walked. Like snowflakes. Or stars. Alex had yet to catch sight of the stars over Glasgow, what with March still so overcast and the air smoky—proof of Glasgow’s commitment to industrial success. Maybe that explained his mind’s turn toward whimsy.
Snowflakes and stars.
He shook his head.
As Polly neared, she smoothed her expression to placidity. Only when she met him face to face did she reveal true feelings; a fierce scowl ruined the line of her auburn brows. “Do you have any idea what this will do to my reputation?”
“Your position within the union offers safeguards few women can claim. You know a lot more than you’ve told me, Miss Gowan, and you are going to help me.”
“You’re cracked in the head, Mr. Christie. No one here did that damage. Why would we have reason to? Your search needs to start across the street at Winchester’s, or down the road at the Bennett factory, or McGovern’s.”
“In time. But for now our goals are in alignment. You need to clear every member of your union.” He leaned in close, catching the scent of some sweet floral soap—a fresh morning smell. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll tear it to tatters by the end of the week.”
“You’re a bastard.”
Polly’s insult was almost swallowed by the grumbling factory, but she looked around anyway. She could only imagine what everyone must think of her—perhaps conspiring with the new master, or even flirting with him.
That they might think she was sticking up for their interests, as she always did, was her only hope. She had worked for years to build a solid reputation among her peers. Her word was worth a lot more than that of a master fresh off the boat from New York.
“Name-calling, Miss Gowan? I thought you’d be above such pettiness.”
“And why’s that?” she asked, hands on her hips.
“Because your tongue’s as sharp as your mind. Calling me names seems unworthy.”
She blinked. The mill master was paying her compliments on her least ladylike habit? What manner of trickery was this? But, silly girl, she enjoyed his unexpected words.
He crossed his arms. His suit was more modest than the one he wore at their first meeting—although arranged with proper decorum now. Shouldn’t someone of his profession be leaner, with his muscles wasted away by days spent over books? Or made portly by too much rich food and not enough sweat? Underneath the tailored garments lurked a man with the strong bones of the heartiest Scotsman.
The set of his mouth suggested that he rarely found humor in the world. Feathery creases stretched out from his eyes and lay in furrows along his brow. Frowns. Not laughter. Too bad. His shapely lower lip was made for smiling.
“I told you yesterday that I’ll have no part in betraying my own.”
“Maybe not voluntarily.” Mr. Christie surprised her by grabbing her upper arm. “McCutcheon, where is your office?” he shouted over the din.
The overseer frowned at Polly’s struggles. Then he tipped his chin to the far corner of the mill floor. The door to his tiny box of an office was tucked between two massive looms.
The master of Christie Textiles tugged her acrossthe factory floor. Polly literally dug her heels into the plank wood floor, using the fingernails of her free hand in an attempt to pry free. Nothing stopped his determined march toward the office.
Only when Les and Hamish materialized did Polly cease her struggles. They looked ready to do violence. The last thing the weavers needed was a brawl with Mr. Christie. She shook her head at the pair.
“Back to work!” Mr. Christie shouted. The proud height of his stance did not ease. If she hadn’t been so offended by his bullying behavior, she would have admired it. She enjoyed men who knew their minds.
In the Lowland Scots dialect they shared, Polly shouted her orders to Les and Hamish. They nodded with obvious reluctance and restrained anger.
Once inside the office, Mr. Christie slammed the door and pushed her
Snowflakes and stars.
He shook his head.
As Polly neared, she smoothed her expression to placidity. Only when she met him face to face did she reveal true feelings; a fierce scowl ruined the line of her auburn brows. “Do you have any idea what this will do to my reputation?”
“Your position within the union offers safeguards few women can claim. You know a lot more than you’ve told me, Miss Gowan, and you are going to help me.”
“You’re cracked in the head, Mr. Christie. No one here did that damage. Why would we have reason to? Your search needs to start across the street at Winchester’s, or down the road at the Bennett factory, or McGovern’s.”
“In time. But for now our goals are in alignment. You need to clear every member of your union.” He leaned in close, catching the scent of some sweet floral soap—a fresh morning smell. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll tear it to tatters by the end of the week.”
“You’re a bastard.”
Polly’s insult was almost swallowed by the grumbling factory, but she looked around anyway. She could only imagine what everyone must think of her—perhaps conspiring with the new master, or even flirting with him.
That they might think she was sticking up for their interests, as she always did, was her only hope. She had worked for years to build a solid reputation among her peers. Her word was worth a lot more than that of a master fresh off the boat from New York.
“Name-calling, Miss Gowan? I thought you’d be above such pettiness.”
“And why’s that?” she asked, hands on her hips.
“Because your tongue’s as sharp as your mind. Calling me names seems unworthy.”
She blinked. The mill master was paying her compliments on her least ladylike habit? What manner of trickery was this? But, silly girl, she enjoyed his unexpected words.
He crossed his arms. His suit was more modest than the one he wore at their first meeting—although arranged with proper decorum now. Shouldn’t someone of his profession be leaner, with his muscles wasted away by days spent over books? Or made portly by too much rich food and not enough sweat? Underneath the tailored garments lurked a man with the strong bones of the heartiest Scotsman.
The set of his mouth suggested that he rarely found humor in the world. Feathery creases stretched out from his eyes and lay in furrows along his brow. Frowns. Not laughter. Too bad. His shapely lower lip was made for smiling.
“I told you yesterday that I’ll have no part in betraying my own.”
“Maybe not voluntarily.” Mr. Christie surprised her by grabbing her upper arm. “McCutcheon, where is your office?” he shouted over the din.
The overseer frowned at Polly’s struggles. Then he tipped his chin to the far corner of the mill floor. The door to his tiny box of an office was tucked between two massive looms.
The master of Christie Textiles tugged her acrossthe factory floor. Polly literally dug her heels into the plank wood floor, using the fingernails of her free hand in an attempt to pry free. Nothing stopped his determined march toward the office.
Only when Les and Hamish materialized did Polly cease her struggles. They looked ready to do violence. The last thing the weavers needed was a brawl with Mr. Christie. She shook her head at the pair.
“Back to work!” Mr. Christie shouted. The proud height of his stance did not ease. If she hadn’t been so offended by his bullying behavior, she would have admired it. She enjoyed men who knew their minds.
In the Lowland Scots dialect they shared, Polly shouted her orders to Les and Hamish. They nodded with obvious reluctance and restrained anger.
Once inside the office, Mr. Christie slammed the door and pushed her
Similar Books
