by Carrie Lofty
“You’re a mad girl. You know that, right?”
“Says the devil himself. And Tommy?”
He scuffed his toes against the bare wood floor. “What?”
“What do you know about the night I was arrested?”
“That it happened. Something about prostitution? I assumed it was just gossip started by the pigs or the masters. But you were with him, weren’t you?”
“Yes. Trying to find information about Jack Findley.” She ignored his look of disbelief. “The night I was arrested, the constables had my shawl. I’d left it by accident at Old Peter’s. Someone turned it over to the police as evidence against me. I need to know who that was. Maybe it was a master or the police, as you said. But maybe . . .”
Feeling as if she were being watched by a thousand eyes, as if the walls had ears, she whispered a name. She shouldn’t trust Tommy either, but when it came to steering clear of another stint in prison, he might have just enough sense to be tenacious.
“And what will you do in the meantime?”
A tremor of foreboding settled at the base of her spine. “I’m going to find out what my husband’s hiding.”
Alex awoke in the middle of the night, his heart racing. He sat up and fumbled for the lamp’s wick to check the time. The clock on his bedside table read half-past three. With an arm over his eyes, he flopped back onto the bed. His heart still thudded at a tremendous rate, as he searched through wisps of sleep to catch the remnants of the dream that had shocked him to wakefulness.
Nothing came. He may as well have blamed a plain white wall for his anxiety.
Polly was not in bed beside him. He kicked out of sheets and tugged on his dressing robe. The floor was cold against his feet despite being early May. He’d been in Scotland for three months. Disconcerting that it seemed so long. And he had another year and a half to go.
Not that he thought it likely he’d last that long. Winchester and Bennett were primed to ruin his chances. If their all-or-nothing strategy of revenge against the union went ahead as planned, they would destroy more than Alex’s chances at earning his father’s bequest.
A whole community stood poised on the verge of collapse.
As did one very new, very precarious marriage.
He shoved a hand through his hair, wondering why he hadn’t smacked Bennett across the mouth when afforded the chance. First he’d reminded Alex of the masters’ unanimous agreement to decrease wages. At the first hint of Alex’s hesitation—because, Christ, he was more uncertain than ever about that decision—Bennett had blamed Polly. Insulted her.
Alex regretted his restraint, no matter how disastrous it would’ve been.
He needed a drink. He needed the stars. Awaking long before dawn hadn’t been a burden when working for the university in Philadelphia. The most fascinating constellations could be seen when the world slept. Glasgow conspired to take a great deal from him. His sanity, chiefly, because with the industrial smog and the bright streetlights, both gas and electric, he could never get a clear view of the sky.
And he needed to find Polly. The bed didn’t feel right without her at his side.
Padding downstairs, he poured a whiskey at the sideboard in the library. Bennett had sat in that wingback by the fireplace, his fat jowls wiggling like sacks of egg yolks. “Eat or be eaten, Christie. That’s something you apparently didn’t learn from your father.”
Such an attitude had steered Alex away from capitalism and its fortunes, which turned like a gaming wheel. Yet William Christie had done good works when he’d been able. He’d been a hard old bastard, but he’d never been heartless. Compared to men like Bennett and Winchester, his father had been able to chart a narrow path between profit and morality. Perhaps trade wasn’t as clear-cut as Alex had always assumed.
After downing the first whiskey, he poured another and thought to check in on his son. Agnes remained in their household, assisting Polly now that she stayed home, but Alex needed contact with Edmund. His son was the reason he jumped through hoops like a trained dog.
Only, his boy was not alone.
Alex stopped in the doorway. The heart that had only just slowed leapt forth as if powering a flat-out run. He’d witnessed this scene before: Polly in the rocking chair, with Edmund in her arms. Both were asleep. The last remnants of a fire slowly died in the nearby fireplace. Yet the image never failed to steal his breath away, along with any rational thought.
He loved his son. And he dearly loved his wife.
The realization hit him in waves. Cold at first. Then burning hot. He let the truth of it cover him like a new skin. Swallowing past a hard lump in his throat, he gathered every detail of that timeless picture. He was a scientist. His imagination needed such fuel. He needed the wrinkle along Edmund’s cheek where it pressed against the swaddling, and how his knitted cap overwhelmed his brow. Alex needed the slack angle of Polly’s neck, with her head cradled by the back of the rocker, and how her arms protected his son even in the throes of sleep.
Keep them. Keep them both. Safe and happy.
The pressure of those simple, needful impulses constricted his chest until he needed to sit. Hand shaking, he found a nearby chair and eased into its embrace. At least they were both with him. For now. It was an unhealthy purgatory.
He sat watching them and nursing his drink until the fire ebbed to near-darkness. The first shades of dawn tinted the backs of the nursery’s drapes. He could’ve sat there forever. There was no peace to be found when faced with the oncoming storm. Somehow he’d thought he would have more time. More time to change generations’ worth of prejudice and mistrust. More time to convince them of a beneficial agreement and earn his fortune.
More time to win Polly’s heart.
Once she learned what he’d agreed to . . .
She stirred. Alex’s heartbeat roused once again, as did the taut, hungry body that remained so greedy for her touch.
She blinked, then rolled her neck. Her eyes found Alex. “Oh!”
He touched his forefinger to his lips, signaling for quiet. On silent feet he arose and lifted Edmund from her arms. The warmth from that tiny bundle grabbed him in deep, primal places. So much potential. Gently, he laid his son in the crib. After a massive yawn and a few smacks of his gums, Edmund quieted and returned to slumber.
Without thought, he took Polly’s hand. He left the nursery door open when he led her into the corridor and up the stairs. Upon reaching the landing, he whispered against her temple, “Next time, wake me. Or Agnes. You need rest.”
“I do nothing strenuous all day. Besides, I like holding him. He enjoys it.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I enjoy it, too.”
Her eyes shone radiantly where the first rays of sunshine crept through the nearest window. “Take me to bed.”
They kissed each other down the corridor. Arms tangled in clothing until they were locked in his bedroom and stripped naked. Alex sucked in a sharp breath. Christ, she was amazing. So beautiful of face and form. A piercing passion swept over him like the blaze of a comet. His limbs worked with jerky precision as he pulled down the bedcovers, urged her to lie down, and followed her into that blissful refuge.
Again, her smile. Eyes wide and blatantly appreciative, she raked her gaze from head to toe. She was as cheeky as she was sensuous. “That sight never gets old.”
“Never say never.”
“Don’t doubt me, master. I know when I speak the truth.”
He stretched along his wife’s lithe body. “You insist on calling me that.”
“You react to it.” Her hands slid around to hug his waist. “Not much seems to affect you. I’ve needed to be creative.”
He wanted to touch her everywhere, now, but started with her face—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her wide, soft lower lip. “You’re too creative for my sanity.”
“Bollocks to that.”
He shook his head, grinning. “What if I responded to different provocation? Would you stop then?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Let me think on that,” he whispered against her mouth.
“We’ve already established that you think too much.”
She grazed her thigh along the outside of his. He was close—very close to where they would be joined. Breath to breath, belly to belly. He pressed his lips to hers. Softly at first, then he delved inside to challenge her in a rough duel of tongues and teeth. Air became a precious commodity. His lungs heaved. He wished the dulling pang of whiskey wasn’t so cloying, because he wanted more of her taste.
Fingers that had been gentle now dug into the flesh of his hips. She found the place where he throbbed and ached. Alex groaned, thrust, clutched her buttocks. Her resilient female flesh felt indescribably perfect in his hands. He kneaded deeply and drank deeply and kissed deeply. With his arms tight, he turned her onto her back. Dawn was crawling across the bed, brightening the red of her hair and the challenging green of her eyes, illuminating the freckles on her pale, flawless skin.
Only that radiant sight held the power to restrain his passion. He just wanted to look at her.
“When you call me ‘master,’” he said softly against her mouth, “you put us back on different levels. I never set out to be anyone’s better.”
“Too bad the way the world works.”
“I never would’ve thought you resigned.”
Although one hand remained maddeningly tight around his erection, she lifted the other to brush the hair back from his temples. Sexual and sweet—both.
“Hardly,” she said. “But we don’t have to let it in here. You remember what I said about happiness?”
“To let it in.”
Frank appreciation deepened her smile. “That’s right.”
He nudged between her legs. With a long, sensuous caress, he traced the line of her inner thigh and found her center. She was wet, hot, open for him.
“Polly?”
She batted her lashes, appearing almost innocent. Almost. “Hm?”
“Let me in.”
Twenty-two
Polly sighed as he pushed inside. Being filled, being covered by his lean bulk—every time, she edged closer and closer to simply letting him make her feel good. He could pamper her for the rest of her days, but the woman he cossetted and doted upon would not be her. The real her.
That didn’t mean she could keep from going weak when their bodies locked together. She moaned, her eyes rolling closed.
He let go of his hesitation a little sooner each time, as if he was beginning to trust how good they could be. His hand found her breast. He palmed her sensitive flesh and ducked his head toward her chest. She gasped when he took her nipple into his mouth. Wet and warm, his tongue slicked over and over in sensuous circles, even as his hips pulsed. He found a deep, lingering rhythm with both. Sensation spiraled heavenward.
There remained so much she wanted to do to this man. With him. But for the moment, this was enough. They were tender and passionate, both, as the sun bathed them in gold.
She grabbed hunks of pale hair and held him at her breast. Arching toward his patient attentions, she let her body reveal unspoken thoughts. He slid his hand down her ribs, as if taking note of every individual bone. Such a patient man, he’d probably learned the name for each—as if he could catalog what made a body unique, what made its heart beat and its mind strive for new ideas. Emphasizing his patience even in the midst of his hunger, he switched to her other breast and started anew. First kissing. Then a nibbling touch of teeth. Finally he drew her into his mouth, sucking deep.
Polly spun away. She writhed against her pillow and twisted her hips up to meet his steady invasion. So hard. So long. He bared his teeth yet pumped with precision, hitting a spot that turned her hot and mindless.
Sweat shone on his brow. The muscled press of his torso stretched heavily over hers. His ribs and pectorals shifted with each gyration. She should’ve felt crushed, even trapped. Instead she clasped her hands around his lean waist and drew him closer. He responded with a faster rhythm.
She moaned against his ear. “I like that,” she gasped.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Because I’m wicked?”
“Because I can never surprise you.”
Taking his earlobe between her teeth, she bit harder than she’d intended. He grunted and shoved her against the mattress with a hard thrust. “I dare you to try,” she said.
“You so enjoy pushing me.”
She bit again, then gasped his name when he moaned. “You’re just learning that?”
Alex suddenly laughed. His shoulders heaved. The delicious muscles lining his chest and stomach tensed as his hips faltered in their steady rhythm. His mouth bent into a precious, boyish smile. “Slow learner,” he whispered.
Before she could respond, Polly found herself flipped. She squealed before joining in his laughter.
Alex stretched flat beneath her. With his arms behind his head, he ground up into her body—his prick still filling her so deeply. That beautiful grin took on a salacious edge she’d never seen. “Surprise. I win.”
“Oh, you do?” Polly balanced with her palms on his chest, quickly giving over to giddy delight. “I beg to differ.”
“Begging does not suit you.”
“No, I don’t believe it does. Taking, though . . .”
She dug her fingertips into his thick muscles. Never had the bronzed gold of sunlight draped across a more handsome man. Shadows defined the curve of his powerful chest, the neat lines of his tense abdomen, and the sweeping, elegant strength of his ribs. He swallowed thickly, then parted his lips on a sensual intake of breath. Indulging her desires, she stroked upward to his wide, solid shoulders. Luscious hair tickled her palms. A contented purr shook beneath her palms. She leaned near and scraped her teeth over his heart. His gasping breath and tight hips told of his pleasure even before he murmured her name.
Using her thighs, Polly discovered just the right angle and just the right rhythm. She realized the power she held—the power he’d given her. She could accept as much or as little as she wanted. She could set the speed that suited her needs. Even more than when she’d been pinned beneath his solid weight, she reveled in setting the terms.
“You’re understanding now, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
“I am.”
“Then take me, Polly.”
A surge of responsibility thrilled her. Challenged her. She drank in the sight of his naked need. Hazel eyes darkened. She bit her lower lip on a naughty grin. Slowly, anticipating this more than she could’ve imagined, she retrieved both his hands from behind his head. And placed them square on her arse.
“Hold tight. Don’t let go.”
His eyes rolled closed on a long “Yes . . .”
Polly arched back until she could rest her palms on his taut thighs. Just the right spot. She liked being able to find it again so quickly. With Alex holding her firmly in place, she began to move. Deliberately at first—only a tense, tight slide of her sheath. She felt every ridge and each hard inch, learning him as intimately as she had with her tongue.
She pulsed faster. The muscles in her thighs sizzled with the decadent burn. Alex gripped her buttocks harder, opening her in new ways. She felt vulnerable, but held with such strength. The fullness she’d come to associate with intense pleasure began to build between her legs and deeper, just below her belly.
He joined her now, pumping up as she dropped down. She tipped forward to brace her hands on his chest. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to be closer. With her forearms looped around his neck, she pressed her breasts against him. The hard points of her nipples ground into his chest hair.
“You do this to me.” She bit the stiff tendon that climbed his neck. Sparks dashed behind her eyelids when he grunted. Each press of teeth pulled a different noise from him. She feasted on skin and sound. “Alex, you drive me mad when you fuck me.”
“Bloody Christ,” he gasped.
“I w
ant everything you can give me.” She shook, so near to her release. “Now, my love. God, now.”
He rasped a strangled sound. His hips stiffened on a deep drive. He shook from thigh to shoulder, and ground his head back into the pillow. Polly thrust two fingers between her thighs. She closed her eyes and took the image of his bliss with her into the dark. Her body jerked, a long sigh eased clear of her lips, and the dark exploded into a brilliant field of white.
As full morning lit the ceiling, Alex lay still, remembering the myth of Helios riding across the sky in his chariot. The ancient Greeks had believed him the personification of the sun’s blaze from east to west. Alex had never put stock in mythical explanations of how heavenly bodies moved or how they were created. But he’d read stories from the Greco-Roman, Norse, and Egyptian canon to his younger sister, Vivienne, when she’d first arrived at their father’s New York brownstone. Barely eight years old and half wild, speaking only French, she had surprised them all by quieting for Alex when he read.
So he’d learned myths for her. Their power was in binding him to the sister he adored.
With Polly curled against his side, her breathing quiet, he wondered how Viv fared in Cape Colony. Or Gwen, his little ray of sunshine. Or Gareth, so full of potential and mirth. Alex missed them dearly and owed them all letters, even as he awaited news from them. Only to Vivienne, however, would he confide the wonder and uncertainty of that morning.
I’ve married, Viv. She’s penniless, mulishly stubborn, occasionally vulgar.
Burying his nose in Polly’s hair, he breathed deeply. The tightness that had been lodged in his chest since childhood was no longer so easy to find. He had to search for that reflexive morbidity. He wanted to be free of it now. Polly had given him a gift and a goal he’d never knew he needed.
But, good God, Viv, she’s beautiful and terribly clever.
And how she makes me feel . . .
Polly stirred gently. Her hands gripped his waist, even though her eyes remained closed. She hummed a contented sound as she blinked to full wakefulness.
Alex kissed her forehead. “Good morning.”