Starlight (The Christies)
Page 10
She paused, wondering if she should continue. Only when she realized she had nothing to lose did she press on. “That makes the union all the more important, you see. Women and children are powerless enough as it is. Without bargaining, we don’t have a hope of being treated how we deserve.” She tied off the last of the sutures and stepped away, needing distance from what dream they’d created together. Dreams ended. “And I think a smart man like you sees that. It’s a matter of justice.”
An unfamiliar dizziness had stolen over Alex from the first moment he entered the taproom. That watery-slick feeling in the pit of his stomach hadn’t eased. Pain, lust, and an unexpected compassion layered over and over, sinking him into an unhealthy state of mind. Any state of mind that excluded logic was not where he liked to be.
And at that moment, almost every thought had to do with stripping Polly until she was equally exposed.
He focused on a faux pearl button at the base of her throat. Above the hem of lace at her collar, her pulse fluttered with reassuring speed. She was not unaffected. He needed that. Finding himself alone within such a moment would be pure cruelty.
But he was not in Scotland to indulge an irrational attraction to a local girl. He was in Scotland to secure his son’s future. That meant doing his job.
“Justice or not, I have a business to run,” he said, the words emerging more harshly than he’d intended.
Polly’s lips twisted briefly before she let out a soft exhale. “You’re finished, sir.”
She had walled herself off, much as he had. An eerie blankness stole over her expression. But from the first moment of their introduction, she had been too proud to keep her quick mind under wraps. He had seen that spark and the cagey calculation too often for him to believe this ruse.
The technique must be useful. He could imagine any number of strangers taking a quick look at her calm, bright green eyes and assuming the least flattering scenario—that she was a simple young woman whose value began with a docile nature and ended with a fine figure. Whereas with men she trusted, and even with Alex, she challenged them with an uncompromising gaze. He much preferred the latter. At least then he better understood where he stood.
Mamie had employed very different defenses against her father, and to a certain extent against Alex. She simply . . . disappeared. Separate bedrooms after their disastrous honeymoon had been inevitable. The only time he’d held her through the night was when she crawled into his bed, with tears streaking her cheeks after a nightmare.
Which was probably why he felt like his kisses with Polly were the first of his life. He’d never felt their like. Molten lava and chills and a sweet, welcome homecoming.
He stood and stretched. The pain in his back and along his ribs was stronger now, but nothing ached so badly as the constriction around his heart. It was being around this woman. Even innocent contact with Polly had his body tense, buzzing and edgy, let alone the kiss he had claimed in the factory office. He’d behaved like a barbarian. Yet she had returned it with equal greed.
Why her? Why a factory girl who stood opposed to his ambitions? Why a woman so complicated as to scramble his mind?
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. All of it.”
“No favors, Mr. Christie.”
“Would you do me the favor of calling me Alex?”
“Trying to soften me to your intentions, master?”
He stepped near enough to touch. “No, because you’ve washed and stitched me. Give me that much, Polly.”
She chewed her bottom lip, followed by a grand show of returning the washcloth to a basin tinted with his blood. “Only when we’re alone.”
He couldn’t help another smile, despite the grab and pinch at his cheek. In turn he watched her mouth. So delicate and teasing. He wanted to kiss her. Whereas flirting with her was a bad idea, kissing her again would be disastrous.
Hewn of tension and sharp edges, he grabbed his jersey.
She snatched it away. “It’s filthy. Stay here.”
His blood was still a tempest in his veins when she returned from the main room of the pub.
“Here you are.” The coat and shirt she extended were his own. “I think Idle Michael was going to keep them if no one came forward. Come on, then. You’ll catch your death.”
She tugged the shirt over his head and guided his hands through the sleeves. Her fingers slipped through his to complete the task. The private, almost wifely deed shook him down to his soles. He hadn’t been so well tended in a very long time.
Maybe ever.
When she couldn’t get a button to poke through its hole, Polly stepped closer. A tiny frown folded over her eyes. She licked her bottom lip, as if this opponent, along with any other, would not have the better of her.
Then she looked up.
The mood between them had been thick, slow, charged with a static hum he didn’t trust. All of that changed when their eyes met. He breathed as if sucking air at a high altitude.
He cupped her cheek and slid his fingers back toward her hairline. Silken strands teased his palm.
Although he knew Polly Gowan was perfectly capable of taking the lead, he wanted to. Just to prove he could—this time without shoving and bullying.
He kissed her. Relief and a sweet rush of longing soaked into him past the pain, numbing it with the dizzying rush of his mouth against hers. He swept his tongue between her lips, and she met him at the barrier of her teeth. They coiled together, arms entwining, pulling body to body. Gasps matched, as did quiet, low moans. Smiling, Polly tipped her head back. He kissed her jaw, her neck, down to her graceful collarbone. She only gasped for breath. Alex growled with the satisfaction of giving her such pleasure, even as he took his own.
The cold air in the taproom whisked across damp skin. Such a contrast with the fire in his blood. She shivered. He pulled her closer, sheltering and claiming at the same time.
“You’re going to make your lip worse,” she said on a shaky laugh. But still she held his shoulders.
“I find I don’t care.”
Another of her delicious feminine moans spoke to him on a gut level.
More, it said. More, until I’m satisfied.
She tasted of whiskey and coffee and eager female. Alex angled his head, kissing her harder. He slipped his hand around her waist and flattened his palm at the base of her spine. The cadence of their breathing matched—some rough gallop of air. Teasing nails across his shoulders made him groan, half in pain and half in pure pleasure. She went to his head faster than any alcohol. He slid his hand farther down until he cupped the perfect rounded slope of her ass. He’d done so in the factory office, but this was more deliberate. He took his time, relishing, memorizing.
Because he didn’t trust they would ever share such a moment again.
Alex fought the momentum of their desire. He released her body, abandoned her mouth. The hot burn in his lungs was a worse torture than the ache along his brow—although the throbbing fullness of his erection trumped both.
He wanted this woman.
And he had never wanted a woman so badly.
Eight
Polly walked through the next three days in a fog. She woke and dressed, worked and ate. The wall of the factory was nearly repaired. Almost everyone was back to working at full capacity. But part of her mind was always in that taproom, with Alex’s hands on her bum and his tongue thrusting deeper. Hours in front of the looms provided no distraction. In fact, the lulling monotony tempted her back into his arms.
She had gone further than any good woman would go.
She hadn’t gone nearly far enough.
Yet the man who had left that taproom was the master of Christie Textiles. He was a privileged, mannered gentleman, no matter what bruises, stitches, and abused clothing he wore.
On the fourth day after the picnic, she awoke before dawn to the rustling clamor of a morning already in full swing. Heath shouted at Wallace, Ma rattled a pan over the stove, and
Da coughed, although not so badly. In light of her restless thoughts and electric dreams, she smiled at the sounds of her life. Her family. Her safe, familiar place.
Although she loved the security, a small part of her wished for some quiet—a place of her own. Then she imagined how lonely such a life would be. She needed the vigor and purpose and brazen, devil-may-care happiness of her community. She pushed out of her pallet and headed behind the curtain to change into her gown and apron.
After a quick trip to the communal bath at the back of the line of tenements, she returned to help Ma fix the morning meal. The family living space was a hazard of rumpled blankets that needed to be layered in the corner. She picked her way over her brothers’ boots.
While Ma helped Da dress for the day and situated him in his chair next to the fire, Polly continued breakfast. She stood over the stove, idly stirring a pot of oatmeal. A few skinny pieces of bacon fried on the second burner. Cooking meant an odd respite of sorts, because no one could call her away from her duties. Otherwise the food might burn. So she took her time with steady, unhurried movements, letting her mind drift once again.
Why did I do it? Why do I still want to?
Because she did. That simple. There were no deeper explanations, no decisions about politics and the union. She had wanted to touch him and watch him ease into her touch. When was the last time she had contemplated doing something so selfish, let alone followed through with it?
A spatter of fat landed on the back of her hand. She muttered to herself and served the bacon onto a plate, which was promptly snatched away by Heath.
“My thanks, Sis,” he said.
“Aye, not bad at all.” Wallace’s mouth was already stuffed full.
She ladled up bowls of oatmeal and laid them on the table with a pint of milk. “You two would eat raw horse if it meant filling your bottomless stomachs.”
Wallace grinned—such a shiny, skinny young rascal. “But your cooking is so much better than raw horse.”
“So that’s what you boys do down at the docks? Dare each other to eat uncooked draft animals? Hardly seems worth the pay you bring home.”
Heath stroked the ginger fuzz that constituted his attempt to grow a full beard. Polly figured he would be married and the proud papa of his second child before that happened. “Whatever we do, it beats minding a mechanical knitter all day.” He feigned a shudder. “I don’t know how you stand it, Polly.”
She set the kettle on a burner and cranked up the fire. “Because I have the patience of a saint and the mind of a faraway dreamer.”
Heath grinned. But an unusual sobriety overtook features on the verge of manhood. “The new mill master is Christie, right?”
Polly blinked back her surprise. It was no idle question, if she knew her brother. Wallace was a scamp who never meant any harm, but Heath was canny and popular with the young ladies of the neighborhood. He had the devil in him, as Ma often said.
“That’s right. What of him?”
“Any reason he’d be down at Old Peter’s on the docks? Mick Shaunessey saw him down there Monday evening. Just having a drink, mind. But it seemed odd.”
Before Polly could respond, Ma bustled through the kitchen on a flurry of activity. She carried a basket full to overflowing with laundry. “Don’t let these boys eat your breakfast, Polly love. And lock up when you go. Make sure Da has enough firewood nearby.”
Ma’s reminders were always the same on laundry day—the only day she left Da for any length of time. She donned her shawl and headed to the common laundry at the top of the street. Polly tried not to notice the way her shoulders stooped under the weight of the heavy basket. Yet still she bustled on with the energy of two women.
Heath shoved the last hunk of bread into his mouth. “Well, I’m off. Try not to get into trouble down at that hoydenish factory. Probably sin everywhere and we’re missing out.”
She reached over and flicked him behind the ear. “Think what you like if it’ll keep you working. I’ll just be standing at a loom, like you said.”
She threw together a pot of tea for her brothers, and added milk and a scant ration of sugar for each. They shrugged into their coats and scarves, grabbed the steaming earthenware mugs, and disappeared into the dawn on a flurry of farewells. The little tenement rooms always sounded especially quiet after their boisterous departure.
Only after he finished his breakfast and Polly cleared his dishes did Da take out his pipe for the first smoke of the day. He puffed once or twice before clearing his throat. “Meeting tonight. Hamish is responsible for gathering the men. Do what you can to gather the women. You ready?”
“Aye.” She nodded but felt compelled to state the obvious. “You know how difficult it is for the women to meet during the week. They have husbands and babes whose bellies know little of solidarity.”
“If their husbands had any sense, they’d attend right alongside them.” He coughed twice. “Damn fools have no notion what’s good for them.”
“We do what we can, Da. That’s all we can do.”
She stared into the fire, where the memory of Alex’s eyes watched her right back. She had not seen him in three days. What, exactly, had he been doing down by the docks? Sniffing out some information she should’ve found? Already she took two hours longer than usual to walk home from work. Asking for information. Cajoling reluctant workers to give up what they knew. Looking for Tommy. Not even Connie’s blandishments to his aunt had produced results.
With a decided effort, she pulled her gaze away from the mesmerizing flames. “I’m worried none of this conniving will come to anything. Mr. Christie doesn’t seem to care for business at all. Then he behaves as if the mill is the most important thing in the world. I can’t figure him.”
“Do your best and keep at it, my girl. Then at least we’ll have fought. We’ll have looked this life in the face and said it’s not enough.” He turned his regard to her. He took her hand. “Because it isn’t, Polly dear. This isn’t enough. Not for you.”
Polly clutched his hand, giving it a good squeeze. “Why are you telling me all of this, Da?”
“Because you’re going to the meeting by yourself tonight. I no longer can. You’ll speak for both of us.”
“Alone?”
“Aye. And don’t you let Hamish or Les upstage you. You hear?”
He waited for her nod. He expected so much from her, even when she didn’t believe herself ready to bear those expectations. And yet, she always had.
“Yes, Da. I won’t let anyone down.”
“There’s my girl.” After putting out his pipe, he tugged the blanket across his lap. “Now, be gone with you. You have a long day ahead.”
Alex arrived at a community hall in Calton at just after nine that evening. He hadn’t gleaned much from his trip to the docks except for the time and place of the next textile workers’ union meeting. In fact, all he’d earned through a day of hard work, frustration, and arguments with the board of directors . . . was a letter from his father-in-law.
The sharp evening cold had nothing on the cold in Alex’s heart. The letter had outlined the exact measures Josiah Todd intended to take in order to retrieve his grandson. Additional legal actions. Punitive measures. A campaign in the papers. The threats sounded rational enough, but beneath the flourishing vocabulary and condescension was fury. Impotent rage had practically vibrated off the page as Alex read it in his study.
Your offense to my family will not go unpunished. I will have my grandson returned to me at any cost.
Alex had needed to sit down, and he’d needed a drink.
Rather than burn the letter, as was his temptation, he had carefully secured it in the top drawer of his desk. A reminder. He had come to Calton for a reason. The fulfillment of that reason meant attending a union meeting. He had done so on several occasions while supporting Mamie’s reform efforts, but he’d never stood by as an interloper. A businessman. A father who would do anything to win security and safety for his son.
The atmosphere inside the small hall was far more festive than he would’ve imagined for such a function. He expected . . . snarling? Restlessness? Maybe a sense of violence to justify what had happened at his mill.
Several dozen men and women, perhaps sixty in total, mingled in loose clumps. More than a few mothers carried babies on their hips. Young children of all ages dodged around and through their parents’ legs. The assembly was almost as much a party as the Sunday luncheon. Only here, some still wore the detritus of their professions. Flecks of cotton. Strands of weft thread. Perhaps they had come straight over from the ends of their shifts.
Thinking of his own son, he wondered if the children had eaten. Or their parents. Just what was it about this meeting to make burdened workers relinquish their precious free time?
He slowly moved to a rear corner of the room. From there he could see a small stage where a lectern awaited the man of the hour: Graham Gowan. Alex crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, still sifting through what scant information he’d gathered since Sunday.
Sunday.
Christ.
He rubbed two fingers along his bottom lip, where the memory of Polly beat the strongest—even stronger than the cuts and bruises that lingered from the football match. Four nights of erotic dreams revealed what he could no longer deny. What he felt for Polly Gowan was pure, undeniable lust. Funny, he had thought himself immune to that potent drug, as if he had simply . . . disconnected. He had done so for Mamie’s sake, and for the sake of his own sanity.
He had come to love Mamie, but his initial impulse toward courtship had been chivalry. Their youthful friendship had blossomed softly along the beaches of Cape Cod—the summering place for wealthy families. Her slow, slow moves toward trust had provided clues enough to understand what life meant under her father’s roof. The man had taken liberties. Ungodly liberties.