Read Online The Widow's Kiss by Jane Feather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Feather
Ads: Link
waist and placed them in the box with the pendant. She rose to her feet and very slowly unclasped the gold chain itself, drawing it away from her body, curling the delicate links into the open palm of her hand.
Hugh felt he was losing touch with reality, as if his purpose for being in this fragrant chamber of soft light and shadow was suddenly irrelevant. He pushed his way through the sensual tendrils she was weaving, thrusting aside the dreamlike quality of the moment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice rasped in the quiet. He was not asking for the literal answer she gave him.
“ ’Tis late, my lord, and I wish to uncoif,” she said, sitting at the table again. “Don’t let me distract you from your investigation.” Her eyes darted up to the glass,catching his still-riveted gaze as he stood behind her. For a moment there she had had him; for a moment she had succeeded in deflecting his questions about Stephen's fall. Would he ask them again?
She bent her head and slid off the black silk hood, then reached up to remove the long golden pins of her white coif beneath.
It was too much for Hugh. “God's blood! Where's your tiring woman?”
“In the inner chamber,” she said, gesturing to a door in the far wall. “I had thought you would prefer it if your questions to me were asked and answered in private. I’m sure you’ll wish to talk with Tilly yourself. You wouldn’t like her
evidence
to be affected by what she’d heard me say. Would you, my lord?” She smoothed the folds of the coif and stretched sideways to lay it over a stool.
He found he couldn’t answer her. Her hair was parted and braided, drawn back over her ears and coiled at her nape. Little tendrils escaping from the braids wisped tenderly over her ears and curled on her forehead.
With the same unhurried movements she drew out the long pins that held the plaits in place, her eyes still fixed on his in the glass. “You have seen a woman uncoif before, my lord?” She raised a chiseled golden eyebrow in faint mockery.
He found his tongue. “There are times when such bedchamber intimacy is appropriate and times when it is not, madam. This I deem to be an inappropriate time,” he declared harshly.
Guinevere's soft laugh chimed. “Be that as it may, Lord Hugh, ask your questions of me now. You’ll wish to question my household at your leisure, and they will be obliged to answer you as they can, but I will give you this one opportunity to hear me.”
Her braids fell unloosened to below her shoulders and she began to unplait them, her long white fingers twistingdeftly in the shining white-gold mane. She shook her head and the shimmering mass swung out around her. She reached for an ivory-backed hairbrush and began to pull it through her hair.
Hugh didn’t know what he was doing. He moved a hand and clasped her wrist, his brown fingers dark in the mirror against her white blue-veined skin. She released her hold on the brush and he took it from her, beginning to brush her hair with long smooth rhythmic sweeps. Their eyes held in the mirror and for long minutes they were contained in a silence broken only by the soft swish of the brush and the occasional electric crackle from the pale river of her hair.
“You have some skill as a tiring woman, my lord.” Guinevere broke the silence, her voice low and husky as she bent her head beneath the rhythmic strokes.
“It's been many years since I’ve done this for a woman,” he replied, his voice as low as hers.
“Robin's mother?”
He nodded.
“She must have been very dear to you.”
His hand stilled. He stared at the woman's face in the mirror and as he stared Sarah's face came back to him. A round freckled face with a snub nose and merry brown eyes. So different from Lady Guinevere's sculptured beauty. He had never heard Sarah mock, or taunt, or say an unkind thing. She had not been learned except in the ways of kindness and motherhood, schooled only in the management of a
Hugh felt he was losing touch with reality, as if his purpose for being in this fragrant chamber of soft light and shadow was suddenly irrelevant. He pushed his way through the sensual tendrils she was weaving, thrusting aside the dreamlike quality of the moment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice rasped in the quiet. He was not asking for the literal answer she gave him.
“ ’Tis late, my lord, and I wish to uncoif,” she said, sitting at the table again. “Don’t let me distract you from your investigation.” Her eyes darted up to the glass,catching his still-riveted gaze as he stood behind her. For a moment there she had had him; for a moment she had succeeded in deflecting his questions about Stephen's fall. Would he ask them again?
She bent her head and slid off the black silk hood, then reached up to remove the long golden pins of her white coif beneath.
It was too much for Hugh. “God's blood! Where's your tiring woman?”
“In the inner chamber,” she said, gesturing to a door in the far wall. “I had thought you would prefer it if your questions to me were asked and answered in private. I’m sure you’ll wish to talk with Tilly yourself. You wouldn’t like her
evidence
to be affected by what she’d heard me say. Would you, my lord?” She smoothed the folds of the coif and stretched sideways to lay it over a stool.
He found he couldn’t answer her. Her hair was parted and braided, drawn back over her ears and coiled at her nape. Little tendrils escaping from the braids wisped tenderly over her ears and curled on her forehead.
With the same unhurried movements she drew out the long pins that held the plaits in place, her eyes still fixed on his in the glass. “You have seen a woman uncoif before, my lord?” She raised a chiseled golden eyebrow in faint mockery.
He found his tongue. “There are times when such bedchamber intimacy is appropriate and times when it is not, madam. This I deem to be an inappropriate time,” he declared harshly.
Guinevere's soft laugh chimed. “Be that as it may, Lord Hugh, ask your questions of me now. You’ll wish to question my household at your leisure, and they will be obliged to answer you as they can, but I will give you this one opportunity to hear me.”
Her braids fell unloosened to below her shoulders and she began to unplait them, her long white fingers twistingdeftly in the shining white-gold mane. She shook her head and the shimmering mass swung out around her. She reached for an ivory-backed hairbrush and began to pull it through her hair.
Hugh didn’t know what he was doing. He moved a hand and clasped her wrist, his brown fingers dark in the mirror against her white blue-veined skin. She released her hold on the brush and he took it from her, beginning to brush her hair with long smooth rhythmic sweeps. Their eyes held in the mirror and for long minutes they were contained in a silence broken only by the soft swish of the brush and the occasional electric crackle from the pale river of her hair.
“You have some skill as a tiring woman, my lord.” Guinevere broke the silence, her voice low and husky as she bent her head beneath the rhythmic strokes.
“It's been many years since I’ve done this for a woman,” he replied, his voice as low as hers.
“Robin's mother?”
He nodded.
“She must have been very dear to you.”
His hand stilled. He stared at the woman's face in the mirror and as he stared Sarah's face came back to him. A round freckled face with a snub nose and merry brown eyes. So different from Lady Guinevere's sculptured beauty. He had never heard Sarah mock, or taunt, or say an unkind thing. She had not been learned except in the ways of kindness and motherhood, schooled only in the management of a
Similar Books
