She ducked her head, giving him a faceful of the fabric flowers affixed to her hat brim as she tried to pull away. Bemused, Marcus tightened his grasp, not letting her leave him. He blew away a trailing ribbon.
He gave her a meaningful look.
“So you are not the only one who has changed,” she muttered in reply, her words harkening to the confession Marcus had made earlier. “So I have a key. What of it?”
At her gruff admission, affection filled him. That, and a certain relief. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who’d been bewitched by their time together. Molly had felt it as well. That would make everything so much easier.
Later. But for now…
“A key for the woman who never locks her doors?” he marveled, directing his gaze beneath her hat brim. He rubbed his fingers over the cord around her gloved wrist. “I can hardly believe it.”
“It’s nothing.”
As far as Marcus was concerned, it was a confirmation that she understood him. That they shared some views in common now. “It’s a key,” he repeated. “Your key.”
With clear reluctance, Molly glanced up at him. This was difficult for her, he could tell. Her indrawn breath brought their bodies closer and nearly made Marcus forget why he questioned her at all…until she answered him.
“It’s for my bakeshop,” she acknowledged. “Your advice was not so far off the mark. In fact, my papa had been nagging me to do the same. I only wanted to pay for the lock myself.”
“Mmm. I see.”
“Only now the blasted thing won’t work!” She aimed a frustrated scowl at the door. “I’ve tried and tried to unlock it, but I can’t get it to open. I can’t even get into my shop!”
“Have you tried breaking a window?”
“I can’t believe you’d tease me about that! You know how awful I felt about your breaking into your own house.” Her chin came up. “Even though it’s hardly my fault you hadn’t the sense to realize a burning lamp meant someone was home.”
“I’m not accustomed to having someone at home,” Marcus explained, leaning in. He couldn’t resist tracing the disgruntled line of her jaw with his fingertips, brushing his thumb over her soft cheek. “To having someone waiting for me. I’m a solitary man, Molly.”
As though she savored his touch, her eyes had drifted closed. Now they opened. Her gaze fixed sorrowfully upon him.
“Solitary? Oh, Marcus…”
“Let’s see about opening this door.” With authority, he unlooped the key from her wrist, then bent to retrieve the basket she’d set near the threshold. Carrying the wicker contraption slung over his arm, Marcus worked the key in the lock. “Sometimes new locks are stubborn.”
“Perhaps that’s why the two of you get on so well.” Her mirth was barely suppressed. “You’re stubborn, too.”
He grunted. “It was stubbornness I needed to survive. Had you grown up as I did—there. It’s open.”
After a few tries, the tumblers turned. Marcus stretched to flatten his arm along the door, holding it open in a gentlemanly gesture. Molly passed by him in a sweet swoosh of yellow skirts, the scents of cinnamon and sugar trailing after her.
Marcus inhaled deeply. For all his life, he would link those spicy-sweet fragrances with Molly and the unexpected happiness he’d found with her. Closing the door behind him, he followed her inside. He set the wicker basket near his sawhorse.
“I’ve just been to the schoolhouse,” Molly said, her high-buttoned shoes tapping briskly across the floor to her work counter. She drew off her gloves, then her hat. “The Chautauqua committee is meeting today. Sarah promised to put in a good word for me if I delivered some baked goods to her.”
That explained the basket she’d carried.
“Are there any left?” Marcus nosed into the round-handled wicker, flipping aside the cloth tucked inside it. “I only came to repair your wainscoting, but I find I can’t get enough of your sweets, of a sudden.”
He took an enormous bite of the cinnamon bun he found. Chewing happily, he winked at Molly. He didn’t know what had changed in her baking, but something most definitely had. These sweets were tender and buttery, sugary and spicy. They could not have been juggled with, used as spare baseballs in the Morrow Creek league or tamped beneath chair legs to level them.
If Molly’s baking could improve, there was no telling what might happen, he thought. Surely there was magic afoot here.
On that fanciful notion, Marcus took another bite. He caught Molly watching him speculatively. Swallowed.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Flustered, she spun to heft a sack of flour onto her work surface. Powdery whiteness puffed from the burlap’s seams. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that—”
“I’ll get to your repairs soon enough.” He licked the sweetened icing from his fingers. “I promise.”
“It’s not that. I know you will. It’s only…I’ve just remembered something my papa said to me this morning.”
Her gaze flew to his. It was expectant. Anxious. Desperately hopeful, all at once.
Marcus knew exactly what that “something” she spoke of was. It was the same “something” that had kept him awake upon his pillow till all hours last night, contemplating his future.
And hers.
But now, wanting to bide his time until he was ready, Marcus popped the last of his cinnamon bun into his mouth and strode to his sawhorse. There he surveyed his tools. Picked up a hacksaw with all the nonchalance he could muster. Squinted. Tested its blade with his thumb.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear me?”
He frowned. “Did you ask a question? You mentioned something about your father, but I…” He cast his palms blithely upward and shrugged. “I thought you were only reminiscing.”
Molly gave a gusty sigh. She scurried around to the front of her work counter, then propped herself on one of the iron-framed stools that stood before it. Marcus watched from the corner of his eye, pretending to measure a cut of lumber as she arranged her skirts and hair. She folded her ankles primly. Next she clasped her hands and set them serenely in her lap.
“I wasn’t reminiscing,” Molly blurted. “Marcus, I…know. I know what you said to my papa last night.”
He paused to look at her. He’d come here with every intention of beginning as he meant to go on, of establishing that he was the one who would decide things between them. One look at Molly’s demure posture, blushing cheeks and eager expression nearly changed his mind. He knew what she wanted. She was the very picture of a woman expecting a proposal of marriage. How could he refuse her?
How could he not, when doing so meant giving away his authority to this independent-minded woman from the very start?
If he was to love Molly, to have her for his own, he would need to hold steady. To do anything else was to court disaster…not to mention the ridicule of the entire Morrow Creek Men’s Club.
Obstinately Marcus held his secret.
“You look beautiful,” he found himself saying in its place. “I don’t tell you that often enough. I look at you…and my breath stops.”
She gasped. Marcus froze. How had such a mush-hearted truth slipped from his lips? Damnation! He’d only meant to avoid asking the question Molly so obviously expected. Hoping to regain some manful dignity for himself, he ducked his head and measured for certain.
“Or maybe that’s the dried leaves in the air,” he said gruffly, “interfering with my breathing.”
She had the audacity to scoff at his tender words.
“Marcus! Didn’t you hear me? I said, I know what you discussed with my papa last night.”
“Ah. You mean the lecture I gave your family about how they belittle and baby you?” he asked with a knowing nod, sidestepping the issue yet again. “I know I was harsh, but damnation, Molly! They treat you poorly. You deserve better.”
She squirmed on her stool.
“It was more than I could stand,” he went o
n, marking his measurement with a pencil, “to sit there while they picked you apart. I had to say something. So I did.”
“Well, whatever you said, it was magical,” she admitted. “My whole family was changed this morning, even Cook.”
“I’m glad.”
Marcus went on working. Molly went on sitting. He’d sawed through two lengths of lumber and measured a third before she spoke again.
“Marcus, isn’t there…something you wanted to say to me?”
Her soft inquiry made his heart beat faster. Ignoring it, he scraped his wood planer along a board, then squinted to check the level. He straightened. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
She brightened. Patted the stool next to hers. “Then why don’t you come over here and say it?”
Expectation and excitement reached clear across the room, drawing him toward her as surely as did her beautiful smile. Marcus abandoned his planer and came.
“Un-unless you’d rather not sit,” she blurted, whipping her hand from the stool she’d indicated. “Unless you’d rather…stay where you are? Or perhaps bend…a little lower?”
Standing directly in front of her, he hid a grin. Damnation, but she was a bossy female. She’d all but grabbed his carpenter’s pencil to mark out a space on the floor for him to get down on bended knee. He pictured Molly biting her lip with concentration while doing so and wanted to smile still wider.
“I’ll stand,” he said.
Her composure only flickered for a moment. “Oh. All right. If you like.”
Her acceptance filled him with a rush of affection. Perhaps there was a chance they could compromise. They would need to, he knew, if a future between them was to work.
He nodded. “Molly, I know we’ve been meeting at my house for my cooking and baking lessons,” he began.
A slight frown creased her forehead. “Yes?”
“And, well, I know I’m not an easy pupil. Thank you for teaching me.”
“You’re…welcome.”
Marcus nodded again, then squeezed her hand. That done, he headed back to his sawhorse.
“That’s it?” Molly blurted from behind him.
Her tone of astonishment made him want to laugh aloud. It wasn’t well done of him to tease her like this, but hell—a man had to be a man, didn’t he? A man decided the time and place of his proposal, not the woman he meant to offer marriage to.
Even the damnable matchmaker would have agreed with that.
He glanced over his shoulder. Raised his eyebrows. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?” he asked.
Molly squirmed again. He could see the thoughts whirling through her ever-busy brain as surely as he could smell the cinnamon in the air. It occurred to Marcus that independent-minded Molly Crabtree might actually be bold enough to offer a marriage proposal to him.
The matchmaker would definitely have agreed with that.
She drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth.
“Whatever it is, we’ll discuss it over dinner,” he announced firmly, turning back to his work. “Tonight, at my house. After your bakeshop and my mill close.”
He’d have sworn she growled in frustration. Just a tiny, feminine rumble, but a growl all the same. Truth be told, he found her lack of decorum endearing. It only showed how keen she was that they be together—a desire he shared, as well.
Still…if looks were flammable, his shoulders would have flared just then, like so much kindling.
Marcus decided a peace offering was in order. He flashed her a smile. “Oh, and Molly? Don’t expect to return home early from dinner. What I have planned for us might take till midnight…or even beyond.”
Chapter Fourteen
That evening, Molly ran almost all the way to Marcus’s home at the edge of town. She fisted her skirts and scurried through the crisp fallen leaves and dried pine needles, let her beaded reticule bang against her dress as she hurried past darkened businesses and townspeople’s homes with smoke curling from the chimneys. She’d made her excuses to her mama and papa, sidestepped Sarah and Grace’s inquiries with a wave and a promise, and now she was ready—ready to see what tonight would bring.
It promised an occasion like none other, if all that Marcus had said earlier was true…an occasion that would change their lives forever.
Don’t expect to return home early. What I have planned for us might take till midnight…or even beyond.
He could only mean that he finally meant to deliver the marriage proposal she’d expected ever since hearing her papa’s startling revelation of that morning. Shivering with anticipation, Molly came to a stop just at the edge of Marcus’s property. There, lamplight shone from his small house’s windows. Wood smoke scented the air, along with the aroma of roasting meat. Surprised, Molly sniffed. Apparently Marcus had already started dinner. Beckoned from the chilly air by the promise of warm rooms and an even warmer man, Molly climbed the porch steps.
If Marcus wandered again around the question at hand, she promised herself as she knocked on the door, she would just have to pose it herself. Why not? Doing so was, Molly thought firmly, exactly what the matchmaker would have suggested.
Marcus opened the door on a household turned warm by the fireplace and appealing by the man who guided her past it. Just as the door thunked closed behind them, he stopped there and greeted her.
With a kiss.
And oh, what a kiss it was! Heady and sweet, passionate and surprising, it made her breath catch and her knees wobble. Caught up in the sensation of Marcus’s lips against hers, Molly barely noticed when he slid her coat from her shoulders, when he untied her hat and cast it aside. She barely registered the loss of her gloves as he unbuttoned them, tugged them deftly from her hands, tossed them away with her reticule.
She knew only the murmured hello Marcus gave her as he paused. Felt only the pleasure that unfurled inside her as his mouth returned to hers, telling her without words that she was more than welcome there. Clinging to him with bare hands and an equally bared heart, Molly kissed him back with all the fervor at her command.
“Ah, Molly,” he whispered, cupping her face in his hands. “What would I do without you?”
“Don’t be silly.” Her smile for him felt as tender as the beating of her heart. “You’ll never have to do without me.”
His next kiss was fiercer, deeper. It felt changed somehow, as did Marcus’s embrace when he pulled her close. He held her in his arms almost desperately, Molly thought. Almost as though he feared she would slip away, like the sunlight fading on her journey between her home and his.
Wanting to reassure him, Molly delved her fingers into his hair. She held him to her, heedless of the damage such an action might cause to the fancy dress she’d chosen for tonight. This was the man she loved. Any worry of his was a worry of hers, a worry she would do her best to vanquish.
As she hesitated on the verge of saying so, Marcus gently pulled away.
“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “I have something to show you.”
Willingly Molly followed him. Filled with affection, she admired the masculine width of his shoulders, the steady swagger of his movements, the fine fit of his plain white shirt, dark vest and dark trousers.
All in all, she decided, his appearance befitted that of a man about to become betrothed. Giddiness whirled inside her.
Never had she thought this would happen. Never had she expected to find a man to respect, to learn from, to be challenged by and, most of all, to love. But in Marcus, Molly had found all those things…and more.
She could not have been happier. Or more eager to discover what he meant to show her next.
“What is it?” she asked, sniffing the kitchen’s savory aromas. “A chicken you’ve trussed and roasted? A pork loin? I think I smell potatoes baking, too.”
Molly glanced around the kitchen, searching for the evidence of his mealtime labor. To her surprise, there wasn’t so much as a potato peel or pepper grinder in sight. The work table was spotless. T
he stove top boasted only a tidy saucepan, its contents simmering just enough to faintly rattle its lid.
The dining table, which until now had boasted cast-off food tins and newspapers was clean. In its center was an Indian-worked pottery bowl filled with an arrangement of brilliant autumn branches, plump pine-cones and miniature acorns. Near it stood matching plates, candles, a pair of wine-colored linen napkins, gleaming cutlery and two glasses.
“I could not get flowers for you. For the table,” Marcus said abruptly. “Not with cold weather already upon us.”
He stood near the pantry doors, watching her. Even from the distance separating them, Molly could see the tense set of his shoulders, the uncertain angle to his jaw. He kept his arms at his sides, forearms facing her in an open, almost beseeching, position. But his gaze, when it met hers, was one-hundred percent Marcus: challenging, bold, authoritative. It almost dared her to find fault with his preparations.
“This arrangement is beautiful,” she assured him, moving closer to touch one of the vivid, flame-colored oak leaves. “And very festive. As befits the occasion.”
She cast him a meaningful look.
Her coquetry was wasted on Marcus. He frowned at the table settings. “The napkins are from the mercantile, just today. Luke was in the midst of refusing another ugly necktie from his matchmaker-crazed admirer, but he managed to unearth those from a box in the back.” His frown deepened. “They look like my horse stomped on them. I should have tried ironing them.”
“You would have burned your house down. We haven’t covered flatirons and their uses yet.”
Ignoring her grin, Marcus paced restlessly to the cast-iron stove. He lifted the lid of the saucepan, peered inside and gave its contents a fierce glare.
“Don’t worry,” Molly told him. “Whatever that is, it won’t dare overcook. Not so long as you keep scaring it like that.”
Marcus shook his head. “It had better not. I did not leave the lumber mill in Smith’s hands today so that I could ruin this meal.”
“You quit work early today?”
Marcus paused. She had the sense he hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but then…
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