The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series)

by Dorsey, Christine

  Nine

  “Captain 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?”

  She couldn’t think, could only feel. “The garden,” she finally managed to say. “The summer house.”

  Before she knew what was happening, he scooped her into his arms and headed outside.

  Ten

  Cool shadows and whispered promises. Cinnamon knew she would always remember the summer house this way. And sweet, sweet discoveries. They sat on the wicker settee, wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing, touching.

  Her bodice was spread open, revealing the lace-edged chemise Ian had inched below her breasts. She moaned as he took one nipple, then another into his mouth, suckling, tightening her desire to a fevered pitch.

  “Ach, ye’re a bonny lass,” he said, resting his cheek between her breasts. “And as sweet as any cake ever eaten.” He lifted his head, grinning when she giggled. “What? Ye doubt what I’m saying?”

  “No, no.” She sighed. “It just tickles when you talk against my skin.”

  “Tickles, does it? Like this?” He let his lips slide along her side, moaning himself when she squirmed down farther into his arms.

  “Oh, Ian.” She pushed his cotton shirt from his shoulders, relishing the feel of his smooth, muscled body. “I do love you.”

  “As I do ye, lass.” His hands pushed up the folds of her petticoats. His hand trailed from her knee up her thigh and rested on the warm center between her legs. “And how sensitive is yer skin here, I wonder?”

  “Ian. What are you... Oh.” His warm fingers began to stroke her.

  She never knew it could be like this between a man and woman. One minute she was laughing. The next she could barely breathe for wanting him.

  “Please,” she murmured, not knowing exactly what it was she desired. But she could tell he knew, for with every passing moment he took her closer to it.

  White cotton billowed to the wooden floor. His shirt. Her pantaloons. She sat on his lap now, relishing the salty taste of his shoulder, allowing him his way beneath her skirts. Then, she shuddered convulsively, awash with erotic sensations.

  “Oh my...” She sighed. “Oh my, my.”

  “That’s it then,” he whispered, his voice rasping in her ear. “That’s all ye have to say?”

  “Mmmmm.” She looked up at his smiling face. “Do you really wish to talk now? For if you do, I think I can manage to—” The pressure of his lips on hers cut off anything further she might have said, which was just as well as far as she was concerned. He’d given her a glimpse of heaven and she was anxious to see more.

  The settee was small and cushioned, capable of seating two comfortably. Not made for lovers. However, a leg draped negligently over a wicker arm, a head cushioned in a corner, somehow they managed to position themselves, his weight on hers.

  “Oops. Oh, I’m sorry.” Cinnamon laughed. “Did I hurt you?” She’d shifted, catching the side of his jaw with her elbow. She cupped the side of his face, smiling when he assured her she could never hurt him.

  “But I fear I shall not be so kind to ye.”

  “I don’t understand.” She trailed her fingers down his wide chest, through the patch of curly hair. Her body hummed everywhere it touched his.

  “It will hurt a wee bit I fear, Cinnamon.”

  “Just a wee bit?” His chuckle reverberated through her chest as she pulled him close. “Then I think we should get it over with quickly.”

  She barely noticed the discomfort at all, for soon he filled her body as he did her heart. She took him in, accepting all of him, reveling in the idea that they were one. Their loving was slow, sweet, sensual. She didn’t know how anything could feel better.

  Then his movements grew less languid, her own desires keeping pace, until she could hardly bear the tension spiraling through her. His mouth took hers, hungrily, their tongues mating. His hands dug beneath her, pulling her body even closer to his. Then explosions of light, sugar-fine, shot through her. Stars? The heavens? She couldn’t be sure. But she did know it was meant to be, this love of theirs.

  Ian felt the same way, for he told her so as he carefully maneuvered himself off the short settee. He pulled her onto the floor with him, leaning against the wicker legs and folding her in his arms.

  She lolled, comfortable and replete, against his shoulder, breathing in his manly smell and thinking she’d never been happier. Until a thought popped into her head.

  “The cake!” She hurried to rise, tangling her feet in her bunched-up petticoats. “How could I have forgotten?” She glanced down at him, shirtless, his eyebrow cocked, and she shook her head. “All right. It’s obvious why I forgot, but now what am I to do?” She hopped about trying to drag first one leg, then the other into her pantaloons, only to stop when Ian’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. “The cake will be fine, Cinnamon.”

  “But how do you know? Certainly you remember the fire?”

  That brought a smile to his face, but he didn’t seem inclined to move much faster as he refastened the buttons of her bodice. The graze of his thumb across her breast, intentional if she read his lazy grin correctly, nearly made her forget the cake again. But she pulled herself together and grabbed his arm.

  They raced through the garden and into the kitchen. At least there were no flames. With a sigh of relief Cinnamon opened the oven door. Together they peeked inside.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I simply can’t understand why Lord Westfield declined to join us t
his evening,” her mother said for what had to be the tenth time.

  Cinnamon felt Ian’s hand on her knee and took a deep breath. She supposed the time had come to tell everyone. Well, not everyone, exactly. Her father knew. She glanced at him, but he was thoughtfully examining the silver scroll on his spoon. No help there.

  That was hardly fair. Papa had given his blessing to Ian and her this afternoon when they approached him at the wharf. He’d also arranged the meeting with Lord Westfield, who’d taken the news surprisingly well. Or maybe not so surprisingly, Cinnamon admitted. He really hadn’t cared for her overmuch. Still, she felt a bit guilty for breaking her promise—and feared what her mother would say.

  Cinnamon inhaled deeply again. They were all there, Eugenia and the count, Lucretia, Cornelia, and Philomela. And, of course, Mama.

  “I have something to say,” Cinnamon began.

  “We have something to say,” Ian corrected, and Cinnamon smiled at him.

  “And I’m sure we all wish to hear it, Cinnamon, dear,” her father said, suddenly alert. “But look, they’re bringing in your cake.”

  Two servants carried the perfectly iced cake and placed it near the center of the table in front of Cinnamon. She couldn’t help her sudden swell of pride. It looked beautiful. But she knew the proof of the cake was in the tasting.

  With a great deal of trepidation she sliced through the cake and handed out pieces. Eugenia and Philomela declined, and Cinnamon could tell Lucretia and Cornelia wished to do the same.

  “I’d like a large piece, if ye don’t mind, Miss Murphy.”

  Ian’s words gave her courage. She loved him, loved him with all her heart. Nothing else mattered. Not her mother’s desire to have her marry a duke. Not her sisters’ wish to visit her in England and meet eligible noblemen. Not even the cake.

  No, not even the cake.

  Cinnamon placed the knife on the serving plate. She had nothing more to prove.

  “Mother. Sisters. Count Lorenzo. Papa. Lord Westfield isn’t here this evening because I... We are not going to wed.”