Starlight (20 page)

“Thank you, Alex.”

He grinned against her hair, where he caught traces of smoke from the bar. With no more pleasant distractions, he was left with the pain in his lip, his brow, his ribs. The effort required to forgo those misgivings was not so Herculean as he would’ve imagined. He only nuzzled deeper and breathed her in.

“I was going to say the same thing,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

She giggled even as she straightened his collar.
“I’m tempted to tell Tommy what a poor showing his efforts have proven.”

“Don’t. God, please.”

“Hush, master. There’s no chance I ever will. That was . . .” Eyes bright, she would not let him look away. She even caught his chin in her hand to force their gazes together. “That was amazing. And unbearably private. For me and you.”

“For me and you.”

Slowly, she rose up on tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss against his mouth. He wondered at her hesitation until he realized how many doubts
he
harbored. Surely she must have as many. So he kissed her back. Not as roughly or with the same fevered intensity, but the power of that unhurried touch of lip to lip shook his bones.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Amen. You would not fare well in jail.”

“You’ve been?”

She shrugged. “For an hour or two at a stretch. It’s mostly for show. But I can’t imagine the esteemed Mr. Christie standing before a judge.”

“I wouldn’t be the first Christie to do so.”

They intertwined their fingers, just as they’d done when stroking his rigid shaft. Alex blinked past the sudden resurgence of his arousal. The thought alone, only a few moments on from the act itself, was enough to quicken his breath. He’d become a man possessed.

After a quick check of the deserted alley, they walked away from the private little hiding place. He had shared one of the most intimate encounters of
his life, but he would never find that secret cubby again. A place as ephemeral as fog and memory.

The sky remained hidden behind a silver slime of clouds. The cold was fierce now. They joined hands. Their shoulders brushed and bumped with every step. Her magnificent hair was an unbound cape that caught flickers of light from the hissing gaslamps. She looked every inch the wild woman who could ravage and be ravaged, but her naïveté about the act itself reminded him that she was no practiced harlot.

“When do your parents expect you home?”

“I don’t think they do.”

“Your life here. It’s . . . let’s just say it’s different.”

With a quiet laugh, she hugged his arm. “Might as well be the moon, I suspect. But they trust me to stay safe and not cause trouble.”

“What about what we just did?”

“Well, I wouldn’t brag about it, that’s for certain. Though I could. It was well worth bragging about.”

Alex grinned. “Another compliment. Better watch yourself.”

They walked in silence until they reached a street that curled along the river docks. Every shipbuilding contract with the British military establishment supplied thousands of jobs, the effect of which wove down to the woman at his side. Only, scraps and hand-me-downs weren’t good enough. Not for Polly.

He had no notion of what to do about the situation. All he knew was they had come too close to irrevocable trouble. No matter their differences, he
would not allow her to be hurt. Any harm visited upon Polly would be some unfortunate soul’s last mistake.

“What did Livingstone do to you?”

“The man you threatened me with?”

“That seems like . . . a long time ago.”

She touched his cheek. “Yes, it does. And it’s probably not what you’re assuming. He wants me willing, I think, because he’s had opportunities where forcing me would’ve been an easy thing.”

She said it so nonchalantly, but Alex forced his throat to relax and his fist to open. “Then what?”

Polly glanced toward the river, where boats bobbed in the night quiet. A gentle but steady wind whistled through the ropes and moorings. “About five years ago, Da’s health was just beginning to fail. He’d organized a strike that turned sour. The masters claimed he’d told the strikers to use their fists. But the police were the ones to wade in with dogs and truncheons.”

Outrage added volume to her words, no matter the time separating past and present. Alex found himself caressing her upper arm.

“They held the so-called ringleaders in prison for five days. Da was sick. Livingstone was there, working for Winchester as always. Even then, Livingstone was a surly cuss with no decency. He threatened to beat Da unless he confessed. Rather than see that happen, Tommy stepped up and said
he’d
started the riot. That he’d done it on purpose. So Tommy got the beating instead.” She shivered. “That limp of his? Livingstone did that.”

“That’s part of why you protect him, isn’t it? Tommy?”

She mashed her lips together. Alex had learned enough about her to know when she was done sharing.

“I’ll find out what I can about this Jack Findley person,” he said. “I can observe how the other masters react to his name. We’re close, Polly. Nothing about either of our endeavors will be safe until we solve this.”

She sighed in a way that lent him no confidence in her cooperation. “Very well.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Oh? Now you have me curious. But before you say a thing, know that I have something very specific in mind as to how you’ll repay me.”

“Does it have anything to do with what we just shared?”

A mock pout curved her sensual mouth. “Alas, no. You’ll meet with the masters. You’ll search for what you can about this Findley bloke. But I also want you to listen. Use that brain of yours and consider what you’ve seen of my people—and what you hear of the masters’ greed and suspicion.” She took a deep breath. “I know we’re on opposite sides, but perhaps it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Alex put an end to their stroll and studied her heart-shaped face. Such wide eyes. High cheekbones. Luscious mouth made for kissing. All the right shapes to suit a devoted, trusting woman. But she was as clever as ever, just as cagey.

“I will,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

“Then ask what you will.”

“My son’s wet nurse is leaving for London in a matter of days. I think he’s about ready to move on to solid foods. So what I really need is a reliable nanny. I’d appreciate recommendations, a few names.” He stroked her jaw, touched her lower lip. “I know you wouldn’t mislead me on this, Polly.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Just as I know you’ll want to find out all you can about any woman I recommend. So I’ll give you that name now: Agnes Doward. Perhaps I can bring her round on Saturday.” She grinned and slanted those bright eyes toward him. “Do what digging you must before then. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

They shared a hackney back toward her neighborhood. The looming brick form of her tenement was no different than the dozen flanking it. Polly Gowan lived there. Every night, she climbed those crooked steps toward some squalid set of rooms. Alex’s sickened sense of outrage was nearly as strong as had been his desire. She deserved better. Pure and simple.

She turned to leave, but Alex caught her wrist. He kissed her there, along skin that thumped a sweet, steady pulse. “Good night, Miss Gowan.”

Her hesitant smile wasn’t near enough to the real Polly, but it was still beautiful. “Good night, Mr. Christie.”

P
olly
had never known such a treacle-slow day.

Not only did a raw edge of fatigue scratch beneath her eyelids, but she kept glancing toward the nearest timepiece. At breakfast, it was the small mainspring clock on the mantel. On the factory floor, it was the large, stark Roman numerals on the wall above the exit. The second hand loafed and the minute hand moved as sluggishly as a miser opening his wallet. The hour hand didn’t move at all.

She would see Alex that evening, as an escort to formally introduce Agnes. And two days hence, he would meet with the other mill masters on Monday.

That thought would not leave her mind, always at odds with their reckless night together. What would he do or say? Would he listen, as she’d asked? Or just inquire after Jack Findley? She liked to think Alex was above the greed and ease with which the masters could strip so much of what the union had gained. She liked to think that, but he was obsessed
with making the mill a success, for reasons she had not yet figured out.

Apparently a man of science and learning, he certainly hadn’t behaved that way since arriving in Glasgow. She had a hard time picturing him as studious. Severe, yes. Grim at times. For the most part she had witnessed his potential for a quick temper and violence, and had been on the receiving end of delicious, overwhelming lust.

Good God.
She still shivered and ached, no matter the blaze of satisfaction she had relished. Nothing of logic helped her understand what making love to Alex would mean for the future. In thinking back on their shared passion, however, she didn’t want to be logical. In a world of rote traditions and few options, he made her
feel
. For now, that was more than enough.

She finished her quota just after lunch, in the vain hope that working harder would speed time. Her efforts only left her without a suitable distraction as the day dragged. With as much cheer as she could muster, she helped a relatively new hire untangle the lead threads of her loom—a tedious, time-consuming task. She accepted an incoming delivery of dye and raw cotton, then directed the heartier women in sorting bundles.

Christie Textiles was nearly back to full capacity, and in only two weeks. The engineers and a dozen hired masons had already done wonders to repair the damage done by the explosion.

Only when she sat on a large crate did drowsiness catch up with her. She nodded off twice, awoken the first time by Connie’s gentle hand on her shoulder.
The second time . . . Alex had pressed her up against that brick wall, his eyes full of a desire she’d never known. But the wall crumbled. She slipped out of his grasp, falling backward, her arms pinwheeling—

She jerked awake.

With a quick glance, she realized that the others must’ve let her sleep. She was alone in the sorting room. Composing herself, she stood and stretched. She was edgy at the prospect of seeing where Alex lived, as well as meeting his young son. It was more proof of their growing connection—a connection she could not afford to indulge. Making love was practically recreation. Any deeper intimacy, so much nearer her heart, needed to be stopped.

The shift whistle blew, nearly stripping Polly of her skin. She pressed her hands over her startled heart.

Free.

The second shift workers began to arrive. With more speed than grace, she collected her belongings, which did not include her tartan. The fact she’d left it behind at Old Peter’s was an annoyance. She loved that piece of cloth. The history of her family. A reminder of why she fought.

There was nothing to do about it. She certainly couldn’t return to that grimy pub. With a sigh, she resolved to replace it. One day. Maybe she could save enough money.

In the meantime she had borrowed her mother’s shawl. She filed out the door with the rest of her colleagues. Forcing a smile, she took Agnes’s arm as they walked into the bustling afternoon. The clouds
were as stoic as ever. Workers streamed out from the factories lining that industrial thoroughfare, while others arrived to take their places.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

Agnes’s eyes twinkled a bright, watery blue. “I may have an answer.”

“Mr. Christie needs a nanny to care for his young son. He asked me to make a recommendation, and I offered your name. He would like to meet you as soon as possible. I thought maybe now.”

“When the weather is so fine for walking?”

“Exactly.” While sidestepping a slushy mud puddle, they avoided an overburdened wagon and its feisty, skittish draft horse. “He’s willing to offer a private room in his home.”

Agnes’s gray hair, swept away from her face, was sprinkled with mist and a few stray cotton fibers. A faraway look softened her features. “That would be . . .”

Her voice broke. Polly kept her eyes forward to give the woman the privacy she deserved.

“I’d like that, Polly. Do you think he’s the sort to keep his promises?”

“I’m hoping he does.” She hesitated.

“Hold nothing back, my girl. This is too important for things left unsaid.”

“What if I’ve completely misread him?”

The skin at the edges of Agnes’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “When was the last time that happened, my dear?”

With a blush to warm her chilled cheeks, Polly returned the grin. “He’s not from Glasgow. I hardly know the language he speaks.”

Her glib words hid a deeper fear. She did not enjoy the idea of making such an error, especially with Alex. If Polly made such a colossal mistake, burdened by inappropriate emotions, her da might be less trusting of her judgment in the future. Her mother’s suggestion that she marry and settle down would become more forceful.