Irish Linen (14 page)

A titter of nervous laughter was followed by another that was more genuine.

Relieved by the woman’s words, Meghan chuckled.

“Those of you who were here last year may remember the
savoy
cakes I brought for you.”

Murmurs in the room confirmed the memory.

“I’m afraid there will be no savoy cakes this year.” Flora raised her hand to silence the sighs of disappointment. “Mrs. Riker thought it inappropriate to have the same sweet cake for two years running, so we’ve made shortbread and sponge cakes for you instead.”

Appreciation swelled about the room with soft exclamations.

“Now, in a few minutes, Mr. Phelps here will be helping Mr. Gosier and Mr. Franklin carry up three more trays of assorted treats. Of course, what good would treats be without a cup of sweet and delicious cider to wash it down with?”

Flora’s gaze fell on Meghan, who couldn’t help but grin at her. The woman’s manner was warm and giving, and Meghan liked her.

The woman turned to her overseer. “Mr. Phelps?”

The man nodded and then disappeared down the stairs. As soon as he left, Flora Gibbons spun to address Mari Bright.

“Mari,” she said, “I’d like you to introduce me to our new employees.”

“With pleasure, Mrs. Gibbons,” Mari Bright said.

Mari introduced Meghan first since the Irishwoman
was the closest. “Mrs. Gibbons, this is Meghan McBride.”

The woman eyed her speculatively. “So you’re the one who caused all the commotion this morning,” she said.

“Mrs. Gibbons,” Mari began, “it wasn’t Meghan’s fault.”

Flora tore her gaze from Meghan to look at Mari. “Is that so?”

Mari nodded.

“I see,” the woman said. She glanced back to study Meghan carefully. “You’re been here several weeks I’m told. Long enough that I should have met you before.” She tilted her head without releasing her gaze. “We must talk after the holiday.”

“Aye, Mrs. Gibbons,” Meghan said, her face flushing.

Suddenly, Flora smiled and extended her hand. “Relax, girl. I’m not an ogre.”

Meghan swallowed and then nodded. “Thank ye, Mrs. Gibbons.”

“For what, Meghan?”

“For me position and decent wages,” she answered so softly she could barely be heard.

A look of concern entered Flora’s expression. “Was the famine very terrible over there, in Ireland, for you?” she asked.

Meghan nodded, surprised by the woman’s perception. “Because of it, I lost me da on the passage over,” she said huskily. Then her voice became lighter. “But I’m alive and I thank God for that.”

Flora looked thoughtful. “A woman with your experiences would hardly jeopardize her employment for no reason,” she said.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Meghan agreed. Her employer left to greet the next worker. She stood for a moment,
watching Flora Gibbons as she moved from one weaver to the next, speaking to each woman with care and concern for her well-being.

No
, Meghan thought,
Flora Gibbons would be appalled to learn of Phelps’s behavior toward the women workers.
But the question was: Would her nephew tell her? Or would he ignore the situation, because he was a man?

Meghan’s whole being reacted when Lucas Ridgely arrived on the fourth floor a short while later. He came up the steps, carrying a barrel of cider.

Her first instinct was to run and hide. She was too angry, too affected by his presence. But where could she escape? Her looms were too close to the activity; she’d have to wait for everyone to gather about the food and hope she could sneak off and—
what?
This was her place of employment; she couldn’t leave!

She grew calmer as she saw that Lucas hadn’t noticed her yet.

“All right, ladies,” Flora Gibbons said. “Please help yourselves.”

Immediately, the noise level of happy chatter increased in the room as the workers came forward to eat.

The food looked delicious, but Meghan was no longer hungry. Her stomach was a mass of fluttering butterflies. Several workers jostled her as they brushed past, but she had eyes only for Lucas. She took the time to study him. His golden hair that curled near his ears. His sensual lips that were curved in a grin as he set down the barrel and spoke with his aunt. He wore a white shirt that stretched tautly over his broad chest and shoulders, and knee breeches that met the top of his black leather boots. He radiated energy and possessed a male confidence that attracted, Meghan saw, many of the women on the weaving floor. She
couldn’t move nor drag her eyes from his magnificent form.

“Meg,” one girl said, “don’t you want to get in line? The food’s awfully good here.”

Meghan forced her gaze from Lucas to smile at the young woman briefly. “There’s no need to haste, Caroline. There’s plenty of food it seems.”

Caroline gave her a grin. “Plenty enough to have seconds,” she said, before she headed toward a group gathered away from the crowd on the far side of the weaving room.

Meghan’s gaze returned to Lucas, and her heart tripped as she saw him glancing leisurely about the work area. She retreated several steps and silently prayed that he wouldn’t see her. His smile as he watched the workers’ pleasure triggered memories of their night at the inn.

He looked the same, only better, Meghan thought. His white linen shirt collar was partially unbuttoned, drawing Meghan’s attention to his throat. She inhaled sharply as she recalled the way he’d looked and felt like beneath her fingertips that night at the inn … all warm, muscled, and hard.

He turned just then and his gaze swept over the area where she stood, seeming not to register her, until she saw him stiffen before he swung back to stare at her.

She saw anger light up his onyx eyes. Meghan fought to breathe as he began to make his way to her side, his expression determined. Her heart thudded and seemed to drown out all sound. And then she heard his deep voice.

“Meghan, I need to talk with you.”

No preliminary greeting. Just raw anger left over from their last encounter in George Simmons’s office. She blinked up at him. “I don’t want to talk to you!” she hissed, turning away.

He grabbed her arm, his fingers hurting. “Don’t be an idiot, Irish. If you want me to do something about Phelps, then we’re going to have to discuss it.”

“Why?” she said. “So that ye can throw accusations? Question me character?”

Suddenly, his expression changed, softened. He smiled, and his eyes seemed to stroke her, bringing alive the memory of his touch … his kisses. A tingle began at the base of her neck and frissoned down her back.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” he said in a sudden shift of mood, “but I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Aye.” She didn’t smile. She was trembling so badly it was all she could do to answer him.

“Please, Meghan,” he whispered. “We need to talk.” He grabbed her arm and started to take her aside.

She resisted and glanced about hurriedly to see if anyone was watching. What would an observer think to see the strange byplay between a lowly weaver and the nephew of the owner of the mill? Fortunately, no one seemed to be staring; Meghan relaxed and allowed Lucas to move her away from her holiday-spirited fellow workers.

Lucas stopped and released her in an area within sight of her station. Meghan was glad. Anyone who happened to glance their way would see them as two strangers engaged in polite conversation, she thought.

“You work here,” he said with amazement.

“Aye,” she admitted. “ ‘Tis good employment.” Her chin rose. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

He scowled. “How long? How long have you been laboring here?”

“About one month and a half.”

“A month and a half!” he exclaimed. His frown darkened. “I don’t understand. I thought you were joining your fiancé. Did you lie to get rid of me?”

“No!” she gasped as he caught her hand. “I didn’t lie to ye. I did join me fiancé!”

“What are you doing here then, working these long hours?” He seemed upset more by the fact that she was working at all.

Meghan’s expression softened. “Lucas,” she said, “did ye think I wasn’t going to work in America? Ye saw all of me riches. Rafferty has done what he can, but ‘tis simply not enough.”

“You should have stayed with me,” he said darkly.

She experienced angry heat. “And be your mistress?” she said. “No, Lucas. I’d rather work. At least here me position is an honorable one.”

He tensed and his eyes flashed with fury. “Honorable? So honorable that you’ve set the weavers to stopping production?”

“I told ye, I had good reason!” she cried. She felt someone staring and glanced over to see the spinner, Catherine Brown, watching her and Lucas speculatively. Meghan’s eyes narrowed. Catherine had been jealous of Meghan’s position in the mill from the first. It wouldn’t be wise to give the girl any fuel for malicious gossip. She lowered her voice. “Ye can believe what ye want, Lucas Ridgely, but I’ve done nothing wrong! Mayhaps ye should look to your own soul, before ye condemn others!” She spun and walked away.

“Where are you going?” he asked, looking disconcerted. “We haven’t finished our discussion.”

She met Lucas’s gaze and was nearly lost.
He’s dangerous, Meghan me girl
, she silently reminded herself.
Get away from him now!

“It wouldn’t look good for me to speak with ye overly long,” she told him. “I wouldn’t want the others to think I got me position because I know the owner’s nephew.”

“But you didn’t know that she was my aunt, did you?”

“Of course not!” Meghan said, incensed by his comment. “Ye know that and I know that, but there are others here who would like nothing more than to see me gone.”

Lucas scowled. “Why?”

She blushed. “Because of me position and me pay.” She pulled from his grasp. “I’ve got to get back to the others.
Please, Lucas!”

“I want to speak with you later,” he said, “… after you’re done here.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Rafferty is coming to get me this eve. ‘Tis Christmas.”

His voice was a low growl. “Meghan—”

“No, Lucas,” she said, “whatever ye have to say it can wait until after Christmas.” And then she left him to approach the table of food, although she longed to stay and learn what he had to say.

To her relief—and disappointment—Lucas kept his distance for the rest of the afternoon. Meghan sat on a bench near Mari Bright, listening to the young woman’s plans for the holiday. But her mind and her body were ever conscious of the attractive, golden-haired man across the room.

Flora Gibbons came up to Mari and Meghan to wish them a happy Christmas again and to praise them for doing a fine job at the mill.

“Mari told me you’re very good at weaving, Meghan. It’s wonderful to have you here at Gibbons Mill.” She turned to Mari. “Mari, you’re always a delight. I know full well that you’ve frequently managed to end a disagreement among my workers.”

Mari beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibbons.”

Flora nodded. “The two of you must see Mr. Pennismart downstairs,” she said to both women. “He’ll
pay you your wages plus a little extra as token of my appreciation for jobs well done.”

Meghan gaped at her in shock, considering the circumstances of the morning; and Mari prodded her with an elbow.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gibbons,” both women said simultaneously.

“You’re quite welcome, dears.” Flora Gibbons smiled and waved toward the food. “Now will you please eat up the pastries before Mrs. Riker is insulted?”

Mari groaned. “I’ve eaten enough to feed a whole stable of horses.”

Meghan chuckled. “Not even another helping of chocolate cream?”

Mari rose from the bench slowly. “Ah well, perhaps I can fit in one more spoon of chocolate,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “After all, it’s light on my tongue.”

Rising to follow, Meghan laughed. “Why don’t ye take an extra spoonful to bring home for later?”

Lucas heard Meghan’s laughter and felt something tighten within his chest at the rich sound.
Vixen. Temptress.
It had been seven weeks since he’d left her in Somerville, seven weeks of being unable to banish her from his mind. Not even his return to his Kent County home nor the many hours needed to catch up on business accumulated during his two months’ absence had helped him to forget.

Now he was back in New Castle County for the holiday with his sister Beth and his parents, James and Mary Ridgely. He’d known it’d be difficult with Meghan only a few miles away, but he hadn’t expected to see her here.

She works for Aunt Flora!
And according to Simmons
and Phelps, she was trouble. His lips then curved into a reluctant smile as he recalled the way she’d stood up to him. Studying her from across the room, Lucas had to admit that she looked well, better than when he’d last seen her. Working at the mill had been good for her, he realized.

Meghan wore her hair pulled back into a knot at her nape. Her dress was plain, of gray muslin with a white collar and a full white apron worn probably, he thought, to protect her dress from the cotton fibers.

He saw Meghan finger the surface of one of the looms and guessed that the machine was hers. His chest tightened and a feeling of possession swept over him, so strong that he wanted to shout out that Meghan didn’t belong here. She belonged with him, in his house in Kent County, dressed in fancy clothes, her dark red hair brushed to a gleam and adorned with freshly cut flowers.

What he wouldn’t give to have her in his life … in his bed. For how long, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think he’d ever tire of her.

Was it true that Phelps had been forward to some of the women? To Meghan? He felt anger toward Phelps, compounded by understanding of the man’s desire for the Irishwoman. He scowled. If it were true, he’d ensure that the man could never get near her again!

If
it were true? Damn, what if Meghan had lied about this as she had about living in Somerville? Then again, why else would the other women have followed her lead?

He was here for a fortnight. Tonight, Meghan would leave for Somerville to be with Rafferty, but she’d be back in three days—or so she’d said.

The constriction in his chest eased. There was no way they could avoid seeing each other again. This
matter of Phelps and the workers needed to be resolved, and he didn’t know why but he was sure that Meghan wouldn’t run from the situation and abandon her fellow workers. Not the Meghan McBride he knew.