“So they tell me.”
It struck him that the reason she had not taken to her heels yet was because she still attributed his odd behavior to a bad case of food poisoning.
The sight of Molly kneeling in front of him was the most erotic vision Harry had ever had. He imagined her unzipping his pants, lifting him free with her hands, dampening his hot skin with her tongue.
“Take it easy, Harry.” Molly slipped off the other shoe. “We’ve almost got you into bed.”
“Yes.” It would be his coffin by dawn. He could not survive what was bound to happen.
“You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“No.”
“Of course you will.” She paused suddenly, staring at the small leather sheath strapped to his ankle.
Harry wanted to explain the knife. He wanted to tell her that it was more than family tradition. He wanted to tell her everything. But that meant telling her the full truth about his parents and how they had died and how he’d been too late to save them. He could not even begin to tackle that subject in his present state. He wondered if the sight of the blade would turn her away from him.
Without a word, Molly unbuckled the sheath and put it on the bedside table. Then she rose, put one hand on his shoulder, and pushed him gently backward.
He fell against the pillows with all the light, airy grace of a bull elephant going over a cliff. He lay there and watched helplessly as Molly bent over him. The white robe parted slightly, revealing a bit of the scalloped neckline of her gown. He licked his dry lips and fought for words.
“Please.” It was all he could say.
“What is it?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“You.”
She blinked. A fiery flush crept into her cheeks. “Harry, you’re ill.”
“No. I’m not sick. Not the way you mean. I want you. Please.” She leaned over the bed to put her hand on his forehead. “It’s the fever. You’re delirious.”
“No. Touch me.” He flung out an arm. He managed to capture her wrist before she could remove her hand from his head. “Here.” He moved her fingers to his erection. “Make love to me.”
She went very still.
She would run from him now, Harry thought. This was it. The end.
“Harry?” Her eyes were green gems warmed by an inner fire.
“This is what’s wrong with me,” he whispered harshly. “Not food poisoning. I want you so much. So damned much.”
“Oh, Harry.”
She was about to panic. Harry was sure of it. In another instant she would flee. He could do nothing to stop her.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
Her fingers closed tentatively over the bulge in his pants. Harry thought he would go up in flames. Then she straightened slowly. Her eyes never left his face. This was it, he realized bleakly. She had finally seen the weirdness in him. She would leave him here alone in the darkness.
The white robe fell to the carpet. It was followed by the white nightgown.
Harry drank in the sight of Molly’s nude body. The vision threatened to swamp all his senses. Moonlight gleamed softly on the curves of her small, high breasts and the lush flare of her thighs. The dark triangle of hair that shielded her secrets mesmerized him.
She came to him.
She came to him.
For a split second Harry did not understand. He had been so certain she would run.
“Molly?” he gasped.
She settled slowly on him like soft, warm tropical rain. She brushed her mouth gently, tentatively across his. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest.
She was making love to him.
The last remnants of his control vanished. Harry broke into a headlong run across the glass bridge, heedless now of the threat that lay below. All he cared about was reaching the opposite shore of the abyss.
He wrapped Molly in his arms, turned her, and crushed her into the bedding. He heard her soft, startled cry, and then she was clinging to him, clutching wildly at his shoulders. He felt her nails on his back.
He reached down between her legs, thrust his fingers through the soft hair and found her hot and wet and ready for him. He vaguely recalled the condom in the drawer beside the bed. He groped for the knob of the drawer. He could not seem to get hold of it.
Clumsy. So impossibly clumsy. Not like him. “Damn.”
“I’ll get it.” Molly sounded breathless as she reached out to open the drawer for him.
He fumbled around inside. Found the box. Found the packet.
Foreplay. The voice inside his head was very insistent. Women liked foreplay. Lots of foreplay.
“What’s wrong?” Molly sounded frantic, but eager.
Definitely eager. Not terrified.
“Foreplay,” Harry muttered. “Supposed to be foreplay.”
“We can do it later, can’t we? Make it afterplay.” She yanked at his zipper. “Harry, I can’t wait. I’ve never felt like this.”
He sucked in his breath as she jerked open his pants. But no damage was done. His hand shook so violently he could not unroll the condom. Molly had to help him.
He watched her frown intently over the task. Her sweet awkwardness was electrifyingly erotic. Each tug, each touch, each delicate fumble translated into a caress that threatened to make him explode.
Then he was finally, achingly ready, and she was waiting for him, reaching for him. She wanted him.
The wonder of it stole his breath. She wanted him, weirdness and all.
Molly lifted herself, opening for him, inviting him into her warmth. The hot, moist, womanly scent of her body took him on a journey to the heart of creation.
Harry covered her mouth with fierce urgency. Her lips parted for him. He drove himself into her body, pushing past the resistance of her delicate muscles. She was tight. Unbelievably tight. Then he was inside, and she was holding him so snugly that he could not tell where his body ended and hers began.
He moved within her, sinking deeper and deeper into her welcoming heat. Her legs closed around him. He felt her nails score his shoulders.
Molly screamed softly, a passionate cry of release that Harry knew he would never forget as long as he lived. It was the most beautiful song in the world.
But there was little time to savor the erotic notes. The tiny tremors of her climax tugged at him, demanding that he follow her into the vortex.
He could not have resisted even had he wanted to try. And resisting Molly’s sweet summons was the last thing he wished to do.
Harry raced off the far end of the glass bridge and landed on the opposite shore of the abyss.
He was safe. Molly was there with him.
9
This was what came of taking chances.
Molly opened her eyes to a wall of morning light. It poured through the windows, flooding the bedroom.
So that’s what making love with Dr. Harry Stratton Trevelyan felt like.
She smiled. Then she grinned. There was nothing quite so deeply fulfilling for an Abberwick as having her curiosity satisfied.
Molly suppressed an exuberant giggle with some difficulty. She had certainly never had her curiosity satisfied the way it had been last night. Her whole body seemed to be purring this morning.
She stretched, propped herself on one elbow, and regarded Harry as he slept beside her. The intimate sight sent a shiver of excitement through her. He was spectacular. A magnificent male beast. Of course he wasn’t handsome. Handsome did not even begin to describe him. Handsome was a ridiculously weak, soft, trivial word for such an outstanding specimen of manhood. He was wonderful. He was the most fascinating man on earth.
Even sprawled facedown amid the rumpled sheets, Harry retained an aura of masculine grace. The muscles of his shoulders and back were sleekly contoured with unmistakable str
ength. His alchemist’s hands looked powerful against the white linens. The harsh, exotic lines of his face were etched with the potential for passion and relentless will, even though his brilliant eyes were temporarily veiled behind closed lashes.
Molly laughed silently at her own extravagantly romantic flight of fancy. She was obviously falling in love. Probably already there. So what? she thought. She had waited long enough for the right man to come along, long enough to take a chance.
The responsibilities that had been a part of her for years suddenly seemed weightless. She had never felt more free in her life.
She reflected on the revelations the night had brought. She now knew for certain that Harry’s capacity for passion and his seemingly inexhaustible, implacable will were tempered by a startling vulnerability.
She would never forget the look in his eyes last night when he had pleaded with her to make love to him. He obviously had not realized the depth of her feelings, or he would have known that there was no need to beg. He would have to be insensate not to know it now.
She recalled the stoic lack of hope that she had seen in him during those first fragile moments. The bleakness in his gaze had baffled her. It still did. It was as though he had offered himself to her with the expectation of being rejected.
A man like Harry did not willingly make himself vulnerable. He had been in a very strange mood, even for him, last night.
She thought about the damp sweat that had glistened on his forehead and the strained lines of his face. The intense heat of his body had alarmed her initially. When she had found him standing alone in the darkness she had been convinced he was ill. Yet he had denied it. Then he had proven just how healthy he was by making love to her with driving vitality.
Odd. Very odd.
Molly considered the situation. Granted, her experience in these matters was somewhat limited, but common sense told her that, whatever had been wrong with Harry last night, he had not been suffering from food poisoning.
The precise instant when he had surged into her for the first time would be engraved on her memory forever. It seemed to her that it had been far more than a simple act of passion. It was as if he had bound himself to her in that moment.
The experience had exhausted both of them. They had fallen asleep immediately after their bodies had trembled and shuddered together in the climax.
Then again, perhaps her imagination had just gone off the deep end, Molly thought. That was a very likely possibility under the circumstances.
Unable to lay quietly in bed when she was feeling so energized, Molly pushed aside the covers. She was careful not to awaken Harry as she got to her feet.
The first step made her draw a sudden breath. She winced slightly at the subtle tug of muscles that had been strained by unaccustomed nocturnal activity. She recovered quickly and padded barefoot across the gray carpet.
Midway to the bathroom, she paused to collect her nightgown and robe, which lay in her path. Then she went into the white-tiled bath.
She hung her robe and gown on a hook, turned on the water in the glass-framed shower, and stepped beneath the hot spray. It felt wonderful. But, then, she had a hunch everything would feel terrific today. She was in a fabulously good mood.
She was lathering herself with a huge bar of plain, unscented soap when the glass shower door opened without warning. Steam billowed out into the room.
Molly turned quickly, blinking water out of her eyes. Harry loomed in the opening. Misty tendrils of vapor swirled around him. He stared at her with an intensity that made her blush from head to toe. Instinctively she lowered her hands to cover the dark thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. It was an ancient, utterly pointless gesture. Harry had seen everything there was to see of her last night.
He certainly did not suffer from a similar false modesty, Molly noted with interest. He had come straight from the bed without bothering to don a robe. His body was heavy with arousal. His amber eyes were starkly, sensually aware.
But something about him was vastly different this morning, Molly realized. Then she saw that his gaze no longer held the desperate vulnerability that had been so evident last night. He looked at her now with ferocious attention, as if amazed to find her in his shower.
She managed a tremulous smile. “Hi. You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost or something.”
“Not a ghost.” Harry stepped into the shower and closed the door. “You.”
“Who were you expecting?”
“No one.” His voice was low and husky. He grasped her slick shoulders and pulled her gently, deliberately against his rock-hard erection. “I thought it had all been a dream.”
Molly drew a quick, steadying breath as he pressed against her. Then she grinned. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that you thought I was just a wet dream?”
“Not just an ordinary wet dream,” he whispered against her throat. “A really, really good wet dream. Better than any wet dream I’ve ever had in my life.”
She trembled in his arms. “Oh, well, that’s different, I suppose.”
“Yes, it is. You’re different.” He bent his head and took her mouth with a slow thoroughness that had not been a part of last night’s feverish lovemaking.
Molly shivered beneath the warm water. Her body responded immediately, just as it had during the night. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with hot urgency.
Harry laughed softly against her mouth. “Not so fast. What with all the excitement last night, we forgot something important.”
“What was that?”
“Foreplay.”
“Oh, that. To tell you the truth, I don’t think it was necessary. I didn’t miss a thing.”
“Maybe it’s not strictly necessary.” Harry slid one hand down her back, tracing the line of her spine. Then he cupped her buttocks and squeezed gently. “But I think it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
Molly felt her knees weaken. She sighed and leaned into his strength, glorying in the hard lines of his body. This was not the time to ask him about his strange mood last night. He was no longer vulnerable. The barriers of his self-control were firmly back in place. He would not welcome her questions, no matter how subtle.
She felt his long fingers dip lower, gliding straight into the dark cleft that divided her soap-slick derriere.
“Harry.”
“Like I said. A lot of fun.”
A long time later Molly opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents. After due deliberation she selected a carton of eggs, milk, and some butter. She set all of the items on one long granite countertop while she rummaged through various cupboards in search of syrup. There was a bottle of pure Canadian maple on a shelf near the refrigerator.
She discovered a heavy, unsliced loaf of fresh sourdough bread securely wrapped in a plastic bag. Further research turned up several frying pans in various sizes. Uncertain of which would be best for her intended purpose, she set out three of them. Next, she began a search for a suitable bowl.
When she was through, she stepped back to survey the array of items she had set out on the counter. Now, all she needed was a cookbook.
It was oddly pleasant to putter around Harry’s kitchen. There was a satisfying intimacy implicit in the process of making breakfast for the two of them, even without the aid of the Abberwick Food Storage and Preparation Machine.
Perhaps during the meal there would be an opportunity to ask Harry the questions that were uppermost in her mind this morning. She wanted to know what he had been thinking last night when she had found him standing in front of the window staring out into the night.
To her surprise, she found several cookbooks in a corner cupboard. She wondered if Harry had collected them or if his housekeeper, Ginny, kept them on hand. After due consideration, Molly selected one subtitled Simple Steps to Gourmet Delights. She flipped t
he pages to the index.
She looked up from her task when she heard Harry’s footsteps in the hall. “I hope you like French toast,” she called. “I haven’t done much cooking without the Abberwick Food Storage and Preparation Machine, but I think I can cope.”
There was no response. She sensed that something had changed yet again in Harry’s mood before he appeared.
He came to a halt in the doorway. One glance told her that this was not the time to ask him intimate questions about the vulnerability she had seen in him last night. Her playful shower companion had disappeared. In his place was the grimly serious man she had seen so often during the past month.
His hair was still damp. He was dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and a black cotton shirt. His eyes were hooded and thoughtful. One of his hands was clenched tightly at his side.
Molly closed the cookbook very slowly. “Harry, what’s wrong?”
“I think I know him.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
He held out his clenched hand and opened his fingers to reveal the gear assembly he held. “I think I know whoever was responsible for making this.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No.” He walked to the counter and set the gear down on it. He studied the mechanism the way a hawk studies a mouse. “I started to realize it last night. But it was vague and distorted. And then you came into the front room. I got sidetracked.”
Molly raised her brows. “That’s one way of putting it.”
He ignored her weak humor. His attention was riveted on the gear. “A few minutes ago I found it on the carpet as I was getting dressed. I must have dropped it last night.”
“So?”
“So it all came flooding back to me the minute I picked it up.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. There was cold speculation in his gleaming gaze. “Only this time the feeling wasn’t mushy or unclear. It was clean and sharp.”
“I don’t understand. What’s all this about mushy feelings?”
“Forget it.” Harry scowled, as if he’d said more than he’d intended. “Just an expression. What I meant was that I—”