The Widow's Kiss (8 page)

He was waiting by the water butt, idly tapping his whip against his boot, when an explosion of snarling, growling, snapping brindle and white erupted from a corner of the block. Amid the jagged-toothed, loud, and vicious swirl of fighting dogs rose Pippa's high frantic tones. Hugh caught
a glimpse of a red skirt plunging into the fray and his heart leaped into his throat.

He grabbed the full pail beside the water butt and raced forward, hurling the water at the colorful melee. The three lurchers fell back, shivering, jaws slavering. He slashed at them with his whip and they slunk away yelping, tails between their legs.

Pippa scrambled to her feet. Her golden hair was coming loose from her braid and the sleeve of her gown was torn, the hem caked in the dirt of the yard. She was drenched and looked very close to tears.

“They were going to kill him. They always pick on him,” she said, sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt across her cheek. “He was the runt of the litter and the others always pick on him. Greene won’t let me bring him in the house because he's a hunting dog but I’m going to tell Mama he has to.”

Hugh was not interested in explanations. Fear fueled anger at her impulsive foolishness. “Have you no sense, child!” He bent over the soaked and tearful Pippa. “Has no one told you
never
to get between fighting dogs … or cats for that matter. You could have been torn to pieces.” He picked up her arm and examined the skin beneath the ripped sleeve.

“Rolly wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said, but she looked down at her arm, sufficiently discomfited for Hugh to guess that the lesson had been given before.

“He wouldn’t have known what he was doing,” he said as severely as before. “I would have expected you to have more sense, Pippa!” He pushed the torn sleeve away from her arm to expose the wound. He could see no puncture marks and his fear receded.

“It's just a scratch,” he said. “But it needs tending. It would serve you right if it had to be cauterized.”

Pippa put her hand over the scratch, gazing at him with fearful eyes. “It doesn’t, does it?”

“That's for your mother to say,” he said. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. Come.” He took her hand, calling over his shoulder to the groom who led out his horse, “Unsaddle him again. I won’t need him after all.”

Pippa lifted her scratched arm, peering at it closely. “It won’t need cauterizing, will it, sir?”

Relenting, Hugh said as they entered the lower court, “No, I don’t believe so.”

Her dirty little face lit up. “Oh, I’m so glad! I once had to have a bite cauterized when I was playing with a squirrel. It hurt so much, and my skin was all burned. I cried and cried.” She gave a little skip and her shoes squelched.

Hugh stopped on the cobbles. It seemed that the child was about to dismiss her recent experience as casually as she had dismissed others. He had seen men die a most dreadful death from dog bites and he felt a sudden terror at the girl's insouciance. As terrified as if she had been Robin. He bent and lifted her, holding her at eye level. “Pippa, do you understand that an animal's bite can kill you? Do you understand that?” He gave her a little shake in emphasis.

“But if it's cauterized?” she asked hesitantly.

“That doesn’t always stop the poison.” He held her steadily and her wide hazel eyes didn’t avoid his gaze.

“Why?” she asked. “Why is it poison? And why doesn’t it work to burn it?”

Trust this little maid to ask questions for which he had no answers. He set her on her feet again. “I don’t know. I know only that it's true.”

Pippa's nose wrinkled. “I like to know why things happen.”

It occurred to him somewhat irrelevantly that Guinevere had probably been just such a perpetually curious child. “We all do,” he said shortly, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Now do you understand what I’ve been saying?” He wiped her grubby nose with some vigor. “An animal's bite will kill you. Is that clear?”

Pippa nodded disconsolately, rubbing the reddened tip of her nose with the heel of her palm. “But I don’t know what to do about poor Rolly.”

“Pippa, sweeting, why are you so wet?”

“Mama … Mama …” Pippa twitched free of Hugh's grasp and ran to her mother who had just emerged from the house. “Rolly was in a fight and I wanted to save him.”

“In God's name, Pippa, how many times have you been told not to get between fighting dogs. Let me look at your arm.” Guinevere picked up the scratched arm. “Will you
never
learn?” Her anger, unusual and very real, had brought Pippa's tears flowing anew.

“We covered this ground quite thoroughly already,” Hugh said quietly. “ I hope I’ve frightened her sufficiently. But I think this time she escaped with a scratch.”

Guinevere looked up at him, her expression startled. He smiled reassuringly as if there was nothing in the least out of place in his admonishing
her
child. Of course he didn’t know how jealously Guinevere had always guarded her parental role. Neither of her daughters’ stepfathers had ever been permitted to interfere in their upbringing.

To her surprise, she found that she didn’t object to Hugh's intervention. And that struck her as very strange. He was her enemy and yet she trusted him with the most precious thing in the world—her children. She said only, “I see. Well, it's rarely helpful to go over well-traveled ground. Why are you so wet, Pippa?”

“Lord Hugh threw water over me,” the child said, her voice still subdued.

“Over the dogs,” he corrected. “You were in the line of fire.”

Laughter sprang to Guinevere's eyes. She straightened. “Go straight to Tilly and show her your arm. She will decide what's best to be done with it. And ask Nell to change your gown before you catch an ague. By the way,
why aren’t you at your lessons with Pen and Magister Howard?”

“Pen's miserable because she quarreled with the Boy Robin about something and the magister tried to cheer her up by reading some of the
Odyssey
to us but I can’t understand the Greek … neither can Pen or at least only a little but she pretends to … so he said I should go out and pick four different kinds of wildflowers and find their Latin names and I was looking for the flowers when Rolly got in the fight.” This precisely accurate explanation was delivered in an unpunctuated stream.

“What did Pen and Robin quarrel about?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there and Pen wouldn’t tell me.” Pippa sounded indignant.

“Go and get dry.” Guinevere waved her away and Pippa went off without her customary exuberant step, cradling her arm to her chest. Guinevere watched her go, a soft smile curving her mouth.

“Does she remind you of her father?” Hugh asked abruptly.

Guinevere seemed to consider. “A little, in the sweetness of her nature, perhaps. But Pen is more like Timothy, I believe. She has her feet very firmly planted on the ground.”

She shook her head, her smile broadening. “In truth, Pippa is more as I remember myself as a child. Always flitting from one thing to another as new things drew my attention. I was not as indulged, though, so was obliged to learn self-discipline rather more readily than Pippa.”

“She's very young yet.”

“Yes.” Guinevere shrugged. “But I have to admit that even at her age I was translating the
Odyssey
for Magister Howard with some competence. My daughters are not overly interested in scholarship.” She sounded to Hugh as if she found this very puzzling. Then she shrugged again. “Pippa's always in some kind of utterly unintentional
mischief. I must thank you for your timely intervention, Lord Hugh. I am in your debt.”

There was a moment of silence, then he said, “That I doubt, Lady Guinevere.” The smile still lingered in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, but it seemed to have been arrested by something. She felt her own smile fading and swiftly changed the subject.

“What could the children have quarreled about?”

“I daresay we’ll discover all in good time.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She hesitated, then said rather distantly, “We take our midday meal in the dining room behind the banqueting hall. I trust you and Robin will be joining us.”

He frowned. “Last night I accepted your invitation to Pen's birthday feast, but I’ll not intrude upon your hospitality any further. During the course of my investigation, Robin and I will bivouac with my men.”

And that would deprive her of any opportunity to influence him in her favor just as it would make it hard for her to learn how and where his investigation was progressing.

Guinevere abandoned her distant air and said quickly, lightly, “Oh, come, my lord. You wouldn’t deprive Pen and Robin of the chance to make up their quarrel, surely? Besides, don’t you think you owe me the opportunity to get to know me? How can you judge my character correctly if you spend no time with me? You must surely convince yourself that I’m capable of murder before you so accuse me.”

She smiled, her eyes glowing with that damnable invitation again, and Hugh felt the now familiar confusion when his mind and his physical senses went off on divergent courses.

“Are you afraid getting to know me might compromise your investigation in some way?” she inquired softly when he hesitated. “Do you fear some sorcery, my lord?”

There was no disguising the mocking challenge behind the sweetly voiced question. Hugh felt the sun's heat on the back of his neck; the scent of rosemary and lavender perfumed the air; blue fire sparked from the sapphire brooch she wore at the square neckline of her gown where the soft white lawn of her chemise showed. Her hood was of the same ivory silk that lined the slashed and puffed sleeves of her rose velvet gown.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, almost without volition. “But I doubt I’ll fall victim, madam.”

“How will you know if you hide beyond my gates?” She laughed, softly and melodiously, and her eyes still challenged him even as they invited him. “I find it faintly ridiculous that when men fear a woman they call her sorceress.”

It was not a challenge Hugh of Beaucaire could resist. It stung him even as it enticed him. “I will accept your hospitality, madam, if only to prove to you that I conduct my investigations without prejudice,” he declared.

Guinevere laughed again and there was no disguising her disbelief. “My lord, you come here with extreme prejudice; you owe me the opportunity to change your mind.”

His eyes narrowed. “You are welcome to try, my lady.” He bowed.

“Then we have a bargain.” She held out her hand, the rings on her long slim fingers sparkling in the sun. He remembered how she’d removed the rings the previous night, one by one, hanging each one upon the branches of the little silver orange tree on her table. She had taken them off with all the languid sensuality of a woman removing her garments.

His scalp tightened. If the Lady Guinevere wanted to play this game, she would find she had drawn a worthy opponent. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes holding hers as he kissed her fingers with slow deliberation.

And Guinevere, who had felt so much in control of the
exchange, suddenly realized that the reins were slipping from her grasp.

She said with a light laugh, “There is something quite deliciously
piquant,
I think one would call it, about offering hospitality to the enemy. Don’t you agree, Lord Hugh?”

“And something equally piquant about accepting it, my lady,” he returned blandly. “If you’ll excuse me, I must search out Robin before we dine. He had some tasks to perform this morning, I would make sure they are done.”

“Of course. We’ll meet at noon.” Guinevere swept him a curtsy, her rose velvet skirts fanning around her, then she turned back to the house.

Hugh remained where he was for a minute. Of course he didn’t fear her. Fear was no rational response to a woman who was quite simply unlike any woman he’d ever known … a woman who ran her own life in the way that men did; a woman who took what was hers and, if he was right, what was not hers, with the same ruthless skill as Privy Seal. He didn’t fear her.

But she excited him.

It was an acknowledgment he would rather not have made. With a brusque shake of his head Hugh went off to the bivouac in search of his son.

Robin was sitting on the ground in front of Hugh's tent assiduously polishing a breastplate. He looked up and gave his father a rather tense smile as Hugh strode into the small encampment.

“What's amiss, Robin?” Hugh said cheerfully. “You look as if you lost a crown and found a groat.”

“Oh, ’tis nothing, sir.” Robin rubbed vigorously at the dull metal.

“Did Pen not care for her birthday gift?” Hugh asked, bringing up the subject in a roundabout fashion. He wouldn’t want his son to know that his quarrel with Pen was common knowledge. He sat on a canvas stool beside the boy.

“She liked it … or she said she did,” Robin mumbled. He laid aside the breastplate and took up Hugh's massive sword belt with its great silver buckle. “Should I wax the leather, sir?”

Hugh stretched his legs and rested his hands on his thighs. “If you think it needs it. But why the long face, my son?”

Robin shrugged. “Pen says that the land we’re claiming doesn’t belong to us. She says it's her mother's.”

Ah, so that was it. It had to come sometime, Hugh supposed. He said matter-of-factly, “Well, that's hardly surprising. She would agree with her mother. But my quarrel with Lady Guinevere is not reason enough for you and Pen to fall out.”

“But we did,” Robin said flatly, dipping a cloth in a container of beeswax. “I would be loyal to you, sir, as Pen would be loyal to Lady Guinevere. How could it be otherwise?”

“Oh.” Hugh pulled at his earlobe thoughtfully. “That is very commendable of you both, and certainly understandable. You should discuss it over dinner. See if you can’t come to some agreement about the annoying vagaries of parents.”

Robin grinned even as he looked up from his work in surprise. “Are we to stay in the Hall then? Even though you and Lady Guinevere are at odds?”

“Lady Guinevere has invited us to do so.” Hugh reached over and ruffled Robin's nut-brown curls. “Even when one is at odds, one can behave in a civilized manner as you and Pen will no doubt work out for yourselves. I see no reason to sleep upon the hard ground when there's a soft bed on offer. We’ll have enough of tents on the journey back to London.”