by Carrie Lofty
“Enough for now, Christie, unless we want to spend the night locked up.”
“Until the next time then.” Alex certainly couldn’t afford to be caught by the authorities.
Les, too, arrived to offer his thanks. “Wouldn’t have thought a man like you had it in you, friend.”
Alex spat blood and wiped his lips. “Maybe I like surprising people.”
“Now if only you could learn to dribble and pass,” Les said with a laugh.
They turned to walk off the pitch, but another Scotsman wearing blue and white stopped Alex with a hushed call. “Mr. Christie, a moment?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’m Walt Nells, sir. My wife, Connie, works your looms.”
“I know Constance, yes. What can I do for you? Other than give you better cover next time.”
Walt smiled, but the reaction was fleeting. “Sir, there’s something you should know about what happened at the mill.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t want to share it with Polly Gowan because I know her. She’d go off half-cocked.” He glanced toward where Polly waited with the other women. “I work at Gallagher’s Shipyard. Different men frequent those pubs down by the docks—with different information than she’d be able to find here in Calton.”
“What sort of information?”
“Just what you’d need to know to solve your mystery. Please don’t make me say much more, Mr. Christie. It’s a tricky spot. I don’t want to be labeled a snitch, but neither do I want my wife to lose her job. Our family needs the money.”
“How many children do you have?” Alex found himself unaccountably curious. With every passing hour, they were becoming people. Names first. Then grins and the sounds of voices and the quiet details of their lives. He might regret that closeness if hard decisions came down the line, but he hadn’t changed so much as to become completely insensitive.
“Two, sir. Girls too little to work the factory.”
Young, then. Under five or so. Walt looked barely old enough to shave, despite his burly frame. “Just a pub and a name, Nells. Can you give me that?”
“Jack Findley at Old Peter’s on the Clyde.”
“I won’t forget this. Thank you.”
“Just . . . keep Polly safe. We need her more than you could know.”
Left to ponder the implications of that remark, Alex turned—and walked right into a wall. That’s what it felt like. Sudden loss of momentum. Bright shots of pain. The strike of a fist landed dead center of his chest. The world spun backward.
When the spots cleared from his eyes, he blinked and coughed. “What in God’s name happened?”
Les knelt over him, as did Polly Gowan. “A bruiser named Kilgore,” Les said. “He didn’t take kindly to you hitting his brother.”
“Apparently not.”
Alex slumped against the ground, with the wet, cold grass as his pillow.
“Come on, master.” Les tugged on his arm. “Fun’s over.”
Polly said nothing as she helped Les lift him from the soggy ground. Alex felt every bone in his body, and all of them protested. When he next focused, he found himself in a darkened room where several of his teammates chattered with a good-natured spirit. He could even make out members of the opposing team, greeting one another while exaggerating the afternoon’s events.
Alex pushed into a sitting position. A wince revealed yet another injury across his cheekbone.
Polly slipped into the booth next to him. She carried two steaming mugs of coffee. “This will help.”
“Where are we?”
“Idle Michael’s. He opened the pub for us after the brawl, to get something warm in the men before they head home.”
“Idle Michael?”
She smiled. “Doesn’t sound like he’d make a very reliable innkeeper, but he’s a good man. Still going strong at sixty.”
Alex reached for his mug. Warmth seeped through earthenware, instantly relaxing the tension in his arms. His first sip, however, caught him by surprise. “What is that?”
“Just some whiskey. You don’t like it?” Eyes made smoky in the dim lighting still glittered with laughter. Another tiny dare.
“No, I like it just fine.” He took a heftier drink. “Women are allowed in the pubs?”
“Let’s just say I’m allowed in this one. My da’s rules are a lot more important to me than anyone else’s.”
The comfort of the small tavern and the heady warmth of the whiskey-doused coffee eased Alex’s pain. He settled gingerly against the booth, sinking into worn leather.
Her brows drew together. “Are you badly hurt?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Without ceremony, she swept the hair back from his nape and whistled. Alex was caught between surprise, an acute awareness of her gently probing fingertips, and pain. “That’s a nasty one,” she said. “And I know you took a bruiser to the chest. Come on. Bring your coffee.”
She helped him out of the booth.
“Hey, master.” Les held a bottle of whiskey by its neck. “How’s your face?”
“Hurts like hell,” Alex replied evenly. “How’s your arse?”
“Thoroughly kicked, sir.”
Trying to follow Polly’s practical lead, he shuffled after her, back to the taproom of the pub. She wore the scent of rain in her hair. Thick red curls had escaped her pins to cup freckle-dusted cheeks made beautifully pink by the spring winds and the pub’s warmth. Practically wild now, she looked just as she had after their kiss—deeply, thoroughly ravished.
“Sit,” she said, waving to a wooden cask.
She returned moments later carrying a tray of supplies: bandages, iodine, a needle and thread, and a kettle that proclaimed its boiling contents by the steam it sloughed.
“The doctor, Mr. Hutson, is out delivering Shea Lockney’s baby. We’ve waited long enough to see if he would make an appearance.” She knelt before him, balancing on the balls of her feet. The hand she used to steady herself was only inches from his thigh. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Have practice at this, do you?”
“I have two younger brothers,” she said with a grin. “Off with your shirt, now.”
“It’s freezing in here.”
“You’re able to take punches full-on in the face, but you cannot stand a wee bit of cold?” Her accent intensified when she teased him. He only wanted more. “You have none of my sympathy, Mr. Christie.”
Tugging the sides of the jersey, she stripped him from the waist up. There she remained. Motionless. Their gazes held fast. The breath he’d meant to exhale stayed trapped in his lungs. Green eyes made dark in the shadows moved as haphazardly as a butterfly’s flight. To his shoulder, his hip, his throat—dancing over every inch of his bare skin. But the tilt of her lips made each ripple of awareness even more intense. She was smiling. Softly. Her approval of his body, woman to man, was an elemental burn.
Alex had not felt so vital in a very long time.
“Now,” she said softly. “Let’s see how badly off you really are.”
Seven
Just like Heath. Just like Wallace.
Although Polly tried to reassure herself with those words, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Alex Christie was a beautiful man. And he certainly wasn’t one of her brothers.
She’d thought she knew the lay of his body when watching him change clothes earlier that afternoon. But such a distance did him little justice. Now she absorbed as many details as possible. Maintaining the guise of a disinterested helpmeet would not last long. Surely he could hear her heartbeat; it was an endless peal of thunder.
His chest was sprinkled with blond hair a shade darker than the thick locks still edged with sweat. Rather than repel her, that startling, purely masculine hair fascinated her. Firm, well-shaped, almost graceful muscles used the flickering lamplight to cast appealing shadows across his skin, and those same shadows lent a dreamlike quality to his strong lines and hard edges.
Hardly trusting her eyes, she wanted to touch—to feel and keep feeling until she knew exactly how he was made.
Maybe she could do both.
“You’re a mess,” she said. “A nasty scrape here on the boot mark along your ribs. See? They broke skin. The base of your skull looks like mince. And here, hold this cloth to your cheek.”
The wounds she’d listed did not include the bruises marring his lovely flesh. Dark patches of purple and blue were interspersed with nasty red welts. She would need to run her fingers through the hair on his chest to check for more cuts and scrapes.
Yes. That sounded like a fine idea. She could touch and be his nurse.
Alex gingerly held a damp cloth his cheek and grimaced. “Good Christ. What was I thinking?”
“I doubt thought had much to do with it. Instinct. Reflex. But I bet it felt bloody good while it lasted.”
“How would you know that?”
“Not even girls escape a Calton childhood without a scrape or two.”
He tongued a minor cut on his lower lip. Polly ran a thumb just below that sweep of wetness. His eyes darkened yet again, followed by a quiet hiss. Affecting him was a potent drug.
“Does it hurt?”
He shrugged. “Not bad. Unless I smile.”
“Little chance of that,” she muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I said . . .” She debated the usefulness of a lie and discarded the idea. Poking him with the unexpected was the surest way to sneak under his skin—just where she wanted to be. “There’s little chance of you hurting your lip with a smile. I’ve yet to see one.”
“I smile. Sometimes.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Dare you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning me up?”
“Consider this a bargain. One smile in exchange for the attention of an unskilled nurse.”
The smallest quirk touched his lips. How could he express himself with so little actual movement? She was used to overblown, half-crazed men who never let anything get in the way of shouting every coarse thought at the world. Subtlety was not an art form known to her people.
“My side of the bargain does sound reasonable,” he said. “But you don’t make your services sound very appealing.”
“Oh, I intend to make this experience very appealing.”
His surprise was unmistakable. Raised eyebrows. A quick inhale. How could a man who’d been married seem so surprised by passion? She hardly enjoyed how they stood at odds regarding their goals, yet she’d certainly enjoyed their kiss. He turned harder and more certain when consumed by desire. Polly indulged in a private smile. She was the one to drag the wildness out of him, and she relished that special power. Perhaps too much. Just as she craved making him smile, she was toying with explosives and an open flame.
Alex’s expressive, watchful eyes were almost unreadable in the pale orange of the lamp’s cozy flame. “You’re looking at me as if I were a supper of steak and potatoes.”
“Mmm. I do enjoy a good steak. Can’t remember the last time I bit my teeth into a really good slab of beef.”
His jaw tightened. “Biting, eh?”
“That is how one chews, yes? And we are still talking about supper?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” She leaned close, her breath against his temple. “So what do you say, master? You owe me a smile. Or you’ll lose all the admiration you gained on the field of battle.”
“Your admiration?”
That was dangerous territory. She had practically invited it. Teasing and touching were far preferable to something so . . . personal.
With her hands sliding down his chest, she whispered, “I could always tickle one out of you.”
He grabbed both wrists in one of his iron-strong hands. “Your admiration, Polly?”
A tight swallow barely worked down her throat. How was it possible for him to be so powerful and robust? His job was to study the stars. Yet he was both posh and rough. That combination was outright sorcery.
“Yes. My admiration.”
“There,” he said, releasing her. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Pride still intact?”
She tilted her head to one side. “You’re . . . teasing me. Aren’t you?”
Another twitch of his fine lips. “I am.”
“Good God, master,” she said with a laugh. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“That’s a line I’ve heard more than once this afternoon. Miss Gowan, I’m capable of more than you assume. Including dares. Now come wash my back, lass.”
Polly stood still, astonished, breathless—not just because of his brash words, so out of keeping with his staid personality. Not just because of the unexpected endearment. But because of the wide, stunning smile that accompanied his mischief. He had lovely teeth, straight and white, and dimples that came out of nowhere. Where had he been hiding those? The lines at the corners of his magnetic eyes deepened. All the tension he carried across his stern brow just . . . lifted. He appeared years younger when caught by the impish humor that belied his station.
“Now you owe me.”
Ah, the sound of his voice, with those strangely accented words, so rough and low. If anything, his smile intensified.
She bent at the waist, near enough to kiss that beautiful gift. “And that sounds like another dare.”
“I was right,” he said, removing the cloth from his cheek. “It does hurt when I smile.”
Polly laughed, long and loud, as she wet the cooling washcloth again and wrung out the blood. Starting with his back, she washed away splotches of mud and dull green grass stains. The flex of his expansive muscles dried her mouth. He was only shifting, perhaps to find a more comfortable position on the cask, but the supple movement held her mesmerized.
He jerked away with a slight hiss. Bringing the light closer, Polly found a nasty bruise the size of a small apple just below his right shoulder blade. The flesh had knotted into a lump.
“Och, that’s a nasty one.” She leaned around slightly to see his expression. “Fist shaped. Or maybe a rock?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised.” The smile had been replaced by a pain-laced grimace.
Satisfied that Alex’s back was as well tended as she could manage, she licked her lips in anticipation of her real prize. His chest.
Polly knelt between his legs and looked up. From that vantage, his broad, long torso took on exotic proportions.
Something ominous lurked in his eyes. Dark and hungry.
“Do it,” he rasped.
She nodded. Suspecting that Alex Christie could convince her to eat a hat, she did as he commanded. With the washcloth, she carefully washed his chest, down his ribs, and around to what she could reach of his thick shoulders and sinuous sides. Rather than detract from his blunt male beauty, Alex’s bruises lent him a shockingly potent strength. He wasn’t just smart, wasn’t just big—he was tough, too.
The hair on his chest was just as intriguing as she had imagined. Even there in his office, with only a glimpse of it at the open throat of his shirt, she had been curious. Springy and fine, it gave way beneath her fingertips as she traced each muscle, all the way down to his taut stomach. Goose bumps followed in the wake of her touch. She edged around to the elegant sweep of his ribs, petting more than washing.
“Lift your arms, please.”
He looked ready to protest. The words were right there, trapped behind his sleek lips. But he complied as he offered another of those teasing little smirks. Despite having started this game, Polly’s cheeks flushed hot at the sight of hair under his arms, and the way his pectorals changed shape as he lifted and stretched. Heat sizzled across her scalp. She washed beneath his arms—probably the most intimate task she had ever undertaken.
Suddenly he hissed, following with a low grunt. He wrapped his left hand protectively around his ribs.
“Let me,” Polly said gently.
Alex took a deep breath and let her touch that ten
der spot. “Careful.”
She probed very softly with two fingertips. The skin along that particular rib was hot and swollen. “Bruised it badly. Or a small fracture.”
“Damn it all.”
Straightening on her knees, Polly brought her face within inches of his. “You’ll live.”
After she finished cleansing his upper body, she used iodine and bandages to dress each wound
“Now for your face and nape.” She dumped the filthy water and poured new.
“Seems minor by comparison.”
“But bleeding still.”
A shout of laughter from the pub froze Polly mid-motion. Someone pounded a table, while another pair of men broke into song. She had left the taproom door open on purpose, but she still wondered how it would look if someone walked in on her and Alex. After all, she was still unmarried and he was still naked from the waist up.
No. She was not doing anything wrong. Worst case, she had her father’s instructions and his word as her defense. No one of importance would dare contradict him.
But if she’d thought washing his back and his chest was intimate . . . that held not a candle to repairing his face.
He had nowhere to look but at her. Bold, earnest hazel eyes traced her hairline, the ridge of her nose, the arch of her cheekbones, and her jaw. That intensity burned her skin as she wiped away the dirt and blood. He made her feel both warm and exposed, illuminated for him alone.
She cleared her throat. “This one above your eye will need stitches. It’s deep.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Like I said. Two brothers.” She threaded a needle. “Tip your head.”
He led with his eyes, as she was beginning to anticipate. He looked up. The tilt of his chin followed. A thick swallow bobbed his Adam’s apple.
With a steadiness she didn’t feel, Polly carefully sutured. The taut strength of his body, so controlled, pushed against her legs and her stomach.
To distract herself, she said, “Heath is seventeen and Wallace fifteen.” Again she sounded odd—not herself at all. “They work down on the docks. Have done for about five years. Factory work isn’t something men can boast about, unless they’ve achieved a position of leadership like Les and Hamish and Mr. McCutcheon.”
