The Widow's Kiss by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online

the proximity of Pippa's chatter. Pippa looked momentarily disconsolate at being separated from the novelty of the boy's company but it was her sister's celebration and she didn’t argue.
    They took their places and the rest of the company satdown. The clatter of knives, the hum and buzz of voices rose above the music from the gallery. Guinevere found herself noticing her companion's hands. Noticing how square and workmanlike they were. Nothing of the effete aristocrat in the thick knuckles, the strong wrists, the large fingers. He wore a gold signet ring with a great winking sapphire; that and a ruby in the brim of his dark velvet hat were his only adornments. His richly decorated garments needed no jewels to set them off, however. She had the feeling that he wore these clothes uncomfortably, or at least with less ease than he would wear the more serviceable riding garments of a soldier.
    “Does something interest you?” he inquired, one eyebrow lifted. “I should count myself flattered.” There was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. Once more she was in the company of Hugh of Beaucaire who regarded her with undisguised hostility.
    “Don’t be,” she said, reaching for her goblet. It held a deep red wine from Aquitaine. She glanced at her companion, waiting for him to sample his own goblet.
    Instead, Hugh took hers as she set it on the table and drank from it very deliberately. As the page behind him leaned forward to place sliced boar on the gilded platter before him, he waved the boy aside.
    Guinevere stared at him in momentary confusion.
    He smiled his cold unpleasant smile and drank again. “We drink from one goblet, madam, and we eat from one platter.”
    “Whatever do you mean?”
    “Men die in your company,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face as he pushed the goblet towards her.

3
    G uinevere's fingers curled around the slender stem of the goblet. For a second she was afraid the fine Venetian crystal would snap between her fingers as she fought for composure. She must appear indifferent, show no hint of vulnerability to his insults and taunts.
    She ignored his statement, inquiring coolly, “How do you find the wine, my lord?” She carried the goblet once more to her lips.
    “As fine as any from the region,” he returned. “I was forgetting, of course, that you inherited some vineyards in Aquitaine from your …” He frowned as if considering. “Your third husband, wasn’t it?” Casually he leaned over and forked a piece of roast boar from her platter. His eyes resting on her pale countenance were as sardonic as his tone.
    “Yes, he bequeathed me the vineyards among other estates,” Guinevere agreed calmly, meeting his eye.
    “And what exactly was it that sent this particular husband to his eternal rest? I forget.” He chewed his meat, swallowed, reached again for the goblet to wash down the mouthful.
    “The sweating sickness that killed so many in London,my lord, took its toll in the north some months later,” she replied. She had been hungry after the day's hunting but now all appetite had deserted her. The meat on her plate looked gray and greasy instead of rich and succulent and the wine seemed to have acquired a metallic tang.
    Hugh said nothing for a minute, leaning back as the page behind his chair refilled the shared goblet and placed a spoonful of parsnip fritters on the platter together with a heap of small sausages.
    It was true, he reflected, that the sweating sickness had swept the country in the year that Lord Kirk had supposedly died of a wasting disease. He cast a sidelong look at Lord Kirk's widow.
    Guinevere turned her head and met his eyes. A cold smile touched her mouth as she inquired with a delicately raised eyebrow, “You are wondering, my lord, if I might have done away with my third husband under the guise of the epidemic?”
    He shrugged, crimson and dark blue silk rippling across his square shoulders. “I am here to look for answers, madam.” He