When Harry Met Molly

by Kieran Kramer

  “Very well,” he said, pulling her close. “And no stopping to—shall we say—enjoy the scenery.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Absolutely not,” she concurred, then drew back. “Wait. Do you mean—”

  “Yes.” He nodded gravely. “No kissing. Not if you truly want to win.”

  She pursed her lips. “Of course I do. We’ll walk single file. Starting now.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, and took up the rear position.

  Molly was a bit leery but hopeful when they reached the thatch-roofed pub. It wasn’t particularly large or impressive, but there was the jolly sound of a fiddle playing from within. “How could we possibly know where to look?” she asked Harry.

  “I’ve no idea,” he said. “The only hint we have is that we’ll find our destiny here.”

  “A cryptic clue if there ever was one.”

  “Yes,” Harry agreed. “So obscure that I believe we’re to take it literally.”

  Molly’s face brightened. “I see what you mean. Perhaps it’s someone’s name.”

  “Or a word written on the cover of a book,” Harry suggested. “Who knows?”

  Inside, the pub was packed with people. Molly noticed she and Harry got a few looks of curiosity, but almost everyone was focused on a pretty girl and a young man dancing merrily at the front of the room.

  “Who are they?” Molly asked a smiling woman standing nearby. She was clapping her hands in time to the music, so Molly joined in.

  “A young couple moving to America,” the woman replied. “They sail next week.”

  “Oh, how exciting!” Molly hesitated. “Um, would you know if anyone here goes by the name of ‘Destiny’?”

  The woman drew in her chin and laughed. “Certainly not. What kind of name is that?” And she went back to her clapping.

  Molly looked over her shoulder at Harry, and he shrugged. “So now we look for the word itself,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Written somewhere in this pub.”

  But at that moment, the whole crowd, it seemed, began dancing the reel.

  “It looks like so much fun!” Molly cried over the din to Harry.

  “Then let’s try it ourselves. We can look as we go.” He grinned, led her by the waist, and they joined the two lines of dancers. Eventually, they made it to the top of the line, and together they skipped down the middle of the column and wound up breathless and laughing at the bottom.

  And then they started up again.

  The dancing went on for at least another ten minutes. Several times Harry hooked an arm about Molly’s waist, spun her around, and stepped back again. Each time he did, Molly wanted to kiss him and keep dancing.

  But finally, the fiddle music stopped. Everyone clapped, whistled, and shouted for more.

  Molly could hardly breathe, and she was sticky with sweat. But she couldn’t help it. She threw her arms about Harry’s neck. “I loved that!” she said. “The dancing, the music, and—”

  You.

  She inhaled a little breath.

  The room receded, and all she saw was Harry’s golden brown eyes and the crinkle of a smile around them. She couldn’t look away if someone had set fire to her skirt.

  He wrapped his arms around her, and they touched noses. “You’re…the most amusing companion a man could wish for,” he said, in a warm, scratchy voice that made her melt inside. “Not to mention delectable.”

  “And you,” she whispered, her forehead pressed to his, “you’re—”

  Amazing?

  Wonderful?

  Her one and only true love?

  No. She couldn’t say that. But suddenly, she knew that’s what he was.

  Her one and only true love.

  Forever.

  She bit her lip.

  “What?” he whispered back, his mouth not half an inch from hers. “What am I?”

  “A very good dancer?” she eked out.

  And then she saw his mouth moving closer to hers. She felt his hands slide around her waist and pull her close. And he kissed her, right there in the crowd, a slow, luxurious kiss that made her heart beat hard against his chest.

  No one seemed to notice—too much beer was flowing—but Molly knew when she drew away from Harry that he was her destiny.

  And she wouldn’t be able to stop loving him, even though she knew that someday, very soon…

  Loving him would break her heart.

  Harry knew he shouldn’t have gotten distracted by the fiddle music. Because now, rather than look for hidden treasure, he wanted to stay here, in this pub, and dance all night with the girl who made him feel genuinely happy—for the first time in years.

  The couple moving to America stood atop the bar and motioned for silence. When the room quieted, the young man raised a mug of beer skyward. “To our beloved home in England, our temporary home aboard the schooner Megan Casey, and the new home we’ll establish in Boston. May we never forget from whence we came, yet may we always follow the tide of destiny!”

  Everyone raised their mugs to the couple and cheered.

  “Destiny!” Molly exclaimed to Harry.

  “Surely that reference was mere coincidence,” he said thoughtfully, “but his talk of tides and ships has given me an idea.” He pointed at a wall covered with small and large oil paintings. “What if one of the ships in those oil paintings is named the Destiny?”

  Molly gasped. “Of course! But I see at least”—she counted beneath her breath—“fifteen ships!” She was already running over to the paintings and examining them closely. Harry joined her, and thankfully, no one seemed to notice their interest as being anything out of the ordinary.

  “Here it is!” Molly pointed at a medium-sized painting of a ship on rough seas.

  It was, indeed, called the Destiny. As discreetly as possible, Harry felt around the edge of the frame and pulled out a piece of paper.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” Molly said. “But we’ll need to hurry! What if the others are ahead of us?”

  “Then we can always say we had more fun than they did,” Harry reminded her.

  And it was true. He was having fun. More fun than he’d had in years.

  As he led Molly outside, he was oblivious for the moment to the crowds jostling around them, the cacophony that was the party, the smells of mutton and beer, and the continuing travails of the treasure hunt. Instead, he was distracted—and confused—by the sense of completeness that overcame him when he held Molly’s soft, trusting hand in his own.

  Chapter 28

  A half hour later, after following detailed instructions on the paper she and Harry had found at the pub, Molly found herself in a fallow field, counting fence posts to find the place where Prinny’s advisors had buried the treasure.

  “Here,” she said, pointing at a tuft of grass at the base of the fourth post to the right of a twisted oak tree.

  Harry lifted the tuft right up, revealing a neat hole in the ground containing a small red leather box. “Shall I?” he asked her with a grin.

  She clasped her hands and nodded.

  He lifted the lid.

  “Oh!” Molly was surprised to see a scroll inside. “I thought the actual treasure would be in the box.”

  “Maybe it’s too big.”

  “Really.” She imagined all sorts of possibilities: a chest filled with gold—a horse, perhaps! Or…or—

  A monkey! She’d always wanted one of those. The kind with a little red hat and a striped shirt that rode along on your shoulder.

  But she had no other ideas. She was simply too excited to think.

  Harry seemed to read her mind. “Why don’t we relax and read it together?” he asked her.

  “Brilliant idea.”

  So they sat together, Molly between Harry’s knees, and Harry leaning back on the fence post that had led them to the treasure.

  Their fence post, she thought, smiling softly to herself.

  Their treasure.

  She sighed and closed her eyes
and listened to Harry open the scroll. He felt so good. And he smelled divine. Like the peppery scent of green grass baking in the sun. And the scent of fresh linen. And…and man.

  But then she sat bold upright. “Tell me, Harry! What’s the treasure?”

  “A night together,” he said, his voice husky. “An Arabian night, actually.”

  “What’s that?”

  He looked at her with an inscrutable expression. “Prinny’s arranged to have a Moroccan tent set up by the lake and stocked it with a lavish feast, and we shall be waited upon by exotic servants.”

  “And—and we shall spend the night together in this tent?”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, and rolled up the scroll again.

  Her body flooded with all sorts of feelings—fear, worry, and…and if she were honest with herself, excitement. She would love to be held in Harry’s arms all night.

  But she couldn’t spend the night with him!

  By society’s standards, she was already compromised, of course, but she was coming to believe there were degrees. At least in her bedchamber at the hunting box, she’d pushed that bureau in front of the door connecting her room to Harry’s. But in the tent…

  There would be nothing separating them. Nothing at all.

  “We—we’ll have to mark a line down the middle of the tent,” she said.

  Harry nodded slowly. “All right, if that’s what you want.”

  Oh, dear, he’d left that sentence hanging. “You mean”—she dared to look up at him—“that’s not what you want?”

  Harry chuckled. “What do you think? But what I want and what I can have are two very different things.”

  Molly looked at her fingers. She was too embarrassed to look at him.

  The man she loved.

  He stood, and she was at eye level with his muscular thighs, encased in buffskin breeches. She forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the beautiful country scene in front of her.

  “We’ll make the best of it tonight,” Harry said. “We worked hard for this, and there’s really no way out without everyone figuring out our ruse. So let’s enjoy it—we’ve won many points, after all—and I promise, I won’t allow anything…unworthy of you to occur.”

  Points.

  Yes, that’s what this treasure hunt was all about, wasn’t it? She mustn’t forget that, even though in every other way his speech was noble. Endearing, even.

  He held out his hand. She took it—and smiled wanly as he pulled her up.

  “Thank you, Harry,” she said, close enough to his face that he could kiss her with ease.

  But he turned away instead and fiddled with the clasp on the leather box.

  She suppressed her need to touch him and told herself to be glad. Harry was being wise. Prudent.

  And she should follow suit.

  “And I thought you were all brawn and no brains, Traemore!” The nasty voice rang out from somewhere to Harry’s left.

  He felt a huge black cloud of resentment when he turned and saw Sir Richard walking briskly down the field toward him and Molly, Bunny not far behind.

  “Think again, Bell,” Harry returned. “We beat you here, did we not?”

  “Yes, well, no doubt luck played a role.” Sir Richard stalked off to a nearby shady tree. He sprawled on the ground, opened a flask, and drank deeply from it.

  Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  “Congratulations, you two,” said Bunny, a sweet smile on her face, a smile that couldn’t disguise the signs of strain around her eyes.

  No wonder. Sir Richard was an ass. And Harry would like nothing more than to kill him.

  Molly hugged Bunny. “Thank you. We had such fun.”

  “De-li-lah!” Sir Richard called to her. His nasal voice was quite annoying.

  Molly looked at Harry, then Bunny. “What does he want of me?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Harry. “And you can ignore him if you’d like.”

  “I’m sure he means to insult you in some way,” said Bunny. “And he is already calling you over as if you’re a pet dog. Do ignore him, Delilah.”

  Molly pressed her lips together. “I think not. I’m going to tell him a thing or two.”

  And she strode off.

  “He’d better watch out,” Harry said with a chuckle, then turned and kissed Bunny’s hand. “I hope you know I’m always glad to see you.”

  Bunny smiled. “Thank you for saving me from him last night. Although I don’t feel I deserved your help. He insisted I tell everyone Delilah was napping, when she wasn’t.” Her mouth began to quiver. “Please tell her I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” Harry said. “We both know Sir Richard gave you no choice.”

  Bunny sighed. “That’s no excuse.” A tear trickled down her face.

  He took her hand. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I can stop him if he ever attempts to harm you again, but I can’t convince you to believe you deserve better. Please know Delilah and I both think you do.”

  Bunny blushed. “Thank you. I—I never realized how…lost I’d become until I met Delilah. She’s helped me think about my life. And what I want.” She looked furtively over at Molly and Sir Richard. “There’s one way I’d like to repay you both. Something I stumbled upon this morning. You must know that Sir Richard wants to ruin any chances Delilah might have of being crowned Most Delectable Companion.”

  Harry pretended to be unperturbed. “What’s he doing exactly?”

  “I heard him speak to one of the servants. He said he wanted to send him to town with a letter for his ailing mother. I suspected he was up to no good, as he’s been commenting this whole week on Delilah and how ill-suited she is to be in the running for the title. So I intercepted the letter before it went out. “

  She reached into her reticule and pulled out the note.

  Harry stuffed it in his pocket. “You’ve been a true friend to Delilah, and I appreciate that very much.”

  “I care for her,” said Bunny, following Molly’s movement about Sir Richard’s resting place.

  Harry watched her shake her finger at Sir Richard. She was telling him off about something. Even now, after his threats, she wasn’t afraid of him.

  “She’s truly one of a kind,” said Bunny with a laugh.

  “That she is.” He’d always known that about Molly. And he’d always thought her being one of a kind was a bad thing. A lady shouldn’t be so memorable, should she?

  Especially when you’d made a promise to forget her.

  “Tell me, Delilah,” Sir Richard was saying, “will Harry’s soon-to-be-wife object to his keeping a mistress, or will you be seeking new employment after he loses the competition?”

  “None of your business.” Molly put her fists on her hips. “And I’m sure Harry wouldn’t like to hear you speaking ill of him behind his back.”

  Sir Richard chuckled. “No need to be offended on his behalf. If Traemore must let you go, at least he’ll have some compensation for your loss in the wit and beauty of his future wife.”

  Lovely.

  Molly didn’t need to hear how easily she’d be replaced after she and Harry parted ways. So she said nothing.

  “Don’t despair,” Sir Richard said. “You may call on me if you’re seeking a new protector. And I always pay a fair wage.”

  “Never in a million years,” she returned blithely. “You’re a despicable man, and I quite look forward to never seeing you again after this week.”

  She gave him a charming smile.

  He stood up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think Traemore will protect your interests.” His voice was smug. “But I assure you, he’s never shown loyalty. To anyone.”

  “Be quiet about Harry. You know nothing of him.”

  Sir Richard gave her a pitying look. “You sound like all the females who fall under his spell. Trust me, Delilah. Your illusions will soon be shattered. How do you think he came to be known as a ruthless ne’er-do-well? Mere rumor
?”

  “I said I’m not interested in listening to you!”

  He laughed. “You may have heard he discredited himself in the army. Do you know how?”

  “No. No one with good taste discusses it. I just know that he was doing very well in the army, and then suddenly…he was disgraced. But he continued on and made a splendid show of bravery at Waterloo.”

  “So what? A man can never shake off a truly despicable act, Delilah. Traemore was in the colonel’s tent—seducing the colonel’s wife—when his regiment was ambushed. No one could prove anything, however. He showed up at the ambush at the last minute, when it was too late to help. But for the remainder of his military career, he won no distinctions for meritorious service. He became known as a profligate woman-chaser, gambler, and drinker. Do you see now why he’s called an Impossible Bachelor?”

  She shook her head. “Why should I believe what you say? You hate him. And you make it obvious.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t believe me,” Sir Richard said. “You’re as charmed by Lord Harry as the colonel’s wife was!” He paused, pulled a small object out of his pocket, and carefully unfolded a layer of linen to reveal a cameo of a beautiful woman with burnished curls the same color as his own, and large gray eyes.

  He handed the cameo to Molly. “You would hate him, too, if the colonel’s wife were your sister.”

  Molly’s lungs seemed to empty of air. She turned the cameo over—it had been painted on the first anniversary of the marriage of Colonel Frederick Smith to a Miss Abigail Bell.

  “I just wish I had been there to protect her in her time of vulnerability,” Sir Richard whispered. “Her husband divorced her. She’s been alone ever since that hour she spent alone in the tent with Traemore.”

  Molly fought against the light-headedness threatening to overwhelm her. Sir Richard’s sister looked so happy in her portrait!

  “How…how sad for her,” Molly murmured, handing the cameo back to Sir Richard with trembling fingers.

  He replaced it in his pocket with great care.

  Molly couldn’t help but note that his obvious soft spot for his sister was in stark contrast to the cruel way he treated Bunny.