“ ’Tis freedom and adventure. No two voyages exactly alike. There are typhoons that come out of nowhere, and pirates with giant curved swords, and seas as high as this house to conquer.” His eyes, bright with memories, met hers, then sobered, intensified. “And there’s endless ocean and a loneliness that can swamp a man and make him long for something he’s never had.”
She forgot to breathe. She was so absorbed in his words that at first she could almost feel the spray on her face, taste the salt air, and experience this man’s desire and pent-up passion.
“Oh.” When reality returned, she sucked in air and shifted in her seat, trying to regain control. “Well, then,” Her gaze snagged on the ledgers open on the desk and she flipped the page, pointing to the head of the next column. “I suppose we should get back to work.”
Though he readily agreed, she could not concentrate on what she was doing. Her mind kept wandering to thoughts of balmy sea breezes—and of him.
~ ~ ~
Cinnamon checked the tilt of her green felt hat. Fetching, she would call it and just the exact shade to bring out the tiny flecks of green in her hazel eyes. Actually it was Captain McGregger who had pointed that out to her one day when she met him at the docks. But she had to agree he was right as she hurried down the stairs.
Her father was in the library, tapping his foot when she entered. “Did I keep you waiting long?”
“Well, I did tell Captain McGregger we’d meet him by half past one.”
“And we shall,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
But she hadn’t counted on her mother descending the stairs at the precise moment they headed for the front door.
“Mr. Murphy, a word with you, please.”
Cinnamon thought she saw her father flinch, but he had a pleasant demeanor when he turned to face her mother.
“Of course, Mrs. Murphy. I would be only too delighted to speak with you, but unfortunately I’m already late for an appointment.”
“And you’re taking Cinnamon with you?”
“She desired the fresh air.”
“Fresh air, indeed.” Her mother continued down the stairs. “Do you think I don’t know where you two are going?”
“To the docks, Mama. We are visiting Murphy Import and Export.” Her mother had never kept secret that she thought Cinnamon’s involvement in the “business,” as she called it, was beneath her. But her father usually won out on this front. Besides, Cinnamon made certain that she limited her activities to times when she wasn’t expected to be doing something socially acceptable. At least she’d tried to do that and had succeeded fairly well... until lately.
“And I suppose you will meet Captain McGregger there.”
There was no question in her voice, and Cinnamon feared her mother already knew the answer. It appeared her father did, too. He straightened his shoulders.
“Now, Kathleen, we’ve discussed this. The boy will take over running the business when I retire. It’s in your best interest that he knows what he’s about.”
“And is it also in my best interest for him to steal one of my daughters away?”
“Mama, I don’t think the captain has any interest in Lucretia.” Cinnamon realized this didn’t put her sister in a very good light and quickly added, “Or she in him.”
“It’s not Lucretia who concerns me, young lady. And do not try to shush me, Mr. Murphy. I know exactly what you are trying to do. Such a vexing husband you are, and after I’ve worked so hard to pull this family up to its rightful position in society.”
~ ~ ~
“What did Mama mean?”
They were in the carriage, slowed by a line of horsecars, wending their way toward the docks. Cinnamon could smell the salt and the tar in the air, and she could imagine the scent of spices from far-off India.
“About what?” Her father seemed too intent upon his watch chain stretched across his generous paunch.
“You know what I’m talking about. Mama and her remark about Captain McGregger stealing one of her daughters. It’s obvious you two have had words.”
“Your mother and I are always having words, in case you hadn’t noticed, Cinnamon. Her latest suggestion is that we pack up lock, stock, and barrel and move to Back Bay.”
“I’m well aware of Mama’s desire to have us situated in a mansion like Mrs. Randolph’s. As I’m also familiar with your desire to change the subject. We were speaking of Ian McGregger.”
Her father sighed. “Your mother thinks I’ve devised some nefarious scheme to throw you and Captain McGregger together.”
“I see.” She could hardly deny she’d ever thought of the captain in a romantic way, any more than she could deny they’d kissed. Still... “I’m betrothed to Lord Westfield.”
“As I’ve pointed out to your mother.”
“Well, yes, I should hope so.” She felt her face grow warm and twisted her head to the side, hoping to catch a whiff of breeze, as well as hide the blush she theorized was the cause.
“But you know your mother,” Patrick said, stretching his legs out as the coach started off again. “She can’t seem to get the notion out of her head.”
“Perhaps I should talk to her,” Cinnamon offered, glancing toward him before continuing her appraisal of the granite warehouses lining Atlantic Avenue. “I’m certain I could convince her that there is... Well, I find no fault with Captain McGregger, certainly.”
“Most assuredly,” her father agreed.
“He seems an upstanding enough man.”
“Courageous.”
“Yes, yes, that, too.”
“And certainly a fine specimen of a young fellow.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No one is denying that the captain is very handsome.” For the first time she wondered if her mother was right. Could Papa have planned her meetings with Ian McGregger? Shaking her head, she continued, “But the fact is I have no involvement, romantic or otherwise, with Captain McGregger—other than what benefits Murphy Import and Export.” Period.
She was forced to remind herself of those words as the coach rolled to a stop and Captain McGregger himself opened the door. She’d never seen him in his maritime garb and she had to admit he was a sight to behold in his deep blue jacket, double-breasted over his wide expanse of chest. No paunch there, generous or otherwise. He looked rugged and incredibly handsome, with his black hair curling around the sides of his captain’s hat.
Cinnamon felt as if the air were suddenly charged, like before a thunderstorm. But the sky was blue, with nary a cloud in the sky.
“Ah, Ian, my boy. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve made up your mind to return to the sea.” Her father gestured at the captain’s clothing as he lumbered down the coach steps.
“No, sir. I merely thought I might show Miss Murphy... and ye, too, sir, the India Queen. Miss Murphy mentioned the other day that it has been years since she toured a clipper.”
“Excellent idea. Excellent. Don’t you agree, Cinnamon?”
`Yes.” For some reason she was having difficulty speaking. She delicately cleared her throat deciding she needed to forget all this nonsense about Captain McGregger. Her father was incapable of devising any plot to throw the two of them together, even if he desired it. He knew she was pledged to marry another as did Captain McGregger. So that was the end of it.
Except that after the three of them spent over an hour walking through the warehouse, inspecting shipments of jute from India, and after Cinnamon assured them that she would enjoy a tour of the clipper, her father pleaded fatigue and insisted they go without him.
“Papa, I really don’t think I should leave you here alone.”
“Alone?” His laugh didn’t sound fatigued. “I’ve all my workers about me. Oh, the years I’ve spent on these docks. No, Cinnamon, I’ll not be alone.”
But she would be. Alone with Captain McGregger. That was nothing new, of course. They’d been working together in her father’s library off and on for nearly a fortnight. They’d talk
ed and laughed, and she’d discovered that contrary to his lacking a formal education he was extremely knowledgeable about many things. His awareness of geography and history amazed her.
But that didn’t mean she wished to walk with him steadying her arm as they crossed the gangplank.
They inspected the quarterdeck and cathead where the anchor was stored when not in use. He explained the importance of storing the sails correctly and of his fear that the days of sailing ships were limited. Cinnamon knew her father already had steamers traveling to the Orient. They were faster, could use the Suez Canal, and didn’t have to depend upon the fickle wind. All in all superior vessels, though not nearly as romantic as the clippers, they both agreed.
It wasn’t until they were belowdecks, in the captain’s quarters, that their talk grew more personal.
“I see ye wore it. The hat,” he added when Cinnamon glanced up from one of the charts spread out on his desk.
“Well, of course.” She tried to keep her tone neutral. “I had to wear a hat.”
“But ye didn’t have to wear that one, I’ll wager.”
“I happen to like this hat.”
“So do I. As ye well know.”
Her fingers fluttered to the brim, caressing the felt, before she looked away. “It’s just a hat.”
“That’s like saying the India Queen is just a boat, I’m thinking.”
“Well, no one could say that,” she countered, smiling. Their eyes met, held, before she forced herself to turn away. She picked up a brass telescope, put it down, then picked it up again.
“Don’t you think Lucretia is lovely?” she asked after a moment of tension-filled silence, which she couldn’t explain.
“Lucretia? Yer sister?”
“Yes. She’s very pretty, don’t you think?” She was watching him now, noting his shrug of indifference.
“Aye, I suppose she is.”
“Suppose? Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with her.”
“Then I don’t understand why—”
“Why I don’t find her appealing?”
She sighed deeply. “Yes.”
“Perhaps ’tis just that I’m not a man to appreciate dark curls. Maybe I’m fonder of hair the color of cinnamon,” he said, taking a lock of her hair and twirling it around his finger.
“You mustn’t do that.”
“What? Touch yer hair?”
“Yes... I mean no.” She could feel the whisper of his warm breath on the back of her neck. His nearness sent gooseflesh racing along her skin. “We aren’t talking about my hair.”
“I am.” His fingers curved down to her chin, applying just enough pressure to turn her to face him. “And yer eyes and yer mouth.” He leaned closer.
“We really shouldn’t.” Her body zinged with anticipation.
“Aye, ye’ve the right of it there.”
“I’m promised to another.”
“I’m all too aware of that.”
“Please don’t.”
“ ’Tis only a kiss.”
“Only a kiss,” she repeated, as his lips pressed hers. But somehow as her body melted against his, as her arms wound about his neck, she couldn’t think of what was happening as “only” anything.
His tongue touched hers and the earth seemed to tilt. His large hands molded across her back and she thought she might swoon. He whispered her name against her freshly kissed lips and she forgot all reason.
Seven
Eggs.
A cake needed eggs.
Cinnamon stared at the pans of flat, gloppy goo and her shoulders drooped. Why couldn’t she get this right?
Lord Westfield was expected tomorrow afternoon. She’d spent the entire morning in the kitchen, working hard, only to pull from the oven another failure. Was it too much to expect that she could bake a simple cake?
Her gaze was drawn to the basket of eggs on the table. They were right there. Why hadn’t she added them to the batter?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, whipping off her apron and tossing it to the brick floor. This was becoming ridiculous. She had an idea that she knew what the problem was—or at least what she’d been thinking about while she should have been beating eggs. Ian McGregger.
She stomped out of the kitchen. She couldn’t keep him out of her mind, and she couldn’t stop thinking of the kiss. But there was more. She hadn’t followed through on what she said she’d do.
He’d asked for her help, her advice, and she’d agreed. She’d even decided to tell him she thought her father very clever to have picked him to run the business. Captain McGregger was perfect.
Then came that kiss. The second kiss. And because of her silly female foolishness, which she had always prided herself on not having, she had been unable to do what was best for Murphy Import and Export. For a week now she had vacillated, unable even to face the captain.
Now in her room, she sighed, then sank onto the bench in front of her dressing table. Her elbows on the polished surface, she cupped her cheeks, staring into the looking glass.
After dinner tonight she would tell the captain that he must accept her father’s offer, and this would be the last time she saw him before Lord Westfield’s arrival.
~ ~ ~
Her mother’s excitement at the duke’s imminent arrival dulled her temper toward the unwanted guest at the dinner table. She had been tolerably polite when Captain McGregger arrived, Cinnamon noted, and she hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when Lucretia asked him if he had received the invitation to the ball for Lord Westfield.
When he told her he had, Lucretia batted her dark lashes at him. “Then, you will come, won’t you, Captain?”
“Aye,” he, answered, his gaze momentarily snagging Cinnamon’s. “ ’Tis my intent.”
“How wonderful.”
“Have you ever been to Italy, Captain? The region around Florence?”
Cinnamon paused, her fork midway to her mouth, as the captain answered. Her brother-in-law had asked him the same question the first time they’d dined together and the captain’s response had brought the same long dissertation on the count’s illustrious family.
Was that all he spoke of? Since he had been in residence in the Murphys’ Beacon Hill house, Cinnamon had heard little else from the count. Her eyes strayed to her older sister, wondering if she too had noticed this particularly boring habit and found Eugenia’s attention directed elsewhere.
Did all her sisters find Captain McGregger so appealing? Somehow the idea did not sit well with her at all.
Thankfully, no one mentioned the wedding cake, or lack there of, as the dessert of pastries and custard was served. She’d mentioned it to the captain in her dinner invitation. A silly error on her part, and one she would not commit again.
As a matter of fact, she was beginning to wonder if she should give up the idea of baking it altogether. Resign herself to failure. Resign herself period.
“It is difficult for me to believe that tomorrow evening we will finally meet your duke, Cinnamon. How excited you must be.”
“What? Oh, yes, Mama, I am.”
“Is he very handsome, Cinnamon?”
“Yes, Lucretia. Very.”
“And he’s very rich.”
“I suppose he is, Cornelia.”
“Will we have to call you Lady Cinnamon?” She laughed.
“I don’t think so, Philomela.”
“Do you love him, Cinnamon?”
Her fork clattered to the plate as she turned to stare wide-eyed at her father.
“What a silly thing to ask, Mr. Murphy. Of course she does. The very idea. Our Cinnamon is marrying a British duke.” Her mother squared her shoulders. “A man of impeccable lineage. A man who will do our family proud. Open doors for all our daughters.” Her corseted body quivered. “How could she not love him?”
That said, her mother stood, her chin high, and announced it was time to retire to the parlor. “We must leave the gentlemen
to their cigars.” Her eyes narrowed on her husband. “And their discussions.”
As Cinnamon followed her sisters from the room, she heard Count Lorenzo launch into a soliloquy of his own heritage, and she hurried her step.
When the parlor doors opened a half-hour later, Philomela had plowed her way through most of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 1. Papa entered, Count Lorenzo by his side, followed by Captain McGregger. Cinnamon waited until everyone’s attention returned to her sister’s playing, then slipped from her seat to walk toward the far window.
Spreading her painted silk fan, she sank into the closest chair, knowing Captain McGregger would come to her. Through her lashes she watched as he pretended interest in the music, then backed away. He appeared almost surprised to see her when their eyes met.
“Miss Murphy,” he said, bowing. “I wish to thank you for your invitation to dinner.”
He sounded stiff and formal... and more than a little angry. She’d refused to see him several times since their tour of the India Queen. Each time he visited, she had instructed James to say she was not at home, and she had little doubt that the captain had seen through her ruse. On Wednesday he’d ceased calling.
“You’re more than welcome, Captain McGregger.” She glanced at the group across the room. Her sisters listened with an obvious lack of enthusiasm to the count. Philomela pounded stirring chords from the piano, and her father seemed intent on keeping Mama occupied, appearing to hang on her every word as she prattled. Cinnamon supposed it was either about tomorrow’s distinguished visitor or her plan to move the family to Back Bay. Whichever, she was glad for her mother’s lack of attention.
“I wish to speak with you,” Cinnamon said, keeping her voice low.
“Ye can’t say I’ve not given ye the opportunity,” he countered, anger coloring his tone. He stood very close to her now as he lifted aside the heavy drape to peer outside. The tulle of her skirt brushed against his pant’s leg.
“I—I’ve been quite busy.”
“Preparing for the arrival of yer duke?”
“Among other things, yes.” She softened her tone. She didn’t want to argue with him. “I think you should accept my father’s proposal. You are more than qualified to run Murphy Import and Export.”
The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) Page 5