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those circumstances. She was looking for hope where there was none to find.
    The constable named Utley threw Polly a sharp glare, then replied with a shrug that proved her right. “No telling, sir.”
    “All very helpful,” Mr. Christie said dryly. Maybe he realized how little he’d pry from their useless mouths, because he quickly returned his attention to her. “You must be a union girl. I’ve heard of your father.”
    “No accomplishment there, master. Even a man who’s been in textiles but a few weeks must’ve heard his name.”
    A whisper of a smile tipped his mouth. Again, she felt a shiver of something unexpected. His obvious anger was tinged with a strange humor, like that of a conspirator rather than an enemy. “Don’t make that mistake, Miss Gowan.”
    “What mistake is that?”
    “You seem to believe that I need more than a few weeks to know my business.”
    She leaned in, chin still raised. From that proximity, she could smell him—all warm, freshly bathed skin and downy cotton cloth. “If you knew anything, you’d realize Graham Gowan has never advocated violence, nor does anyone who stands with the union he leads.”
    Except Tommy, whispered a niggling voice in her mind. She pushed it away. No sense telling men with such deeply held prejudices about her suspicions. She would deal with Tommy soon enough.
    “You sound proud of your father’s reputation,” he said.
    “Rightly so. And I plan to surpass it.”
    “Freak she-devil,” Livingstone muttered at her back. “She needs a husband, not explosives and a grudge. A firm hand would keep you in line, girl.”
    Les and Hamish cursed his churlish accusations, but Polly found herself curiously unaffected. Quite the wizardry Mr. Christie’s eyes could produce. He needed a haircut, although to tamper with those sandy-blond strands would be an injustice. They added just enough softness to a hard, sturdy face. Brow, cheekbones, nose—all as precise as an architect’s lines, but with the burly toughness she’d expect of a workingman.
    He was a deadly handsome man. Her need to suck in a quick gulp of air proved as much.
    Polly forced her attention to him. “So, Livingstone, you would be the one to—what was it? Keep me in line? Apply a firm hand?”
    “Bet on it,” the overseer said coldly.
    “Not a bet I’d take, actually. Odds are I’d have your skin for curtains before sunup.” Polly smiled sweetly, still watching her real opponent. “Now, then, Mr. Christie, you seem ready to act as judge and jury. Shall I fetch an ax and reveal my neck?”
    He blinked so hard it was nearly a flinch. “Excuse me?”
    “You might as well be my executioner, too.”
    And, good Lord, he could be. A quick glance down revealed hands bunched into fists like mallet heads. He wore that beautiful white shirt and finely tailored woolen trousers, yet the simmering anger pulsing from his robust body was anything but elegant. More like . . . brutal. There was no mistaking how his baser instincts would resolve matters.
    How odd. Most masters left their dirty work to men like Livingstone. This Mr. Christie looked ready to knock heads. Polly shivered and returned her gaze to his face. But that was no help either. Breathtaking hazel eyes stared back at her, narrowed, fierce in his disconcerting blend of ire and intelligence.
    She cocked a hand on her hip. “No bloodshed today, then? No beheading? Just rampant accusations and brute force, instead of a proper investigation. Typical, I say. If this is how you do business with your workers, especially after an emergency, I’ve all I need to know about what sort of master you are.”
    His deep assessment was nearly more than she could endure. She would’ve rather suffered more of Livingstone’s jabs and pinches. At least she knew how to deal with that slimy creature. Standing before Mr. Christie, waiting, holding her breath, with the whole room silent after her taunt, she felt terribly exposed, as if he could peer past