Harriet’s eyes widened in recognition. “That was an accident!”
He sent her a skeptical look. “With a rusty sword too.”
“Because you and Rhys had stolen it from the armory at Trellech,” she countered hotly. “Along with breastplates and helmets so you could play castles and knights. It was your own fault. You shouldn’t have taken me hostage.”
That was probably true—it had been one of the many times he’d underestimated her core of steel. He’d commanded her to kneel and swear fealty to House Davies, as medieval vassals had once pledged allegiance to their Sovereign Lord in times of old.
Harriet, of course, had flatly refused. And while he’dbeen momentarily distracted by how pretty she looked with her eyes flashing daggers and her cheeks all flushed with furious indignation, she’d reached out, grabbed a stout branch from the ground, and swung it at him.
He’d lurched back, taken by surprise. The bough had struck the sword, knocked it backward, and the blade had nicked him beneath the chin. He’d heard her gasp, felt the sting and hot trickle of blood that coated his fingers when he’d dabbed at the cut, and for a moment all he’d felt was outrage.
Bested by agirl! The indignity!
Rhys, however, had dispelled his stunned disbelief with a crow of delight. “Oho! First blood to House Montgomery! Bravo, Harry!”
Morgan’s natural levity had reasserted itself. He’d sent Harriet a jaunty grin, satisfied that she looked suitably appalled by what she’d done. Her face had gone as white as a sheet.
“Oh, God!” she croaked. “You’re bleeding.”
“A lucky hit.” He’d shrugged, feigning insouciance when the damned thing hurt like the devil. “Want to kiss it better?”
That had done the trick. The color returned to her cheeks in a rush. “Never!”
She’d scrambled to her feet and raced away through the forest, and Morgan had let her go. But not before he shouted after her, “You’ll kiss me one day, Harriet Montgomery!”
He’d never known if she’d heard him or not.
The carriage gave a jolt, and Morgan caught her eye again, certain she was recalling the same incident. Her hands tightened on her skirt.
“My business with Mister Crusoe might be done,” he said softly. “But there’s another matter between you andI that needs to be resolved. I seem to remember a certain bet we made, before I left for war.”
He made sure to hold her stare. “Since I’m here, safe and well in London, I think it’s fair to say that you owe me three kisses.”
Chapter Five
Harriet’s heart was pounding with a strange mixture of dread and relief.
At last.
She hadn’t stopped thinking about their foolish wager since the moment she’d heard Morgan was back in England. Or for any of the months before that, if she was being honest.
The secret, scandalous part of her had fantasized that he’d come to her immediately on his return. That he’d be so desperate for her kisses that he’d gallop up to Bloomsbury on his fastest horse, hammer on her door or clamber in through her window, and claim his prize.
That, of course, hadn’t happened. She didn’t live in a fairy tale.
Morgan had been back for weeks now, and this was the first time he’d evenmentionedthe blasted subject.
She knew he hadn’t forgotten—no Davies would ever forget such a prime opportunity to get the upper hand over a Montgomery, or to flaunt their victory in the most humiliating way—so the omission was deliberate. It was a fiendish way to torture her and keep her on edge.
And it had worked.
She’d been a jittery mess when she’d seen him at Gryff and Maddie’s house party a few weeks ago. She’d tried to escape his notice by lurking at the perimeter of the ballroom, but he’d singled her out with unerring precision, just as he always did.
He’d asked her to dance. Well,demandedthat she dance was more accurate. He’d simply held out his hand and said, “My dance,” and then swept her out onto the dance floor without waiting for an answer.
Not that she’d minded. The wicked thrill of being in his arms, even at a perfectly respectable distance, had warmed her entire body.
She was a hopeless case. Morgan Davies was a bounder. An irreverent tease who flirted with every woman in skirts. There was no man in London more unsuitable for her to be attracted to, but passion, apparently, paid no heed to logic. He’d held her heart hostage for years.
