The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “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?”

  “Yes, sweeting. You’ll need your cloak.”

  Tilly had awoken Pippa who opened her mouth on a stream of words only to have it firmly closed by the tiring woman's warning finger. The girls stood shivering in the aftermath of sleep while Tilly and Guinevere bent to wrap them warmly in their cloaks.

  Lamplight suddenly shone, moving against the rain-wet canvas of the tent. A hand moved over the laces that fastened the tent flap.

  Slowly, with a despairing sense of inevitability, Guinevere stood straight, one hand resting on Pen's shoulder. The lamp threw its light into the tent and Hugh of Beaucaire, his iron-gray hair flat and dark with rain, stepped inside.

  In his anger at her plotting, his very real fear that she had tried to poison him, he had been ready with sarcasm, with triumph at outwitting her, but now as he saw the frightened faces of the children he knew he must save his triumph for when he was alone with Guinevere. He spoke quietly. “Madam, I would have speech with you.”

  He turned to the tiring woman. “Woman, I would have you put the children back to bed. ’Tis too foul a night for travel.” He stepped backwards into the rain, holding the lantern high as he awaited Guinevere.

  “Mama … ?” The children spoke in unison, scared and confused.

  She knelt down on the grass and tried to smile. “Well, it seems we’re going to London after all,
my loves. You mustn’t worry now. Go back to bed and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Hugh was getting wet. “Madam.” His voice was now sharply imperative.

  Guinevere stood up. She touched her children's faces, nodded at Tilly, and went out into the rain, drawing the hood of her cloak over her head.

  “Something appears to be preventing my guard from making his appointed rounds,” Hugh observed, taking her arm in a firm clasp as he marched her towards his tent. “I haven’t seen his light for close to five minutes.”

  “Really,” Guinevere said distantly. “Perhaps the rain put it out.”

  “Perhaps so,” he agreed with every appearance of amiability. “I daresay we’ll discover the truth soon enough.” He held open the flap of his tent for her.

  She entered, tossed back the hood of her cloak in a shower of raindrops. Her pale hair was parted in the middle and the silvery braids were coiled around her ears.

  Hugh set the lantern on the table. She looked so much younger without the hood and coif, so damnably innocent and vulnerable. “What were you trying to poison me with?” he demanded harshly.

  Guinevere shrugged. “No poison. Just valerian. You would have had a good night's sleep for once. You might even have been grateful. I take it you didn’t drink it.”

  “You will have to get up very early in the morning to get the better of me, madam. I give you fair warning,” he told her, feeling an overpowering relief that she hadn’t intended his death. Or at least, that was what she said. He had no proof. It could as easily have been poison as valerian. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! How was he ever to know what she was?

  Guinevere shrugged in what could have been either denial or acceptance. She glanced down at the table where the lamp glowed, and saw that he’d been writing; the ink was dry now on the parchment.

  He followed her glance. “A dispatch to Warwick Castle. My lord of Warwick will provide us with a few days of hospitality on the king's command. I’ll send a messenger on ahead in the morning.”

  “ ’Tis a long way to Warwick.”

  “Aye. By then we’ll be glad of hot water, soft beds, efficient servants, and food from a kitchen.”

  Guinevere made no reply. She walked back to the tent entrance that he’d let fall as he came in after her. She stood with her back to him. “How did you know?”

  “As I said, you’ll have to get up very early in the morning to get the better of me.”

  “That's no answer.” She remained with her back to him.

  “You gave yourself away.”

  Surprised, she spun round to face him. “How?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed. But I did. There was something about your manner when you went off into the woods that alerted me. I followed you. I heard your signals, and then this evening, I heard you with Greene. I knew you intended to remove the perimeter guard so I waited until his rounds seemed to have stopped and then stepped in.”

  “I see. You let me think we were going to succeed when all along you knew you were going to stop me.” She gave a short angry laugh and turned away from him again. “Did you enjoy humiliating me? Did you enjoy letting me hope while you were preparing to dash me down?”

  He ran a hand over the back of his neck as if it itched. “I was angry with you, Guinevere. Angry that you would think you could outwit me. I needed to prove to you that you can’t.”

  “Why?” she demanded in an undertone, still with her back to him. “Why would you stop us? We would have gone into penniless exile. Isn’t that enough for you? You would have had then the estates you claim. What more do you want, Hugh of Beaucaire? Must you see me destroyed, my children destroyed? No dowries, no husbands. You know the realities.” She turned back to him, her eyes bitter as aloes. “You want to see us all destroyed?”

  “No … no … I don’t want that.” He moved towards her, unable to bear the pain in her eyes, to bear his own guilt. “Not for anything would I see you and your children ruined.”

  “But you will do so,” she said. “For whatever twisted reasons of your own, you’ll destroy us.”

  “Damn you! I will not.”

  “Don’t deceive yourself!” she taunted. “You don’t deceive me with your prating, your gentleness to my children. You’re a monster, Hugh of Beaucaire!”

  “Not so!” He seized her elbows, she turned aside, his hand clasped the back of her head, cradling her skull. She leaned back into his palm, their eyes met.

  “What do you want, my lord?” She threw it at him as a challenge even as she knew the answer and knew she had opened Pandora's box. She swallowed, moistened dry lips, seeing her face reflected in his eyes. “What do you want,” she repeated softly.

  “You,” he responded. “As you know full well, my lady.” With almost agonizing slowness he lowered his mouth to hers, almost as if he was giving her time to pull away.

  But she didn’t. Why didn’t she?

  His lips for a second were light, soft on her mouth, then he caught her face between his hands and he was kissing her with an almost savage ferocity. There was an instant when it seemed she would resist him, then with a shuddering little sigh her mouth opened beneath his insistent tongue and she was returning his kiss with the same wild need.

  She put her arms around his neck, drinking him in, licking along the inside of his lips, exploring his taste as she drew deeply on his tongue, grazing it lightly with her teeth.

  He moved his hands beneath her cloak, smoothing down her back, over the swell of her backside beneath the silk of her gown. She pressed herself against his length and her belly jumped as she felt his penis beneath his hose, hard, insistent, wanting, against her thighs.

  Her head fell back and he kissed her throat, licked slowly along the line of her jaw, tenderly, leisurely almost, even as his hands gripped her bottom and his erection jutted against her.

  There were too many clothes between them. Feverishly she reached up to unclasp her cloak, letting it slip to the ground. It was as if a great weight had fallen from her. In the same moment, impatiently he shrugged out of his gown.

  His mouth moved down the column of her throat to the smooth white flesh of her bosom above the ruffled edge of her chemise where it showed above the neckline of her gown. His blind hands were now deftly unlacing the back of her gown. He raised his head for an instant as he slipped the loosened gown forward over her shoulders. It fell to her feet. They stood in a puddle of silk and velvet.

  He bent to kiss her breast, pushing aside the ruffles of the chemise to devour the sweetly swelling flesh, drawing his tongue down the deep cleft.

  He held her hips in the woolen hose as he kissed her breasts and with rough haste she unbuttoned his doublet, pushing it from him. She tore at the buttons of his shirt in her anxiety to feel his skin, pressed her own lips to the fast-beating pulse in his throat. She curled her fingers in the light scattering of graying hair on his chest, reveling in the feel of the muscles beneath, the clearly defined rib cage. She clasped his narrow waist and bent to kiss his nipples, flicking her tongue until they hardened into tight erect buds.

  Neither of them spoke. There was a fierce intensity to their movements even when they were leisured, as if they were both afraid of interruption. Not from without, but from within. As if they were both afraid that the other would make this wild magic stop.

  Hugh unfastened the tapes of her riding hose and thrust his hands deep inside, grasping her bottom with a sigh that made her shudder. He moved one hand to her belly, his nails scraping the soft skin, while his other remained on her backside. His fingers reached down inside the hose, threading through the dampening tangle of dark hair, reaching deep between her thighs into the hot furrow of her body. He held her thus between his two hands. Her arms were again around his neck, her mouth on his, and she rose on her toes with a soft groan of hungry delight, opening herself for the probing intimacy of the twin caresses.

  He lifted her slightly in this fashion, tumbling her backward
s onto his narrow cot, dropping to his knees as she released his neck, flinging her arms above her head in a gesture of wanton abandon. He peeled her hose to her ankles where it became entangled with her boots, and pushed up the chemise so that it wrapped around her throat in a white froth of linen and lace.

  Guinevere felt more naked than if she was completely so, and it sent her excitement to fever pitch. He was kissing her breasts as his hands continued to stroke between her thighs. The fur covering on the bed was hot and soft beneath her bare back. She lifted her hips to meet the jut of his penis, and thrust her hands into the waist of his hose, reaching down to grasp his backside, feeling how the skin was coarser than her own, slightly hairy. It made her want to laugh with delight. She moved a hand around to grasp his penis. It was hard, hot, rigid with corded veins.

  She scrabbled at his hose, desperate to release this that she wanted so much, more it seemed at this moment than she had ever wanted anything before. He helped her with a judicious wriggle of his hips so that the hose like her own now tangled around his booted feet.

  She wanted to coil her legs around his waist but couldn’t because of the tangle of hose and boots. He raised her legs himself, running his hands down the backs of her thighs, then he lifted them high over her head and drove deep within her as he knelt upright, holding her ankles. She tried to hold on … hold back the wave of delirious unspeakable delight that grew and grew in her belly and loins. It had been so long, an eternity since she had felt this. And she had never expected to feel it again.

  She bit her lip, tasting salt blood, as she fought back the ecstatic cries that would betray them. She looked up into his eyes. He gazed down at her, lost in his own approaching tempest. They had said not a word but now, very softly, he whispered her name, then he threw back his head with a bitten-back groan and his tempest became hers and hers became his.

  He collapsed on his belly beside her, his head buried in the fur coverlet, his breathing fast and heavy. He cupped her left breast in the palm of his hand, feeling the racing of her heart beneath her damp skin. Then the sound of voices beyond the flimsy canvas of the tent brought him up to his knees.