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.”