Heart of Gold (20 page)

“What is it?” he ordered. “What is your request?”

Elizabeth stood as well and pushed the chair aside. “My family goes with me. To Scotland.”

“Your family is in England. I’ll not go there to get them.”

“You don’t have to.” She leaned against the desk and stretched her legs.

Ambrose watched her shapely legs showing attractively through the thin hose. These Florentines are blind, he thought.

“Mary and Jaime are with me here. I am responsible for them, so they have to go with us.”

“Mary is your sister,” Ambrose remembered. “She disappeared when you did.”

“You searched me out!” Elizabeth stated with surprise in her voice. The idea that this nobleman might have tried to find out about her whereabouts after they separated four years ago had never occurred to her.

Ambrose ignored her comment. “Your sister, as I recall, was trouble in the making. This is a long journey to Scotland. She’ll be disturbing my men. I know already I don’t like it. And this Jaime, who is she?”

Elizabeth paused. She couldn’t go without them. How could she leave Mary and little Jaime behind? That was no option. And the way the Highlander spoke, he seemed somehow willing to take her and only her. Ambrose Macpherson would not understand the bond that connected the three of them. Unless...

“The child...”

“Your daughter.”

Elizabeth stared.

“I won’t leave her behind. I have to take her.”

Ambrose watched her face. “How old is she?”

“Merely three.”

Ambrose pointed at the painting on the wall. “Is that her?”

Elizabeth nodded in silence.

“She looks like you.” His eyes traveled from the portrait of the child to the face of the woman standing in the study. “Who is the father?”

Her eyes shot up to meet his. She had not expected him to ask. “He is not around.”

“Who is the father?” he repeated the question.

“Why do you ask?” she protested. She had not expected to have to lie like this. Now, already, she was afraid. Afraid of getting caught in her own web of lies.

“One of the conditions,” Ambrose said shortly, “is that you answer my questions.”

“If I answer, does that mean that you’ll take us with you?”

“I’ll tell you once I have the answer.”

It was impossible to reason with the man. Joseph was right—Ambrose Macpherson was used to having things his way and only his way. “He is dead. It doesn’t matter who he was. He’s dead.”

Ambrose could hear that there was no regret in her voice. Had this man simply been another “curiosity” for Elizabeth Boleyn? As Ambrose himself had been? But there was a difference. She had been interested enough in this other man to stay and share her passion. After all, she had borne his child. The man was dead, but Ambrose still felt a gnawing pang of envy. It didn’t make sense, but he did nonetheless.

“What was his name?”

Elizabeth panicked. What happened if she picked a name that he knew? She wished he would stop his questioning. “His name...”

“What was it? And how did you two meet?” Ambrose was becoming less patient with his string of unanswered questions. “How did he die?”

She took a deep breath and resigned herself to going through with it. “Phillipe de Anjou.” Seeing the surprised look on Ambrose’s face, she felt encouraged and continued. “He was an artist. A French artist I knew in Paris. When I ran from Calais, we met in Paris, and he brought me here. He died when we stopped in Milan, so I took over his name and his work.” Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s it. All of it.”

“How did he die?”

“How?” she repeated. How the devil would I know, she cursed inwardly.

“Was he poisoned? Did someone stab him? Did he fall off a wagon? There are usually reasons for a young man dying.”

“Oh!” she acknowledged. “But...but he wasn’t young. He was old. He died of old age...and a fever.”

“You slept with a rickety old man and gave him a child?” Ambrose nearly smiled openly. Now he understood her willingness in his arms.

“You have no right to talk about him so flippantly.” Elizabeth looked away. “Phillipe was a good man, and he cared a great deal for us. I remember him fondly, and I cherish his memory. I would appreciate it if you would stop your mockery of something you don’t understand.”

Ambrose studied her downturned face. He could not see her expression. But from the small shudder of her shoulders, he guessed she was upset, perhaps even crying. Hell, he might as well take her and the whole herd of them. So what if she was discovered? If she was unmasked in Scotland, she’d have a better chance of surviving it there than she would in Florence.

“You are going with me.”

“You mean we’re all going, m’lord.” She turned her gaze back at him, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

Ambrose could tell that she looked flushed. “Your daughter and you.”

“My sister, my daughter, and I.”

“Nay. Your sister is trouble.”

Elizabeth faced him head-on. “I need her for my façade. Everyone thinks Jaime is hers. It’s important.”

“Where we are going, it won’t matter. Be ready, we’ll be leaving Florence in a week.”

She shook her head in argument. “I cannot come up with new charade in such a short time. Please, m’lord, I’ll...I’ll offer you a deal.”

“You have nothing to offer,” Ambrose reminded her.

“Conditions?” She watched his expression.

“Go on.”

“I’ll abide by your conditions—any and all that you state—until we reach Scotland. And in return you’ll take my family and the Bardis.”

He looked at her incredulously. “A moment ago it was your daughter and your sister. Now you’ve added your friends. I am starting to feel that with every passing moment, I’m losing a larger share of this bargain.”

“Then accept.” She said matter-of-factly.

Ambrose appraised his opponent.

“Aye. With conditions.”

“We missed the damn boat!”

“I know! We all heard you!” Elizabeth was not about to be publicly humiliated by this man. She returned Ambrose’s glare without so much as a blink. “Everyone in Pisa heard you!”

Standing on the dock beside the empty slip, Elizabeth looked back and saw her fearful traveling companions were keeping a safe distance away from the angry nobleman. It had been Mary once again, disappearing at the last moment for no apparent reason. She had no sense of the value of time or of schedules. But Elizabeth was not going to make excuses for her or anyone else. She saw no need to explain. Certainly not to the arrogant Lord Macpherson.

She had not seen him since they’d met in Joseph’s study in Florence. His directions, as he’d departed that night, had been to be ready in a week and meet him in Pisa. But he had been courteous and offered to send his men to assist the group in bringing their belongings to the port city near the mouth of the Arno.

And she’d been daft and accepted his offer.

His men had indeed arrived this morning. But they were not there to help. They had arrived with specific orders from their master. Mary could not take her three chests full of clothes. Joseph could not bring his merchandise. Elizabeth could not bring in her paintings. They were to travel light, with only enough to be carried on horseback. Those had been Ambrose Macpherson’s directions.

And Elizabeth had disobeyed his orders. Every one of them. But he didn’t know. Not yet.

It still amazed her, even hurt a bit, to realize how wrong she could have been about him. She had been so fooled by the façade of concern, by the sensual and passionate approach this man so easily used to overwhelm her. But that was before she’d seen the real man. She felt the tips of her ears burning at the very thought of the weakness he perceived within her—at the thought that she’d been so blind to the truth beneath his practiced technique. Ambrose Macpherson, the Baron of Roxburgh, was a pigheaded, bigmouthed, aggravating man who demanded things be done his way, and only his way. Joseph had been right about him from the beginning.

“We missed the damn boat!”

Elizabeth turned at the sound of the roar from the far end of the dock and watched as a second Scot came storming toward them. The wind was whipping the man’s black hair about his face, so she could not see his expression, but his size, she had to admit, was more than intimidating. Ambrose was a giant, but this one looked half a head taller.

“I can see you Highlanders are very limited in your use of words,” she whispered loudly enough for Ambrose to hear.

“Say that when he’s closer, and he’ll break you in half.” Ambrose responded shortly. “Gavin Kerr’s from the Borders—a Lowlander—and he thinks Highlanders are barbarians—”

“And he’d be correct, of course!” she broke in.

“This is a long journey and you can be certain that I’ll do my best to live up to that reputation.”

She cringed at his words.

Ambrose gazed down and studied Elizabeth’s face as his bearlike friend paused to look at the group of tardy travelers cowering near their baggage. She was extremely good at darkening her fair young skin under the masking pigments. But she still looked good. Damn good.

“Does he know the truth?” she whispered, not taking her eyes from the angry black-haired warrior. “The truth about me?”

“What truth?” Ambrose snapped. “Does anyone know the truth about you? I don’t know what is the truth about you.”

Elizabeth’s temper flared. “I have answered every question you’ve asked. I understand neither your harsh words nor your sour mood.” Her voice softened. “Why can’t you just leave the past behind? Why can’t we just be on our way?”

Ambrose looked straight out across the diverse collection of ships, galleys, and barges crowding the wide, muddy river that would carry them out to the Ligurian Sea and into the Mediterranean. He was still upset, and he was having difficulty controlling his temper. This was a first for him.

“Gavin Kerr has no reason to think you’re anything other than what you say.”

Elizabeth had chosen not to reveal her past liaison with Ambrose Macpherson to the Bardis, and she had not told them that the nobleman knew she was a woman, either. This was a complication she did not want them to worry about. But she had to tell Mary the truth. After all, her sister was still under the assumption that Elizabeth had surrendered her maidenhood to this Highlander.

“Gavin is a trusting man. I have not told him of your...inventiveness.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Ambrose turned to her with wonder. He had not expected those simple words. Quickly regaining his frown, he growled at the small painter. “Which means he’d as soon kill you as look at you.”

“Oh!”

“Is this the goddamn painter that has left us sitting on our arses for the past two days?”

“Aye, Gavin. This is Phillipe de Anjou.”

“What are you, a dwarf?” he rumbled, glowering down at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and glared back. “There’s nothing wrong with my size. But the baron tells me you got to be the size you are by eating stolen English cattle.”

Gavin’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced quickly at Ambrose. “Oh, he did?”

“Aye,” she continued quickly. “He says you’ve even been known to stop and roast the carcasses before devouring them...occasionally.”

Elizabeth watched as the corner of the Border dweller’s mouth started to turn up. He was a huge man, as broad and as tall as Michelangelo’s statues of Hercules. His face, as fierce as his expression was, had the handsome, chiseled features of the marble gods. What he lacked was the hint of humor that danced just behind the blue eyes of his Highland friend Ambrose Macpherson. Nor had he the easy smile. He hadn’t the fluid confidence of his stance, either.

Nor, she decided, could she imagine him holding any woman the way Ambrose had held her.

“Tell me,” she asked, pressing her advantage. “Is it worth your while sitting on your arses waiting for good meat?”

“Aye, lad,” the Lowlander conceded thoughtfully. “Particularly when it’s stolen meat.”

“Then, Gavin Kerr, remember this. You’ve just stolen me and my friends from the Medicis, and when your queen rewards you for what you’ve brought her, you’ll see that the wait was worth your while.”

A broad grin broke across the warrior’s face, and with an abrupt movement, Gavin clapped Elizabeth hard on the back of her shoulder, launching her a half step forward.

“Well, Ambrose. This lad will be all right, I’m wagering. Though you are a scrawny thing, Phillipe.”

Ambrose gave her a once over look. But his face showed nothing of what he was thinking. He knew what was beneath.

“Perhaps we can fatten you up a bit during this journey. Make you strong. Like a man,” Gavin boomed.

“He is a painter,” Ambrose said under his breath. “He is fine as he is.”

Gavin ignored his friend’s remark. “I haven’t seen any of your paintings. Though Ambrose tells me you’ve quite a talent.”

“Has he?” Elizabeth remarked with surprise, casting an eye on the nobleman.

“Aye, though—nothing against you—I doubt he knows much about it,” Gavin rumbled conspiratorially. “He is only a Highlander, after all.”

Elizabeth watched as the two exchanged a glare. She had a strong suspicion that this bantering was constant between these two men.

“Well, Gavin,” Ambrose broke in. “Did you find us another ship? Or are we just going to sit around here for a week or so longer?”

“As a matter of fact, you see the bow of that galley about eight quays in that direction?” Gavin pointed at the ship. “They sail for Marseilles with the morning tide, and I was able to secure us a berth. Though it wasn’t easy. The captain was not very excited about having two dozen Scottish warriors along.”

“That’s no surprise,” Ambrose said under his breath.

Gavin looked at his friend. “And I didn’t mention your name.”

“Good.”

Elizabeth looked from one man to the other. “Is there something that you two would like to tell me before we get any farther along on this journey?”

“Nay,” the two men answered in unison.

Without another word, the Scots turned their backs on her and walked away, and Elizabeth stood, her hands at her side, looking after them as they moved together down the dock.