The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d decided to become a poetess instead, and that had been that.

      Pushing aside those memories, Molly prepared to get down to work. She finished unpacking the flour, butter and leavenings she’d brought and arrayed them on the worktable near the sink and water pump. She set a covered pitcher of milk beside them, then carefully removed her hat and placed it atop her basket for safekeeping. She tied on her favorite apron.

      All the while, Marcus thumped and bumped upstairs. Water splashed; doors and drawers clunked shut. Once Molly could have sworn she heard the husky melody of a ribald drinking song wafting downstairs. Surely she was imagining things. Marcus Copeland was one of the most upstanding citizens in town. Despite his improper appearance this morning, he wouldn’t dare sing such a tune, especially in the near-presence of a lady.

      Would he?

      Perhaps she didn’t know Marcus Copeland as well as she thought she did. It was rumored he had experienced all sorts of things while living in an eastern city in the States, before he’d made his way westward to the territory two years ago. Despite his businesslike demeanor, was it possible he possessed hidden qualities no one in Morrow Creek knew about?

      Booted footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hurriedly Molly quit gawping at the ceiling. She pretended to be engrossed in searching for a biscuit pan.

      “Your home is quite wonderful,” she said conversationally, knowing Marcus would see her industriousness as he entered the kitchen. “So expansive. All the most modern amenities, too.”

      She gestured toward the indoor water pump, the grand, if dusty, stove, and the expanse of marble-topped worktable meant to be used for pastry. She didn’t have anything nearly so fine at her bakeshop. Everything in Marcus’s home was covered in the bits and pieces of bachelor life, of course, but that was to be expected with a man like him. It was obvious he needed her help to learn about civilized living.

      Boot jerky, after all, was not an appropriate tabletop centerpiece.

      Molly averted her gaze from the offending footwear, propped on the worktable where he’d left it, and turned her attention instead upon Marcus.

      Shall we get started? she intended to ask. The words faltered on her lips, though, at her first sight of him.

      He looked magnificent.

      “Do I pass muster?” he asked from the doorway, spreading his arms to indicate his newly clad self. “Or perhaps you’ll want to inspect me at closer range before we begin.”

      As though to help her in that regard, he strode nearer. His boots rang against the plank floor. Although his tone had been perfectly solicitous, Molly couldn’t help but find it distinctly at odds with the mischievous expression on his face. Nervously she stepped backward.

      How had he accomplished so appealing a demeanor? And so quickly, too? His hair was combed, thick and dark to his collar. His jaw was clean shaven, his clothes…

      Molly shook her head. “That, Mr. Copeland, is not a suit.”

      It was instead, she saw to her chagrin, an ensemble nearly as revealing as the one he’d answered the door in. A knit Henley-style shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and strong chest, and was crossed in the appropriate places by the braces that held up his trousers. Those, Molly noticed, were the same risqué pair from their earlier encounter.

      Holding her breath, she dared to peek.

      His britches were fully buttoned.

      Sweet heaven. What had gotten into her?

      Biting her lip, Molly hurriedly shifted her gaze. Of all the things she’d aspired to become, a loose woman had not been among them.

      “I must protest. That, Mr. Copeland, is not proper business attire.”

      He grinned. “It’s proper enough for today.”

      “I strongly disagree!” Where had all those muscles in his arms and chest come from? The fineness of his physique had certainly never been apparent beneath his customary tailored wool worsted suits and waistcoats. “You look like a lumberman!”

      “I was a lumberman. How do you think I began my mill?”

      That was neither here nor there. Flustered, Molly tried not to gawk as his smile widened.

      “I’m sure you were a wonderful lumberman,” she told him firmly, “but for today, a suit would have been better. Much better. You have such lovely suits.”

      Please, put one on, she begged silently. Dressed like this, he seemed much too…not stick-in-the-mud…to her. Like this, Marcus seemed a different man. An approachable, wholly masculine man, unbuffered by formal clothes and the decorous attitude that usually came with them. He seemed very much not like the man who’d been her unwitting nemesis for the past several months…and very much like a man who could make ladies everywhere titter and swoon.

      Including Molly, if she weren’t careful.

      With shocking casualness, Marcus propped his hip on the tabletop. He regarded her. “I don’t wear suits on Saturday.”

      He seemed regretful. Molly was positive that regret was feigned. Behind Marcus’s warm brown eyes, a certain teasing lurked. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

      “You shall, for our meetings!” she blurted. “I insist!”

      “I’m afraid, Molly, that you’re in no position to insist.”

      Lazily, Marcus straightened. An audacious tilt cocked his brow as he came closer.

      At his advance, the room seemed to cozy in upon them. Molly found herself stepping backward again. Her bustle squashed against the tabletop, bringing her up short. An instant later, Marcus halted his booted feet mere inches from her own. The warmth of his body reached out to her, along with an unidentifiable fragrance. Soap, surely. And something more?

      “Now…are you?” he murmured.

      She swallowed, looking upward. “Am I…what?”

      “In a position to give orders.” He sent his gaze over her face, seeming to savor the sight of her. “Especially to me.”

      Oh, my. Her whole being quivered with a nonsensical urge to agree. To nod her head, to blurt her assent and be done with it. In the shadow of Marcus’s imposing form and surprising force of will, Molly could barely remember what they’d been talking about.

      “I’ll wear what I like,” he assured her.

      His tone, deep and sure, somehow signified that something greater than mere wardrobe was at stake. Alerted by that tone, Molly felt her usual backbone return.

      Time to be brave. Businesslike. Unimpeachably proper.

      “Perhaps a hat, then?” she ventured.

      He laughed out loud, stepping back a pace. Something akin to respect glimmered in his eyes. “You don’t give in, I’ll credit you that.”

      “I do not,” Molly agreed. “Is that a yes?”

      “To the question of a hat? СКАЧАТЬ