"I never suggested it did, Your Grace."
"Good. Because it doesn't."
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"I'm simply being thorough."
"Exceptionally so, Your Grace."
Alaric grabbed his coat. "Don't wait up."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Your Grace.
Alaric gave his valet a look that would have quelled lesser men. Grimsby merely straightened an already straight cravat.
"Try not to propose marriage before breakfast, Your Grace."
"I'm going to review local business practices, not propose to anyone."
"How reassuring, Your Grace."
The pre-dawn air was sharp enough to cut, the kind of cold that made breathing feel like swallowing ice. The village was silent except for the crunch of his boots on fresh snow. No one else was mad enough to be awake at this hour, which suited Alaric perfectly. He could investigate the bakery's operations without witnesses to his... investigation.
The bakery sat on the corner of the main square, its windows glowing like a lantern in the darkness. He could hear sounds from within; the clatter of pans, the thump of something heavy on wood, and was that singing? Someone was definitely singing, though the words were muffled by the walls.
He approached the window, trying to peer inside without looking like he was peering inside, which was exactly as difficult as it sounded. The glass was fogged with warmth, but he could make out the interior; a long counter, shelves already holding fresh loaves, and there, in the back, Marianne.
She was indeed singing, while wrestling with what appeared to be an enormous quantity of dough. Her hair was pinned up but already escaping, creating that same halo effect he'd noticed yesterday. She wore a practical brown dress under a flour-dusted apron, and her sleeves were rolled up to reveal surprisingly strong arms as she kneaded.
There was something mesmerizing about watching her work; the rhythm of it, the way she threw her whole body intothe kneading, the unconscious grace of someone completely comfortable in their space. She turned the dough, folded it, pressed down with the heels of her hands, turned again. It was like a dance, if dancing involved violence toward wheat products.
He must have leaned too close to the window because his breath fogged the glass completely, obscuring his view. He raised his hand to wipe it clear but suddenly the bakery door exploded open.
Marianne burst out like a small hurricane, moving at considerable speed while balancing an enormous tray of what looked like enough mince pies to feed a small army. She was looking back over her shoulder, calling out, "I'll be back for the rest, Mother! Just keep them from..."
The collision was spectacular.
Alaric had exactly enough time to think "Oh, no" before Marianne's tray met his chest with remarkable force. He went backward, she went forward, the tray went up, and the mince pies went everywhere. The word "everywhere" didn't really do justice to the distribution—they seemed to achieve a sort of pastry omnipresence, defying physics in their determination to cover every available surface.
He hit the ground first, landing flat on his back in the snow with a thump that drove all air from his lungs. Marianne landed on top of him a second later, her hands braced on either side of his head, their faces suddenly inches apart. For a moment, neither moved, both too shocked to process the sudden proximity.
Her eyes were even more dangerous up close, and she smelled like cinnamon and butter and something uniquely her that made his brain stop functioning properly. Her breath puffed white in the cold air between them, quick and startled. A strand of her hair had come completely loose, hanging between them like a curtain, and he had the insane urge to tuck it behind her ear.
"Mr. Fletcher?" she said, her voice breathless.
"Mrs. Whitby," he managed, though his lungs were still recovering from the impact.
"You appear to be beneath me."
"You appear to be above me."
"This is somewhat improper."
"Somewhat? I believe this transcends somewhat and achieves completely."
"I should probably move."
"That would be advisable."
