Starlight (11 page)

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 knew 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.

“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.”

S
arah
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 anyone 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.