The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  Guinevere shrugged in an effort to mask her dismay at the thought that she might have given herself away. “You must be afraid of something?”

  “I merely take precautions.” He ducked back through the tent opening ahead of her. “Your tent will be moved immediately.”

  The children and kittens had disappeared and for a moment Guinevere and Hugh seemed isolated from the bustle of the camp. “Did your business in Matlock prosper? ” Guinevere asked casually.

  “That rather depends on what you mean by prosper,” he replied.

  “Did you discover what you wished to discover?” she pressed.

  He looked at her, his eyes quite unreadable. “Again, madam, that rather depends upon what I wished to discover.”

  And what was that supposed to mean? Frustrated, she sought for some way of probing further but he didn’t give her the chance.

  Abruptly he gestured in the direction of a large square tent from which a pennant showing the falcon of Beaucaire fluttered in the freshening breeze. “We will sup in my tent. It's my turn to extend the hospitality of my table, my lady.”

  Just what had he discovered in Matlock?

  Guinevere swallowed her frustration and swept him a mock curtsy. “You are too kind, sir.”

  He bowed, then took her hand as he straightened. His clasp was warm and dry, his voice low and melodious, his vivid eyes curiously soft and yet penetrating.

  “It seems to me that we can pass what is bound to be a somewhat tedious time in pleasant conversation or you can hiss and spit like that damned kitten and we’ll both be miserable.”

  Guinevere had heard from an indignant Pippa about the earlier incident with her kitten and Hugh's bootlace.

  She laughed slightly. “It must be galling for a man who's fought on so many battlefields to be attacked and routed by a kitten.”

  “I don’t like cats,” he stated. “Dogs, horses, yes. But cats, no! They make my flesh creep.”

  “How strange. You associate them with witchcraft perhaps?” she inquired sweetly. “It is after all one of the charges leveled against me.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, pressing lightly but imperatively. “Let us call a truce for this evening at least, Guinevere. Sparring with you has its charms, I admit, but I’d appreciate a rest for a few hours. What d’you say?”

  Guinevere moved her shoulders in wordless rejection of his hold and he let his hands drop to his sides. Deciding that she would never discover what he’d heard at Matlock if she kept him at arm's length, she said with an assumption of cheerfulness, “I too am awearied of sparring. And it's certainly bad for the digestion to quarrel at mealtimes, not to mention setting a bad example to the children.”

  “That was rather what I thought.” He offered her his arm. “I have a rather fine burgundy. I’d be interested in your opinion.”

  Pippa was sufficiently cowed by her earlier experience with Lord Hugh and her kitten to agree meekly to confining the animal with its brother in one of the trunks in their tent during supper. “I still haven’t found a name for her,” she lamented. “I can’t think of anything as good as Nutmeg.”

  “How about Quicksilver?” Hugh suggested, pouring wine into two goblets. He handed one to Guinevere. “Since the wretched creature's always underfoot, it seems a remarkably suitable name.”

  Pippa frowned. “Well, it is,” she said thoughtfully. “But if you don’t like her, sir, you can’t name her. It’ll bring her bad luck.”

  “You’re so superstitious,” Robin declared. “You’re always talking about luck.”

  “Well, I believe in it,” Pippa said stoutly. “So does Pen. Don’t you?” She turned in appeal to her sister.

  “Yes,” Pen said with an apologetic glance at Robin.

  “Yes, you see it's bad luck to walk on the lines of the flagstones, Pen always walks right in the middle of them, and it's good luck to hold a piece of silver when you look at the new moon and turn it in your hand, and it's bad—”

  “You’ve made your point, Pippa,” Guinevere interrupted. “This is a fine burgundy, Lord Hugh.”

  “I thought you might enjoy it. Pray be seated. Not exactly the height of luxury I’m afraid, but better than the cold ground.” He gestured to a three-legged wooden stool.

  “We don’t usually carry such comforts around with us on campaigns,” Robin said importantly to Pen. “Sometimes we have to travel very light. If we have to fight …” He hesitated, catching his father's eye, before saying, “Of course I haven’t been in a battle yet.”

  “I hope you never will,” Pen said vehemently.

  Robin looked at her with clear disappointment. “But of course I will. I’m a soldier, like my father.”

  “I might be a soldier,” Pippa announced. “I haven’t decided yet what I want to do. I might be a lawyer like Mama. Or I might be a soldier. I don’t know whether I want to get married,” she added thoughtfully.

  Amused, Hugh glanced at Guinevere, but his smile faded as he read the shadows in her eyes. She looked at him bleakly and sipped her wine.

  What future did her daughters have? Guinevere thought that her children, grown under the guidance of their unconventional mother, would find no husbands of any kind. They would now have no dowries. What man would appreciate them for their unusual qualities? Had Hugh of Beaucaire no sensitivity? And yet she knew that he had. Was it greed or the soldier's unquestioning acceptance of his orders that led him to ruin her and her children? Or did he truly believe in her guilt?

  Was she guilty? Would Stephen have fallen if she hadn’t moved her foot at just that moment?

  Guinevere slept poorly that night. Tilly's snores rumbled softly, drowning out the children's even breathing and the snuffling from the kittens in the trunk. In the early hours of the morning, Guinevere threw aside her blanket and slipped to the grassy floor. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and went to the tent's opening. She unlaced the flap and stepped outside into the moonlit night. The fire glowed orange in the center of the camp and the wavering light of a pitch torch moved around the perimeter as the guard made his rounds.

  Her mare whickered from her tether to one side of the tent. Guinevere trod soundlessly across the damp grass, her eye on the flickering light of the sentry's torch. She stood in the deep shadow cast by the mare's body and stroked her velvety nose. She watched the torch and began to count softly under her breath.

  She estimated that it took close to five minutes for the guard to complete one circuit of the camp. Not long enough for them to slip away. Tilly would definitely have to prepare him one of her special potions.

  “What are you doing out here without a light?”

  Guinevere jumped and the horse threw up her head with a whicker of alarm.

  Hugh held up the lantern he carried so that it cast its light upon Guinevere's countenance and threw his own into harsh relief. He was looking very annoyed.

  “I saw no need to bring a lantern this tiny distance from the tent. Isolde was restless and I couldn’t sleep myself so I came out to soothe her.”

  He put a steadying hand on the mare's neck. “The guard has orders to shoot on sight. His aim with a longbow is invariably accurate.”

  “He couldn’t see me here in the shadows.”

  “Nevertheless …” He held the lantern higher and his expression softened. “It's been a long and tiring day. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  Guinevere shivered and drew the blanket tighter around her. “An unquiet mind, Lord Hugh. What about you?”

  “I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a time when I’m on the road.”

  He looked down at her in the lamplight. He didn’t know what had awoken him, but he knew it had had something to do with Guinevere. Now he wanted to hold her, to smooth the worry lines from her brow. He wanted to kiss that warm red mouth. His lips still carried the memory of that last kiss, his body could still feel her against him, the press of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the narrow back beneath his hands.

&nb
sp; He spoke her name without volition, spoke it quietly, questioningly. “Guinevere …”

  She shivered again, and it had little to do this time with the cool night air and the thinness of her chemise beneath the blanket.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Hugh, don’t!” She wanted to turn and run but she couldn’t make her legs work. She just stood looking at him, burning in the brilliant blue fire in his eyes. She knew what he wanted just as she knew she wanted the same thing. And it was madness. But her body cried out for what he could give her and she couldn’t tear her eyes from his.

  It seemed as if the world itself held its breath. And then slowly Hugh exhaled and she found herself doing the same. She turned away and walked slowly back to her tent.

  She lay on her cot, gazing into the pale darkness. Her body hurt with a frustration deeper than anything she could ever have imagined. Why had she bothered to deny herself? What difference would it have made to take what he offered? After tomorrow she would never see him again.

  Please God, she would never see him again.

  Greene straddled the lower branch of an oak tree at the edge of the copse as dawn lightened the eastern sky. He too watched the guard's torch that flickered palely in the growing light. The guard had been changed twice between sundown and sunup. The best moment for his lady to make her bid for freedom would be at the middle of the second watch, when the night was deepest and even the horses slept. While it would leave them still upon the road at dawn, it was the time when all but woodland predators were asleep. Even the horses in the stockade were dozy. And by dawn they would be within striking distance of Cauldon.

  He hummed under his breath between bites of the thick mutton chop that served as his breakfast and continued his vigil.

  Guinevere had dozed fitfully in the hours since she’d left Hugh but was now up and dressed while the children still slept.

  She slipped out of the tent and watched the dawn, listening to the morning chatter of the birds. The air was soft and promised another hot day.

  There was no need now for a lantern to declare herself to the guard, it was quite light enough. Casually she strolled towards the trees. If she was stopped she had the perfect excuse. A lady had needs that required the seclusion of the bushes. She wouldn’t say anything of their flight to the children until that night, she decided. She would tell them when she put them to bed. It might keep them from sleeping but at least Pippa wouldn’t flood her with questions in the middle of the night while they were trying to make their escape. She could just imagine her chatter bringing the entire camp down upon them.

  In the seclusion of the trees, she whistled, the soft call of a blackbird. Almost immediately came the rattatat of a woodpecker. She breathed deeply in relief. Greene was there. Watching. Waiting. She had no need to see him now, but when they made camp this evening they would talk. Just knowing he was there brought immeasurable comfort.

  She turned and walked back to the camp.

  Hugh watched her from behind the broad trunk of an oak tree. He’d been about to leave his tent when he’d caught sight of her walking purposefully towards the copse in the soft dawn light. There was something about her posture that had convinced him she was not heading for privacy simply to answer a call of nature as he might have assumed. Instead of hailing her, he’d followed her. Stalked her, he corrected with a grim smile. He was no mean huntsman himself. He’d heard her blackbird's call, and the immediate answer.

  Who the hell had she been signaling? And why?

  He could have the copse searched. His men would soon find anyone lurking there. But maybe he would just let things unfold in their own time. Guinevere would reveal her hand at some point and it was going to be very interesting to see what she had in mind.

  Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gown, Hugh strolled, whistling casually, back into his camp.

  10

  Are you going to call your kitten Quicksilver, Pippa?” Pippa was intent upon feeding her pet scraps of meat from the breakfast table. “I don’t know yet,” she answered her sister.

  Robin knelt on the ground beside her. “I think it's a really splendid name.”

  “But your father chose it, and he doesn’t like her,” Pippa said, dipping her finger in a pot of milk and offering it for the kitten's rough tongue. “It truly is bad luck.”

  “Oh, that's nonsense, Pippa.” Pen set her own Nutmeg on the ground.

  “But you believe in luck!”

  “Yes, but Robin says Lord Hugh doesn’t like any cats. It's not just yours,” her sister explained. “The name suits her.”

  Pippa continued to offer the kitten milk, her mouth taking a stubborn turn. Pen wasn’t being true. They’d always played the luck games together. They didn’t walk on flagstone cracks, they didn’t walk under ladders, they always turned around seven times and sat down if they had to go back into the house for something they’d forgotten. They laughed about it, but it was important. It was what they did together. And now what Robin said was so much more important to Pen than the things they’d done together.

  “Oh, come on, Pippa!” Pen cajoled. “It's such a good name.”

  “I’m going to call her Moonshine,” Pippa said, picking up the kitten. She walked off, scratching between the kitten's ears.

  “Oh, dear,” said Pen, looking dismayed.

  “Doesn’t she like my father?” Robin was bristling.

  “Yes, of course she does. Pippa likes everybody.” Pen sighed. “It's just that …”

  “Just that what?” Robin put a hand over hers and Pen flushed a delicate rose. Hastily he snatched his hand back, blushing himself as if the touch had been an unfortunate accident.

  “I think she thinks that I like you more than I like her,” Pen said, still flushing, her voice very low.

  “Oh,” Robin said.

  “But it's different,” Pen went on, her eyes studiously fixed on the kitten in her lap. “I like you in a different way. But she's too young to understand that.”

  “Oh,” said Robin again. He put his hand over hers and this time kept it there. “I like you in the same way,” he said. An awkward silence fell between them as they continued to hold hands, both uncomfortably aware of how hot and sweaty their hands were yet neither able to make the first move to break the contact. They were both relieved when the blast of a horn told them it was time to mount up for the day's ride. They jumped to their feet and hastened to their horses.

  Guinevere offered Hugh a bland good morning as he rode up beside her. He returned it with a cool smile that gave away nothing of his inner thoughts.

  What the devil was she plotting?

  Hugh hadn’t known Guinevere Mallory more than a few days and yet it was as clear as day to him that her fertile brain was working overtime behind that mask. He could only think that she was planning some kind of flight. But how did she think she could get away from him? He couldn’t imagine how she was intending to spirit herself, the girls, and presumably Tilly away from an armed camp. At night, obviously. And just as obviously she must have arranged for some help … whoever had been in the copse answering her signal. Did this plan have something to do with why she had been so insistent that they take the route through Derby and not Chesterfield? Where was she going that she was confident he wouldn’t find? Whatever plan she had, it would be a sound one, carefully thought out. Guinevere was not one to embark upon the impossible.

  He glanced sideways at her, noting the calm set of her profile, the erect carriage as she sat her beautiful white mare. She seemed utterly serene.

  His mouth thinned. Lady Guinevere, for all her cleverness, wasn’t going anywhere but to London under his escort.

  He would let her make her move and then make his. It had some of the cruelty of a cat playing with a mouse, he was forced to admit, but he wanted to watch her plan unfold. And he had to acknowledge a certain satisfaction in contemplating the endgame. This was one battle of wits he was going to win.

  “I believe you mentioned Kedleston as a
suitable resting place for tonight,” he said. “Is there anything special about it?” His smile was as smooth and bland as a saucer of cream.

  “Not really. But you could reprovision if you needed to.”

  “It's a little early on the journey for that. But we’ll stop there this evening if you so wish?”

  “If you so wish, Lord Hugh,” she returned with seeming indifference. The route from Kedleston to Cauldon was direct. If they went on a few more miles towards Derby they would have to double back when they made their escape. It would add an hour or two to their flight. Ordinarily it would be a minor annoyance, but minor annoyances were assuming major importance as the time grew close for her bid for freedom.

  His suave smile flickered.

  That was enough talk of Kedleston, Guinevere decided. It was too close to home. She changed the subject to one that would divert them both. “I own I’m curious as to what you discovered in Matlock, Lord Hugh.” She turned her head to look at him, her gaze penetrating.

  “What did you expect me to discover?”

  “Nothing,” she stated.

  He shrugged. “My task is to take my findings to Privy Seal. It's not for me to interpret them.”

  “That is the most disingenuous statement I’ve ever heard,” Guinevere declared. “How am I to defend myself if I don’t know what so-called evidence you’ve drummed up?”

  “You’ll be informed in due time.”

  And you, my lord, will discover in due time that your claim to my land is invalid.

  She couldn’t decide whether to tell him this evening, before she made her escape, or to leave the premarriage document in her tent for him to find, together with an explanation of its legal meaning. He’d probably get the land anyway, unless the king and Privy Seal were angry that she had escaped them while under his escort. But even if he did get it, she knew enough of him now to know that the fact that it was not legally his would really rankle. It was all the revenge she could have, but it was better than nothing.

  The temptation to tell him to his face was considerable, just for the satisfaction of seeing his chagrin. But Guinevere decided it was one she would have to forgo. She had too much on her mind to complicate her thoughts with vengeance, however sweet.