The Widow's Kiss by Jane Feather

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 unintentionalmischief. 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