The Widow's Kiss (20 page)

“I am afeard,” she said in a low voice. “Do not tell me I have no cause to be.”

“I would not tell you that.”

She looked up at him, her face naked and vulnerable, her eyes haunted with fear.

The fire crackled behind her, the only sound in the now still house. She could hear her quickened breath, softly sibilant as it left her parted lips. She could hear the blood in her ears.

“Come to me,” Hugh said. It was part plea, part command.

Guinevere stood still, feeling the warmth of the fire at her back. The glow of the lanterns, the bright light of the candles streaming upwards from their sconces cast a circle of light around them. Beyond the circle the hall was in shadow.

“Come to me,” he said again. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the delicacy of the bones beneath his fingers.

She didn’t move, neither away from him nor towards him. This night she needed what he would offer her more than she had ever needed anything. The comfort of connection, the strength that came from knowing one was not alone. The power of loving that, for however short a time, would quiet her fears, soothe her fearful soul. But still there niggled the knowledge that if she took Hugh she would take that comfort from the man who had caused this agony of despair.

And so she made no move towards him, but when he
drew her against him, cupping her chin to lift her face, she offered no resistance.

He kissed her, gently and then with increasing pressure as if he would wake her up, bring forth from her the passionate response that he knew waited for release.

“Come to me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Guinevere, come to me.” He held her strongly now so that she could feel his strength, feel it encompassing her, offering surcease, the chance for the first time since Timothy's death to lay down her own burdens for however brief a moment and nourish herself at the wellspring of a power and energy not her own.

Her mouth opened for his probing tongue and she leaned back into the strong hold, opening her throat, her breast, in an instinctive movement of surrender. He moved his mouth to the porcelain column of her throat, kissed the fast-beating pulse, trailed his lips to her breast, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fine lace of her chemise. He felt her passivity, not a negative passivity but one that came from an active decision to receive him, to draw from him.

A river of delight washed through him. She was more truly his at this moment than ever during the wild madness of that night in his tent.

“Come,” he said softly, taking her hand. He picked up a lantern with his free hand and led her to the stairs. She gathered her skirts and stepped up beside him, her body slim and tall and straight as they ascended the stairs.

He turned to the dark passage that led to the left of the stairs, holding his lantern up high. Her hand in his was cool, the fingers curled around his own.

He lifted the latch on the door at the very end of the passage and pushed it wide. A candle burned on a small table and a banked fire glowed in the hearth. The light from his lantern threw back the shadows as they entered the chamber.

It was as neat and orderly as his tent had been. The poster bed was uncarved, the coverlet a simple quilt. An iron-bound chest and a plain armoire held his possessions.

“ ’Tis plain, I know,” he murmured.

Guinevere smiled and spoke for the first time. “I expected nothing else of its occupant.”

“You have an understanding of me, it seems.” He set the lantern on the mantelpiece and gazed at her as she stood in her dark velvet, one hand resting on the wooden bedpost.

“A little,” she agreed.

“Come to me.” He held out his hands and this time she stepped across the waxed floor towards him. She stood before him, making no other move, her eyes fixed upon his.

“I will try to give you what you wish,” he said, his voice suddenly husky, coming from deep in his throat. He reached for the jeweled headdress and she bowed her head to make it easier for him.

He withdrew the pins slowly, one by one, laying each one on the small table, then lifted the silver fillet from her head. He took the pins from her hood and then her coif and then her hair, releasing the coiled braids. He had no brush but used his fingers to loosen the coils, playfully flipping the long strands out until they framed her face. Her earlier pallor had gone and her ivory skin glowed.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, kissing her warm mouth. “You must tell me if there's anything you want of me. I would not fail you, Guinevere.”

“You will not,” she said with perfect truth. She caressed his cheek, ran the pad of her thumb over his mouth. He would not fail her … not in this at least. She turned her back.

He unlaced her gown, slowly this time, lifting it away
from her, letting it fall to the chest at the foot of the bed. He unlaced the bodice of her chemise and slid his hands inside to cup her breasts, then her shoulders. Her skin was so warm and soft and fragrant.

“Show me something of yourself first,” she said with a languid smile. “I would see you naked.” She ran her flat palm over his cheek, tracing his mouth with her little finger. His hand came up to grasp her wrist as he sucked her probing finger into his mouth, delicately nibbling the tip. Her entire body seemed to come alive under the exquisite sensation.

He drew back, his brilliant eyes glittering with desire. He began to undress for her. Guinevere watched him with lustful greed as slowly he revealed himself to her. He slipped off his gown, his doublet, unlaced his shirt, removing each garment with deliberate care, laying them over a stool beneath the window.

Guinevere's gaze dwelled on the broad expanse of his chest, lightly dusted with gray curls, the tight little buds of his nipples, the span of his waist … so narrow when compared with the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She gazed with uninhibited lust as he unfastened his garters and peeled off his hose. He stood straight and looked at her with a quizzical little gleam in his eye. She gazed at the concave belly, the hard muscular thighs, the vigorous jut of his penis from the wiry tangle of graying hair.

“Do I please you, madam?”

She nodded, her tongue moistening her lips. “Oh, yes.”

He turned to place his hose on the stool with his other garments, offering his taut buttocks to her gaze. She came up behind him, placing her hands on his backside, kneading the muscled flesh. He remained still for her caress, for the stroking finger that slid between his thighs, then he put his hands behind him and clasped her hips. She leaned
into his back, nuzzling the sharp points of his shoulder blades. His hands slipped to her backside, stroking the flesh beneath her chemise.

“I think it's time for a little equity,” he said with a soft laugh, turning to face her. “I would feast my eyes upon you now, my lady.”

He pushed her chemise off her shoulders, down to her waist. The soft mounds of her breasts, the nipples hard and erect, disappeared into his warm palms. He held them, glorying in their weight and fullness. Her eyes closed on a deep shudder of pleasure as his fingertips teased the rosy crowns. He ran his hands down the narrow rib cage, feeling the shape of her as he had not done in the crazy haste of their last loving. He took a step back to look at her, bared to the waist, her silvery hair shimmering against her skin that glowed pink with her growing arousal. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breath.

Reaching forward, with slow deliberation he pushed the loosened chemise from her hips. It slithered to her ankles, leaving her naked but for her silken hose and garters.

He looked at her, drinking in the mature fullness of her graceful form. This was no girl. He could see the tiny silver stretch marks on her thighs and belly where she had carried her children, the rich blue-veined heaviness of her breasts that had fed her babies, the almost imperceptible thickening of her waist. But she was more beautiful, he thought, for these imperfections than she would have been in the unflawed youthfulness of her girlhood.

Putting his hands on her hips, he turned her, felt her shiver at his touch, at the warm imprint of his hands. He ran a flat finger down her spine. Her skin rippled. Holding her shoulders, he bent his head and his tongue followed the path of the finger. Guinevere bit back a moan at the burning sensuality of the hot moist stroke. Her feet shifted on the bare boards.

He caressed the curve of her hips, the firm rise of her backside, the supple length of her thighs. Then he turned her around again.

She reached her arms around his neck, pressing her nakedness against his. She kissed his mouth, her loins pressed hard against him in eloquent desire. Hugh took a step to the bed, holding her to him, her mouth still locked with his. She fell back as the edge of the bed caught her behind the knees and he came down with her.

He stretched himself beside her, and raised himself on one elbow. She lay on her back looking up at him, and with a curious little gesture of abandon, she stretched her arms above her head, crossing her wrists, yielding up her body to their mutual pleasure.

He smiled slowly, then bent to kiss the base of her throat as his hand smoothed over her belly. He tickled a fingertip in her navel, noting with a secret delight how deep it was. He touched the line of her body, from below her ear to her hip, feeling the tender curves, the deep indentations, and she moaned beneath his hand, whispering his name. His mouth moved to her breasts, his teeth lightly grazed her nipples.

She writhed on the bed, feeling her sex swell with pleasure, her loins filled with a liquid urgency. No longer able to control her responses, she brought her hands down. One slid to his buttocks, the other clasped the turgid flesh of his penis. The blood in the corded veins pulsed strongly against her palm. With a delicate fingertip she pushed back the little cap of skin at its tip, circled the smooth roundness, even as with the finger of her other hand she slid between the cleft of his buttocks, lightly tickling the hard, heavy globes.

Hugh groaned softly under the knowing caress. He moved down the bed and her hands slid away from him. She felt his flat palms inside her thighs, pressing them
open. She spread them for him, once more giving her body over to him. He kissed the inside of her thighs, lifted her legs and kissed the hollow behind her knees, stroking down her calves, his fingers cleverly massaging. His tongue trailed along the backs of her thighs; his mouth pressed kisses into the soft creases where her thighs met her bottom. He spread her legs wide and buried his mouth in the hot sea-scented furrow of her body.

His tongue entered her, his mouth nuzzled the hooded bud of her sex. His breath was cool, a wickedly sensual breeze on the hot and swollen lips he caressed.

Guinevere's fingers curled in his hair; her thighs tightened; her hips lifted as he slid his hands beneath her bottom, pinching the soft flesh as he brought her closer and closer to the brink with his tongue. But before she was engulfed he took his mouth from her. She shuddered, aching with longing. Her legs curled around his hips as he moved up her body again. She pulled his head down to her face and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue, inhaling the intoxicating scents of her own arousal.

He drove deep within her and she held him there, feeling him fill to the very core her exquisitely sensitized body. She felt the pulse of his flesh within her. Then he withdrew slowly, so very slowly, to the very edge of her body until only the tip of his sex touched her. Her opened body cried out for him; she pressed upwards trying to draw him within her again; their eyes held and they could see themselves reflected in the dark irises of the other. It was as if their souls touched, as if each was the mirror image of the other, and when he entered her with one long slow thrust, their bodies became one, their spirits dissolved. They were one.

After many minutes, Hugh disengaged and rolled to the side. He lay on his back, a hand resting on Guinevere's sweat-dampened belly, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his
palm. It slowed as his own did, in synchrony it seemed. She sighed, a deep indrawing of breath, a slow exhalation. Then she turned her head to look at him.

He touched her cheek and she smiled, but he sensed the gathering shadows behind the smile.

“Tristesse de l’amour?”
he inquired gently.

“Perhaps.” She reached up and lightly touched his cheek. “I thank you, Hugh.”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he responded, lightly grasping her wrist. “I gave to you only what you gave to me.”

“I doubt that,” she said softly. “But it must never happen again, Hugh. You understand that?”

He shook his head. “No, Guinevere, I do not.”

She sat up and said with difficulty, “I wish that you could … could understand how frightening this is for me. How I must not,
cannot
yield up myself again in this fight. I have so much to lose, Hugh. So much more than you. Can you not understand that?”

“Yes … yes, of course I understand that.” He sat up, touched her bare shoulder. “But must you make that lie between us?”

“Yes, I must,” she said flatly. “I cannot see clearly if I do not.”

There was a short silence, then she said, “I must go to my own chamber.”

He watched as she gathered up her clothes. She stood naked, holding the pile of silk, lace, and velvet in her arms. “If you have a night robe I could borrow … ?”

“Yes, of course.” The old constraint was between them again. Guinevere was forcing its return. That glorious moment of union had done nothing to alter the brutal facts that lay between them.

In his frustration he wanted to shake her, to force her to admit that such loving transcended anything that could
thrust them apart. Instead, he swung off the bed and took a fur robe from the armoire. “This will serve.” He placed it around her shoulders.

“My thanks,” she said and moved to the door. At the door she turned, her hand on the latch. “I do thank you, Hugh.”

He made a small helpless gesture of denial.

She seemed to hesitate, then raised the latch and slipped from his chamber.

G
uinevere awoke well before dawn from a curiously deep and dreamless sleep. She stirred and Moonshine, who had been sleeping in the small of her back, rose on stilt legs with a slightly indignant glare, stretched languidly, and jumped to the floor. Nutmeg, who’d been curled between the girls’ soft bodies, joined his sister. They stalked to the door, stood there, regarding Guinevere in lofty demand.

Guinevere slid to the floor, careful not to wake the still-sleeping girls. She padded across to the door and let the pair of kittens out. Presumably they’d learned their way to the outside the previous evening.

Tilly sat up on the truckle bed and yawned. “You were late to bed, chuck,” she observed. Her eye fell on Guinevere's discarded clothing. Guinevere had been too exhausted, too confused, to put them away. Hugh's furred robe lay over a stool.

Guinevere didn’t immediately answer the tiring woman. She picked up the robe and slipped it over her naked sleep-warmed body. Her senses swirled as she inhaled the scent of him, felt the heavy warmth of his garment almost as if it was his body against hers. A great melancholy filled her.

She could never take from him again what he had given her last night. He had given her what she had craved, had so desperately needed, but she dared not let him love her again. Not if she was ever to be free of him. Their souls had touched last night and while then it had been only joyful, in the cold light of morning the depths of that emotion terrified her. She had to fight Hugh if she was to defeat Privy Seal, and it would be like fighting herself.

“So that's the way the land lies,” Tilly murmured with instant comprehension. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“ ’Tis a bad thing to have happened, Tilly,” Guinevere said slowly. “It should not have happened.”

“Well, that's as may be,” the other returned with the air of one who didn’t believe it. She got off the truckle bed and stretched.

“It begins now, Tilly,” Guinevere said slowly. “I must be ready by sunup to accompany Lord Hugh to the palace at Hampton Court.”

Tilly's expression grew solemn. She glanced towards the big bed where the children were stirring, and raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“I’ll explain to them,” Guinevere murmured.

“Where's Moonshine?” Pippa demanded, speaking even in the moment she came out of sleep. She sat up rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I dreamed I’d lost her again.”

“She's gone out with Nutmeg,” her mother reassured her.

“Oh, we have to find them.” Pen scrambled out of bed. “They don’t really know their way around yet.”

“Hurry and get dressed then.” Guinevere moved to the linen press, gesturing to Tilly that she should follow her. She spoke softly, so that the children would not hear. “I think I’ll wear the black gown and hood,” she said. “I believe the demure widow will be the best appearance to present. The silver fillet to the hood, and maybe no breast
jewel, just the pomander on my girdle. I don’t wish to thrust my wealth in their faces.”

“Aye, chuck, ’tis a wise thought.” Tilly took out the black silk gown. The material although rich was unadorned, with no raised pattern of embroidery or embedded jewels.

“I’ll fetch you hot water.” Tilly hurried away. Guinevere turned back to the girls who were struggling with their clothes. Guinevere went to help them, untangling Pippa's knotted laces, straightening Pen's collar.

“My loves, I have business to do today,” she said casually.

“What kind of business?” asked Pippa, twisting her head to look up at her mother over her shoulder.

“Just some discussions about the estate with Lord Hugh and some other men,” Guinevere said. “There, now. You’re all straight.” She bent to kiss them both then went to the dressing stand where Tilly was placing a steaming jug of hot water.

She dampened a cloth, holding it to her face before drawing it over her throat and neck, achingly reminded as the warm cloth passed over her skin of Hugh's moist caresses, of the way his tongue had painted a path over her body.

The skill of his lovemaking, his tenderness, his need to please her were all characteristic of the man so beloved of his son, so trusted by her daughters. But she knew that the man she was to face today and in succeeding days was a very different one. A man with a harsh sense of his duty. A man who had his own purpose in bringing her down. A man who, she was convinced, never shirked his purpose or evaded his duty.

“Where are you going?” asked Pen.

“To Hampton Court. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

The girls gazed at her wide-eyed, so intrigued by this prospect that they forgot the urgent need to go in search of the kittens. Instead they plied their mother with questions that she was hard-pressed to answer as she dressed in her black widow's weeds and ate a little of the bread that Tilly had brought for her, dipping it in a cup of warm milk. She had no way of knowing when she would next eat.

There was no looking glass in the chamber. Such things were the kinds of luxuries that she guessed were beyond Hugh of Beaucaire's means. She had only her little traveling mirror with which to examine her image. Her face was pale beneath the white linen coif and the black hood. The pleated lace of her chemise decorously reached her throat. Ordinarily she would have pinned a jewel at the throat but not today. The square neckline of the gown was severe in its lack of adornment. She looked more like a nun than a witch, she decided, her lip curling in a cynical smile. Whether it would convince them remained to be seen.

“My thick cloak, Tilly. ’Twill be cold on the river at this hour.” She opened a drawer in the armoire and took out a rolled parchment.

Tilly handed her a heavy woolen hooded cloak. She slipped it over her shoulders, slipped the parchment into the deep pocket of her cloak, and stood for a minute readying herself for the ordeal ahead. Then she bent and kissed the girls good-bye. “I won’t be back until late tonight, my loves. Be good.”

“We’re always good, Mama,” Pippa protested.

“Yes, I know you are.” Guinevere smiled. She was reluctant to leave them. Terror swamped her anew.
She would come back to them. Of course she would.
But she couldn’t swallow the lump of fear in her throat as she turned to the door.

Tilly hugged her. “Don’t you fret, my chuck. It’ll all turn out for the best. You just see if it don’t.”

Guinevere gave her a half smile and left the chamber, resisting the urge to clasp her children to her for one last time. They must catch nothing of her fear.

She descended the stairs to the hall, her step slow, her heart hammering against her ribs. Hugh stood beside the hearth, cloaked and ready for departure.

Her heart turned over as she read the light in his vivid blue eyes, saw the soft curve of his mouth. She forced herself to speak formally. “I give you good morning, my lord.”

He came towards her, smiling, his hands outstretched in welcome. He would not allow her to distance herself from him again. She had done it last night, after their loving, but he was resolved to overcome it. There was no sense to her refusal to acknowledge what they had, what they were to each other.

He took her hands, bent and kissed her mouth. She turned her head aside with a murmured protest. “Don’t turn from me, Guinevere,” he said. “What good does it do either of us?”

“I cannot,” she replied with low-voiced urgency. “Hugh, I cannot. You are determined to destroy me. You will gain the land you claim when I am brought down. Do you deny that?”

Hugh dropped her hands. “No, I do not deny that,” he said. “But I do deny that I am determined to destroy you.” His eyes glittered fiercely. “I am not so determined. How could you believe that when you know what we can be to each other? There are facts, and others will ask you about them. It is out of my hands. I can in no way influence matters. Regardless of my own feelings, I was instructed to bring you to London for examination. And I will do my duty.”

“A cold, hard duty,” she said flatly. “One that leaves no room for pity. You are my jailer. For a prisoner to make love with her jailer, to seek comfort from him, is perverse.”

“Is that the only light in which you see me?” he demanded. “Is that what you would call what we had together last night—a perversion?”

She shrugged. “In light of the facts I can think of no better term, my lord.”

Hugh struggled with his anger and disappointment. He was certain she didn’t truly view their loving in this way, but she was obdurate and he could see no way to soften her.

“If I could change things, Guinevere, you must believe me that I would,” he said. “But I cannot, so let us go.” He shook his head as if to clear it of confusion. “We will walk to the steps at Blackfriars.” He preceded her to the door.

Guinevere drew her cloak tightly around her. She was cold, but it had little to do with the briskness of the cloudy early morning. It was a cold that came from deep inside her. It was part fear and part sorrow for the hurt she had caused him. But she could see no other way to preserve her integrity. She had to fight for herself and her children and she could not do that by consorting with the enemy even when he came to her in the guise of friend and lover.

They walked in silence through the lanes of Holborn. The world was up and about despite the early hour, messengers running through the streets, hawkers crying their wares, women yelling, “Gardezleau” as they hurled night soil from the top windows into the kennels below.

A man in crimson livery rode by, spurring his horse. The hooves kicked up mud and filth and Guinevere jumped aside only just in time to avoid being trampled. “Didn’t he see me?” she demanded furiously.

“A man on Privy Seal's business doesn’t stop for pedestrians,” Hugh said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” She brushed at her cloak where dust and dried mud clung. She remembered the procession of the previous afternoon when the world had come to a halt to give precedence to Privy Seal and his outriders. “It seems our Lord Privy Seal's presence is everywhere.”

“Visible and invisible,” Hugh responded. Guinevere controlled a convulsive shiver.

A dull metallic gleam shone through a gap in the row of houses ahead of them. As they approached, the broad gray reaches of the Thames opened before them. The river if anything seemed busier than the lanes they had just left.

Ferrymen gathered at the base of the water steps at Blackfriars, touting for customers in their skiffs and wherries. A large barge, with a richly adorned canopy and flying the king's pennant, was tied at the steps. A group of musicians were stepping aboard, carrying their lutes and lyres.

“The musicians are being transported to the palace to play at the king's feast this evening,” Hugh informed Guinevere. He stood looking around for Jack Stedman and the barge he had commissioned.

“Ah, there he is.” He gestured to a barge anchored some way out in the river. Berths at the water steps themselves were hard to come by. He beckoned an urchin. “Whistle up that barge, lad. Three long and three short.”

The boy blew the correct blasts on the tin whistle he carried around his neck. Hugh's falcon-embossed pennant immediately fluttered at the stern of the barge and the oarsmen began to pull to the steps. Hugh gave the urchin a coin, then ushered Guinevere down the steps.

Guinevere now became aware of the whistles and trumpet calls all around them as servants called barges for their masters, each with a different sequence of notes. It struck her as extraordinary that any one craft could distinguish
its own call signal from the cacophony. But the system seemed to work.

Their own barge pulled into the steps and Hugh jumped aboard. He held out his hand for Guinevere. She took it to step aboard and he did not immediately release it. His fingers curled around her own and she could feel his strength, feel the dry warmth of his palm through her gloves. She slipped her hand free and walked to the stern where a cresset burned against the dim early light, sending a pale circle over the gray water.

“Good morning, m’lady.”

“Good morning, Jack.” She nodded at the man. “This is a fine barge you’ve found. It has housing too, I see.”

Jack looked pleased at the compliment. “Reckon as ’ow we might need it, madam. There's a cold wind and ’twill be worse when we’re movin’. An’ fer comin’ back like, we’ll mebbe light the brazier.” He gestured proudly to the somewhat perfunctory shelter provided by an awning over a long bench. A small charcoal brazier was in the corner.

Coming back! Would she come back?
She turned to Hugh, asked with an effort at casualness, “How long will the journey take?”

“Five hours if the wind and tide are with us. Longer if not.” If he was aware of her agitation he gave no sign.

The barge was out in midstream now, part of the flow of traffic. Despite her wretchedness, Guinevere was distracted by the scene. Within a very short while they were in the countryside, rowing past grand mansions with gardens sweeping to the river where they had their own water steps and landing stages, many of them with private barges tied alongside. Green fields stretched to either side, with placidly grazing sheep and cows. They passed the great expanse of Richmond forest, picked their way around the many small islets that the rivermen called eyots that dotted the center of the river. Moorhens gathered dabbling in the reeds, swans floated gracefully over the cold
gray water. Around every broad reach were to be found small hamlets, ragged children fishing from the banks.

Hugh left her side and went to stand with Jack Stedman and his men in the bow of the barge. He found he could not bear to be beside her, feeling her fear and knowing that he had no comfort to offer, and, even if he had, that she would not today accept it. He was the enemy, the cause of her present distress.

The oarsmen were singing to themselves in rhythm with each mighty pull on the oars. Small fishing boats bobbed in their wake. As the hours passed, Guinevere wished that this interminable journey would be over and she would at last know exactly what she faced.

“We have bread, meat, and ale. You should eat something.”

Hugh's voice startled her, so deep was she in her lonely reverie.