by Aubrey Wynne
“Not an entire wardrobe, of course.” Ian leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. “Many of our employees are members of our clan or from the village near our castle. They had little or no money when we started the mill. So, we gave an allowance for cloth, and they made their own clothes. We have never quit the practice, but I dinna believe it is so rare as ye think.”
“Don’t some leave as soon as they are given the coin?”
“Och, do I look a fool? They are allowed an allotment of wool after their first year of work and each year thereafter. We canna afford to pay more than the other mills, so we supplement with in-kind wages.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the rickety chair, the wood creaking in protest as he moved within its confines. His kilt hung loosely over his knees. “The Highlanders support families back home. My grandfather is the clan chief, so we are responsible for these folks.”
Fenella mulled this over. Her knowledge of industrialization conflicted with this theory. Workers were more like poorly paid servants, toiling twelve-hour days or more for a pittance. “So, you make less profit but provide for the workers?”
“Dinna get the wrong idea, Miss Franklin. We expect a hard day’s work from every man, woman, and child. But we employ more family than strangers, so we are a wee different from other factories in the city.”
She nodded, a smile curving her lips. Yes, Fenella liked the MacNaughtons.
He pulled several massive books from a shelf. Flipping one open, she saw they contained swaths of cloth. Her fingers ran over a square of pale rose linen and marveled at the superior weave. Another book held wool. “With the demand for brocade and jacquard fabrics, I plan to expand this year. We began with wool, added flax, but silk could double our profits. The last time I went to the theater, I wasna sure if the walls or the clothes of the patrons were bonnier.”
Fenella laughed, then rose from her chair. “Well, I suppose I should get started with these invoices and payments.”
Ian rose at the same time. “I thought I’d give ye a tour of the place first. Ye should ken every aspect of the business if ye’re to work here. We’ll begin downstairs with the storeroom of raw materials. Ye need to learn the different qualities of wool and flax, in case ye ever need to accept a shipment. I’ll introduce ye to the loom workers and the spinners so they recognize yer face.”
“It sounds lovely,” she said in a cheerful tone, though her gaze wandered longingly toward the accounts.
“Last, I’ll introduce ye to my brother. A wee faerie told me ye might have already made his acquaintance.”
Fenella looked up into Ian’s penetrating blue eyes, and her stomach dipped. “Your brother?” Those eyes, the same sapphire shade that had laughed at her yesterday and made her insides quiver. Drat! How had she not seen it before? The man on the stairs was a MacNaughton.
*
Lachlan reached into the sack and took a section of the core. He checked the quality, amount of debris, and fiber length of the wool and nodded. “Good. If they are all as fine as this, the shipment is worth every farthing.” He ordered every bag opened and a sample inspected in the same manner.
“Who do ye think ye are? The manager doesna examine every bag. Do ye think my employer would cheat ye?” the man asked in affront.
“First, that manager is gone, so let’s consider this a new beginning. I am Lachlan MacNaughton and pleased to make your acquaintance. Second, I believe in being thorough. Do ye take issue with that?” Lachlan stood, hands on his hips, staring down at the man. “Or do ye think me such an addle-brained mon of business that I dinna ensure I get exactly what was ordered?”
The supplier shook his head, obviously sensing his opponent would be up for an argument—or more. “Nay, sir. I’ll await yer approval.”
Lachlan had learned long ago never to trust another at his word until the person had earned such trust. He also didn’t want to make any enemies on his first day. “Higher prices are charged for a higher quality wool. If there are ten bags out of one hundred that do not the meet the standard we are paying for, we will adjust the fee accordingly. It’s no’ personal, mind ye, it’s business.”
Two hours later, a quarter of the shipment was found to be of lower quality. Usable by any standard, but not what had been ordered. “As I said,” he told the man, his gaze steady but neutral, “we pay for what we receive. Ye might want to spread that around. These bags”—he waved a hand at a smaller stack—“will be counted at the lower price.”
The fellow grumbled under his breath.
“Look at it this way, my friend. If this was a shipment of coarser wool, and I’d found these bags of finer wool, ye’d have made a profit.” Lachlan slapped him on the shoulder and made a note on the bill. He handed it to one of the lads, closing up the last burlap bag. “Bring this to the office, laddie, and make sure my brother gets it. Dinna just add it to a pile on the desk.”
“And what do ye mean by that exactly?” asked Ian, from behind the wall of sacks. “I dinna lose things.”
Turning to the boy, Lachlan took back the sheet of paper. “Never mind. It seems the office has come to us.”
Ian stepped around the barrier of wool, and Lachlan’s breath caught in his throat. There she was, his angel from the previous day. His brain struggled for a clever welcome while his mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish. Eejit! Say something to the lass!
While he floundered like a green boy, she stepped forward.
“Hello, Mr. MacNaughton. I believe we met yesterday.” She held out a steady hand, so pale against the dark blue of her dress. “Or do you not remember our encounter?”
Well, here was a bold piece of muslin. Her smile was confident and as radiant as her hair. Colin had been right. Sun-bleached flax just cut from the field. Today, her ashen eyes reflected the indigo of her gown. Her demeanor was poised, while her regard held intelligence and a flicker of challenge.
He took her hand and bowed over it, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. The touch was enough to spur the words from his mouth. “Aye, Miss Franklin, how could I forget?”
Ian snorted. “So, it was her?”
“Aye,” he answered, never taking his eyes from her face. She had a small nose, and he had the oddest urge to tap it with his finger. Then his lips. Then move down—
“The two of you had a conversation about me? May I ask what was said?” She straightened to her full height and looked him in the eye. “I believe you owe me that much.”
Lachlan swallowed, mentally kicking himself. A woman had never left him tongue-tied before. Then again, he’d never had such a physical reaction to a female.
“He said you almost fell, he caught you, and kissed you. Told us he couldn’t help himself,” Ian explained for his brother. “He also promised to apologize and not let it happen again. Is that the right of it, Brother?”
“Did I actually promise?” He shrugged his shoulders, the surprise of seeing her now fading, his confidence returning. He gave another deep bow, arm extended. “My deepest apology if I insulted ye, Miss Franklin. I will do my best to be a perfect gentleman when we are together.”
She laughed. “I have a feeling that will be no easy task for you, sir.”
He scanned her face, wished her hair was not pulled back into such a tight knot, then traveled down that long, graceful neck and back up to the full pink lips. When he looked up, the amusement in her eyes made him chuckle. She had a sense of humor.
Sweet Mary, this would be a test for the best of men. Desire surged through his veins and a steady throb made him glad for the loose kilt.
“Lachlan, I need to speak with the captain of the barge before it leaves. Could you introduce Miss Franklin to the spinners and then escort her back to the office?” Ian nodded toward the large doors opening out to the Clyde River. “I’ll also tell him of our arrangement, so he won’t be surprised when I’m gone, and he must deal with ye.”
“Gone?” asked Fenella.
“Ian is returning home to his wife.
I am to take his place for a month or so, once we have all the arrangements made. You being one of them.” He swiped off the lint and dust from his shirt and held out an arm. When she placed her hand on his sleeve, he covered it with his own. Her cheeks flushed.
“I am an arrangement?” The tone was light, but he felt her stiffen beneath his touch.
“We were desperate for an accountant. Ian hasna seen his wife in two months and agreed to let me take his place as soon as we filled the position. So ye’ve made two people verra happy.” He patted her hand and wondered at how natural it felt to have her by his side.
“Two, as in Ian and his wife?” she asked.
“Aye, Lissie will be delighted, so I suppose that makes three of us.” He stopped to give her his full attention. “I am truly sorry if I caused ye any distress yesterday.”
“And I apologize for the… the collision. I should have seen you.”
“Ye should ken that I dinna usually make such overtures…” Her eyes had turned to storm clouds and fixed on his mouth. He bent toward her slightly, his voice lowered. “In public…” Lachlan recognized desire when he saw it. His pulse raced as his head dipped a bit more. “In the rain…” Sweet Jesu! He wanted to kiss her again. Her bottom lip trembled slightly and her teeth caught at it.
“Lachlan!” roared his brother from the dock entrance. “Ye promised.”
Both their heads jerked toward Ian’s voice. Fenella flushed and Lachlan knew his face matched the deepest red streaks in his hair. He held out his arm, trying to put on a repentant expression.
Then it happened. Fenella began to giggle. A soft feminine sound that grew in volume until her arms wrapped around her middle, and she doubled over with tears in her eyes.
Laughter bubbled up in Lachlan’s throat. He soon joined her, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. She hiccupped. They looked at one another, she blinked, and it began again.
As the chortles subsided, the soft sound of hiccups took over. “Och, now look what we’ve done,” he said as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I have just the thing for that.”
Lachlan reached into his sporran and pulled out a small hip flask. He uncorked it, then handed it to her. She stared at it.
“Go on. Have a wee nip,” he said, waving it at her.
Fenella accepted the tin, tipped back her head, and took a drink. She spluttered and coughed. He choked back a laugh and smacked her on the back several times.
“Weel, I see I dinna have to worry about ye wooing her with a gentle touch.” Ian snatched the flask from the poor girl. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She nodded and dragged air into her lungs.
“What the devil were ye thinking?”
“She had the hiccups.” Lachlan gave Fenella a sideways glance and saw her grin. “Aye, and I was being a gentleman by helping her get rid of them.”
“It worked,” she squeaked. “Though a drink of water… perhaps…”
Ian shook his head. “Her throat is probably on fire, ye mindless numpty.”
Fenella took a deep breath and turned to Lachlan with a brilliant smile. “Shall we continue, Mr. MacNaughton?” she asked huskily, the harsh liquor still affecting her voice.
“I’d be delighted, Miss Franklin.” He turned to Ian. “If ye would excuse us, Brother?”
Lachlan held out his arm. As he escorted her up the stairs, he realized all the previous awkwardness had vanished. She’d defended him in a way, taken his side. Sweet Mary. He was not only attracted to this exceptional woman, he liked her.
God in heaven, he was in trouble.
Chapter Seven
Flirtations and Fisticuffs
Fenella wished the tingling under her skin would cease. It was his touch, she realized with a shock.
She’d danced and walked with enough men to know this was not a normal reaction. Not even Lord Shelton, devil take him, had affected her like this man. With a covert glance from beneath her lashes, she studied his profile. Strong square jaw, straight nose, a generous mouth with soft lips… His auburn hair was longer than the current fashion and combed back, flashing deep brown then red, depending on the light. Thick tendrils curled low on his neck, and his Adam’s apple peeked out from his loose neckcloth.
The arm that brushed hers flexed as he moved, hard muscle barely contained by the soft linen. Her fingers moved involuntarily as she wondered what his skin would feel like. Ascending the stairs, her eyes moved lower and were mesmerized by his wool kilt. The deep green material pulled back, showing his knee as he took the next step, then fell softly over it as his opposite foot moved up. She had always wondered about men wearing these Scottish skirts, but found there was nothing feminine about the attire. No, quite the opposite. The man, the skirt, and that bare flesh was wholly masculine.
“Do ye keep a journal, Miss Franklin?”
Her eyes snapped away from his leg. “Wh-what?”
“I asked if ye kept a journal?”
“No.” She looked at him, her eyes trapped by his forceful blue gaze. “Why would you ask?”
“Ye’re studying me with great intensity. I thought ye might be committing my image to memory, so ye could write about me in yer journal.” The laughter danced in his eyes now.
What a wet goose she was.
“I do not enjoy being teased, Mr. MacNaughton.” Though her tone was sharp, a smile tugged at her lips. “But I suppose I deserved that.”
“Och now, teasing is my way. I only do it to those I like, ye ken.” He bent low and whispered, “And I do believe I like ye verra much.”
Fenella didn’t respond, but a surge of happiness rushed through her. Yes, she liked this man, too, but she wouldn’t admit it just yet. Her trust in men was limited to her father these days, but the MacNaughtons seemed a good lot. She’d keep an open mind but would not be fooled twice. Yet, she couldn’t help wondering why she was able to be so bold with him—if she didn’t think about it.
They arrived on another landing and entered a room as busy as the one below with the power looms. This large space also contained long rows of machines. Spinning mules of wood and steel, set up in pairs, with one worker moving back and forth to operate each duo of whirling thread and revolving spools. The noise was almost as loud as the weaving shed.
“Do you ken the process of wool from raw to cloth?” Lachlan asked, leaning close so he didn’t have to yell over the din.
“Only the difference in price and that it comes from sheep!” Her analytical mind was fascinated with the commotion. “Could you give me a quick lesson?”
He nodded. “Ye saw the bags downstairs? They’re sent to the washing room, soaked and dried, then sent here.” She followed him to the far end of the room where a different type of apparatus was being fed fluffy puffs of white.
“Once the wool is clean, it’s sent through these rollers.” He pointed to the puffs fed into the rotating cylinders covered in tiny saw-like teeth. “This straightens the fibers and removes any remaining debris. Sheep are a dirty lot and live close to the ground.”
He stooped to snatch some of the cast-off fluff collecting below the mechanism, picking out a dead leaf and a small twig. They walked past the chambers, spitting out a thin web of spidery filaments. Something that looked like a long rake divided the web and rolled the strands into long, continuous fragile ropes. Lachlan indicated the thicker fibers that were then rolled into larger loose forms. “This final stage before spinning is called roving. It’s more of a rough yarn, and the mechanical mules spin it into fine thread, ready for weaving downstairs.”
Lachlan wore a satisfied smile as he concluded his explanation. “Are ye properly impressed, Miss Franklin?”
“Indeed, Mr. MacNaughton.” Fenella enjoyed the feel of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her across the room, smiling and nodding at the employees as they went.
Colin was waiting for them at the door, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. “Showing off, eh?”
“Just an intr
oduction to the business of textiles.” Lachlan narrowed his eyes as he looked up at his cousin. “What is it? Ye never look for me unless there’s trouble or whisky involved.”
“He’s had a suspicious nature since he was a bairn,” the giant said to Fenella, mock indignation on his face and humor shining in his blue eyes. “Sometimes I fetch him for both.”
Lachlan snorted. “Then ye need my fists.”
Colin nodded. “Ian needs ye on the dock. Some unwelcome visitors dinna want to leave.”
Fenella looked from one MacNaughton to the next. Tension radiated between them.
“Aye, I’m ready,” he grinned. “Will ye take Miss Franklin to the office? I’m sure she’s had enough of my company by now.” He gave her a nod and took the stairs two at a time.
“Well, he’s certainly in a hurry,” she remarked as she followed Colin back to the office. “Is there an emergency?”
“Och, no. Some rabble trying to stir up the workers. Dinna worry yer bonnie head about it.”
Dissention? She watched him barely fit through the next doorway, his dark head ducking beneath the frame. Fenella wondered why Lachlan had been summoned rather than Colin.
“If there is need for, er, brute force, I would think you would be the most logical choice. You’re so…”
“Clever?” he asked, turning to face her. He laughed as she blushed. “I’ll join them directly, but Lachy relishes a good skelping. He’ll want to be there for the start of it.”
“You mean fighting?” Her father had enjoyed sparring at Jackson’s, but it was monitored with rules and gloves. He’d never been hurt. “He enjoys it?”
“Aye, nothing like a good fray to clear the head and release some energy. A mon has few enough pleasures in this life.” He opened the door to the office and stepped aside. “Now ye’ll excuse me, I’m needed on the dock.”
Fenella watched the hulking form move down the corridor with surprising speed. Did all men enjoy fisticuffs? Or just the Scots? Or perhaps it was a uniquely MacNaughton pastime. Curiosity tugged at her. She left the office and followed Colin’s path. At the end of the hall, there was a large window that faced the river. The glass was filthy, so she made a fist and wiped away a circle of the dust.