When Harry Met Molly

Chapter 6

Seeing Molly slack—without a fight in her—nearly undid Harry. He had the instant thought that he would be sent to hell for teasing her if she died.

So he must see to it that she recovered. Immediately.

He slapped her gently on the cheek. “Molly! Wake up!”

Nothing happened. He glanced down and saw the regular rise and fall of the rounds of her breasts, peeping from the top of her modest neckline.

She was obviously in no danger of dying. He ignored the vague sensation of relief that swelled his chest and shook her gently by the shoulders. “Wake up, Molly!”

Her skin was alabaster white, her eyelids almost translucent. She was like Briar Rose in that Brothers Grimm tale, but—

You’d have to pay him a million pounds to kiss her to wake her up, and even then he wouldn’t do it.

“Women and their megrims,” he muttered, and grabbed a flask out of his pocket. Carefully, he dribbled a bit of brandy into her half-parted mouth.

She made a spitting noise and then her eyes began blinking madly.

He leaned over her. “Feeling better?”

She sat bolt upright. “What in heaven’s name—” Her puckish brown eyes registered confusion first, then annoyance.

Which meant she was back to her old self.

“You fainted, I believe.” Harry grinned. “I had no idea you were that sort of female.”

“I am certainly not that sort of female, if you mean weak and insipid. I simply didn’t get enough to eat today.”

“That and perhaps you’re worried about your duties as a mistress.”

“False mistress,” she corrected him. Her cheeks grew a tiny bit pink. “And I am not worried. I’m quite capable of performing my duties. Even though I have no idea what they are, beyond the card playing and the laughing and the appearing beautiful all the time.” Looking out the window, she scooted deeper into her seat and crossed her arms over her breasts.

Harry leaned back, amused, because she was obviously worried about her duties, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than seeing Molly Fairbanks ill at ease.

Even so, he decided to grace her with a small, reassuring smile—not to be kind, he reminded himself, but to calm her so she’d perform her forthcoming role exceptionally well. Otherwise, he’d likely be sitting across the breakfast table from Anne Riordan sooner than later.

“Speaking of your responsibilities as my false mistress—”

“Yes?” she said rather fast.

“To make it appear as if we have a genuine relationship,” he said, “we will have to…kiss every once in a while. If we don’t, someone may catch on that you aren’t a real lightskirt, and then I am doomed.”

She made a face that proved pretty girls can turn into the veriest hags at a moment’s notice if they so choose. “I don’t want to kiss you, Harry.”

He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.” Harry strove to sound like an old, trusted friend. “A kiss is simply a kiss. Two mouths meeting. Nothing to fear.”

She appeared to be thinking. “I do kiss my horse sometimes,” she said. “Usually on the nose, but”—she put her hand to her mouth—“once I kissed him on the lips.”

She laughed outright. Some would say in a charming manner.

Not Harry, of course. But he could give her, at the very least, a modicum of a smile. “Kissing a man might be slightly different from kissing a horse,” he said, attempting to match her lighthearted tone.

But her eyes suddenly lost their impish quality. They became stormy. Defiant. Hurt.

Ah, thought Harry. Cedric had either kissed her. Or not kissed her.

He dared not ask which.

“Do it,” Molly said, closing her eyes. “Right now.”

Harry hesitated. He should have known she would try to take him off guard. She always wanted the upper hand.

Very well, then. He would show her who had the upper hand!

And if she had any memories of Cedric’s kisses, he would erase them. Because Harry prided himself on his kissing abilities. Not that he’d ever told anyone that. But still. He’d never left a woman disappointed.

“Ready?” he said.

She nodded, very fast, and squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. Her fists were clenched in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.

He took her by the shoulders and bent forward, wary. But her lips immediately conformed to his. They were soft and cushiony, and despite the fact she’d had brandy mere seconds ago, she tasted sweet, like strawberries. How had a sharp-tongued wench like her managed that?

He gained courage at her passive acceptance of the kiss, although he sensed, and was mildly entertained by, the stiffness of her posture. Praying that she’d not balk—because the chaste kiss they were now sharing wasn’t nearly the kiss a man and his mistress would share at a ribald gathering—he teased her mouth open further.

Harry heard her small intake of breath at the invasion, but he trusted in his kissing skills, pushing farther and farther into the sweet boundaries of her mouth until he sensed himself reacting, really reacting.

And it was because she was responding. She sort of melted into him across the space separating them in the carriage, and he pulled her onto his lap, and he pressed her lower back just so, to settle her.

She was molded perfectly to his body now. She lifted her hand and placed it tentatively around his neck, gripped him, and drew him even closer. One part of his mind was appalled at himself, kissing a girl whom he wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff, and the other demanded that the pleasurable sensations continue.

Of course, the side demanding pleasure won.

And then she said something like, “Mmmmm,” deep in her throat, a wholly unexpected response which took him to the next level of…of need, he supposed. Not that he needed to kiss Molly.

He needed Fiona, the lightskirt to end all lightskirts, whose company he’d been deprived of—thanks to the woman sitting on his lap right now.

Abruptly, he pulled back and took a measured breath.

“Samson,” she murmured, like a baby whose toy has been taken away, and opened her eyes. But they were heavy-lidded, her gaze dreamy.

“What did you say?” His own voice was rough—with irritation, he was sure, brought about by unsated desire for Fiona.

Molly’s eyes widened. “Nothing.” And with a polite, nervous smile, she stumbled backward into the opposing seat.

He didn’t know how to respond. He could have sworn she’d said Samson. Who the bloody hell was he? Then light dawned. He was playing the Samson to her Delilah. Molly was pretending he was someone else while he kissed her. No woman, as far as he knew, had ever had to pretend he was someone else to enjoy his kisses! While he’d been very aware throughout the whole, insanely delicious kiss that she was Molly.

Yes, Molly the termagant. And Molly the shrew. But Molly, nonetheless.

“I suppose that was adequate practice,” she said, and looked out the window at the passing countryside. She appeared bright as a daisy now, her lips cherry red.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Harry answered, his mood completely soured.

“That fainting spell was a fluke,” she insisted. “I’ll be the best false mistress ever.”

“Um,” was all he responded. He wasn’t interested in talking to a female who’d used his body to enjoy a fantasy kiss with a biblical figure.

“But Harry.” She nudged his knee again. “I’m getting safe passage back home simply for being with you, correct? For giving you that fighting chance. Because if you show up without a mistress, you forfeit the contest and head to the altar with a squint-faced bore.”

“Right. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Because if I win, I want something more.”

He felt his palms dampen. He hadn’t even contemplated the prospect that Molly could win. He should have been better prepared. He should have thought of all the angles this scenario could take. There was a very remote chance she could win.

She was pretty, in the way an apple sitting on a blue plate is pretty. Most definitely not the way a velvety rose in a crystal vase is pretty (her sister Penelope was that). But pretty nonetheless. He should encourage Molly to win. In fact, he was embarrassed that she’d thought of the possibility first.

“That’s right,” he said. “If you win, I shall be prepared to reward you a little something extra. Perhaps a bonnet, or a new gown.”

“No,” Molly retorted. “If I win, I want something much more substantial than a new bonnet or gown.”

Every woman of his acquaintance loved new bonnets and gowns! He felt his brows come together. “What, exactly, would you want?”

Knowing Molly, she would hit upon something that would hurt him to have to pay. He would do the same thing if he were in her position. It was the nature of their…relationship. If you could call it that.

The carriage was well sprung, but Harry felt tension gather in the muscles of his back. “Do go on with your pronouncement.”

“My demand,” she corrected him.

“Your demand, then,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

But when she opened her mouth to speak, he braced himself for the worst.