by Aubrey Wynne
“I’m educated,” she argued but her heart sank. Grandmama was right. She tossed her head against the brocade chair and pushed at the russet wool carpet with her toes. “I don’t know what is worse—having nothing to do or putting up with those horrid people in London.”
“Let’s talk this through before ye start yer scheming.”
Fenella leapt up and threw her arms around the plump woman. “Grandmama, I know you’ll help me find a way.”
“I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.” Aileen kissed her cheek. “What if ye stick with the truth but leave some facts out.”
“So, I should be visiting from England?”
Her grandmother tapped a finger against her mouth. “What if we just say ye’re living with me and not go into any detail about the length of yer stay. But ye’d have to be sure and give them plenty of notice before ye return home.”
Fenella stood, her brows coming together in her concentration. “What if they ask about my circumstances? I’m unmarried. Surely they’ll want to know about my present situation.”
“Och, Scots are a wee more private than those blethering Londoners, so he should be easily satisfied.” Aileen tapped her mouth as she thought. “Yer grandmother’s getting older and ye’ve come to help. It’s no’ a lie. Ye thought ye’d be working in the book store. In fact, mention my name. Yer grandfather and our business were highly respected.”
With a nod, Fenella began planning and pacing. “What if I’m asked about my parents?”
“Tell them the truth. Ye’re mother is half Scot, and yer father is English and gone back home. Ye’ve spent every summer here since a child, and now ye’ve come to stay with me.”
“What shall I wear?”
“Something plain, no’ too showy. Ye need to appear as a working girl, no’ gentry. We’ll pull that lovely hair back into a tidy chignon and give ye a high collar.” Aileen’s eyes darted up and down Fenella’s long frame. “It will be hard to hide yer good looks, but we’ll do our best. Send a note, request an appointment, and give them yer address here. On Monday, we’ll shop for proper working clothes, and ye’ll be ready by Wednesday.”
MacNaughton Textile Mill. Her stomach knotted with anticipation as she sat down at the desk to write the letter. Poking the nub in the inkwell, she paused. What if she enjoyed being a modern lady, working and making her own way?
Evie’s letters hadn’t mentioned Lord Brecken, the earl they’d met. If her sister didn’t marry a title, er, titled gentleman, then it would still be up to Fenella to make her mother’s dream come true. If Evie did marry, Fenella would be set up with a nice, tidy life here in Glasgow. She could refuse to leave her grandmother. With engaging work to occupy her mind and a pleasant set of friends, she could be happy here. A husband of the ton could never provide her with either of those things. Was her father giving her an escape of sorts? A choice?
She ended the inquiry with the signature F. Franklin, keeping her cards close to her chest. Why take the chance of immediate rejection because she was female? At least she’d have an opportunity to prove herself in person.
*
Lachlan looked up at the archaic structure, tinged with smoke and age. He’d always liked the building, especially the sign above the towering entrance: MacNaughton Textile. He was proud of the family business. His grandfather had gone into partnership with his English son-in-law, Earl of Stanfeld. The earl, not able to dirty his hands with trade, had financed the venture. Calum had furnished the manual labor and knowledge. The MacNaughtons’ sheep had provided the wool, and their clansmen had run the original eighteen looms. Of course, the mill had grown over the years, the earl had died, and their cousin Gideon had recently taken over for his father. The next generation, full of new ideas and ambition, were making a splash in the ocean of industrialization.
He pulled open one of the great oak doors and entered the huge warehouse. The clamor of the power looms that dominated the weaving shed vibrated within him. He always felt so… alive in this place. Compact steel frames glinted silver in the early afternoon rays slanting through dusty floor-to-ceiling windows. The hectic pace of the wooden shafts created an ear-splitting clickety clack as the bars moved up and down, holding the warp, or vertical threads. The spindle-shaped shuttle flew back and forth behind the warp, pulling thread in the opposite direction to create a weave. All this chaotic motion produced the exceptional cloth the MacNaughtons were known for across Scotland and England.
A small boy darted in front of him, lugging a basket of bobbins ready for reloading into shuttles, another taller boy behind him hauling water. They both wore unbleached cotton shirts with rough dark wool vests and knee breeches. The older boy wore a battered cap, which he doffed in Lachlan’s direction, conversation not possible over the din of the machinery. He nodded back, then saw Colin, his second cousin, approach from the back of the long aisle, wiping his hands on a black-stained cloth. His dark hair was speckled with dust that matched the silver at his temples. A smile widened his face, adding to the laugh lines around the MacNaughton blue eyes. He held out a still-dirty hand with no apologies.
“Lachlan! Good to see ye, mon. I’ve been greasing up the new loom Ian brought back. She’s a bonnie piece of equipment.” He dropped the rag onto the shoulder of the young boy passing by again, his basket now full of empty bobbins. “Yer brother’s upstairs in the office. He’s been expecting ye.”
They climbed the steps, talking easily about family. Colin was a second cousin, close to ten years older, who helped oversee the workers and keep the machines running. He had a gift for fixing anything broken. Except hearts, according to several Highland lasses. They found Ian behind a chipped walnut desk, a finger running down a column of figures and his other hand gripping a handful of his dark brown hair.
“Blast these numbers. It’ll take me hours to go back through these figures and find the mistake.” Ian blew out a long breath and looked up. “Och, I thought ye were only Colin.” He walked around and gave Lachlan a rough hug.
“Only Colin? I’d like to hear ye say that the next time ye need a repair done. It would cost us a small fortune to hire a mon just to stand around and wait for a shaft to crack or a weddle to snap.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, glowering at Ian. “And ye still owe me a drink. I’ve no’ forgotten.”
Lachlan laughed as he lowered himself on one of the mismatched chairs facing the rickety desk. “I see ye two lovebirds havena changed in the last few months. Placing wagers again?”
Ian nodded. “I canna pass up a good bet. I said Grandda would send our youngest brother, and Colin insisted ye would see the trip as an escape and come yerself. Seems he kens my brothers better than I do.”
“He just kens people better. Ye always think the best of a mon, and Colin isna so naïve.” He waited for Ian to argue, but his brother had returned his attention to the accounts. “I can understand that replacing the supervisor might be difficult, but ye canna find a bookkeeper?”
“As ye said, Colin is a better judge of character. The two I considered, he didna appreciate. One already had a reputation, and the other had shifty eyes.”
“I trust the source who informed me of the first man’s character. And the other couldna look at either of us directly. Ye canna hire a mon who willna meet yer eye! In truth, I dinna miss Pelling. Something about him rubbed me wrong,” Colin admitted.
“Now ye tell me?” Ian glared at him.
“I wasna here when ye hired him, and ye never asked my opinion.” Their cousin grunted and rested against the wall again. “What about the Franklin fellow? When is he coming?”
“This afternoon. Will ye be around?” asked Ian. “I can buy ye that drink afterward.”
“Aye, I’ll be here.” He held out his hand to Lachlan. “I assume ye’ll be part of the evening’s festivities?”
“Of course. I’ll outlast the old married man.” Lachlan stood and shook Colin’s hand, ignoring the snort from his brother. “I’ll give ye both
the news from home then.”
He settled back in his chair with a smirk as Ian pushed the ledger away. “Let’s pray for a miracle and hope this Franklin is the mon we’re looking for. I hate seeing ye in such fits.”
“On a brighter subject, how is my Lissie?” asked Ian. He was smiling now, the irritation gone from his face. “Did she send me any news?”
“If ye’re asking what I think ye’re asking, no. She’d want to tell ye something like that herself, ye dunderhead.” He leaned forward. “Along that subject, I have a proposition for ye.”
Ian’s eyes sparked with interest. “I’m listening.”
“As ye ken, I’m no’ happy as Grandda’s replacement. I preferred to give the last numbskull a good skelping rather than pander to his vanity. We both ken Brodie is better suited to deal with the clansmen and their pettiness.” He shook his head as Ian chuckled. “What if I took yer place here for a month or so? Ye could go home to yer bonnie wife, I could oversee the business, and Brodie could take my place as the chief’s second.”
“Hmm. I could see Lissie and work on that first great-grandchild. Brodie can tout his skills, and ye can hide here in Glasgow?” He grinned. “Good plan, if we had a supervisor.”
“If we find anyone of interest, Colin and I will set a date for an interview when ye return. It’s no’ like good men have been beating down yer door.” Lachlan held up a hand. “I ken, it’s no’ yer fault. I’m happy to take over the responsibilities for now.”
“Let’s say a prayer we find someone soon. I didna mind making the short excursions every other month, but I’m a wee homesick to be truthful, being stuck here so long.”
“I dinna blame ye. Ye’re no’ used to being away from Lissie. It’s been hard on both of ye.”
“Aye,” he agreed, the grin disappearing. “No offense to my brothers, but she’s my best friend. Has been since she punched me in the eye when we were seven. I miss talking to her every day.”
Ian and Lissie had been betrothed from the cradle as part of a peace agreement between the Craigg and MacNaughton clans. Their grandfather, Calum, had married Peigi Craigg to end a hundred-year feud, and in exchange, the Craiggs had sworn fealty to the MacNaughtons. To maintain the peace, the next MacNaughton male would be pledged to a female Craigg. Since Calum and Peigi only had daughters, one of the grandsons, Ian, had been betrothed to Lissie Craigg.
They grew up together, knowing they would one day be married, never questioning the decision. Lachlan had always been envious of the pair. Lissie could finish a sentence for Ian, and Ian knew what Lissie was thinking with only a look. Lachlan wanted that kind of bond, someday, but with an added passion underlying the friendship.
“It’s settled then. Ye and Colin can educate me on the present politics of Glasgow before ye go. I’ve heard men are getting a wee louder in their concerns.”
“Aye, but that’s a longer conversation, best had over a bumper of ale and a dram of whiskey.”
“Here’s the special order. It’s a fine plaid with intricate work. Who’s it for?” asked Lachlan as he stood and stretched.
“A Lowland laird from Dumfriesshire wants it for his son in America. Afraid the lad will forget his roots, so he wants to send him a reminder of his clan.”
“Sounds like something Grandda would do.” He handed over the package. “I’ll get settled at the house and take a wee nap. Prepare myself for a night on the town with the likes of ye and Colin.”
Lachlan noticed the sun had taken its leave as he exited the mill. A fine mist settled on the back of his neck. He hurried down the steps and thought of the soft mattress waiting for him at the townhouse. The Thistle Inn might be known for its food, but its beds were infamous for the sparse stuffing. Though, any bedding was better than his plaid and the hard ground.
Reaching the street, he squinted through the drizzle in time to see a dark form dashing toward him, head down against the light rain.
Smack! The woman collided with Lachlan. He spread his feet to maintain his balance as the slate-colored gown and pelisse crumpled before him. Without thought, he swept her up before she hit the wet ground.
Her straw bonnet was askew, tiny droplets of rain sparkled in her pale blonde hair, and long lashes spiked like jagged crescents against her smooth cheeks. Her alabaster skin gave her the appearance of a fine Greek sculpture, except for the pink spreading across her cheeks. When her lids fluttered open, clear gray eyes blinked owlishly at him. Mesmerizing was the first word that came to his mind. He was unable to tear his gaze from the exquisite face.
A wet angel, he thought.
“Oh,” was all the angel said, a sheen of moisture covering her skin. A hand went to her neck – a long and graceful neck.
“Aye,” said Lachlan, though it sounded more like a growl to his ears. Her warmth seeped into his upper body, and he squelched the urge to toss her up and resettle her closer to his chest.
She trembled slightly; her full, pink lips slowly turned up in a half-smile. A single drop of moisture clung to the corner of her mouth. It beckoned to him, dared him… Lachlan dipped his head and brushed his lips against her velvet ones, his breath catching at his own audacity. The rain swathed them, their damp clothes sticking to slick skin, diminishing the barrier of her cotton dress. Her chest rose and fell, pushing against his own.
Those liquid silver orbs blinked again as he raised his head and went wide with surprise, accentuating their dark outer ring of black. Then her feet kicked against his tight hold. His gaze traveled down her legs, long shapely limbs molded by her damp skirt, then back up to the bonniest face he’d seen in years. Carefully, Lachlan set her down, gripping her elbows to give her some support. She was slender but tall for a female, the crown of her head just at his eye level. He wouldn’t get a crick in his neck looking down at her. Aye, he’d like to spend more time… exploring that face.
“Are ye hurt, lass?” he asked, still hypnotized by those ashen eyes.
She shook her head, a golden strand clinging to her cheek. His finger twitched to brush it away, feel the silkiness of her hair, trace the contour of her jaw. But the anger darkening those fine eyes distracted him.
“I’d like to apologize—”
“I would think so!”
“But I canna, since there’s nothing I’d like more than to do it again.” He bowed and doffed his cap, a spray of water from its crown dousing them both, and grinned at the lanky beauty. “May I assist ye to wherever ye’re going?”
Resolve glittered in her soft, dusky eyes. “I think you’ve done quite enough already.” And with that, she picked up her limp skirts and stomped up the stairs of the mill with as much grace as a fallen angel could manage. With surprising strength, she pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped inside without a backward glance.
Lachlan walked backward a few steps as she disappeared from his sight. He wondered if she were looking for work or was related to one of their employees. Her clothes were plain and unadorned, but of good quality. She might be a skilled worker. Perhaps a weaver for the upstairs room. He picked up his pace and whistled a jaunty tune. He’d find her. Someone would know the identity of such a beauty.
Chapter Four
A Not-So-Subtle Scottish Seduction
The blood pulsed through Fenella, her temples throbbing as she gripped the iron handle and yanked with all her might. She stepped inside the entrance hall of the warehouse and leaned back against the great oak door. Her trembling hands pushed against the solid, ridged wood, trying to steady her racing heart. Mercy! What just happened?
Heat flushed her cheeks again as his image came back to her. The warmth spread to her belly, doing somersaults that pushed a giggle up her throat. Her hand went to her mouth, still tingling with the touch of the man’s lips. He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her while he held her in his arms. As if she weighed no more than a child. She smiled as her fingers traced her lips.
My first kiss. In the rain. With a stranger. Oh, if her mother could see her now. Would s
he approve, or only be irritated he’d been a Scot?
A handsome Scot in a kilt, his knees showing above muscular calves. He’d held her close, and she’d been transfixed by those cobalt blue eyes.
And all Fenella could manage was, “Oh.” She tipped back her head and closed her lids, shutting out the world for a moment. The image of his thick auburn waves, damp against his strong neck and chiseled face, made her shiver. He was the most divine man she’d ever seen. Touched. The only man she’d ever touched. Like that. Her heart pounded, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Is this what sent those silly London girls into high-pitched titters?
Steady, now! Fenella took in deep gulps of air, hoping to recover some semblance of her wits. She had to present herself for an interview, in a bedraggled state, after being ravished by a stranger. In the middle of the afternoon! Her sister couldn’t have read a better plot in one of her romance novels. Her bonnet tipped, now perched precariously over one ear. Oh, Lord! Her hands flew to her damp locks, quickly smoothed them back, and adjusted her straw hat. She retied the ribbons and wiped the remaining moisture from her face.
Her dress hung limply against her legs, clinging to her thighs. This wouldn’t do at all. She picked up the material and fanned it out. The thin cotton would dry quickly in this hot room. Thank the Lord she hadn’t been caught in a downpour. Peering at the workers closest to her, she was relieved there were not dozens of eyes on her. No one seemed to have noticed her entrance. No one had witnessed the spectacle outside. No one knew how she longed to run back down the steps and kiss that presumptuous Scot again.
While she flapped her dress back and forth, Fenella took in her surroundings. The large room was filled with rows of steel machines clicking and clacking. An employee stood in front of, or next to each power loom. Two boys moved along the main wide aisle, the taller one with a bucket, the smaller with a basket. The noise was deafening, and she thought how sad it would be to work all day without conversation.
