Free Starlight by Carrie Lofty Page A

“We’ve begun negotiations, haven’t we, Mr. Christie?”
    Only after another moment did Alex loosen up enough to speak. “Miss Gowan is correct. You have nothing to fear from my intentions, Mr. Nyman.”
    She could see it on Hamish’s face: surprise thatthe mill master had remembered his name. It only added to Polly’s belief that Mr. Christie could become an asset, if she could keep him from realizing her suspicions about Tommy.
    “Off with you then, boys,” she said.
    Alex—did kissing a man entitle her to thinking of him by his Christian name?—stared after them.
    “They just . . . left,” he said. “As if you were a queen dismissing servants.”
    “I have a commanding personality.”
    He rubbed his jaw. Maybe he was incapable of making a jest in return. He certainly was straitlaced. Until he kissed. Then he was an animal unleashed.
    “Distractions will only knock me off track for so long, Miss Gowan.” The gold in his eyes shone like bronze in sunlight. His gaze settled on her mouth. “Delicious though it was.”
    War. Battle. Combat. She was not going to let him take this moment from her. “And you’ll stop at nothing?”
    A muscle along his neck twitched. “Nothing.”
    Polly straightened the ends of her shawl, where the gold, green, red, and purple strands formed a neat fringe—a reminder of her family and her community. “Very well. You’ve talked me into it. I’ll help you, and that means learning everything about the people who work for your profits.”
    She grinned, surprising even herself. Let him think the idea was his.
    “Just be ready to keep up, master. I intend to show you the real Glasgow.”

Five
     
    P olly smiled to herself as she watched the church congregation disband following Reverend McCormick’s two-hour sermon. Not all congregants wore their relief so obviously, but she felt what could only be described as a collective sigh. Six-day workweeks and an entire morning in church meant few hours to breathe on one’s own time.
    Voices came out to play. Laughter. Chatter. Although their planned picnic would be moved indoors because of a light drizzle, the congregants were abuzz with the welcome change of pace.
    Polly was not as relaxed as she might have hoped. Following another conversation with her father, she was even more confident about the role she needed to play with Mr. Christie. She certainly hadn’t told Da about what took place at the factory. The fight. The kiss.
    Her blush was even hotter in church.
    The strategy remained sound. She would showMr. Christie their ways, convince him of the union’s validity, and use what wiles she possessed to distract him while her people searched for the saboteur.
    And she’d have a good time.
    That particular goal had come upon her in the wee hours before dawn. She’d lain in bed, eyes wide and unseeing in the pitch darkness, as her family shuffled and snored. That kiss had been the most wickedly sensual moment of her life. To do it again would be no hardship. The man was simply too handsome and too intriguing for words. He was also infuriating, which made her want to fight harder.
    Now she knew where all that fight could lead.
    Passion.
    Indulging in passion for a few weeks would be like frolicking in a dream world. She could have her fun, help the union, and collect a sweet, flirtatious batch of memories to keep with her until she was old and bent.
    She snapped back to the busy church by quickly sidestepping a pair of boys in their Sunday best. A young widow called Justine O’Lachlan huffed after them with a determined expression. Polly hoped Reverend McCormick didn’t catch the lot of them, or their picnic would be replaced by a scolding. The old man was notorious for his upstanding view of the world—all black and white. He was the compass that pointed their small congregation toward Heaven.
    But by Polly’s estimation, losing a husband at the age of eighteen, with two babes born of that brief marriage, was more earthly