She smiled at him. “I could do, yes. Excellent timing.”
He walked around the worktable and stood beside her. As always, she was instantly aware of his nearness, the warmth and strength of his broad shoulder close to hers.
“What’s it to be?”
“A Twelfth Night cake. My first. Although I made a bridal cake for Claire that was somewhat similar.”
“What can I do?”
“We need to mix the batter by hand until it is as stiff as a hasty pudding.” She hesitated, then said, “You helped me make my very first cake, the summer you were here. Remember?”
“Aye.”
She still remembered him standing close, his superior strength easily accomplishing the task in a fraction of the time it would have taken her.
“That was only a simple pound cake,” she said. “I hope I have improved since then.”
“Ye have indeed, and I’ve tasted the proof daily.”
He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves before washing and drying his hands. “I’m happy to help. I am not much good in the kitchen, but I can stir with the best of them.”
“And I greatly appreciate your willingness.”
He reached into the basin and began mixing with his strong hands. She thought again of his long-ago quip about cooks having muscular arms. His certainly were. As he kneaded the mixture, the muscles of his forearms rippled beneath skin covered with fine golden hairs. She resisted the urge to touch them, just as she had that first time.
Forcing her attention elsewhere, Sarah busied herself by measuring out the fruit and dredging it in flour.
In short order, the batter was well combined and thick.
“Keep going while I add the fruit,” Sarah said and gradually added the floured currants, candied orange, and lemon peel. Finally, she dropped in a dried pea and a bean.
When all was incorporated, he helped her transfer the stiff batter into a papered and buttered pan and then washed his hands again.
When she began to heft the pan, he said, “Allow me. That must weigh two stone at least.” He carried it to the oven for her, carefully placing it inside.
She said, “That reminds me of what you said the first time you helped me stir something, about cooks having arms like caber tossers.”
“As I recall, I excepted you from that description.” After shutting the oven door, he walked back and stood before her. He encircled her wrists with his hands and slowly slid them up and over her arms, all the way to her shoulders.
She shivered with pleasure.
“As I said then, yours are slender and feminine.” His hands slid lower once more, as if testing the firmness of her muscles.
“Although on closer inspection, uncommonly strong for a gentlewoman.” He smiled into her eyes. Still lightly clasping her arms, he lowered his gaze to her mouth.
“I want to kiss ye, lass.”
In response, she unconsciously pulled her lower lip between her teeth, before her mouth parted to reply. No response came.
When she did not object or pull away, he slowly leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. Her pulse leapt in anticipation. His nose lightly brushed hers as he angled his head, and then his lips touched hers. Again pleasure ran through her. How could one mere touch light a wick within her, body and soul? First one gentle kiss, then another. Kisses that expressed desire but also love and devotion. Oh yes, this was the man for her....
She tentatively responded, returning the sweet pressure, the sweet caress, with her own. Then he broke the kiss and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tenderly close.
Mrs. Besley hobbled in and drew up short upon finding the two of them locked in an embrace. Sarah pulled away.
“Sorry,” the cook said. “Came for the cream, but I can return later.”
“No need. I shall fetch it for you. Mr. Henshall was just helping me with the cake.”
