When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 3

Molly had to get out of the taproom so she could breathe and decide what to do. But she already knew what to do. Her wicked self was speaking to her, and she refused to let herself stop it. Her wicked self always came out around Harry.

It was telling her that she must go inside and dump a tankard of beer over his head.

She bunched her skirt in her fists and stared fixedly at John Coachman, who sat patiently atop Cedric’s coach, snoring into his chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw a brood of hens pecking at the dirt beneath an oak tree.

Pouring beer over Harry would, indeed, bring her some sort of solace. But she’d matured, hadn’t she? She didn’t have to be quite so obvious in her disdain for him. Even more deliciously satisfying would be for her to hie herself back to her table—back to Cedric—and make it look as though they were an extremely happy couple in love.

She’d pretend that Cedric was a huge catch. She’d make some remark about an amazing naked statue he’d uncovered and say that Prinny himself was anxious to see it.

Harry would be suitably impressed, and he would rue the day he ever did her wrong.

Which wasn’t necessarily one specific day, now that Molly thought about it. He’d done her wrong on many days—just by being Harry.

Any doubts she had about going to Gretna with Cedric were now completely quashed.

“I’ll marry Cedric, and we’ll be ridiculously happy,” she said out loud to no one and turned back to the inn door.

She resolutely pushed herself through the throng inside to her table, where Cedric sat, moodily plucking at grapes and chewing on something, as slow as a cow at cud.

He hated fruit. She knew it was costing him dearly, this ruse by which he could stay and gaze at his Aphrodite.

“Cedric!” Molly called to him, her hands clasped to her bosom. “My love!”

He looked up at her and said nothing.

She smiled brightly and, seating herself, sensed the overwhelming presence of Harry at the table beside her.

“I have no desire to try your meal,” she heard Harry say.

She stole a glance. Aphrodite was holding out her fork, not speaking, but obviously insisting that he taste something on the tines.

“No, thank you,” Harry said with more force. A lone black curl fell across his brow, and he was in desperate need of a shave.

Molly suppressed a scoff. Of course, even when Harry did shave, he appeared in desperate need of a shave. That blue-black shadow on his jawline never went away. He looked like a lascivious pirate disguised as a gentleman, whether he was dressed as he was now or in evening clothes.

If he were any other man, she would dream about being ravished by him (whatever that entailed; Penelope wouldn’t tell all). But as it was, Molly slowed the pounding of her heart by recalling the time he’d brought her a second small Queen cake at his parents’ last anniversary celebration, when he knew very well a lady stopped at one—and then had the effrontery to say, “I know you want it. You have the appetite of a man.”

Oh, he was wicked!

Now she watched as the pink-gowned beauty waved the fork in front of Harry’s face. Finally, he took his large hand and pushed the fork back in her direction. “Please,” was all he said.

But Molly knew that voice. It was forceful, annoyed. She’d heard it several times the past year, at the baptism of her niece, at Christmas, and at a family funeral.

Aphrodite burst into soft, beautiful tears, dropped her fork to her plate, and stood up from the table. Her bosom heaved in a most…visible fashion.

“My God,” Cedric said, mouth agape, staring at that bosom. A pulpy grape sat in the middle of his tongue.

“Do swallow that,” Molly said, feeling sour and mean and ready to spar with someone. “You’ve been chewing on it this age.”

But Cedric ignored her. His mouth stayed open as he watched Aphrodite walk away. Her rich brown hair spilled in glorious curls down the center of her back, exposing her creamy shoulders. Her lovely pink dress was adorned with a matching cream sash that fluttered silkily behind her.

And then Cedric turned back to Molly, livid, judging from the slant of his magnificent brows, and spat the grape out on the plate. “How can you think of grapes at a time like thish?” he sputtered.

Molly felt like slapping his face. But she widened her eyes instead. And prayed to think of something compelling—and romantic—to say back to him.

Harry eyed Molly’s companion. What a milksop. Of course, he knew who Cedric Alliston was, the smarmy bounder. His affectations at Eton were legion, the most prominent being a tendency to speak as if his jaw were glued shut.

Harry suppressed a smirk and watched as Molly tried to forget the chewed-up grape in full view on Alliston’s plate.

“Exactly,” she was saying. “How can I think of anything but our Gretna wedding, my love?”

Oh, dear God.

Alliston got up. “I shall check on the horshes,” he said.

Right. Harry had no doubt he’d be checking on the whereabouts of the lovely Fiona. Harry had seen the lust in his eyes, which the fool hadn’t even bothered to disguise in front of Molly.

Molly smiled and waved. “I’ll be waiting!”

When Alliston left, she turned to Harry. “I’m sorry you obviously haven’t found true love yourself,” she said lightly, striving her damnedest to sound like a woman adored.

“If what you and Alliston have is true love, then I don’t want it,” Harry threw back. “Besides, it’s awfully hard to find true love when you’re trudging all over Europe with the King’s army for five years.”

She stiffened. That hadn’t been her fault. He’d been the one to kiss Penelope, after all!

She lifted her chin. “I hear you were a perfect disgrace in the army. You should try peeling potatoes every morning, noon, and night at a miserable school for five years.”

Neither one said another word. Several minutes passed. Harry finished his meal. Molly scraped at her plate, squinting in annoyance because the sun was winking off his boots, which she suspected he buffed with champagne. His chest hairs were curling rudely from the gaping vee at his neck, and when he yawned quite loud enough to wake the dead, his overly tanned neck corded from the effort.

“Goodness,” she admonished him from under her breath.

Harry grinned at her, exposing brilliant white teeth, but his eyes were rather slitted, as if he were cursing her at the same time. “I had rather too much fun last night,” he said in an offhand manner and stretched out his legs.

Too much fun?

Molly glared at him, not one bit surprised at his audacity.

The crowd at the large table exited the taproom. The only people left were Molly, Harry, and two old men at the bar. And of course, the innkeeper and the flirtatious barmaid. They’d done a booming business today.

Molly sighed. “Well, I shall go meet my intended outside.”

“And I shall meet my beautiful companion.” Harry pushed back from the table, threw some coins down, and stood, looming above Molly.

“You mean your lightskirt,” she said.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “And thank God I don’t have to take her to Gretna. I can simply take my pleasure with her and be on my way.”

“You—” Molly breathed.

“No, you,” Harry said back.

She stood, skewered him with a look, and stepped smartly around him, quite as if he were nothing more than a chair, or a bucket, or a broom. She strode toward the inn door. Harry moved in that direction, as well. Each went by different paths, through different tables. Molly started to walk faster, but to her dismay, Harry did, too.

And then it was a race—who would get to the door first? Of course Harry won, with his longer legs, a fact which annoyed Molly no end. When he stopped at the threshold, she pushed under his arm and emerged first in the stableyard.

But Harry didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at a carriage moving at a smart pace out of the yard onto the road. A flash of pink could be seen inside its window.

Harry’s lightskirt had been wearing pink!

“Oh, my,” Molly said, and couldn’t help the note of triumph in her voice. Wouldn’t it be splendid if the beautiful Aphrodite had left Harry for another man?

“What the hell?” Harry snarled. He obviously didn’t care that Molly saw his rage. She was as nothing to him, as he was to her.

He took off at a run.

Molly gazed down the road, too, at the carriage, at Harry running toward it. The coachman whipped the horses into a frenzy of speed, and Molly couldn’t help but enjoy seeing Harry fall well behind its wheels.

And then she recognized something. The back of Cedric’s carriage. It had gotten a mighty scratch on it from the time he’d chained a naked statue to the roof and wrapped the chain around the carriage body.

Harry’s lightskirt was inside Cedric’s carriage.

“Cedric,” she whispered, and she began to run, too. She lifted her skirts with her left hand and followed Harry onto the road, her boots flying.

“Cedric!” she cried, and waved her shuttered parasol above her head. “Please don’t leave me!”

But the coachman flashed his whip again. The horses strained at their bits and galloped even faster, seemingly anxious to leave the inn and its stableyard far behind them.