Heart of Gold (25 page)

Elizabeth fumed. “No one is forcing you to lie with me, m’lord. You were the one who came after me first, if you recall.”

“You came to my tent.”

“You came to my room,” she retorted.

“I didn’t know you were there.” Ambrose shrugged. She was getting riled up, and he had to admit, he was enjoying every moment of it. He had been away from her too long. In fact, he had been somewhat startled earlier in the day when, after seeing that she was absent again at the noon meal, he’d realized that he was actually angry at the sister. Envious of a sick woman. That was bad.

“When I came to Bardi’s villa in Florence, I came after a painter. Instead, I saw you.”

“Such disappointment you must have experienced!” she said, her voice dripping with ironic concern. Bewitching and feminine wiles be damned, she thought. “Has anyone told you, m’lord, that you are the most empty-headed, insensitive, self-centered man ever to walk this earth?”

“Nay. No one...other than you.”

Ambrose gazed at Elizabeth. At her arms crossed defensively over her chest, at her angry face, at the short hair that shone beneath the puffy hat and lay in waves against her face. His eyes traveled lower and took in the shape of her beautiful legs, showing so provocatively through the hose.

“Stop appraising me like that! I’m not some prize heifer.”

“I thought that was the idea,” he responded, as his eyes continued their journey. “I thought men were supposed to be able to look at you without any fear of detection.”

“If, m’lord, all the men in Scotland are going to look at me the way you do, then certain questions arise.”

Ambrose let his eyes slowly, ever so slowly, return to hers. “To answer your questions, all of your questions...” He took a step toward her. Elizabeth stepped back against the window frame. The Highlander swung a chair around and sat, straddling it and facing her.

She waited for him to speak, but he just sat silently. For the first time in years, Elizabeth felt the vulnerability of men’s clothing. Her painter’s clothing, as comfortable as it had been over years, now felt strangely insufficient. She longed for the layers and layers of dresses that Mary wore.

A blush crept into her face as she looked away from the handsome nobleman. There were no barriers of modesty between them. But then, perhaps there never had been.

“You fascinate me, Elizabeth. You always have. No woman has ever called me empty-headed, insensitive, or self-centered. And certainly no man would dare to say such things to me. In fact, contrary to your opinion, most women think me intelligent, gallant, and considerably perceptive of the needs of others. But then again, I am not with most women. I am with you. So, I suppose, that explains that.”

She bit her tongue in her effort to stay silent.

“And as far as my disappointment at finding you in Florence, you are once again wrong, of course.” He paused, waiting for her to jump in, but she didn’t rise to his bait. “From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I have been anything but displeased. From that day at the Field of Cloth of Gold, you have had a way of drawing me toward you. And I have advanced with pleasure—and anticipation. I have thought about you quite a bit. To be honest, I have spent four years thinking about this moment. You have surprised me, excited me, and enchanted me. Elizabeth Boleyn, you have driven me to a madness that no other woman ever has. It is time for you to supply the cure.”

Elizabeth looked down at the weave of the mat under her feet. She could not trust herself to meet his eyes. “What would you like me to do?”

He stood up and walked to a bowl of water that sat on the trestle table. She watched as he soaked a towel and wrung out the water. Elizabeth held her breath as he walked toward her.

Halting a step away, he handed her the wet cloth.

“What I would like you to do is to be yourself. At least while you are with me. I want you to wash away the disguise that covers the truth about you. I want to see you for who you really are, as I’ve seen you in the past. I want to see the passionate woman who exists beneath these clothes.” He took her chin gently in his hand and lifted it until her eyes met his. “You want me, Elizabeth. As much as I want you. And don’t try to deny it. Your eyes have betrayed you from the first moment we met.”

He spoke the truth. She couldn’t deny his words.

“I want to make love to you, Elizabeth. I mean with no interruptions, no one running away, no life-threatening storms or anything else to stop us. Those were my conditions, you recall.”

She nodded

“That’s the way I want it, as well,” she whispered, still holding the cloth in her hand.

“Then—” he gestured toward the locked door with a half smile—“don’t you think we are safe at last?”

Elizabeth raised herself on her toes and pressed a fleeting kiss on his chin before skipping around him. Then, throwing the towel across the room and into the bowl, she turned to face him.

“You are right about me and about the way I feel about you. I will not deny that.” She whispered the words self-consciously. “But not here. We can’t make love here. When at last we do make love, I would like us to be in a place separate from all these others. I would like to dress as a woman and come to you as myself. I would also like to have the peace of mind that we have more than a few moments that we could share. I am not being greedy. Perhaps a night. A full night to make love—as it should be made. That’s not so much to ask, is it? We’ve waited so long, Ambrose Macpherson. We could withstand a bit more.”

Ambrose moved closer to her again. “We could have that. All of what you ask for. But wouldn’t it be worth our while to remind ourselves of the delights we have in store? Perhaps just as a token to hold us over for the far greater night to come? For the bliss that awaits us?”

Elizabeth circled behind a chair as he slowly, ever so slowly, stalked her. “Nay, m’lord. I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

“But I think it is,” he continued. “And I think it will not take much for me to convince you, as well.”

Elizabeth pulled a chair back and blocked his advance. “As I think more about this, I’m becoming more and more convinced that it’s a terrible idea. After all, you’re leaving tomorrow without me, and—”

Ambrose came to a halt. “You are not being left here, Elizabeth. We are all leaving tomorrow.”

She stared at him momentarily, her eyes widening.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Elizabeth tossed the chair aside and threw her hands around his neck at last. “Thank you!”

Ambrose stepped back as she attacked him. She had lost her mind. “What are you thanking me for? This is no different than what we planned to do before we left Florence.”

“Of course it is!” she whispered happily, kissing him squarely on the lips. “You just said we are all leaving tomorrow. That means Mary is coming with us. That means I won’t need to stay behind and finish the journey to Scotland without your assistance. That means you and I will have our moments together. Moments to share—”

Ambrose grabbed her by the chin and forced her to listen to him. “You are going with me, my sweet. And your sister is staying here where she can be cared for properly. These people shall give her the best care there is. And when she is better, I will even send my men back to accompany her to Scotland. Now, is all that clear?”

Elizabeth slapped his hand away, her face flaming with anger. “Let me make something clear to you! I am not going to leave my sister all alone in a strange place with anyone—and I don’t care if Avicenna himself is going to doctor her! If she stays, then I stay. Is that clear?”

Ambrose stared at the young woman momentarily. “Is your skull so thick? Have the beatings you’ve taken in your life so damaged your wits that you can no longer think rationally? You are endangering your sister’s life by taking her on so difficult a journey.”

“I know my sister better than anyone—and that includes you, these monks, and any other physician you might find between here and Paris.” She took a step back. “Mary’s illness is not of a physical nature that can be cured by medicine, or by sleep. She needs love, care. She needs the knowledge that she is well cared for by people that she knows. The death of Mary will not be taking her with us across France. The death of her will be leaving her alone here among strangers.”

Ambrose pushed her down in a chair. “You listen to me, young woman...”

Elizabeth sprang back up. He pushed her down again, keeping his hands securely on her shoulders. She struggled for a moment, then sat, glaring up at him.

“Your sister is not a bairn. I might be able to understand your feelings if they were directed at your daughter, but Mary is a grown woman. And based on what I’ve witnessed in the short time that I’ve spent with you two, I can see that she is nothing more than a pampered, selfish woman who demands to be at the center of your attention. Elizabeth, she is using you.”

She’d heard all this so many times before. She simply didn’t need someone else preaching to her what she already knew was—at least in part—the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. The baron did not have possession of all the facts. He only knew a small part of their past. Her voice softened. “But she is sick, Ambrose. She truly is.”

“But you just said it yourself. She is sick in mind and not in body.” He looked down into her troubled eyes. He had to do this as much for her as for himself. “Elizabeth, she is robbing you of your life. Of a time that you could be spending with your daughter, or with others if you choose to. Tell me one thing: Why is she with you? Why is she not fluttering about, enjoying English court life? It is where she belongs. Your father is very much in favor there.”

Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t.

“She is unhappy, lass,” he pressed. “That’s obvious even to strangers. Must you pay for her unhappiness? Is she punishing you for the life she is leading? Why can’t you send her back?”

“Please stop!” she pleaded, pushing him back. Standing, she took both of his hands in hers. She held them tight. She needed his strength. She needed him. “I know, I’ve heard all these things before. And I agree with much of what you say. Mary needs her own life, separate from mine. But leaving her here is not the way. I cannot cut her loose and leave her to drift here. Not here, where she knows no one. I promise you. I give you my word that I will find a place where she can live her own life. But let me take her to where she has friends. Where she won’t be left alone.”

Ambrose gathered her hands in his. The desperate pleading note in her voice was one he’d never heard before. This was a far different side of the strong and willful Elizabeth Boleyn. She was speaking from her heart. He couldn’t let her down. As much as he believed that leaving the sister behind would probably be best for everyone, he knew he couldn’t do it now.

“Paris,” he said firmly. “We’ll take her as far as Paris. You have friends, family there. She can get the help and support you say she needs. But no further. That is my condition.”

“Thank you!” she whispered, throwing herself into his arms.

He knows peace who has forgotten desire.

Ambrose wanted to place his fingers around her delicate neck. She stood leaning so peacefully against the low railing. A gentle breeze riffled through her black tresses. Her beautiful face—no longer hidden behind the concealing pigments—was now adorned with only the gentle color left by the early summer sun and the softly caressing wind. How could she be so content, he thought, while his own body burned so? Her constant nearness, the daily sight of her over the past fortnight was maddening. Ambrose Macpherson was on fire.

“The last time I traveled along this river, Mary and I were on foot.”

Elizabeth gazed out at the rolling farms and vineyards that came right to the edge of the smooth-running Seine River. The midday sun was sparkling off the water, and the long, wide barge was gliding lazily through the countryside of Champagne northward toward the merchant town of Troyes.

Ambrose had been true to his word. And to make the journey easier for the still weak Mary, the baron had hired a series of boats and barges to take them north along the broad, brown Rhone River to Lyons, and then onward along the Saône River, to Dijon, and finally to the Seine. Elizabeth and Mary had followed the same route, but southward, during their trek from the Field of Cloth of Gold to their new life in Florence. But it had been a long and arduous walk with a pregnant and complaining Mary.

Elizabeth knew that the Highlander’s decision to travel the waterways had made for a slower journey, but it had been far more comfortable.

“Do you think your soldiers are already in Paris?”

“Nay, lass,” Ambrose said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Gavin was nowhere within earshot. He was below with Mary, the Highlander decided. As usual. An odd attraction. “If my men have already reached Paris, we’d see a glow in the sky at night from the sections of the city they’ve set ablaze.”

Elizabeth cast a look past the massive body of the baron, toward the stern of the boat, where Joseph and Ernesta were sitting comfortably with the tillerman and a number of the boatmen. Jaime was playing on the deck with one of the kittens she’d received from the monks outside Marseilles. The little girl had a piece of line that, to the giggling delight of the child, the kitten was playfully stalking and pouncing on.

“Tell me.” Ambrose spoke softly as he moved to her side, leaning against the same rail. “Tell me about the time you traveled this route.”

Elizabeth could feel the brush of his shoulders against hers. It was an intimate act, but one that was noticed only by the two of them. She shivered in spite of the warm sunlight. She wanted his arms around her. The two of them were so close, his arms so inviting.

“There isn’t much to tell. We set a pace Mary could handle, and we walked.”

Ambrose studied her long fingers, the delicate hands of the artist that created depictions of life truer than the subjects themselves. He wanted to lift those fingers to his lips. He found himself wanting to trace a line with his lips from her fingertips to her wrist. Up her arm, along her shoulder, down to the round fullness of the breasts he knew lay so tightly bound.