Free The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) by Christine Dorsey Page B

“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