His Very Own Girl (34 page)

“You’d give me over to that beast, even suspecting what he might do to me? What kind of monster are you?”

Alex needed to back away. He
needed
to, or he would touch Polly Gowan. For the past fifteen minutes, he’d fought that urge as he had rarely fought any battle. Not to caress her or seduce her. No, he just wanted to prove she was real. Like a tiny, angry Valkyrie, she was almost mythic in her strength and the righteous burn in her bright green eyes. Her accent was as strong and unfamiliar as that of any Glaswegian, an exotic brogue with its oddly clipped consonants, but she added an impish brightness.

Alex gripped the edge of his desk, with yet another war brewing behind his breastbone. He was honorable in his heart and soul—a quality that in many ways had been the making of him. Threats were nearly too much to stomach, especially against a woman. The alternative, however, included losing his business to an unidentified saboteur and handing Edmund over to Josiah Todd.

That would never happen.

He had no doubt Livingstone was a beast. In fact, it was from Josiah Todd that he had learned to identify such a covetous, proprietary look. The brutal overseer believed, for some reason, that Polly was his to manipulate. And maybe worse. Just as Alex’s father-in-law had believed Mamie was his. In every way. Forever.

She would have been, had not Alex intervened.

Yet had he ever desired a woman with such swift, infuriating speed? Polly Gowan had been in Alex’s office for only a quarter hour. Still, he was compelled. Fascinated. Drawn to her. The reaction was so fierce as to remind him of his long years of celibacy—throughout his marriage almost entirely, and certainly since Mamie’s passing. Despite his body’s aching insistence, however, he wasn’t in the habit of drooling after every pretty new female. Polly appeared infinitely resilient, as if she could take the full force of a man’s desires, and demand as much in return.

“I’m no monster,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “After all, I am giving you a choice.”

“It’s no choice, and you know it. Out on the street, he practically pulled off my arm. When that wasn’t enough, he kicked me in the gut. Take those facts and choke on them.”

Alex stilled. “He kicked you?”

“What does it matter to you? Still ready to toss me to him?”

No,
he thought bitterly. More like he regretted not popping the man’s jaw when he’d had the chance. “You’ll be the one to decide, as I said.”

Polly swept that fiercely red hair back from her temples, her hands quick and agitated. “And here I’d almost thought you gallant.”

“Gallant?”

“For standing up to him that way. No one ever does.”

“And now?”

“I take it back.”

“Can you take back a thought? I don’t think so.” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, well clear of temptation. “You thought I was gallant. The idea was there. It existed in your mind. Now you’ve altered that thought by adding new data. Happens all the time. For example, I thought you were beautiful.”

She pulled her chin back on a quick intake of air. Alex hid a smile as he watched the words sink in, like water quenching dry summer soil. Her lips parted. She touched her hair again, and then dropped her hands.

“Thought?”

Such uncertainty in her voice. Perhaps her position in the union and among the mill workers had stripped her femininity. With a rare flash of intuition, he suspected that men would desire her without truly appreciating her singular beauty. Her pretty, sprightly features and bewitching red hair were obvious enough. Although her mud-brown gown’s boxy shape and worn fabric did much to conceal her physique, she had lush breasts, a neat little waist, and hips designed to be palmed by a man’s eager hands.

Something inside him, buried deep, surged to wakefulness. He didn’t feel like himself. He was rougher, somehow. His temper was stretched and frayed. He would’ve brawled in his office had Livingstone done so much as scratch an itch.

“Yes, I thought that,” he said tightly. “But then I learned you could’ve been part of this plan to destroy my factory. I’m sorry to say such knowledge has tempered my opinion.”

“Fickle man,” she said with a huff.

“No more than you deeming me a monster rather than gallant.”

Her lips curled in disgust. “That’s because your behavior changed. The same cannot be said about my appearance.”

“Well, you have me there.”

“
Such
a gentleman.”

Although Alex could not say as much—nor could he indulge in the smile her waspish tongue inspired—she was even lovelier now. Indignation, fury, and maybe embarrassment had flushed cheeks already colored with abundant freckles. Eyes the color of bright spring grass snapped. A habit of chewing her bottom lip had made it both fuller and pinker. She tempted him to dark places with nothing more than a cagey sideways glance.

Beyond her disconcerting effect on his control, Polly Gowan was priceless. He certainly wasn’t going to give her to a brute like Livingstone, but she wasn’t leaving his office until she accepted her new role in his life. Research alone had been unsuccessful in finding a way past the locked door of secrecy that protected the Calton textile union.

She would be his key.

“Time’s up.” Quicker than Polly could react, he wrapped an arm around her lower back and shoved her none too gently toward the office door. He’d meant to keep her from further injury after hearing how Livingstone had abused her. Now he was forced to intensify his threat. He pulled her hip to hip with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other.

He was touching her. And she was very, very real.

“Out there with him, Miss Gowan, or in here with me.”

“I won’t! Throw me to that wolf if you must, but I’m not talking to you.”

Alex only gripped tighter, despite how his throat had closed and his lungs ached. “What is so bloody hard about talking?” he said past gritted teeth. “Sharing information, for God’s sake. You act like I’m already prepared to dismantle the whole system, when you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Such language. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

Alex cringed inwardly. When was the last time he’d cursed at all, let alone at a young woman? Very rarely before that afternoon.

Polly tilted her chin. “But the fact remains that you’re a master. Jesus knows you’ll use anything I say against us.”

He stopped her at the open doorway. The hands at her waist were not caressing. No. Just holding her in place. She looked ready to dart for the Highlands.

“So that’s been the way of it?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped. “I know you’re not.”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, dragging him back to thoughts he had no history of indulging—the weight of her flesh in his hands, the heft and the softness. He smiled softly, simply enjoying the strong, unexpected buzz of anticipation. Her gaze caught on his mouth before darting away.

“There’s only so much a man can learn from books,” he said at last.

He pulled her aside and shut the door. Although he had been the one to place her in danger, he enjoyed the flush of relief on her freckled cheeks and the deep breath she exhaled. Good Christ, he really had been alone too long if such manipulations aroused him.

But she didn’t thank him. She didn’t even back away. Had she known he was bluffing? He traced the fast beat of her pulse where it throbbed along her neck. Maybe he’d made an impression after all. She certainly had turned him inside out, and so quickly, too.

“Well, I see that you have plenty of books, Mr. Christie. Good luck, then. Perhaps a little more reading will do the trick while the rest of us load bricks, fix looms, and start again.” She pushed away and sauntered toward the door.

Sauntered . . . as if he would let her go.

He caught up with her, easily, eagerly. He’d found another reason to touch her. With his hand trapping her wrist, he turned her to face him. During the initial fracas, he hadn’t given thought to his state of undress. Now he could think of nothing else. His cravat gone. Her mouth so close to his bare skin.

Alex channeled his surprising, almost overwhelming need. He
was
a good man, but the pressure building in his veins knew no limits.

“You don’t seem to understand,” he ground out. “You’ll tell me what you know and do everything I ask.”

She raised her free hand, perhaps to strike him, but he caught that, too. They stood body to body in the middle of his office. Alex stifled the rough breath that would’ve given away his arousal.

“If you don’t,” he continued, “I’ll do worse than threaten you with the likes of Livingstone. You have a job you’d like to keep, yes?”

“Ha!” The fury was back in her eyes, pure and cold—the most provocative shade of green he’d ever seen. “You need a woman of my experience more than I need your company’s name on my pay packet.”

“And who else would hire you? A woman with your reputation? It would be a very easy thing to turn the other masters against you. You’re already a prime suspect.”

“You fit in with them seamlessly. It’s in your nature. You sit behind a desk when the rest of us break our backs and little girls of only four years put in a full day’s work.”

Something made him protest. Gamblers would’ve railed at him for tipping his hand, but at that moment, as Polly Gowan vibrated with anger, he could not be the ogre she believed. He released her wrists and resisted the urge to apologize for the red marks he’d left there. “I’m not like every master,” he said softly.

“Now,
that
you’ll have to prove.”

As if standing outside of himself, he bridged the scant distance between their faces and touched a lock of her fiery hair. Silken. Alluring like nothing he’d ever known.

She stiffened. Her full mouth flattened into a sharp line. “But you are like every other
man
. May I go?”

“Yes,” he said with an exhale. From somewhere deep inside, he found his resolve once more. “I must question the others.”

“And what about the factory? I’m not so optimistic as to hope we won’t be held accountable for our weekly quotas, even working among shambles.”

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow, Miss Gowan. I’ll be there for the first shift.”

about the author

Carrie Lofty holds a masters degree in history, which she puts to good use as a historical romance writer (
Flawless
and
Starlight
) and lecturer on the craft of writing. An active member of the Chicago North and Wisconsin chapters of Romance Writers of America, she is also a long-distance runner and part-time movie buff. She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two daughters.

Don’t miss the first two historical romances in Carrie Lofty’s Christies series!

Flawless

Starlight

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