Heart of Gold (16 page)

Oh, God! Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. In the reflected light a glint of metal flickered from the dark valley between her breasts. Taking the great emerald ring in her hand, she gazed down at the rich green of the stone, at the gleaming gold. Just like her own identity, her own true self that lay hidden beneath layers of false shields, after all these years, she still carried, hidden close to her heart, the precious gift. Of course, it was not the ring, but the memory that went with it that Elizabeth cherished. She thought of him quite often—the man who had been the first and the last to make her feel as a woman should feel.

How odd that now she should be going to Scotland. Elizabeth wondered if she would see Ambrose Macpherson there. She’d recognize him, but he could never recognize her.

With a sigh Elizabeth slipped off the leather thong that held the emerald ring over her head and hung it on the dividing screen.

The sound of people noisily making their way along the street wafted in the open windows and tugged her attention away. Yes, she had tried to pretend—to fool herself—into believing she was happy. She wandered to the window and peered past one of the shutters. The crowd of revelers was just turning the corner at the end of the street. Above the darkened villa across the small street, a million stars glimmered like diamonds on the black satin fabric of night.

Elizabeth shook off the nonsense that cluttered her mind. She had reason to be proud. That, at least, was true. It had taken her four long years to achieve the status she enjoyed today—status many men worked their whole lives to achieve...often without success. But she had talent. She knew that. She’d worked hard to establish herself, to display her gift while keeping secret the lie beneath it all. So in the process, Elizabeth Boleyn had fooled everyone, including herself.

Four years ago she had set her mind to do the impossible, to achieve something no other woman had ever done before. And she had done it. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Mary blabbing her true identity and her past connection to Henry VIII to an English knight a week ago, they would still all be staying in Florence for a good long while. But even with Mary’s public admission, tomorrow she would be traveling to the court of Scotland to paint the portraits of the royal family.

But now, standing alone in the dim light of her room—the same familiar ache settling in her chest—Elizabeth looked up into star-studded sky and thought of the price she had paid. She could never bask in the warm glow of her successes. Not as a painter, nor as a woman. Never. But that had been her choice.

Impulsively, Elizabeth strode quickly to her sister’s chest and rooted through it. Pulling out a small bottle, she turned to the tub and uncorked the vial.

With an air that was almost triumphant, Elizabeth poured out the rosewater into the bath. “Tonight, at least, you can be a woman!” she whispered, slipping the robe from her shoulders and lowering herself into the fragrant warmth.

Ambrose tied his horse by the small piazza and walked toward the front door. Peering up at the darkened house, he wondered if his friend Gavin had been right about the artist already being on the road to Scotland. But then, seeing a shadow pass by the partially open window on the top floor, the warrior stepped up and knocked at the door.

Ambrose hadn’t run into any difficulty locating the place. Although those he passed had not known of a resident by the name of Phillipe de Anjou, they all had seemed to know where the merchant Bardi lived. Now, standing before the entryway, Ambrose looked back at a boisterous group passing by. One of the men paused long enough to shout in rather bawdy terms a specific offer for some female living within the walls. But then, seeing the huge Highlander standing on the steps, the man hushed his words and continued on hurriedly. Ambrose knocked at the door once again, but this time less patiently. This Bardi houses some interesting people under his roof, Ambrose mused.

The heavy carved door swung slowly open on its noisy hinges. A thickset older man peered out at the giant suspiciously.

“I’m here to see the painter.”

The man continued to gawk wide-eyed at the warrior.

“The painter? Phillipe de Anjou?” Ambrose asked curtly. “Does he live here?”

“Sí, m’lord.”

“I’m here to see him.”

“You can’t, m’lord.”

“Is he not at home?” Ambrose demanded shortly. He was tired and his patience was wearing thin. “Where has he gone? I need to find him tonight.”

The porter shook his head, denying the request and trying to push the door shut.

Ambrose placed his heavy boot firmly in the doorjamb and stopped the door from flattening his face. The porter’s face reflected his sudden terror.

“I mean no harm to anyone.” Ambrose didn’t need a hysterical servant on his hand right now. “I’m the Baron of Roxburgh. A friend of Duke Giovanni. I am to take the painter to Scotland with me. Now where is he?”

The man’s face brightened with recognition at the Highlander’s words. “Baron! We didn’t...Signor and Signora Bardi were not expecting you.”

Ambrose really had very little interest in the Bardis. “Then the painter Phillipe is at home?”

The porter’s eyes involuntarily flickered upward, and Ambrose knew he had arrived in time.

“Signor Bardi is dining at Signor Condivi’s tonight. We expect them back shortly. But if you will wait here, I’ll get the letter that my master wrote for you. It’s the letter that I was to give to you if you arrived after they had departed tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a reply, the man disappeared inside the house, leaving the door ajar.

There was no time to waste. Ambrose was not about to let the merchant make decisions for him. The servant had said nothing about the painter being out with Bardi, and, following the direction of the man’s gaze, Ambrose had a good idea where he was. He had not ridden like a madman for the past two days just to be left standing at the door.

Pushing through the entryway, Ambrose stepped in a large, darkened central hall. The embers in the large fireplace at the far end were enough to illuminate the room with a dim amber glow. The heavy furniture looked well made, but not ostentatious. This Bardi was not a poor man, but he was clearly not one of Florence’s merchant princes.

There was no sign of the porter. Quietly Ambrose worked his way across the room, easily finding the stairs. As he got ready to make his way up from the ground floor, his eyes were caught by the large portraits that decorated every wall.

Even in the dim light, they were magnificent. The bright oils gleamed in the flickering glow of the fire, and although the features of the subjects depicted were not discernible in the dark room, the bold colors and dynamic movement captured in the paintings were evidence of a master artist.

Climbing the stone steps to the first-floor landing, Ambrose paused before an open window and gazed at a painting on the wall. The waxing moon was just rising, and the Highlander’s eyes lingered on the Madonna and Child. There was something familiar in the face of the Madonna. But it was not the customary depiction. The pout on the Virgin’s face was subtle, but unmistakable. The Christ child’s round face, however, projected the joyful innocence of a child at play, and the tiny hands that reached up for the Madonna’s face were so realistic that Ambrose could not resist reaching out and touching the canvas.

He knew this man’s work. He looked closer. There was a signature on this painting. There wasn’t any on the one that hung in his study.

Suddenly a sound from somewhere at the back of the house roused the warrior, and he continued up the stairs, taking them now three at a time. At the top, Ambrose stood and looked down a short hallway at a partially open door.

Like the first hint of dawn, a beam of golden light spilled into the unlit corridor. The Highlander slowly and carefully worked his way to the door. Noiselessly, he pushed the door open and entered the large room.

The silence that greeted him was complete, and Ambrose let his eyes roam, taking in the total disarray of the room. To his left, a tall, painted dividing screen stood, and on a small table against the wall directly ahead, a small oil lamp cast its warm light on the wall. The warrior’s eyes were immediately drawn upward to the painting that hung above the lamp. It was a panoramic scene of noble pageantry, and around the equestrian figures at the center, tents spread out like nuggets of gold amid the rolling green meadows.

Ambrose smiled, recognizing the depicted event. Moving closer, he studied the painting. Calais. Obviously the artist had been there.

Elizabeth Boleyn. That was what Ambrose best remembered of the event. The Field of Cloth of Gold. She had walked out of his life without ever completely entering it. But standing there, lost in the picture, Ambrose felt in his chest that gnawing sense of loss. That same gnawing ache he felt every time he thought of the woman. For the life of him, he couldn’t explain why he savored her memory as he did. Still, wherever he went—around the globe, in every court in Christendom, in the midst of street crowds—his eyes continued to search for her. He sometimes wondered if she was happy with the man she’d run away with. Yes, he had pursued her far enough to know that Elizabeth Boleyn had never returned to England with her father. Neither had she returned to her home in France.

This painter has more than just skill, Ambrose thought, shaking off his melancholy. The man has a social conscience and real depth of understanding. Ambrose focused on the masterwork before him. The depiction of the poor, the mockery of the class differences—these things spoke volumes about the artist. And then the joust. Looking closer, Ambrose couldn’t help the smile that was creeping across his face. This man had painted Garnesche and him, with the exception that Ambrose was wearing a kilt. No armor, just his tartan and kilt. Ambrose didn’t recall meeting any of the court artists during his time at the event.

Ambrose chuckled to himself and then turned. As he did, his eyes were drawn to an object hanging from the wooden screen. Hanging at the end of a leather thong. A ring.

An emerald ring.

Elizabeth closed her eyes tight as the sting of the soap worked its way through her eyelashes. Finishing the work of lathering her hair, she reached blindly over the side of the tub for the bucket of clean water, but her hand failed to find the handle. Cursing quietly, Elizabeth tried to rub the soap from her eyes with the backs of her hands.

The shock of the water flooding over her head jolted Elizabeth upright. Forcing her eyes open, she stared up in alarm.

Then her heart stopped.

“You are as beautiful as I remember.”

Her mouth began to move, but her tongue failed to respond.

Ambrose looked down at the incredible beauty before him. She was rising like some raven-haired Venus from the watery recesses of his mind. The smooth glistening skin of her face, of her shoulders and arms, the curves of her full, round breasts threatening to emerge from the covering bath, the full inviting lips, and the large black eyes, mesmerizing and demanding in their power.

Elizabeth gathered her knees to her chest and, crossing her arms, tried to cover her exposed flesh. Her mouth felt dry, her throat constricted. Ambrose Macpherson stood motionless before the tub in his Highland gear. She blinked uncertainly, somehow expecting that he would disappear at any moment. Her mind was playing tricks on her. The figure looming above her could not be real. The dark, handsome face was just a figment of her overly active imagination. But the giant simply continued to stand there, his powerful frame relaxed, his stance wide and confident. This was the way she remembered him. The knee-high leather boots, the kilted hips, and the Macpherson tartan crossing his chest. His dust-covered gear brought back another memory. The memory of a fighter just leaving the tournament grounds. And then the intense blue eyes—yes, he was just as she remembered.

“This must be a dream,” she finally whispered.

“It must be,” Ambrose repeated, as he knelt beside the tub and took her shining face in his large hands. Pulling her close to him, his eyes swept over her features and then locked onto her wet, inviting lips.

My God, he’s real. The realization hit her as Ambrose’s thumbs gently caressed her cheeks and his eyes roamed her face. Elizabeth’s mind told her to panic, to pull away, to tell him to leave. But her heart wouldn’t let her. She just couldn’t. Since she had last seen him, there had been something growing in Elizabeth that she could not deny. Tonight, right now, there was nothing she wanted more than to be kissed by this man. She wanted to be touched, to feel as she’d felt once before.

Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the moment as he tipped her chin up, reaching for her lips. Hovering somewhere in the hazy cloud just above the subconscious, Elizabeth felt her protective shield, her armor peel away, only to be replaced by another garment. Soft, delicate, it was a fabric of sheer magic, it was a moment of release. Feeling his face descending to hers, Elizabeth knew she had no choice but to respond.

As Ambrose touched his lips to hers, he felt her hands reach up and caress his face. Their lips brushed gently in search of remembrance.

As if outside herself, Elizabeth felt her own body shudder as Ambrose’s hands reached into the water and encircled her waist. His mouth was covering hers now, and she opened her lips willingly to his.

As his tongue delved into the depths of her mouth, a heat coursed through her body, scorching her with a sudden flame. Elizabeth’s startled hands flew up to encircle his neck. Her tongue, her mouth molded to his and her body ached with the need to follow. A boldness took control of her as her hands traced his back, his neck. Her fingers were raking through his hair, while her mouth answered the seductive rhythm of his thrusting tongue.

Ambrose was oblivious to all that he’d come for. She had awakened in him a desire so fast, so unbridled, that he was in near danger of falling victim to his need. There was only one thing that mattered. He could see the passion in her eyes. She was in his arms, and she was willing. He wanted her. One moment Elizabeth was half submerged in the tub, the next she was standing in his embrace, his arms about her waist. Ambrose’s mouth moved insistently against hers as a rush of wild desire directed his action. His hands roamed her back, cupping her buttocks and pressing her against his hard arousal. He smothered her gasp with his kiss as she pressed her length against his.