When Harry Met Molly

by Kieran Kramer

  She looked down at her own gown that had been in service all day. It was covered with little bits of leaves and dirt.

  Very well. She’d change into the harem outfit, not to play dress-up or to please Harry but to be more comfortable.

  After several attempts, she finally figured out how to don the exotic costume. Leaving off the veils she surmised were meant to cover her head and face, she lay down on the luxurious pillows, closed her eyes, and said her prayers. God could help her avoid total ruin, couldn’t He?

  But why would He want to? She’d been flouting every bit of wisdom she’d ever heard!

  She may have been a false mistress, but she’d also been a fool.

  She closed her eyes and vowed to get a good night’s sleep.

  Five minutes went by. Then ten. Still no ridiculous man returning to apologize or explain his disgraceful behavior.

  A lone bird cawed.

  Molly opened her eyes and stared at the colorful walls of the tent.

  “Harry,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek.

  She would never let him know how she felt about him. She’d endure until this ridiculous week was over, and if all went well, she’d go back to her old life.

  A life without Harry.

  But a life of respectability.

  She unfolded the second blanket and drew it up to her chin. Even though it was soft and of a pleasant weight, it was no comfort at all. Sort of like her existence would be when she left this glorious place.

  The place where Harry was.

  Another bird sang its nighttime song, and she sighed. Stupid bird! Didn’t it know her life was practically in ruins?

  Yet somehow her eyelids felt heavy, and despite her cheerless thoughts—or maybe because of them—she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Around Molly Harry had kept his anger banked to a slow burn, but when he’d left Prinny’s camp, he’d let it flare. On the trail he stomped and fumed and eventually gave up on reaching the lake the civilized way. He headed straight into the woods, crashing through brush to get to the water faster. Once there, he’d headed straight for the diving rock, stripped off his clothes, and plunged in. He’d suffered a few scratches of thistle and thorn in the woods, and those cuts now stung.

  But he wanted the pain. And the coldness of the lake. It almost helped him stop thinking about Molly.

  And his past.

  He swam to the shore, and when he strode onto the beach, the moon was climbing the sky, illuminating a bank of clouds in the west. A soft breeze rippled the lake surface and flirted with the trees.

  Arrow had been right. A storm was likely on the way.

  Harry retrieved his clothes and put them back on, but he wasn’t ready to go back to the camp. Bending down, he picked up some flat rocks, skimmed them over the lake’s mirror surface, and watched them skip and sink. Sort of like his mood today. It had started out so well. And now—

  Now he felt like he had lead in his stomach.

  It was a moment for him to face some truths.

  Doing his duty had gotten him into trouble in the army, hadn’t it? He’d given up on leading a respectable life and fully immersed himself in the lifestyle of an Impossible Bachelor—a title he’d spent several debauched years earning.

  He’d deserved Molly’s rejection of him tonight.

  Based on what she’d heard from friends and family alike, she was right not to trust him—not to believe he could protect her. He was the one who pursued women as playthings, wasn’t he? The one who didn’t care what happened to them after he crawled out of their warm beds at night.

  Knowing what she knew of him, Molly was right to be frightened about her future. How could a wayward bachelor protect her from the likes of Sir Richard? If he uncovered her identity, she’d be hopelessly ruined. She’d spend all her time at the side of her cousin Augusta, and after Cousin Augusta departed this world, she’d be lucky to go back to her father’s house. There would be no assemblies, no church bazaars. No family of her own. No husband to love her and for her to love back.

  She would be hidden away. Disgraced.

  And it would be all Harry’s fault.

  He should have forfeited the damned wager and taken her straight back home from that blasted inn.

  He dropped the rock still in his hand. He was a cad. A coxcomb. And if Molly were ruined, he’d never forgive himself. He kicked up some sand and began heading back to camp.

  She was probably asleep. He wanted her to feel safe. So he would sleep outside the tent. Perhaps it was the only way to show her that his intentions toward her were—if not entirely honorable (his mad lust for her had already disproved that)—at least not despicable. He wanted her to leave this week at the hunting box with her reputation intact. And he wanted her to be able to marry a good man who would appreciate her humor, wit, and beauty.

  He would do whatever it took to make sure her reputation was secure. And to hell with their previous agreement. He’d find her a good man, even if she didn’t win the contest. He owed her that.

  There was the sweet, cushiony hush of nighttime in the woods. By the time he reached the camp, he felt much better. At peace somehow.

  He added a log to the fire and lay down by it, flat on his back, his hands folded under his head. Looking up, he could see some stars through the branches overhead. Beneath him the ground was hard and unyielding, but he embraced the discomfort.

  He would show Molly how much he respected her by staying far away. Closing his eyes, he heard a distant rumble of thunder. Was God going to test him so soon?

  But five whole minutes went by in relative silence. Perhaps the storm would blow to the north, he thought.

  Then a splash of freezing cold water fell directly on his eyelid. And another, on his forehead. His experience in the army had taught him that in a rain, he’d get no more than chilled. Perhaps he’d suffer a few sniffles later, but he never got colds.

  He was too manly for that, at least according to Fiona.

  Why, the very day Fiona had run off with the pompous Cedric, she’d told Harry he was the handsomest, most charming man in all of England.

  He felt the veriest stooge. The fire sizzled as the raindrops came down faster, erasing all illusions he’d had about his worth as a man. Fiona had been paid to flatter him, and he’d actually believed her. He’d believed every last word.

  He’d believed he was a veritable god.

  The truth was, he was beginning to think he was a big baby.

  The rain came down steadily now. He sat up, drew his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. He would watch the fire as long as it lasted, which, judging from the increasing intensity of the rainfall, wouldn’t be longer than another ten seconds.

  But he wouldn’t move. He’d sit here all night.

  For Molly.

  Chapter 31

  Molly lay on her side, her hands tucked beneath her head, and opened one eye. It was definitely raining. She heard it pelting the roof of the tent, and sat up, surrounded by darkness.

  Where was Harry?

  A thin slice of moonlight shone through a crack in the tent flap as she padded to the entrance and peered out. There was a small break in the cloud cover, enough to see the fire was out. The rain had seen to that.

  She scanned the rest of the campsite.

  Heavens. There he was—at least she thought that soaked form was Harry—sitting up against a tree trunk, his eyes closed. Of course he must be awake—the branches of the tree deflected some rain but certainly not all. No one could sleep through being rained on, could they?

  “Harry!” she called in a loud voice. The noise of the rain would be certain to drown her out, otherwise. “What are you doing out there?”

  He instantly opened his eyes. “Trying to sleep. At least until—”

  “You can’t sleep out there!”

  “You forget I was in the army.”

  “I don’t care.” Molly’s mother hen instincts were clamoring to get him out
of the elements. “Come out of the rain. You’ll catch a chill!”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. Get in here, Harry!”

  “I’ll just make you wet if I do that.”

  “Nonsense.” The rain began to come down even harder.

  “Go back to sleep,” he insisted. “I’m already soaked through, and joining you won’t make me any drier.”

  She could barely hear him over the tumult. “Come inside! Or I shall come out there after you!”

  “No you wouldn’t.”

  “Yes I would!”

  Their gazes locked. This need for Harry to come into the tent went beyond Molly’s mother hen instincts. She had a hollow feeling in her stomach. An ache. She wanted to be with him as only a false mistress could be, which meant not really with him, but with him in a way.

  She hated the ambiguity. But she loved Harry. And she would take him any way she could get him.

  “I’m coming to get you.” She thrust one leg outside the flap of the tent.

  “Get back in there!” Harry strode over to her.

  She pulled her leg back inside.

  “Don’t you even think of coming out,” he said.

  Despite the threat in his voice, she couldn’t help reaching out a hand to touch his cheek. It was rough, cold, and wet.

  Very wet.

  “I do trust you, Harry,” she said. “I believe you have good reason not to tell me what happened to you in the army.”

  Even in the darkness, and with rain pelting down, she saw his eyes flare with something fierce. And yet there was something tremendously vulnerable in his gaze, too. She was reminded of the days when she’d watch him from a stone wall as he played at sword fighting with Roderick before the church service. They’d both grab long sticks and have at it, Roderick large and looming, Harry full of bravado, even as his smaller hands had trembled on his makeshift weapon.

  “Really?” he said.

  Now Molly could only nod, too full of emotions to speak.

  But she must be practical. “Come inside and get out of those wet clothes before you catch cold.” She swallowed. “You could, um, wrap up in a blanket. Unless there are some clothes for you, as well. I didn’t see any.”

  “Thank you for the kind invitation, but I can’t come in.” His tone was warm but firm. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He turned away.

  “Harry!” She gulped.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back around.

  “If you don’t come in, I’ll quit the competition,” she said, her chin in the air.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  “Then do it.” He sighed bitterly. “I should have taken you home long ago. We’ll leave at first light.”

  Oh, God, he wasn’t supposed to give in like that! He was supposed to want to stay, to win!

  She sighed. “Never mind. If we leave, you’ll be forced to marry. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  She pleaded with him with her eyes. Please, Harry. Come into the tent!

  He scratched his forehead and sighed. “All right, I’ll come. But only because you’re too stubborn for your own good. And mine.”

  She smiled and felt shy all of a sudden. “I’m glad. About everything. About being stubborn. About you entering the tent. About this week and about our friendship.”

  He gazed at her a long moment. “Me, too,” he finally said, and stepped through the flap. “My goodness. You look…lovely.”

  She felt heat rise on her cheeks. “Thank you. Wait until you see the rest of the place.”

  He held the tent flap higher and peered closer at the interior. “I see a lamp and a pitcher on a wooden chest. And pillows. Lots of pillows.”

  “You should see it in the daylight. It’s so exotic. And pretty.”

  He secured the flap so that a block of moonlight found its way inside.

  “I’ll bet it’s even prettier when the lamp is lit,” he said. “I’ll do that now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” She smiled at him and knelt by him at the wooden chest, his nearness reassuring, even though his clothes were, of course, still cold and damp.

  “How to light it,” he muttered.

  “Are there no matches?”

  “None that I can see or feel. Perhaps in the chest. To keep them dry.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Together they removed the items on the chest, and Harry lifted the lid. “Aha!” he said, and withdrew a leather pouch. “I feel them in here.”

  “Very good.” She felt quite cozy and happy.

  He lit the oil lamp and held it up. The makeshift room took on a warm glow. “It’s very attractive, this place. And you”—his voice was warm—“you look more beautiful—and alluring—than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Thank you,” Molly said, feeling shy again. She was about to shut the lid of the chest when she saw a bundle in the bottom. “Oh! Perhaps these are clothes!”

  She pulled the bundle out and shut the lid. Harry put the lamp back on top of it and crouched next to her. It was a drawstring bag, and not very light.

  “Too lumpy and heavy to be clothes,” she said, disappointed.

  He smiled at her reassuringly. “I can wear a blanket.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

  “I suppose,” he said with an awkward laugh.

  Too late, she realized her gaffe. She reddened and busied herself opening the drawstring bag. “What’s this?” She pulled out a small, primitive-appearing statue.

  Harry studied it. “Prinny, you dog,” he muttered, his eyes alight with amusement.

  Molly swallowed. “It’s…it’s two people.”

  Harry traced the entwined limbs with his index finger. “They’re rather involved with each other.”

  Molly’s heart raced. “You mean they’re—”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “They are.” His eyes snapped with mischief. And heat.

  She shoved the bag at him. “Perhaps you should look. There’s more.”

  “All right.” He reached in with a grin and pulled out a book with gorgeously rendered script on the front in an unfamiliar language.

  “Oh!” sighed Molly, her hand on Harry’s arm. “It’s beautiful! And old, I think.”

  “I think you’re right.” Gently, he opened the book to a random page.

  An illustration of two people, um, doing the same thing as the people on the statue stared up at them!

  “Shut it, Harry!” Molly cried.

  Harry shut the book, but not before staring at the picture a few more seconds. “Are you sure you don’t want to see more?”

  “No.”

  “No?” His eyes flickered with a challenge.

  She stuck her chin in the air. “Absolutely not. You need to get warm and dry, and we need sleep. I, for one, am perfectly exhausted.” She made herself yawn, and then scrambled onto some pillows, and pulled an emerald green woven blanket about her head. “I’ll wait beneath this until you’re dressed.”

  “Very well,” he said. “No peeking.”

  “As if I would!”

  He laughed, and she heard him pull off his breeches. Her breath grew a bit short—no doubt because of the blanket smothering her. “Are you wrapped up yet?” she called impatiently.

  “Yes. You can come out now. I’m perfectly respectable.”

  Feeling a tiny bit afraid, she let the blanket slide off her head.

  He was lying on his side, facing her, his head propped on his elbow, his own bold yellow and black blanket not sufficient to cover his chest nor his strong, shapely calves. His hair was a wet mess, but somehow on him it looked charming, particularly that curl pressed to his forehead. She had a desire to touch it, to straighten it, to play with it, but she wouldn’t.

  “I won’t bite, you know.” His tone was serious, but he had a twinkle in his eye.

  She narrowed her gaze. “Harry, this is a serious breac
h of etiquette. But under the circumstances—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to be all prim and proper. I know you wouldn’t have called me in except for the rain. And I wouldn’t have come, but you’re stubborn. You would have yelled all night and had no voice left for tomorrow. We can’t have that.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re not stubborn?”

  “No.” She lowered her eyes, afraid to meet his. “It wasn’t only because of the rain I called you in. Although that was part of it.”

  “Really?” His voice was warm.

  She would be brave. After all, she didn’t have much more time with him. “I wanted you here.”

  “I wanted to be here,” he said rather hoarsely.

  She liked that kind of voice in Harry. It usually promised kisses.

  He leaned closer. “I understand why you’d assume the worst of me concerning this army incident. I’ve earned my bad reputation. Which makes your trust in me that much more…meaningful. No one else, save a few close friends and my brother, believes I am any more than a wastrel. Including my father.”

  He gave her a heartrending smile.

  She couldn’t bear to see him so sad!

  “Harry—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “I’m sorry if I’ve pressed myself on you this week. It was not well done of me. In fact, I regret every moment I’ve ever made you feel uncomfortable.”

  “It’s not that I was uncomfortable exactly—” She stopped speaking. “And you didn’t exactly press yourself—”

  Actually, he had. He’d pressed himself on her in the most delicious ways. She felt her whole body warming up at the memory of the most recent time he had, in the kissing closet.

  His mouth curved in a small smile. And her knees melted. Everything in her melted.