by Carrie Lofty
“You deserve no less than torture,” he growled. “I should take you apart a piece at a time with that machete. I should tie you to a bed and keep you a defenseless prisoner for the rest of your life. I should let some soulless animal climb on top of you, night after night. Strip your soul. Destroy your mind. Drive you mad with pain and betrayal. I should.” Alex cocked the pistol. “But I won’t.”
Todd coughed. The back of his head gleamed with a sickly wetness. “I hope your new bride fares even more poorly than my Mamie did under your care.”
“Burn in hell, you sick bastard.”
And he calmly put a bullet through Josiah Todd’s heart.
Polly couldn’t stop shaking as the hackney sped them toward the hospital. Her hands, her legs, the whole of her guts—everything quivered. His head braced against a carriage window, Heath had lost most of his color. He clutched his shoulder, where she pressed his wadded-up shirt against the bullet hole in his shoulder.
“Polly, quit fussing.” Although he likely meant nonchalance, he delivered it through clenched teeth.
The cab bounced down the streets at a pace that her logical mind knew was obscenely fast. But not fast enough.
“It’ll be all right,” she said, a little breathless. “I won’t let go. The blood loss isn’t too great. Just through the meat, you see. Nothing serious.”
“Sis?”
Her throat constricted. “Yes?”
“You’re babbling.”
“Oh, you hush, you cheeky bastard.” She blinked past the tears she’d fought since leaving Alex on the schooner. There hadn’t been time for a quick kiss or a desperate hug, let alone talking. They had parted within seconds—she for the hospital with Heath, while he stayed behind to sort matters with the police.
The carriage pulled to a jerking stop that nearly tossed her from the bench. A few moments later, she watched as a doctor and his assistants helped Heath down the steps. He walked of his own power into the hospital, with his eyes turned squarely toward the nurse who held his hand.
At least he seemed to fare well enough for that. The lad would be fine. Polly took a deep breath and let it out on a whoosh of relief.
But exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. The stress of the entire day crashed on her like stones tossed from a bell tower. Her eyes felt lined with crushed shells. Every blink grated. The heavy drag of her funereal skirts pulled her earthward.
Inside, a nurse led her to a private room to wash up, then to a tiny chapel where she could wait. Polly nodded and let the nearest pew take her weight.
Alex had wanted an annulment. She’d been the one to protest their marriage so staunchly, but she’d also declared her feelings. Her unrequited feelings, it had seemed. Maybe the unknowns that yet stretched before them had been too intimidating. So many missteps cluttered the path leading from their wedding day. Her pride had caused some of those stumbles, as had his defensive reserve. When exchanging heated words, she hadn’t been able to see the matching uncertainty woven through his sharp accusations.
She knew differently in her heart, and perhaps she always had: Alex Christie was capable of so much emotion.
She wiped her eyes. He would not keep denying her. Their passion—their love—was too important. The reward of his devotion was worth the trouble of wresting it out of his heart. He had wielded a pipe to help save her life. She would use the same against his thick skull if he kept behaving like an ass. Timidity didn’t suit Graham Gowan’s only daughter.
The chapel door opened and closed behind her. A man’s hand appeared in her line of sight. He extended a handkerchief.
She looked up to find Alex standing beside her, in the aisle between the pews.
But he was not the determined master or even the contemplative stargazer she’d met months earlier. That man hadn’t known his true desires, his true potential.
That man hadn’t been her husband.
She took the handkerchief. It smelled of his body—warm and soapy, but tinged with the sweat from his fight. Pressing it to her cheeks and mouth, across her nose and eyes, was beautifully intimate. She wanted to be close to him.
“The doctor said your brother is already out of surgery. I think you could’ve sutured him just as well.”
The gentle admiration in his voice was almost as healing as the news he shared. She took another breath and let hope flourish.
“What about the police? Will there be any charges against you?”
“No.” His lips flattened and his hazel eyes blazed—what she’d come to think of as his mill master’s expression. Tough. Resolved. Unrelenting. “I . . . convinced them of the truth. Winchester and Livingstone added their testimony, but I’m not through with either of them. Just because they made sensible choices on the schooner doesn’t mean they’ll escape their crimes so easily. The masters and the union wouldn’t be at such odds without their selfish ambition.”
“And Todd’s family? You said they were important.”
“So is mine. I’m worth very little, but lawyers for the whole of Christie Holdings won’t back down in defending me.” He smiled tightly. “They can’t afford to. Scandal and share prices don’t mix.”
Polly felt optimistic enough to laugh. “You sound like a right bastard.”
He blinked. Cautious amusement replaced the tightness straining his mouth. “That shouldn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It was meant as one. Where’s Edmund?”
His quiet smile looked entirely depleted, but it was still a smile. With any luck, it would become easier each time, until her Alex returned. “Agnes has him, back at the house,” he said. “She badgered one of the young constables until he had no choice but to accompany them in a hackney.”
Now came a real laugh. Locked places in Polly’s chest were opening to the future. “I should’ve liked to see that.”
“You know, he’s alive because of you.”
“Agnes had more a hand in it,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not me. And I wouldn’t be alive either had you arrived any later.”
“Then you both would be . . .” He blinked a few times and looked away, then nodded curtly. “The authorities will need to speak to you as well. They’re curious what happened to the man they found in the hold.”
She shrugged. “I hit him with a marble bust and stabbed him with a shattered decanter.”
“Good girl.” Obvious pride shone from his eyes. The skin at their corners crinkled with shared humor. “The rest of those at the union meeting will be asked to give statements as well.”
“Some won’t come forward. They fear the police too much.”
Rather than sit, as Polly might assume, he knelt. He took both of her hands, but surprisingly, hers were steadier. “What if you asked them to? They respect you, Polly. They would listen to you, especially if it meant putting all of this behind us.”
Her skin flushed, then chilled. “You didn’t want me to have anything more to do with the union.”
“It’s as important to you as the stars are to me. I want to keep you safe, but not at such an expense.” His lopsided grin made her heart tremble. “Is a mistaken man allowed to change his mind?”
She scooted closer, right to the edge of the pew. On a fit of daring, she kissed the end of his nose. “Absolutely. Much simpler that way. But I won’t lie to them, Alex. I won’t be a mouthpiece for masters who keep secrets and make no concessions in return.”
“They will have guarantees from all of the masters regarding fair wages and working conditions.”
She laughed outright, which sounded too loud in the tiny chapel. “Oh, and what woodland sprite will make that happen?”
“Me. I swear it.”
“Are you magical now?”
“Not only have the weavers rebuilt our mill practically from scratch, but production is up more than ten percent from last year. I’ve run the numbers. I know their businesses inside out. None of them can compete with our growth.” He kissed their interlaced fingers. “Besides,
someone I know has shown me the merits of being stubborn.”
“ Our mill?”
“You’re my wife,” he said nonchalantly. “What’s yours is mine.”
Oh, he wasn’t playing fair at all. And she didn’t want him to stop. “What about your inheritance? The prize money?”
He sat beside her and pulled her into his lap. Polly gave a little gasp. He was so strong, so unyielding. The horrors of that evening had folded into his skin. New lines. New burdens to wear on his face. He looked drained, but with determination layered over every dear feature.
“It was never about the money,” he said, voice thickened. “It was about keeping Edmund safe from that monster. And tonight—God, I almost lost you both. You think I give a damn about the money? I’d hand it over in a heartbeat.”
He smoothed his hand along her temples, sweeping back her tousled hair. She must look a fright, but his reverent expression said he didn’t see her that way.
“Our fathers taught us the same lesson. We can have it all if we fight for it. Only, you learned that lesson a lot better than I did. This new version of myself . . . I didn’t know myself until tonight. Now I refuse to compromise. I want safety for my family, success in my business, validation in my studies. And if you’re willing, I want to know I’m your husband—as surely as I know that I love you. Let me be that man, if no other.”
Joyful tears gathered in her eyes and made swallowing difficult. “Go back,” she whispered.
“Back?”
“To the part about loving me.”
His eyes moved over her face as if trying to memorize every line, every tiny hair. Everything she’d hoped to find in those fascinating hazel depths shone without reserve. She had never been so cherished.
“I’ve loved you for so long that I can hardly think back to when it wasn’t true.” He heaved out a heavy breath. “But I was wrong in marrying you. I gave you so poor a choice as to make it no choice at all. I wanted you. As simple as that.” A smile flashed across his mouth. “I should’ve known that forcing you is the worst possible way to get you to agree.”
Polly bit her lower lip. His words were so much. Almost too much. But they were exactly what she’d longed to hear—everything she’d desired from the man she loved so much.
“How should you have done it, then?”
He didn’t hesitate. He simply stood and urged her to her feet. Mischief glinted in his eyes. What would it be to see this man happy all the time? Could there be a greater gift in the world?
At the front of the chapel, standing before the tiny altar, he knelt. “I’ll marry you all over again, if that’s what you want. Or . . .” He looked away. His throat worked over another swallow. “Or we can continue with an annulment. I won’t keep you if you want to go. But I won’t compromise anymore. I need all of you—stubborn and fierce, caring and clever. Be my woman for all times.”
Slowly, knowing this moment would last with her for all time, she knelt, too. And kissed him. Their lips touched tentatively at first, and then with more assurance, more fire.
Her husband in more than name. They were bound, heart to heart.
“I don’t want to get married again,” she said against his mouth. “And I certainly don’t want that bloody annulment. I love you, Alex. So very much. You’re my gentleman and my warrior. My husband in all ways.” She cupped his cheeks in her hands, kissed him again and again. “I shouldn’t have hidden what I knew. Maybe if I’d have trusted you, but I couldn’t risk—”
He held her tightly against his chest. Words rough with emotion tickled along her throat. “Enough now, Polly. It’s all in the past. We’ll let the happiness in, but nothing else.”
“Oh, Alex.” A tremble of absolute joy shook through her. “That’s the vow I’d have wanted to exchange on our wedding day.”
He only held on tighter, kissing her neck with a delicious combination of desire and tenderness. “Then let this be the start. Right now. What say you, Mrs. Christie?”
“I say, I do.”
Epilogue
New York City
January 1, 1883
The carriage stopped in front of the Christie family brownstone with a jarring finality that ended Polly’s quiet humming. Alex watched his wife with a steady eye toward her gathering tension.
That humming had awoken him at daybreak. Only, at that hour, he had assumed it simply a sweet accompaniment to her morning toilette. She’d dragged a brush idly through rich auburn curls draped over one bare shoulder. All of her had been bare, with not even a dressing gown. Softly padded hips and fine-spun ribs. The graceful spine and elegant neck that had fascinated him from the start. Softness and tenacious strength. Her catlike smile had said that she knew exactly what the impropriety did to him, and that she loved it as much as he did. He always, always awoke ready for her. And they enjoyed that fact as no two people ever had.
He smiled at his own whimsy. Yet he couldn’t deny that it felt like the truth. There were wealthy men, lucky men, and men who were loved unconditionally.
With Polly by his side and the mill a robust success, Alex was all three.
Now he suspected that the songs she’d unwittingly hummed throughout the day revealed disquiet. She had behaved much the same way in the week leading up to their daughter’s birth. Granted, she was an armored valkyrie compared to him. Oily, stomach-sick worry had been his companion for those endless days. To lose frail Mamie had been difficult enough. To lose Polly . . .
Yet, as doggedly as ever, she’d cursed her way through the whole ordeal. Alex had come through with an expanded Lowland Scots vocabulary and a renewed appreciation for his wife’s resilience. His relief had quickly been replaced by hope. Yes, he could be happy now. Anything they faced would be easier because they shared one another’s strengthening love.
Three-year-old Edmund’s baby sister, Catrina—an ode to his departed, beloved stepmother—sat on Agnes’s lap. The patient old woman was as much a part of their family as blood relations. Her children grown, with lives of their own to fulfill, she’d declared her desire to see new lands. New York was the first city other than Glasgow she’d ever visited.
“No sense letting the wee girl wrinkle your fine gown,” she had said, offering to hold the babe.
Looking upon Polly’s fretful expression, however, Alex guessed his wife might have enjoyed having little Catrina to hold. Her fingers tangled and untangled in her lap, as if jerked by a puppeteer.
Even Edmund, handsomely dressed in the only set of clothes he hadn’t outgrown during the transatlantic crossing, fidgeted with noticeable energy. “We here, Da?”
“Yes, we’re here,” Alex said.
Polly stared out the carriage window toward the hulking brownstone, which was oddly drained of color by the pale, snowy light of the winter afternoon. Once, the structure had intimidated him. Now he knew better. He knew where his father came from, and how hard he must’ve worked to achieve such success. The mansion was a small part of the legacy Alex was proud to accept.
“Agnes, please go ahead with the children. Get them settled while Mrs. Christie and I attend to business matters in the library. Afterward we can make introductions.”
“Of course, Mr. Christie.”
A footman from the mansion opened the carriage and assisted Edmund to the pavement. As Agnes followed, Polly bid their daughter a silent farewell by gently touching the infant’s bright red curls. With the rumble and thud of boots on the roof, the coachmen unloaded the luggage. Perhaps Alex might eventually see his family decamp to a hotel, but he needed a few days among his siblings. Sparse communication and bare snippets of detail left him hungry for news. The final answers—whether they had succeeded—had not yet reached him.
With the carriage to themselves, Alex considered taking Polly’s agitated hands in his own. But coddling her had never been the right approach. Instead he leaned across the scant space and grabbed her waist. She squealed as he hauled her onto his lap. Some manner of female witchcraft meant she kn
ew how much resistance he needed. A token protest, surely, but she wiggled and squirmed just enough to make him feel he’d brought her to heel. That thought, no matter how much fantasy, aroused him like no other. That he could tame and take such a woman.
But as he looked into her eyes, he knew better. He was the one who’d been tamed, taught to love and need, and to trust in both.
“Are you with me, my love?”
She tried a weak smile. Her thighs were tense across his. “You’ve given me little choice, Professor Christie.”
He grinned at her use of his new title. Officially, he wouldn’t take his position at the University of Glasgow until they returned in March, but ever since learning of the pending appointment, she had insisted on using it whenever she felt like teasing. Which was often. At least it was a better moniker than master.
Except her quiet words were shadows of her regular self.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Your family . . . what will they think of me?”
“I’ve never heard you doubt yourself.”
“I’ve never been minutes away from meeting the rest of the famed Christies.”
“The notorious Christies would be more accurate.”
“But my deportment lessons and tutoring, all my new clothes—what if they don’t matter? What if they think managing the mill while you teach isn’t respectable for a lady of my new standing?”
“Don’t belittle your role. I won’t have it. You do far more than manage the mill. You’re the linchpin to the whole operation, where the union meets the masters. And the school was your idea.”
He smiled at the memory of her reaction to Julian Bennett’s accusation that the weavers were all illiterate. A polite snarl had shaped her lips, and she’d sworn on the spot to prove him wrong. Of course Alex had supported her decision to begin mandatory schooling for the factory’s young people. He refused to simply take from the people of Calton. He would give back to the small community that had given him the joys of his life.
