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 theexchange, 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
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 theexchange, 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
Similar Books
