The Widow's Kiss (16 page)

Tilly came into the tent at that moment with a laden tray. “ ’Ere's supper,” she said cheerfully. She scrutinized the girls and tutted. “Dearie me, such long faces. What will Greene say when ’e sees you lookin’ like a wet Monday, Pippa? He’ll think y’are scared of summat. You know how y’are always tellin’ ’im y’are scared of nowt.”

“Well, I
am
scared of nowt,” Pippa stated with bravado. “You’re not scared, are you, Pen?”

“There's nothing to be scared of, is there, Mama?” Pen managed a tremulous smile.

“No,” Guinevere said firmly. “Would I let anything bad happen? Now eat your supper and then tuck into bed in your clothes. That way when we wake you up you’ll be all ready to go.”

“I shan’t sleep,” Pippa said, taking a veal pasty from the tray. “I’m far too excited to sleep. Will you sleep, Pen?”

“I don’t know,” Pen said, examining the contents of
the tray. She didn’t like pasties when the filling spilled out and she couldn’t see one that was whole. She took a chicken drumstick instead. The skin was crisp and the meat juicy. It comforted her.

“ ’Ere's a nice drop o’ murat,” Tilly said, filling two cups with the drink of honey flavored with mulberries. She shot Guinevere a significant glance. The sweet drink, a treat on any day, would soothe them.

Guinevere nodded. Already their fear seemed to have subsided; Tilly would do the rest. She would put them to bed and stay with them until Guinevere returned from her supper with Hugh. Whatever the girls might say, their mother was fairly confident that they would sleep.

Supper with Lord Hugh. She would be at her most charming and entertaining. They could and did enjoy each other's company whenever they could hold their mutual antagonism at bay.

Or hold at bay that strange lustful connection that hit them between the eyes when least expected, and never invited.

She squashed the inconvenient reminder. Tonight she would show him only her friendliest face. She took the small traveling glass from her trunk and examined her appearance in the lamplight. Her hood was askew after the day's riding and her coif was dirty. She rubbed at her neck and regarded the grime on her fingertips with distaste.

“Tilly, could you fetch me some water? I’m all begrimed from the dust of the road!”

“Aye, chuck. There's hot water on the fire.” Tilly picked up a jug and left the tent.

Guinevere unpinned her hood and coif and asked Pen to unlace her gown.

“My fingers are sticky,” Pen said doubtfully.

“Mine aren’t!” Pippa bounced up.

Pen glared at her. “Mama asked me.” She licked her
fingers vigorously and attacked the laces of her mother's stomacher.

Guinevere stepped out of the emerald silk. It lay in a crumpled heap at her feet. Because she had been riding she wasn’t wearing the cone-shaped farthingale that ordinarily ensured that her skirts were perfectly creaseless. She said pacifically, “Pippa, sweeting, I need you to find the turquoise hood. The one with the silver edging.”

“I know where it is!” Pippa bounded to the trunk, burrowed, and emerged triumphant, flourishing the deep blue hood. “But you always wear the gray gown with this.”

“It's in the other trunk.”

She had brought two gowns and a very little jewelry with her; all her other clothes and possessions would by now be laid in the cupboards and linen presses at Cauldon. Tonight she would sup with Lord Hugh in a gown of silver-gray silk with a raised pattern of black swans. She would wear sapphires … and she would send him to sleep with the sweetest of dreams.

G
uinevere entered Hugh's tent precisely at six o’clock. “I give you good even, Lord Hugh.”

Hugh bowed, an appreciative gleam in his eye as he took in her appearance. “Madam, you do me much honor.” He looked down ruefully at his own dust-coated garments. “I fear I haven’t had a chance to change my own dress.”

“You have so many responsibilities,” she said smoothly. “So many matters that require your attention. How could you have time for such trivialities?”

Hugh bowed again. “You are most understanding, my lady.” He poured wine and handed her a cup, then gestured to the table where appetizing steam rose from a covered pot. “One of the men shot a rabbit this afternoon. It seems we’re the beneficiaries.”

“One of the advantages of supping at the commander's table,” Guinevere murmured, taking one of the stools at the table, her silvery skirts falling in graceful folds around her. She sipped her wine as Hugh ladled rabbit stew into two bowls before taking his place opposite her.

The valerian that would ensure Lord Hugh slept deeply that night was concealed in her handkerchief, but for the
moment she couldn’t see how to administer it. He set his wine cup on the table but his hand remained loosely curled around it as he took a forkful of stew. She slipped the handkerchief from her sleeve and dropped it in her lap.

Hugh watched her covertly. From what he’d overheard earlier she and Greene had all their plans for tonight in order. But even the best-laid plans could go awry and she must know that. But if she was apprehensive about the coming flight, she gave no indication of it. Her countenance was as composed as ever, her beautiful sloe eyes alert and yet seemingly tranquil. In her rich gown she could have been sitting at her own high table instead of in a campaign tent in the middle of a field, and he wondered why she had chosen to dress up for him on this of all nights. Despite his annoyance at the trouble she was causing him, he admired her courage, and he was stirred as always by her beauty, by that indefinable sensuality that awoke his own deep unwitting response.

God's bones!
He wanted to make love to her; the longing to explore that long supple body made his hands quiver, his breathing quicken.

“Do you have a house in London, Lord Hugh?” she inquired pleasantly, breaking off a crust from the loaf of bread.

The question was a relief, hauling him back from the dizzying brink of desire. “A modest one,” he responded. “In Holborn.”

“Is that close to the river? I know very little of London.”

“You are perhaps more familiar with the geography of ancient Rome or Athens,” he observed.

She inclined her head in smiling acknowledgment and reached forward to dip her bread in the large saltcellar that stood in the middle of the table. Her hand slipped and with an awkward jerk her elbow caught the saltcellar, knocking it to the grass beneath the table.

“Oh, how clumsy!” she exclaimed, stooping to pick up a pinch of the spilled salt. “The girls will say it's such bad luck. I can’t remember whether I have to throw it over my left or my right shoulder to cancel out the ill luck.”

“You’d better do both,” he said, bending to retrieve the saltcellar.

“It's such a waste of salt too. Can you manage to salvage some of it? Let me help you.”

“There's no need.” He scooped the precious commodity into the palm of his hand.

Her handkerchief was in her hand. Swiftly she leaned forward and dropped the fine powder it contained into his wine cup, praying it would dissolve before he raised his head.

He straightened, shaking the rescued salt from his palm into the saltcellar again.
What had she done?
He knew the spilled salt was a ploy. She didn’t give anything away in either voice or countenance but every one of his senses was alert, aware of some danger. She had done something.

Poison?
Did she intend to dispatch him to whatever world now held her husbands?

She sipped her wine and repeated, “Is Holborn near the river, Lord Hugh?”

The wine,
he thought. It had to be the wine. “No, it's some streets away. You’ll see for yourself as you’ll be residing under my roof until Privy Seal makes disposition for you.”
Over my dead body.
Guinevere smiled and dipped bread in her stew.

Hugh picked up his cup, cradling it in his hand, watching her. He thought her eyes had grown sharper although she didn’t look at his cup. He raised it to his lips. She remained intent on her supper, but he thought he could detect just the slightest tremor in her fingers as she took a forkful of buttered greens.

He swirled the wine in the cup. It looked unadulterated but he was not about to take any chances. He pretended to sip and then set the cup down. Guinevere's smile didn’t waver.

Treacherous, manipulative witch!
He smiled back and helped himself to more stew.

Guinevere continued to question him about London life with all the appearance of one searching for relevant information. He continued to pretend to sip at his wine. After a while a trooper came in and removed the bowls and stew-pot, placing a basket of wild strawberries on the table.

“Has Master Robin finished supper?” Hugh inquired. Guinevere in housewifely fashion was sweeping crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand, absorbed in her task.

“Aye. He went to water the ’orses, sir.”

Hugh nodded. He raised his cup, holding it at waist level. Quickly he tilted it and a stream of wine fell soundlessly to the thick grass at his feet. “Tell him he should bed down with the men tonight.” He raised the cup to his lips, confident that Guinevere had not seen its emptying. “I’ll be sitting late and the lamp will keep him awake.” He glanced at Guinevere as he said this. She appeared unperturbed.

“Aye, sir.” The trooper went off.

Hugh leaned across for the flagon and refilled his cup.

“I was hoping you would consider taking a break tomorrow,” Guinevere said, popping a strawberry into her mouth. “The girls are very tired.”

“Are
you?”
He watched with a sort of mesmerized fascination as she took another strawberry. Her long slender fingers conveyed the fruit to her warm red mouth. Her teeth gleamed white for a second and she closed her eyes with pleasure as the sweet juice spurted on her tongue.

“No, not in the least. But I’m accustomed to riding all day. Hunting is one of my greatest pleasures.”

“One you shared with two at least of your husbands.”

“My first husband would not hunt with a woman,” she said neutrally.

“Ah, yes. As I recall you were in childbed when he fell from his horse.”

“Precisely so, my lord.”
He’d refilled his cup.
He was not a man given to drink, and Guinevere had plenty of experience of those who were, but she’d noticed that he usually drank several cups of wine at supper. Tonight, thank God, was no different.

“My second husband, however, was a different matter. He and I hunted together frequently.” Her gaze rested briefly on his face. “As I imagine you discovered on your sojourn in Matlock.”

“There was some mention,” he returned indifferently.

He wouldn’t give an inch.
She controlled the rising frustration, telling herself that whatever he’d discovered no longer mattered. Once she was safely away, hidden away, he could believe anything he wished.

It was growing dark outside the tent and lanterns were lit around the encampment. Hugh reached for flint and tinder and lit the lantern on the table. Its golden glow gave Guinevere's ivory complexion a soft pink tinge as she leaned forward to the strawberry basket.

“I seem to have eaten them all,” she said in such surprise he was hard-pressed not to laugh. “Did you have any at all?”

“One or two maybe.”

“How greedy of me,” she said with a rueful headshake. “I confess I have a serious weakness for strawberries.”

“It didn’t escape my notice,” he observed gravely.

Guinevere laughed and once again it was as if they were enclosed in a magic circle where there could be no antagonism, only this sense of an overpowering connection between them. As if somehow they were
meant
to be
sitting here together in the lamplight, laughing about her greed for strawberries as if nothing else lay between them.

Abruptly she rose from the table and the circle shattered. “My lord, it grows late. I must leave you.”

Yes, so I gathered.
A cynical flicker darted across his brilliant blue gaze but he rose to his feet and said only, “We’ll make a late start in the morning, and ride for half a day only. Will that rest the girls sufficiently?”

“That's very considerate of you, sir.”

He bowed. “While you’re under my charge, madam, I have only your best interests at heart.”

Guinevere dipped a curtsy, mockery in every graceful line of her body. “You are too good, sir.”

“Sometimes I think that's true,” he remarked coolly. He took up the lantern. “Come, I’ll light you to your tent.”

He walked with her to her tent. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, Lord Hugh.” She gave him her hand in a brief clasp, then slipped into her tent.

“Until later,” he said softly.

Tilly was dozing but jerked awake as soon as Guinevere entered. “Did he take the valerian?” she whispered.

“He drank the wine,” Guinevere said, her voice low in deference to her sleeping daughters. “I couldn’t use too much in case he would taste it. I just hope it’ll be enough.”

“Well, I gave the guard a jug of my special frumenty,” Tilly said. “To ward off the cold while ’e's doin’ ’is rounds. Right grateful, ’e was. Says ’is ma used to make it fer ’im.”

“Well, Greene's going to take care of him as well,” Guinevere said. “So we’ll have double insurance. One way or another he's going to be asleep at midnight.”

“Aye, ’tis better to be safe than sorry.” Tilly nodded at
the platitude. She gestured towards the girls. “Lassies went out like lights too.”

“That's good. You go back to sleep, Tilly. I’ll wake you when it's time.”

Guinevere sat on the edge of her cot and began to unpin her hood and coif. She didn’t need long folds of material to encumber the ride that lay ahead. She pulled on the woolen riding hose she wore beneath her skirt, tucking her chemise into the waist, then shook down her skirts. There were no other preparations she could make.

It was only just past nine. She should sleep for a couple of hours but she was too keyed up.

She extinguished the lantern, lay back on the cot and reviewed her plan. The guard was not a problem. The horses were tethered close by. They had rope halters and saddle blankets thrown over them. Guinevere and Pen could ride well enough for a few hours with just those for saddle and bridle. They would carry nothing with them so would be able to move swiftly. Greene would be waiting. He’d take Tilly up with him so that Pen could ride alone and they’d make faster time. They’d have five hours until dawn. Six hours, with luck, before their absence was noticed. Maybe even longer since Hugh had said they would make a later start on the morrow.

She lay wide-eyed, her vision adjusting to the tent's gloom. She wouldn’t be able to light the lantern again and she could now hear the faint patter of raindrops on the canvas. The night would be dark. All to the good, but the ride in the rain would be less than pleasant. But they had fur-lined, hooded cloaks.

She slipped off the cot and went to the trunks. Tilly had already laid the cloaks out on top of one of the trunks but restlessly Guinevere shook each one out and then replaced it, smoothing out the folds, finding some measure of reassurance in these small albeit unnecessary preparations.

The children slept. Pen murmured something in her
sleep. Her voice sounded anxious, slightly breathless, and Guinevere bent over her. The child was frowning and muttering. Something was troubling her dreams but there was nothing her mother could do at this point to reassure her. Guinevere wondered if the girl's confused dreaming had anything to do with young Robin. Pen had not mentioned his name since she’d learned of their impending departure. Which, of course, was typical of the child. She would not voice her own concerns when she knew her mother was troubled.

Guinevere turned to Pippa, who was dreamlessly asleep, her arms flung above her head, fingers lightly curled.

Dear God, she had to get them to safety.

She walked to the tent opening and listened to the rain now drumming fiercely. She untied the flap and peered out. The night air smelled of wet grass. The campfire was still alight and hissing. When she stepped out into the rain she could see the guard's torch flaring on the perimeter of the camp. She looked at her watch, peering at the diamond-encircled face in the darkness. Eleven o’clock. Just one more hour.

Tilly woke just before midnight almost as if she had an internal alarm. She sat bolt upright on her cot and blinked sleep from her eyes. “Did you sleep, chuck?”

“No. Let's wake the children.” Guinevere swung her cloak around her shoulders. “They’ll need their cloaks. The rain's let up a little, but it's still wet out there.”

Guinevere bent over Pen's cot and shook her gently, whispering her name. Pen's eyes shot open. She stared in momentary bewilderment, then she sat up. “Is it time?”