by Carrie Lofty
“Come on, then.” Livingstone prodded her in the lower back, always touching her more than was necessary. Little pinches and grabs reinforced what more humiliating damage he could do if the moment appeared.
Polly kept her eyes forward, her jaw fixed. “You remember that time I connected the toe of my boot with your bollocks?”
He growled and twisted her sore arm. The pain was worth it for his infuriated expression. “You pompous whore.”
She kept her voice pleasant. A real smile shaped her mouth. “Next time I won’t make that mistake. I’ll rip them clean off.”
“Shut up.”
He shoved her into the back of a police wagon. She was joined by five more suspects. Her tartan shawl offered little protection against the slinking late-winter cold. Once inside the wagon, seated on a hard, shallow bench, she huddled closer to Agnes. The older woman’s closed eyes silently proclaimed her boredom with this routine, even as ash still colored her hair.
“It gets a little tedious, being so popular,” said big, gruff Hamish.
“You just wish you got as much attention from one of the MacMaster sisters.”
“No, that’s the wish of a spindly know-it-all like you.” Hamish stroked his full beard. “I get my hands plenty full of the pretty lassies.”
Polly grinned. They could be unruly, thick-headed, bitter people, but they were her people. Even in the midst of this crisis, they found ways of holding the fear at bay. And they were loyal. Les, in particular, would lie down in front of a team of galloping draft horses if it meant protecting union secrets.
Holding her aching arm, she squinted through the bars of the wagon’s lone window, assessing the pewter sky. The temperature had dropped. Calton was hardly a pretty area on the most brilliant of days. In fact, the eventual sunshine of late spring and summer would only accentuate every crack in the tenement sandstone. But when licked by March’s drizzle and cold, the buildings stood as dark, hulking shadows amid the ghostly gray. No color.
Their only hope was what they made for themselves.
Livingstone’s aim gave her just the hope she’d needed. No one from the union had yet to meet the new master of Christie Textiles. Union committeemen collected information like birds building nests. What they had gathered about Alexander Christie did little to round out his image. Indeed, he was Sir William Christie’s eldest child, born to an English noblewoman who had died during his infancy. Raised in London for a time by his mother’s family, the boy eventually moved to New York City after Sir William remarried a Welsh commoner. Now he taught astronomy at an American university in a place called Philadelphia, and was widowed with one child.
But his personality, politics, and plans—even his appearance—were as opaque as the clouds. How could she strategize against someone she’d never met?
Now she would. Polly would know her enemy, just as she would discover the identity of the saboteur.
The wagon chugged to a stop. Livingstone jerked the double doors open, his hand on Polly’s upper arm faster than she could have imagined. She stumbled to the pavement, where flint-sharp ice crystals chapped her cheeks. Agnes emerged last, as Les helped her down—more of that gentlemanly behavior that seemed so out of place. It was just his way.
The office of Christie Textiles was a modest affair when compared to some of the masters’ grand places of business. Situated halfway down toward St. Enoch’s Square, the squat, four-story building resembled in shape the dull bricks used for its construction. Heavy overcast clouds leached the walls of their deep red. A modest sign hung over the front door.
“The sign’s been painted anew,” Polly said to Agnes.
“New master. It’s little Will Christie’s boy, come home.”
“Home.” Polly whipped off her head scarf with a sharp flick. The breeze played keep-away with loose strands of her hair, but she hardly cared. She was just too riled. “He was neither born nor raised here. If you expect to find familiarity in him, my friend, you’ll be hurt and disappointed.”
Agnes shook her head. “He’s got Scottish blood in his veins, though. No denying.”
“I’ll give you that. But masters are masters. They’re never truly new.”
Alex wanted a break from the expense reports and informational pamphlets spread across his desk. Numbers of a distinctly commercial variety clogged his thoughts. There remained so much to learn. Not for the first time, he wondered how his father had successfully insinuated himself into so many varied businesses. Had he really learned each industry as thoroughly as Alex was trying to learn the textile trade? Or did enterprises eventually come to resemble one another, so that the commodity no longer mattered?
He shrugged out of his coat and tugged at his ascot, so cross that he finally yanked off the silken noose. No matter how well his father had managed, Alex was not a businessman. The only way he knew to approach a topic was to study it from the ground up to the limitless sky—an aim made more trying because of Edmund’s health. His minor illnesses and occasional fevers wore on Alex’s stores of patience. Esther, Edmund’s wet nurse, would leave in three weeks to join her extended family in London. He would need to find another woman to care for him. Soon.
The break he’d imagined was quiet and still, a moment to collect his frustrated thoughts. Instead, he endured the arrival of a police constable called Andrews and the mill’s overseer, Howard McCutcheon.
For ten minutes, Alex listened as the men related the events of the late morning. Each passing description stiffened his ligaments and fused his bones in a combination of distress and outrage. McCutcheon went first: an explosion, a fire, a complete work stoppage. The mill’s workers had spread out onto the streets or gone home. Some might even be in hospital with burns from fighting the blaze.
The constable’s words were even more alarming. Sabotage, he said. Union agitators.
Alex took a deep breath and glanced at the papers, charts, and figures littering his desk. The time for studying was over. If agitators threatened his business, he would go to war.
“You’re certain it was intentional? No accident of any kind?”
“Explosives were used, sir,” Constable Andrews said. “No accident at all.”
Alex slammed his fist against the desk and glared at the men until their gazes lowered. “I will not have my mill jeopardized and loyal employees endangered!” Only when he recognized his burst of temper did he force his voice to quiet. “What about suspects?”
With unkempt hair and his upper lip encumbered by a large mustache, Andrews did not fit Alex’s image of an efficient officer of the law. But the man’s posture and determined expression offered some comfort. “My officers will bring in the usual collection of riffraff and union whips.”
“I’ll want to see them personally—the union people, I mean. Intimidation is not a strategy they will utilize to any good effect. I guarantee it.”
“Yes, sir,” said both in unison.
Alex almost did a double take. He was unused to men snapping to his commands with that combination of unease and obedience. Many had responded to his father in a similar fashion. Never to Alex. Yet he appreciated the moment for what it was: expedient, uncomplicated. He would get results.
A banging noise downstairs in the lobby caught Alex’s attention. “See what that’s about,” he told McCutcheon.
But by the time the overseer reached the door, a knock sounded from the other side.
“Who is it?” Alex shouted. A headache had burst across his brow. His factory. His chance at beating Josiah Todd and protecting his son—literally in flames. He would see the damage himself, if only to make granite out of his firm resolve.
“Constable Utley,” called a voice.
Andrews raised his brows, which were nearly as thick as his mustache. “See? My men.”
Alex was unconvinced, because Andrews appeared equally surprised. Something was not as it seemed. He resented the deception, but it was not his most pressing concern. He nodded to McCutcheon.
A tumble of people spilled into Alex’s office. The room was not exactly small. It was, in fact, larger than his father’s library in that distant New York mansion. But as it quickly filled with roughly a dozen people, the office became a noisy prison cell. Two? Maybe three constables? Plus men who looked like hired muscle, and a few ragged, thinner folk covered in ash. Factory workers?
Then . . . red hair. The exquisite red hair of a young lady who would barely stand as tall as Alex’s chest.
“Now that’s more like it,” Constable Andrews said. His mustache contorted into a sneer as he stared at the same woman. “Should’ve known we’d see you behind this. Mr. Christie, this is Polly Gowan. Graham Gowan’s girl. She’s the first I’d have personally dragged down to the station.”
Alex blinked. The redhead had a name as lyrical as her hair was remarkable. He found himself staring. Outright staring. His heartbeat was a steady hammering in his chest—not because of the anger he’d only just stoked, but from a rush of sensual awareness.
Before he could remember his mind, his manners, his office full of strangers, he strode toward the little woman. Standing over her made him feel like a towering giant, powerful and strong. That feeling did not dim when she jerked up her chin. If anything, the blood in his heart raged even faster.
The shaky, eager way his body took note of her soap-fresh scent and trim waist was only going to complicate matters. Already he knew that he’d take thoughts of her to bed that evening. Pick over them. Analyze them. Relish them.
She wrenched her arm away from the brute who held her captive. But she didn’t run or flinch or weep. Her bright green gaze collided with his. She stared him down with as much force and certainty as any man. Alex fisted his hands against a rush of pure, primal excitement. Sudden combustion.
He had never felt its like.
That she was a suspect only added an edge of violence to his body’s dizzying response.
“Who are you?” he snapped. His voice was so low and curt as to sound wholly unfamiliar. “And what the hell did you do to my mill?”
Two
Polly stared up at the man Constable Andrews had referred to as Mr. Christie. She had expected some equivalent of a desk clerk, stooped and thin. Or just the opposite—a fat man with heavy jowls and a pocket watch worth more than her parents’ tenement flat. Instead, Mr. Christie was the worst sort of challenge. He had caught her off guard.
Where was his coat? And his neckcloth? She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a gentleman so informally dressed—if ever. The shock of finding a hint of chest hair poking out from the collar of such a fine, expensive shirt was dangerously distracting. The contrast of wild and civilized was as pronounced as the stark white cloth lying against his tanned neck.
And despite her indignant temper, she had to admit that Agnes was right: he was a man born of Calton stock. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a hard jaw designed to absorb life’s toughest punches.
That didn’t mean he knew how to fight. Could he bully, cheat, terrorize? Oh, yes. Of that she had no doubt. No one became a mill master without some sort of underhanded ambition and trickery.
But to win against her? She wouldn’t allow it.
“I’m Polly Gowan. The policeman in your pocket said as much. And I sure as hell didn’t try to burn down the place where my family’s worked for three generations.” She lifted her brows. “I believe that’s longer than the Christies.”
He scowled. Good. She enjoyed her victory if only to distract herself from his coloring. Tanned skin, yes. Hair like aged gold with bright tips the shade of ripe wheat—just the length to invite a woman’s eager hands. His eyes were amber and green swirled together in a permanent whirlpool, deep and wild. The perfect hazel.
She crossed her arms, disgusted with herself, especially when the sting of her injured shoulder reminded her exactly which interests he represented. The distress of the day’s events had tossed her concentration to the four winds.
“You’d be right,” he said, his words clipped. “But the Christie name hangs above the front door.”
“Thanks only to your workers. Without the men manning the buckets, you’d have lost the entire mill today.”
For the first time since striding toward her like a bull charging a red cape, he broke eye contact. “Is that right, Constables?”
“Save your breath,” Polly said. “They won’t take a piss without Livingstone’s say-so.” She hooked a thumb back toward the man’s looming bulk.
Mr. Christie raised his brows. Was that nearly . . . amusement? Of course not—not under those circumstances. She was looking for hope where there was none to find.
The constable named Utley threw Polly a sharp glare, then replied with a shrug that proved her right. “No telling, sir.”
“All very helpful,” Mr. Christie said dryly. Maybe he realized how little he’d pry from their useless mouths, because he quickly returned his attention to her. “You must be a union girl. I’ve heard of your father.”
“No accomplishment there, master. Even a man who’s been in textiles but a few weeks must’ve heard his name.”
A whisper of a smile tipped his mouth. Again, she felt a shiver of something unexpected. His obvious anger was tinged with a strange humor, like that of a conspirator rather than an enemy. “Don’t make that mistake, Miss Gowan.”
“What mistake is that?”
“You seem to believe that I need more than a few weeks to know my business.”
She leaned in, chin still raised. From that proximity, she could smell him—all warm, freshly bathed skin and downy cotton cloth. “If you knew anything, you’d realize Graham Gowan has never advocated violence, nor does anyone who stands with the union he leads.”
Except Tommy, whispered a niggling voice in her mind. She pushed it away. No sense telling men with such deeply held prejudices about her suspicions. She would deal with Tommy soon enough.
“You sound proud of your father’s reputation,” he said.
“Rightly so. And I plan to surpass it.”
“Freak she-devil,” Livingstone muttered at her back. “She needs a husband, not explosives and a grudge. A firm hand would keep you in line, girl.”
Les and Hamish cursed his churlish accusations, but Polly found herself curiously unaffected. Quite the wizardry Mr. Christie’s eyes could produce. He needed a haircut, although to tamper with those sandy-blond strands would be an injustice. They added just enough softness to a hard, sturdy face. Brow, cheekbones, nose—all as precise as an architect’s lines, but with the burly toughness she’d expect of a workingman.
He was a deadly handsome man. Her need to suck in a quick gulp of air proved as much.
Polly forced her attention to him. “So, Livingstone, you would be the one to—what was it? Keep me in line? Apply a firm hand?”
“Bet on it,” the overseer said coldly.
“Not a bet I’d take, actually. Odds are I’d have your skin for curtains before sunup.” Polly smiled sweetly, still watching her real opponent. “Now, then, Mr. Christie, you seem ready to act as judge and jury. Shall I fetch an ax and reveal my neck?”
He blinked so hard it was nearly a flinch. “Excuse me?”
“You might as well be my executioner, too.”
And, good Lord, he could be. A quick glance down revealed hands bunched into fists like mallet heads. He wore that beautiful white shirt and finely tailored woolen trousers, yet the simmering anger pulsing from his robust body was anything but elegant. More like . . . brutal. There was no mistaking how his baser instincts would resolve matters.
How odd. Most masters left their dirty work to men like Livingstone. This Mr. Christie looked ready to knock heads. Polly shivered and returned her gaze to his face. But that was no help either. Breathtaking hazel eyes stared back at her, narrowed, fierce in his disconcerting blend of ire and intelligence.
She cocked a hand on her hip. “No bloodshed today, then? No beheading? Just rampant accusations and brute force, instead of
a proper investigation. Typical, I say. If this is how you do business with your workers, especially after an emergency, I’ve all I need to know about what sort of master you are.”
His deep assessment was nearly more than she could endure. She would’ve rather suffered more of Livingstone’s jabs and pinches. At least she knew how to deal with that slimy creature. Standing before Mr. Christie, waiting, holding her breath, with the whole room silent after her taunt, she felt terribly exposed, as if he could peer past her bravado to the place where she hid moments of doubt.
But they were just that. Moments. She never let her doubts last long.
He broke eye contact again, releasing her from his magnetic hold. “Who are the rest of you?”
The constables introduced themselves straightaway, but the hired muscle remained silent. “I’m Rand Livingstone, overseer at Winchester Fabrics. And these are the suspects we brought in.”
“Let me get this straight,” Mr. Christie said quietly. But something warm and exciting shivered up Polly’s backbone. The new master was anything but calm. “You’re the overseer at Winchester. Yet you’re handling the apparent detention of my workers. Under the authority of these constables?”
Livingstone exchanged a furtive glance with Andrews. Hamish, Les, and the others offered sharp protests. Their voices layered over one another until all that remained was the blurred sound of accusations and masculine shouts. Polly would’ve joined the fray, but she was too busy watching Mr. Christie. His eyes flicked back and forth between Livingstone, the constables, the workers, the brutes, and finally to Polly.
“He has personal reasons for ensuring I learn my place,” she said evenly, although she felt no such ease beneath her breast. “Even after these accusations, he could have left the matter to the authorities. But I have no doubt he relishes the opportunity to see me punished. Personally.”
