The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (10 page)

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.

C
ool 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 this 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.”

It took a moment for the import of what she said to settle on her family. When it did, there wasn’t a closed mouth in the room—except for Papa’s and Ian’s.

Her mother’s voice rose, drowning the others out. “What are you talking about? Why ever not?”

“Because she intends to marry me.”

Her mother seemed to notice Ian for the first time. Her eyes widened. “You?”

“Yes, Mama.” Cinnamon smiled up at Ian. “Captain McGregger and I have discovered a mutual fondness—love. He helped me bake the cake today.”

“It’s wonderful!”

Cinnamon turned to stare at her brother-in-law. Apparently he wasn’t as interested in family business as he was in his stomach, for he was busy chewing the last piece of his cake.

“It is. It’s good, Cinnamon. More than good.”

“Well, thank you, Lucretia.”

“I love it,” Cornelia added.

“Give me a piece,” Eugenia said.

“What about me, Cinnamon? Can’t I have some, too?” Philomela pleaded.

“Will everyone stop it?” Mama slammed both palms on the table, sending a wineglass teetering. “This is not about cake, it’s about Cinnamon—”

“Marrying the man she loves,” her father said, his voice firm. “And this is the best cake I’ve ever eaten.”

Because she hadn’t cut herself a piece, Cinnamon sectioned off a bite of Ian’s. Their eyes fixed on each other, they lifted their forks to their mouths, then let the sumptuous concoction melt on their tongues.

Delicious.

Perfect.

Like their love.

T
he morning clouds blew out to sea, revealing a perfect cerulean sky. October twelfth. Her wedding day. The day Cinnamon had dreamed about since that afternoon when she and Ian had baked the perfect cake.

She smiled thinking about that day and all the happy ones that had followed and of all the wondrous ones to come.

Her fingers had just pulled aside the drapes, hoping for a glimpse of her bridegroom in the crowd gathering in the garden, when someone knocked at her door.

“Come in.” She turned, smiling. “Papa, I was hoping it was you.”

“Anxious to see me, or is it because I’m to escort you downstairs?”

“A little of both, I suppose.” She straightened the long cordon of orange blossoms trailing down her ivory satin skirt. “Is he here yet?”

“I just left Ian, and I must say he seems as anxious as you.” Her father took her hands in his. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

“I couldn’t be more so. Well... perhaps if Mama weren’t so—”

“She’ll come around. Even now I heard her bragging to Matilda Randolph about her future son-in-law, the famous pirate slayer.” His fingers tightened. “Don’t concern yourself.”

“What about the cake?”

He laughed. “Now that is a different matter altogether. Your mother will never understand why you and Ian spent all of yesterday in the kitchen baking your wedding cake. Not when there are cooks perfectly capable of doing it.”

But the cooks couldn’t add the love, couldn’t spice the batter with kisses, couldn’t time the baking perfectly by making love, the way she and Ian could.

Cinnamon took her father’s arm and descended the stairs. The dining-room doors were thrown open and she could see the wedding cake, hers and Ian’s, reigning over the huge mahogany table. The sight added a lilt to her step as she and her father walked into the gardens. Waiting for her near the summer house at the end of the path stood Ian—her love, her perfect mate, her sumptuous bliss.

Thank you for reading
The Wedding Cake
. Please read on for an excerpt from
Déjà Vu,
another fascinating novella from Christine Dorsey.