He scrubbed one hand almost lazily through the swath of hair spread over his sculpted chest, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stroke such primal masculinity. Polly flexed her own fingers. She wanted another opportunity to touch and explore, this time finding her way to that virile torso.
What would his body feel like beneath her palms? Against her cheek? Beneath her tongue?
Although she knew how dangerous such thoughts could be, she did not censure her imagination. She was offered so few chances to be anything other than sacrificing and good. This moment, absorbing the sight of defined muscle across a wide, solid back, was just for her. Even a blink would discredit such a gift.
He knelt to grab a shirt. Even his rear had a taut firmness she hadn’t thought to find. His trousers stretched across trim hips and hugged his sleek lines with perfect definition. Polly couldn’t remember the last time she’d admired a man’s arse. Perhaps because no other man’s arse made her want to claw deep and hold on tight.
The cold grabbed at her nerves. She licked her bottom lip, then dug her teeth into the meat. Deeper inside her belly, and lower between her legs, a glorious heat kept her immune from the March chill.
“I told you,” Connie said, her whisper meant for Polly alone. “Disinterested. Ha!”
“Shush!”
Alex tugged a blue-and-white-striped shirt over his head. She was disappointed to see his brawn so demurely covered once again, but the spell was not broken. Scouring fingertips down to his scalp, he gave his hair a good undoing. Sunlight set every blond strand alight. His expression practically shouted his resolve—the grim set of his mouth, and the way his eyes rocked from man to man to man, gauging opponents and teammates alike.
“Come on. Let’s see this if we’re going to see it.”
Polly led the women to the edge of the pitch, where another dozen people had gathered. She recognized wives and girlfriends, fathers and mothers. A sense of belonging eased over her once again.
When Alex strode onto the slippery, half-frozen pitch, her peace evaporated. In its place pulsed a tension that she hadn’t expected. What if he didn’t do well?
What if he did?
Luckily, he wound up being on the same team as Les and Hamish. Perhaps that would keep Connie from teasing her anymore. But probably not. In their neighborhood, teasing was a prime pastime.
Justine bounced once on the balls of her feet, clinging to Polly’s arm. “So exciting. The winter has been so dull.”
Perhaps that also accounted for some of the excitement. It was simply good to be outdoors again. They spent so much time cooped up in noisy factories and cramped tenements. Now the afternoon was quiet except for the happy talk of those standing around her. All was expectation and eagerness.
A retired riveter called Jules MacDonald took his position as referee. At his signal, two players walked toward the center of the pitch. The battered round football waited there. Its dirty stitched leather had seen better days, but it would serve for this test of manly wills. Polly stamped the cold out of her feet, locating where Alex had taken his position at the right rear of the pitch. It was a good place for a beginner, because few men could attack using their left foot to strike the ball. He could certainly survive the next ninety minutes, although his chances of eating muddy turf were diminished.
The whistle sounded.
Cheers shot out from the sidelines. More people had arrived, bringing the total to nigh on fifty. Polly grinned as the pace of play picked up and good-natured insults began to fly.
“Oooh, Walt’s in good form,” Connie said of her husband.
And he was. Walt tore up the right wing toward the opposing goal. His usual slouched expression had transformed into one of concentration. He dribbled the ball past the first defender, then another. His shot on goal was deflected. The stout goalkeeper shouted at his players to resume their positions.
Play continued for several minutes before Alex tasted any hint of action. But when it happened . . . A quick-footed attacker swerved past Les and collided straight into Alex. Both fell to the ground amid groans of sympathy from the crowd. Polly winced.
Alex elbowed his opponent in the chest and scampered to his feet.
“He must be running on pure stubbornness,” Connie said.
Agnes grinned. “It’s not like he knows what he’s doing, the poor dear.”
They weren’t wrong. Although Alex was quickly stripped of the ball, he put on a fantastic chase. Sweat slicked his face and neck. Exertion darkened his skin. Every quick exhale became a white plume in the chilly air.
That initial contact marked how he continued to play. All muscle. No skill. Polly couldn’t help but admire his tenacity. Unlike what he must be like while studying or teaching or tabulating accounts, he was a fighter now. His body was the instrument, not his intellect, and he overcame every opportunity to wade into the fray.
Les lost the ball, which sailed past their keeper and through twin goalposts.
“Damn,” Connie whispered. “We’re one down.”
Justine elbowed Polly. “Hamish looks upset.”
Sure enough, Hamish was screaming at Les and another player, who waved a dismissive hand. Alex stepped in to keep Hamish from going after his teammate. For a moment it looked as if Hamish would pop the mill master in his grim, determined mouth, but Polly was able to breathe again when the men parted and play resumed.
Once again, Alex’s team was on the back foot. They bunched too quickly along the defensive line, leaving a gap for another attack. This time the keeper was able to deflect the ball, but the damage had been done. Polly could almost feel morale cool and collapse.
Their team was down by three when halftime was called. After switching sides, the lopsided battle forged on. Alex was on the near side now, where Polly could better read his expressions. More resolve. His sandy brows dipped low on a frown. He licked his lower lip and clapped his hands to rally the defense.
“Come on now, men. We have this. Buck up and fight these bastards!”
A rush of hot admiration whisked through Polly’s veins. Do that again.
Alex even grinned at Hamish, apparently enjoying the hard competition. “Don’t tell me you’re tired, Nyman. Would bust your pride something fierce if I’m still standing while you’re flat on the ground.”
“Piss off, Christie. You’ll get yours!”
Justine stilled. Agnes gasped. Polly’s knees went soft and wobbly.
Yes, Alex was a different sort of man, but he was still a man. He only grinned. “Not until we bury these smug gents up to their eyeballs.”
Hamish clapped his hands, too. “Let’s go, boys. You heard the master.”
The air was charged with potent energy. Alex looked ready to eat the competition for an afternoon snack. Teeth bared, he bent over and braced his hands against his thighs. Blue-and-white fabric stretched across his back.
“Here comes Lennox again,” Justine said.
She jerked her eyes away from Alex. “Is that his name? The little quick one?”
“That’s right. He’s Anne-Margaret Lennox’s youngest boy. You didn’t recognize him?”
As the lad ripped past the midfield line, Polly tried to get a good look. He was just too fast. She hadn’t seen Paddy Lennox in at least ten years, not since his da had gone to prison for killing a man. After that, the family disappeared from good company. Even in poverty, her people had lines that would not be crossed.
Young Paddy had nearly made it past Les when he tripped. Polly didn’t see exactly how it happened, only that he flew through the air and landed hard against the unforgiving ground.
How it happened didn’t mat
ter. Tempers made short by the unbalanced play sparked to life. Les, who stood over young Lennox, was the first to be mobbed with accusations of having tripped the lad. He was jumped by two of Lennox’s side. Then Hamish barreled into the skirmish.
And to Polly’s surprise, Alex Christie—covered in mud and sweat—joined in, too.
Alex distinctly remembered the last time he’d thrown a punch. On his wedding day. Josiah Todd had deserved his head cut from his body, but a crack across his mocking mouth had made the point: Mamie was Alex’s wife, and Josiah would have nothing more to do with her.
Bloody hell, it still felt good. Just cutting loose.
He’d seen Les trip the fast boy, just as he’d clearly seen a dozen other bad calls. None of it mattered. He only knew that supporting Les, Hamish, and the men in blue-and-white stripes was the right thing to do. They were his teammates.
And after a rough hour of intense physical exertion, all the while losing in front of Polly Gowan, he was in the mood to bloody a few noses.
He hauled a skinny man off Hamish, then spun him away. He’d barely time to offer Les a hand up when he was jumped from behind. One minute standing . . . the next minute knee-deep in the mud. Slippery grass slid beneath Alex’s palms. A fist connected with the back of his skull. The blows kept coming. He grabbed his attacker’s hand, using the leverage of his low position to hurl him to the ground.
Alex used the moment’s distraction to jump to his feet. He spun into the crack of another punch—this one to his cheekbone. That blaze of hot, red fire freed him from any further niceties. He twisted and dodged, facing his opponent behind raised fists. Two quick jabs came to nothing, but he landed a third against the man’s kidney. The punch Alex took to the gut barely registered, so fast and hard did his blood beat. His uppercut snapped back the other player’s head and sent him staggering.
Alex rode high on the rush and flow of the fight. The whistle blew again and again. People at the edge of the playing field barged forward. Men were restrained. Alex turned at the feel of a hand on his shoulder, only to find Hamish standing there.