When Harry Met Molly

“I still hate you,” she said. “Just so you know.”

“The feeling is mutual,” he said curtly. His insides roiled, but he held the tankards in his hand steady.

“Please get out of my way,” she insisted, her round little chin pointing high in the air.

“With pleasure,” he returned.

But neither of them moved. Granted, he was rather more trapped than she was, being larger and surrounded by more jutting angles of tables and chairs.

But then a mass of people surged from behind Molly, spilled around them on both sides, and filed past to join their brethren at the large table. Molly joined the swell, bumping against a large lout who leered at her, his teeth stained yellow and broken, and narrowly evading jostling a rosy-cheeked matron with a grinning babe on her hip.

And then she broke free.

Harry watched her head toward the door to the stableyard. She was escaping him, no doubt, he thought grimly.

As well she should.

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.