Starlight (9 page)

She blinked. The mill master was paying her compliments on her least ladylike habit? What manner of trickery was this? But, silly girl, she enjoyed his unexpected words.

He crossed his arms. His suit was more modest than the one he wore at their first meeting—although arranged with proper decorum now. Shouldn’t someone of his profession be leaner, with his muscles wasted away by days spent over books? Or made portly by too much rich food and not enough sweat? Underneath the tailored garments lurked a man with the strong bones of the heartiest Scotsman.

The set of his mouth suggested that he rarely found humor in the world. Feathery creases stretched out from his eyes and lay in furrows along his brow. Frowns. Not laughter. Too bad. His shapely lower lip was made for smiling.

“I told you yesterday that I’ll have no part in betraying my own.”

“Maybe not voluntarily.” Mr. Christie surprised her by grabbing her upper arm. “McCutcheon, where is your office?” he shouted over the din.

The overseer frowned at Polly’s struggles. Then he tipped his chin to the far corner of the mill floor. The door to his tiny box of an office was tucked between two massive looms.

The master of Christie Textiles tugged her across
the factory floor. Polly literally dug her heels into the plank wood floor, using the fingernails of her free hand in an attempt to pry free. Nothing stopped his determined march toward the office.

Only when Les and Hamish materialized did Polly cease her struggles. They looked ready to do violence. The last thing the weavers needed was a brawl with Mr. Christie. She shook her head at the pair.

“Back to work!” Mr. Christie shouted. The proud height of his stance did not ease. If she hadn’t been so offended by his bullying behavior, she would have admired it. She enjoyed men who knew their minds.

In the Lowland Scots dialect they shared, Polly shouted her orders to Les and Hamish. They nodded with obvious reluctance and restrained anger.

Once inside the office, Mr. Christie slammed the door and pushed her shoulders against it. Polly gasped. Just that quickly she was caged by his wide chest, and held fast by wide, strong hands. She looked up to where his eyes blazed.

Should she be scared of him? Lord, she prided herself on being able to read people. But, distressed by the man’s quick rush of anger, she was afraid. Did he really possess the resolve to carry out his threats? Her da’s instruction to curve Mr. Christie toward their ways fled from her mind. She gave little thought toward bending his will—only to surviving it.

No. She did
not
give in.

Livingstone had crawled his hands up her skirts in an attempt to make her cower. But he hadn’t succeeded in anything other than limping away, his
manhood intact but his pride in tatters. Mr. Christie would fare no better.

“You
will
help me,” he said again, giving her shoulders a shake. “Because this is my command.”

“Well, well.” No matter the noisy pulse of alarm in her ears, she forced bravado into her voice. “You truly can behave like a master. And that’s not a compliment.”

“What did you say to those men?”

“That if I wasn’t out in fifteen minutes, they should assume the worst and feed your carcass to their hounds.”

“You believe me capable of . . . ? Jesus.” He shoved away from her and thrust agitated fingers through his hair. A twisted expression said he was appalled by what his behavior might imply.
Good.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to think,” she said.

“I think you’re damn infuriating.” Tight, stiff paces marked his progress across the tiny office. “How hard is it to see that cooperation suits us both?”

“You’re right, actually, but I don’t trust you.” She clearly punctuated each word. “If you find the culprit first, you’ll use his identity to your advantage—dismantle the union, dock our pay. Don’t think it hasn’t happened before.”

He glared and cracked his thumb. “Whereas you’ll hide whoever it is from the authorities.”

“Don’t think that means he’ll escape punishment. We take care of our own, and we discipline our own.”

“How positively clannish.”

She huffed and tightened the Gowan tartan
around her shoulders. “You may as well have been born on one of the planets you study. I cannot imagine why you don’t just go home.”

“Because this is my future on the line!” He strode across the room and slammed his fists against the door, on either side of her head. Polly gasped.

“It’s my business,” he continued. “
My
responsibility. And if you don’t help me, I’ll make sure that the constable arrests someone you hold dear.”

“You wouldn’t know where to put the blame if you had a compass.”

“I’d wager Livingstone has an idea. Perhaps one of your brothers? Heath and Wallace, are they?”

Polly blanched. He was so incensed that she believed him without doubt. His civilized exterior was little more than a ruse. She inhaled in an attempt to find some serenity. Mr. Christie must have noticed, because his gaze arrowed down toward her bosom.

“I underestimated you,” she whispered.

He leaned in. Their contentious mouths were so close now. “The textile industry isn’t the only thing I’ve been learning. Look at me, Miss Gowan.”

Polly could only obey, caught in the spell of his chilling magnetism. His sharp features were just as stern as they had been the afternoon before, only now, heavy circles colored the delicate skin below his eyes. Manic energy blazed from those darkened hazel depths.

A gentleman would back away. A tyrant would press his advantage. Polly would lay no odds on either.

“Do you see that I didn’t sleep last night?” The huff of his question warmed her forehead with his
breath. “Because I didn’t. My son was restless. I studied in his nursery. My topic for the night included how best to make you cooperate.”

“
Make
me?”

“I think you’ve just realized that I can,” he grated. “Your turn. What do
you
see on my face?”

She swallowed. He was simply . . . overwhelming. Yet Polly fell back on her old faith. She began with man’s most obvious weakness: desire. The occasional glances at her body—he knew she was a woman, just as she was affected by his masculinity. Had he wanted to attack her in a manner more suited to Livingstone, he would’ve done so by now. Instead, his wrath was leashed.

His limit was the fairer sex.

She was ready to bet her body on it.

“I see fatigue, yes.” He held perfectly still as she lifted her hand. Not even his eyes moved. She dared trace the throbbing vein at his temple. Only then did he gently flinch. Surprise registered in the slight lift of his brows. “I see fury. And I see you’re in deadly earnest, Mr. Christie.”

He closed those troubling eyes. “I am.”

Polly touched the golden-brown locks that occasionally fell across his brow. In his office, he had done the same to her hair. That echo felt important. As if fated. She tucked her fingers deeper into roughened blond silk.

“Alex, you don’t want to do this any more than I do.” His name felt strange on her tongue, but she earned the desired effect: it was his turn to shudder. “Yet we’re both caught in this mess. It’s made
you ready to rip out a man’s kidneys . . . or ready to kiss me.”

Polly had hoped her dare would be enough to rouse some sort of passion, just enough to guarantee that this particular gambit had a future.

But she had not expected a kiss—hard and swift and certain.

He swept his mouth down over hers and delved inside. No prelude. No breath of hesitation. Warmth coiled through her chest and trickled down her spine. Alexander Christie kissed like a man. A real man. And she had never before felt its like.

Arguing with him had been a test of wills. This was another sort of battle. She fought his hold, bringing her hands into the fray. His hair, his scalp, his nape. He groaned into her mouth when she tugged. His grip trailed along her sides before he boldly palmed her arse.

Polly squeaked. His tongue plunged in, sleek yet rough. Minty, salty tooth powder added layers to his natural taste. Both of them inhaled with rough, quick breaths. The strong hands on her backside pulled their bodies flush. Another gasp from Polly as she realized exactly how their kiss affected him. Alarm edged her pleasure like a too-bright halo.

His mouth was too persuasive. He kissed as if the next seconds of his life depended on turning her bones to liquid. Polly dropped her heavy head back against the door. Alex followed, kissing down her jaw and throat. Only the prim, buttoned collar of her working gown kept him from venturing further.

A hard pounding at the door shattered their blend
of mouths, hands, eagerness. Alex pushed back. His hair was a scrambled mess. He must have realized the direction of her gaze because he pushed his fingers through those unruly strands.

Polly smiled softly. “Your hands are shaking.”

The pounding continued, followed by Hamish’s deep bellow. Alex glared daggers. “And you look as if I deserve what punishment they’re here to dispense.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Well kissed, maybe. But not accosted. Surely you know the difference.”

“I know the difference,” he said grimly. His expression assumed a stoic detachment. Smooth, tan skin. Icy distance. The seriousness in his words made Polly frown. For a moment he appeared . . . haunted. Old ghosts in dark places, deep in those gold-green eyes.

She took a deep breath and smoothed her gown. The tartan she pulled over her shoulders felt like a shield. “Well, then, we’re merely back to matters of my reputation. Luckily Hamish will behave himself.” She winked. “I hope.”

Polly opened the door to a very angry man. His face was nearly as red as his beard and curly, curly hair. “What the hell has he done?”

“Talked.” She could not help but run her tongue over her lower lip, where her skin still tasted of Alex. “We’ve begun negotiations, haven’t we, Mr. Christie?”

Only after another moment did Alex loosen up enough to speak. “Miss Gowan is correct. You have nothing to fear from my intentions, Mr. Nyman.”

She could see it on Hamish’s face: surprise that
the mill master had remembered his name. It only added to Polly’s belief that Mr. Christie could become an asset, if she could keep him from realizing her suspicions about Tommy.

“Off with you then, boys,” she said.

Alex—did kissing a man entitle her to thinking of him by his Christian name?—stared after them.

“They just . . . left,” he said. “As if you were a queen dismissing servants.”

“I have a commanding personality.”

He rubbed his jaw. Maybe he was incapable of making a jest in return. He certainly was straitlaced. Until he kissed. Then he was an animal unleashed.

“Distractions will only knock me off track for so long, Miss Gowan.” The gold in his eyes shone like bronze in sunlight. His gaze settled on her mouth. “Delicious though it was.”

War. Battle. Combat. She was not going to let him take this moment from her. “And you’ll stop at nothing?”

A muscle along his neck twitched. “Nothing.”

Polly straightened the ends of her shawl, where the gold, green, red, and purple strands formed a neat fringe—a reminder of her family and her community. “Very well. You’ve talked me into it. I’ll help you, and that means learning everything about the people who work for your profits.”

She grinned, surprising even herself.
Let him think the idea was his.

“Just be ready to keep up, master. I intend to show you the
real
Glasgow.”

P
olly
smiled to herself as she watched the church congregation disband following Reverend McCormick’s two-hour sermon. Not all congregants wore their relief so obviously, but she felt what could only be described as a collective sigh. Six-day workweeks and an entire morning in church meant few hours to breathe on one’s own time.

Voices came out to play. Laughter. Chatter. Although their planned picnic would be moved indoors because of a light drizzle, the congregants were abuzz with the welcome change of pace.

Polly was not as relaxed as she might have hoped. Following another conversation with her father, she was even more confident about the role she needed to play with Mr. Christie. She certainly hadn’t told Da about what took place at the factory. The fight. The kiss.

Her blush was even hotter in church.

The strategy remained sound. She would show
Mr. Christie their ways, convince him of the union’s validity, and use what wiles she possessed to distract him while her people searched for the saboteur.

And she’d have a good time.

That particular goal had come upon her in the wee hours before dawn. She’d lain in bed, eyes wide and unseeing in the pitch darkness, as her family shuffled and snored. That kiss had been the most wickedly sensual moment of her life. To do it again would be no hardship. The man was simply too handsome and too intriguing for words. He was also infuriating, which made her want to fight harder.