The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (9 page)

“Have I told ye to give up?” He waited till she shook her head. “And I won’t. ’Tis too important, Cinnamon.”

Were they talking about baking the cake? All of a sudden she wasn’t certain. But they must be. What else was there? “Captain, I—”

“Ian. My name is Ian. Remember, I’ve given up my ship.”

“Yes, but...” She paused and smiled up at him. The idea of saying his name was so appealing. “Ian.” She tested lightly, pleased when his hand squeezed hers.

The strains of the Strauss waltz floated around them, and suddenly Cinnamon felt as if she too were floating. She stared into his eyes, those blue eyes, that reminded her of the sea, and faraway places, and freedom. She whirled about the room, safe in the cocoon of his strong embrace. Just the two of them.

Then the music died away, the last notes echoing into nothingness before they separated.

“Cinnamon, there you are.”

Tearing her gaze away from Ian’s, she nearly cringed when she saw her mother rushing toward her, Lord Westfield in her wake. Luckily she and Ian were near the edge of the dance floor. Still, she had the impression that people were staring.

“I told His Grace we would find you, and here you are.” Her mother gave Captain McGregger a look of dismissal which he ignored. “Lord Westfield has something to tell you. Well, here she is.”

“So I see.” The duke stared down his long nose at her mother. “Though there really was no urgency. I simply wished to take my leave, Miss Murphy.”

“So early?”

“Yes, I fear tomorrow will be busy. Plans for the hunting trip, you know.”

“Of course.”

“But I shall call on you in the afternoon if that is satisfactory.”

“Certainly. I shall look forward to it.” A movement beside her reminded her of Ian’s presence, though she certainly had not forgotten he was there. “Lord Westfield, allow me to present Captain Ian McGregger. Captain McGregger, His Grace, Lord Alfred Westfield.”

“Captain McGregger.” The duke’s tone was condescending.

“Lord Westfield.” The captain’s was frigid.

“I understand you’re in Mr. Murphy’s employ.”

“He is to take over the management of Murphy Import and Export,” Cinnamon rushed to say, then knew by the expression on Ian’s face she shouldn’t have.

“How very interesting, I’m sure.” Lord Westfield gave a tight smile. “Have you ever been hunting in the West, I wonder, Captain?”

“Nay, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, perhaps when I return I shall tell you of my adventures.”

Ian bowed stiffly and excused himself. Cinnamon wanted to tell the duke that if he really cared about adventure, he should listen to Captain McGregger. Tales of the South Seas, of pirates and mutiny, now that was adventure. But she didn’t think Ian would thank her for it. So she simply watched him wend his way through the crowd, away from her, his broad shoulders rigid. She had a near uncontrollable urge to chase after him. To tell him... What? There was nothing she could tell him. A tight smile on her face, she turned toward the duke and her future.

“C
aptain McGregger!” Cinnamon’s flour-covered hand flew to her hair. “What are you doing here?”

“It was Ian last night,” he said, smiling. “And I took a chance ye might be here and came round the alley to the kitchen entrance.” He waited, his eyebrow lifting as she stood in the doorway, blocking his way, staring at him.

“May I come in, then?”

What? Oh, yes... of course.” She felt a blush steal over her already-flushed face as she opened the door wider to let him in. His presence seemed to fill the room.

She watched as his gaze swept over the kitchen: the flour spilled on the floor, the broken eggs, the oozing glob of batter seeping around the broken bowl which she’d accidently dropped. At least, she told herself, it was an accident. When his blue eyes finally lighted on her, she was near tears.

“I can’t seem to get it right,” she managed to choke out before his arms came around her, “I’ve tried and tried.” She sobbed into his jacket. “But there’s always some mistake.” She shifted her head, staring up at him through misty eyes. “What is the problem?”

“Ye’ll have to figure that out on yer own, I’m afraid.” He thumbed away a tear spilling over her lashes. “But I will help ye bake the cake. If ye wish, that is?”

“You’d do that?”

“Aye, Cinnamon. For ye I would.”

“That’s—” She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know how to thank...” Her voice trailed off as the intimacy of their position hit her. Wrapped in his arms, their bodies pressed together, their lips close enough that their breath mingled, she knew exactly how he’d like to be thanked. How she would like to thank him.

“Well, then.” She tried to steady her racing heart as she pushed away. “I suppose we should get started.”

“Aye. Started.” Ian took a deep breath. “Do ye know where a broom might be? And a dustpan? Never mind, I see one.”

She almost asked why he needed a broom, but he was already showing her, sweeping up the mess covering the brick floor. When he had most of it in a pile, he motioned to her, then to the dustpan. Shrugging, she squatted to scoop up the debris.

“Where’s yer little maid?”

“I sent her away,” she answered as she dumped the floury mess. “Too many questions and, well, she never has liked the kitchen. Oh, no,” She stepped toward Ian, reaching out to brush his jacket. “You’ve gotten yourself dirty.”

He gave his coat a few perfunctory swipes, then took it off.

“I’d say the flour’s from ye.” He glanced at the bodice of her gown which was powdered white. “And I don’t mind.”

Of course he got himself messed up while holding her, and, of course, she hadn’t minded the contact, either, though she knew she should. Just as she knew she shouldn’t be watching as he stripped off his waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She found him so appealing to look at. Without the camouflaging fabric of his jacket, his muscles seemed even larger, his shoulders broader. The expanse of his sun-tanned arms, dotted with dark curly hair, nearly took her breath away.

He glanced up catching her watching him, and her face flamed. She whirled, searching for something to do, finally grabbing a wooden spoon covered with batter.

“Cinnamon.”

“Yes.” She could feel the warmth of his body behind her and struggled to keep herself from melting against him. “Where’s the recipe?”

“The recipe?” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Aye. Ye do have one, don’t ye?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” She dropped the spoon and shoved aside pans looking for the scrap of paper. She blew at the flour covering the writing, then handed the barely discernable sheet to Ian.

He scanned the list. “Currants?”

“In the oven drying.”

“Good.” He tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Yes, I suppose I should check them.” She accepted the dish towel he handed her, wrapped it around the oven handle, and glanced inside. Smiling, she pulled out a tray of perfectly dried currants, then set them on the table to cool.

He retrieved the bowl into which she had just sifted flour, and waited while she lifted the lid of the butter crock. She added several scoops, looked to him for guidance, and laughed when he shrugged.

“Tell me the truth. Have you ever baked a cake before?”

“Ye want the truth?”

“I just said as much.” She mashed the butter into the flour with a spoon.

“Nay.”

“Nay?” She looked up, surprised. “But what of the stories you told me? Were you ever even a cook?”

“Cook’s mate, I believe was my claim, and that, dear Cinnamon, is true. I’ve done my share of baking bread and the like, but cakes were not standard fare on the vessels I’ve sailed.”

“I see.”

“Shall I leave ye, then?”

“Goodness, no.” She laughed. “If we ruin this cake, it shall be together.”

“We shan’t ruin this one, Cinnamon.”

Close to responding with some good-natured quip, she stopped when she saw the expression on his handsome face. She couldn’t explain it, but there was something about the set of his strong chin, the light in those sea blue eyes that told her he wasn’t referring to the cake.

Ian finished cracking the walnuts while she added the currants, candied orange peel, and apricots. Then together they broke more eggs, separating the yolks.

“Do ye believe I know how to cook, now?” Ian asked after expertly beating the egg whites.

“I suppose I shall have to.” She offered him a nut meat as he worked. It wasn’t on purpose, of course, but her fingers seemed to linger near his mouth.

“Cinnamon.” His voice was so plaintive it tore at her heart. As if she’d been burned, she pulled her hand away.

“Yes, you’re right. We need to add the cinnamon.” She forced a laugh. “For spice.”

When she glanced back, he was laughing, too, and she sighed in relief. She didn’t know exactly what he’d been close to saying or doing, but she imagined it was something she couldn’t resist.

She added the cinnamon, then sat and watched him crack more nuts. Every once in a while she’d snatch one and he’d pretend not to notice. Then they’d both laugh.

“Are ye looking forward to England? What’s Lord Westfield’s estate called?” His questions came unexpectedly.

“Salisbury. And, of course... I mean, why shouldn’t I? It sounds perfectly lovely.” When he only nodded, she continued, “It’s in the southwestern part... Devonshire.” Still nothing but the crack of nutshells. “It sounds perfectly lovely.”

“Ye said that already.”

“Then it must be true,” she said, nodding her head. “Yes, it must.”

“Cinnamon.”

“What!” she snapped. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it.” She lifted her floured hands, pressing them to her ears. “I don’t.”

“Fine then.”

“Good.” She sliced a scoop into the sugar, then paused, thinking better of it. She stuck her finger in the granules. But before she could taste it, Ian grabbed her wrist. She nearly swooned when his warm mouth closed over her finger. “Oh,” she moaned when his tongue swirled about the tip. “Please.”

“So sweet.” His mouth now traveled toward her palm, and she swayed toward him.

It took all her willpower to pull herself erect and retrieve her hand. “Oh, Ian, you mustn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because...” She couldn’t think of a reason at the moment other than the cake. When she said it, he laughed, pulling her toward him for one quick, hard kiss that kept her reeling through the blending of the cake dough.

“It won’t be long before it’s in the oven, Cinnamon.” His words were accompanied by a brushing aside of a tendril of damp hair on her neck. “Then what excuse will ye make?”

Her hands, working the cake batter into the pan, stilled. “Why are you doing this to me?” She turned to face him, her fingers full of goo, her body on fire. “Are you just trying to seduce me? For if you are, you win. I surrender.”

“Ye honestly think that’s what this is? A seduction? That I’d have my way with ye and then leave?” He tilted his head to the side, staring at her with all the need she felt. “I’m trying to tell ye that I love ye, Cinnamon. That I can’t bear the thought of yer leaving. Of yer marrying Lord What’s-his-name.”

“Westfield. You love me?”

“Aye.” He took her hands in his, oblivious to the cake batter. “With all my heart.”

“Ohhhh...” She sobbed, shaking her head when she saw the concern in his eyes. “No, really, I’m all right.”

“I did not mean to make ye cry. Cinnamon, tell me to go away and I will.”

“I can’t do that. Oh, Ian, I love you, too.”

“Ye do?” The beginning of a grin curved his lips.

“Yes, yes, I do.” She sniffed. “I have for a long time, but I’ve been trying to tell myself I didn’t. Oh, Ian, what are we going to do?”

“Well, first of all, ye’re going to kiss me. Then, I think maybe I’ll kiss ye.”

“But—”

“Hush now.” Ian put his finger to her lips. “We’ll worry about the rest of it later.”

He pulled her into his arms, taking her hands and carefully licking the batter from each finger. “Better than scraping the bowl,” he declared, then leaned down to press his lips to hers.

He tasted of cake batter and Ian, and the combination overwhelmed her. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close. His hands caressed her back, and lower, driving her mad with desire. By the time he drew away, her heart raced and her breathing was shallow. She tried to think, to reason, but all that seemed beyond her.

“What are you doing?” she questioned when he moved away from her.

“The wedding cake,” was all he said as he opened the oven door and slid the pans inside. Then he turned to face her. “I think it shall bake up just fine this time. But we really shouldn’t stay here now. It could fall if we make any sudden noises,” he said as he walked toward her.

“We wouldn’t want that.” She held her ground, anticipation strumming through her veins. When he reached her, she moaned, clutching his shoulders. His mouth was open and hungry.

“Where...” The scrape of his whiskered chin across her cheek sent chills down her spine. “Can...” He nibbled the tip of her earlobe and her knees went weak. “We...” His large hand palmed her breast and her head fell back. “Go?”