Heart of Gold (28 page)

Ambrose watched her extravagant act with growing amusement as she carried on her animated talk. Then his eyes began to see her again. Elizabeth. He studied her bright face; her intelligent, shining eyes; the very sensual woman who hid behind it all. Without even trying—perhaps without even knowing it—she had a way of clearing everything else from his mind. “I like the last one.”

Elizabeth stopped midsentence. “Which was the last one?”

“The offering part.”

She smiled brilliantly. “I’m glad that’s the one. I was just moving on to maiming and immolation after that.” Elizabeth reached into her saddlebag and removed the pouch of gold that she’d received from the French king. She tossed it to Ambrose. “The next church we pass by, drop this bag in as an offering.”

The Highlander looked blankly at the woman.

“Offering?” she continued. “An offering for your soul?”

“There is nothing wrong with my soul.” He tossed the bag back into her lap. “It is my body that suffers.”

Elizabeth reddened and paused for a long moment before responding. “That’s a dilemma. I believe I’ll need some time to think of a remedy for that one.”

Ambrose nudged his charger up close to hers and, without warning, slapped her horse hard on the flank. As Elizabeth’s steed bolted, the Highlander spurred his own animal in pursuit.

“But wait!” Elizabeth yelled, holding her position firmly on the horse. “I need more time. I don’t have an answer yet.”

“Have no fear!” the baron shouted. “I know the remedy!”

The Marquis of Troyes certainly likes to hunt in comfort, Elizabeth thought, trying to look appreciatively at the things around her as she wandered somewhat apprehensively about the spacious bedchamber. And if this is how he accommodates his guests, how must he pamper himself?

“Honestly, I don’t want to know,” she said aloud, running her fingers over the fine lace-covered comforter that lay upon the huge damask-canopied bed.

This grand country manor--a hunting lodge, they had called it—was truly a palace by anyone’s standards. Turning off the highway and plunging into the darkness of a forest road, Ambrose had led her, without any more words being said, to this place.

Now, seating herself on the edge of the bed, a recurring thought kept plucking at the strings of her anxiety.

His body! she thought. His suffering body! Sacrifice for his body? Elizabeth shook her head. No, he didn’t mean it. This was just his way of tormenting her.

Elizabeth laid back on the comforter, a weariness suddenly overtaking her. Then, as if stung by something unseen, the young woman leaped from the bed.

Elizabeth moved to the middle of the floor, helpless as fears that lingered in the recesses of her soul flared up like the bunches of stars that shoot westward in the summer night sky. She felt them all, coursing through her in waves of heat and cold. All the anxiety of being a woman and yet not a woman. Complete and yet not complete. Experienced in the ways of the world and yet lacking all knowledge of courtship by men.

A woman still untouched. Wanting him and yet still not knowing if Ambrose’s attentions focused only on the physical. She wondered if he’d missed her as she had missed him. If he even saw her as a being worthy of his interest. Had he brought her here to satisfy their bodies’ desire? Well, what of their souls? she asked herself.

No! Stop all this! Elizabeth shook her head and wrapped her arms around her. You’re making more of this than there is, she told herself, finding cold consolation in the thought.

Crossing the room, she concentrated, trying to organize everything in her mind. This was the place where they were first supposed to meet Francis, so it was, after all, natural for them to stop. And it was getting late, so of course they would stay the night. Then tomorrow they would go on to Troyes. It was all explainable, logical. And after all, it was doubtful that the barge Mary and the others were traveling on would have reached the city by now. They would have to wait, so this place was as good as any others.

Listen to yourself rationalize, she thought guiltily.

Relax, Elizabeth reminded to herself. This is a house full of servants. A house large enough to hide in and never be found by Ambrose. There was absolutely nothing to worry about. If she didn’t want him to make love to her, then...

“What a lie!” she whispered with a sigh.

She could not deny it. She missed him. Pacing back and forth, Elizabeth realized she was fighting two battles at once. Battles she could not hope to win—at least not here. At least not now.

She shrugged again, pushing all thoughts of love from her mind. Moving to the spacious window, she looked outside. From the moment she and Ambrose had ridden up the winding path to the main house, Elizabeth had found herself admiring the lodge’s design—the perfect balance of practicality and aesthetics. Modest-sized fields and pastures, carved out of the forest to produce enough food for the table of the marquis, eventually gave way to stables, kennels, and the most extraordinary gardens the young painter had seen anywhere.

And at the center of it all stood the lodge itself.

It was a magnificent building. Tall stone towers and turrets topped with conical slate-covered roofs adorned the multitude of peripheral wings that branched off with symmetrical grace from the main wing of the lodge. Though the towers were of stone, the walls of the lodge itself were of wattle and wood, and the X-designs of the supporting timbers created a strikingly picturesque look.

Elizabeth couldn’t wait to see the rest of this architectural gem. Even the windows, luxuriously abundant and glazed with innumerable panes, had promised an interior that would be bright and airy.

And she hadn’t been disappointed. The splendor of the place was truly inspiring.

Paintings, carvings, and tapestries filled the walls of the great rooms and the corridors leading to the bedchambers. Elizabeth turned around and faced the chamber she was occupying. This room on its own was a feast for the eyes in the glow of late afternoon light that spilled with reckless extravagance through the four open windows. Tables, chairs, a chest, and even a small fireplace—all part of the Marquis of Troyes’s design to furnish each and every visitor with more comfort and hospitality than even a royal guest might expect elsewhere.

Very thoughtful, Elizabeth decided, smiling as she headed for the cheese, bread, and wine that sat so invitingly on the table.

The knock on the door stopped Elizabeth dead in her tracks. She stood in the center of the room, looking uncertainly at the great oak. Ambrose had his own bedchamber. It was clear he was a regular guest here, for it appeared it was his customary room. It was just past the wide and gracefully carved staircase.

The sound of another gentle tap urged the young woman forward. Elizabeth moved quietly across the chamber and then stood listening, her hand steady on the decorative wooden latch.

“Who is it?”

The timid voice of the young woman on the other side of the door could hardly be heard through the thick wood. Elizabeth opened the door slightly and peered out at the young maid standing patiently in the hallway.

“Mademoiselle, I was asked to come and help you dress and also to bring you this.”

Elizabeth looked down at the satchel the servant held in her outstretched arms. She recognized it as the one Mary had sent along. Then her eyes shot up to the young woman’s face. “What was it that you called me?”

“Pardon me, m—madame,” she stuttered apologetically. “I—I didn’t know...no one told me if ‘mademoiselle’ is appropriate or ‘madame.’ I am so sorry. I—”

“No! No! That’s not it!” Elizabeth swung the door open and gestured for the young maid to step in. “I was just surprised by...” She shook her head. Had Ambrose notified the household of her true identity? How curious, she thought. She turned and watched as the girl moved quickly through the room, opening chests and selecting fine chemises, hosiery, puffy-sleeved blouses of the whitest silk, and an elegant dress the color of a narcissus flower. “To whom does all this belong?”

“The marquis’s mother, m’lady. The master’s parents visit here quiet often.” The young woman held the dress up and cast a quick glance at Elizabeth, smiling happily at the evident match. She spread the garment carefully on the bed. “But she would insist upon you wearing them—considering that you have arrived without your trunks and servants.”

The maid continued to bustle about the room as Elizabeth’s hand caressed the rich texture of the yellow brocade cloth of the dress.

“We do this quite often. Though the seamstress will be disappointed that your size and Lady Elizabeth’s are so close.” The servant looked up quickly before continuing, and Elizabeth smiled, thinking how quickly the young woman had lost her shyness. The maid chattered on. “Oh, how interesting! You have the same names. Hmm. It is not always so. The sizes, I mean. Why, the last time Sir Ambrose brought—I meant to say, the last time—I’m so sorry, madame. I talk too much.”

Elizabeth watched the young girl’s reddened face.

“Does he travel here often?” she asked gently.

“I—I shouldn’t...” she shook her head. “It is not proper to tell a lady about the one before.”

“Does he come here with many ladies?”

“No, madame.” The young maid shook her head. “I heard from the older servants that he used to. He and the duc. He is Sir Ambrose’s close friend. But now, since the duc has married, Sir Ambrose has been coming alone. With the exception of this visit, madame.”

Elizabeth listened quietly. She didn’t care much about the duc or his pastimes, but there was one thing that the young woman had made clear—the purpose of this sojourn was to satisfy his desires, after all. Conditions. It all came down to this. The conditions that he’d spoken of in Florence. He didn’t need to say anything. It was all so clear. All his ‘conditions’ really just boiled down to one thing. They were here to share her bed.

Of course! What could she have been expecting? She would be a fool to think otherwise. Elizabeth walked to the satchel that the young woman had placed on top of the bed. The one she’d picked up in Mary’s room. Something for her, Mary had said.

Pulling open the thongs that held it closed, Elizabeth dumped the contents on the bed and gazed down at a linen-wrapped package and a note addressed to her.

A note from her sister.

Elizabeth, my dearest! What pleasure this brings me, knowing you are—for at least one moment in your life—away from the cares you shoulder so unfailingly. For so long, my sweet, you thoughts and your actions have tended to everyone but you, yourself. How different we are, my sister. For how many years now, you have lived so serious a life—while I have lived so frivolously. Well, for once, follow your heart’s lead. For once be a woman as God intended you to be. And know that we are secure and lovingly yours,

Mary.

Elizabeth placed the note gently beside the package and untied the ribbon that held the linen wrapping tight. Picking up the diaphanous silk nightgown that Mary had packed for her, the young painter gazed silently at the garment until her eyes clouded over.

Then, reaching up, she found the ring that lay close to her heart. Gently, she removed the leather thong from around her neck and laid the emerald ring on the side table.

For so many years she had kept and cherished this token as a symbol, as a reminder of Ambrose. So many times, she held the emerald ring in her hand and dreamed. But now, tonight, reality was pressing.

Tonight, this memento would serve no purpose.

For tonight, at least, there was no need for pretense. Tonight, Elizabeth Boleyn would live as a woman. Would have her chance to love. She would have Ambrose Macpherson body and soul.

For tonight, at least, Elizabeth would have no need for this ring.

Ambrose patted the gray, shaggy hound that lay by his feet and then stood up to go after her.

Too long. Far too long.

Stretching his long, muscular frame, the baron turned toward the door. He was growing old waiting for Elizabeth to come down to dinner. He was tired, hungry, and though he almost hated to admit it, anxious to spend time with her. The last servant he had sent up had returned with the news that she had finished with her bath and was dressing. But that had been an hour ago. He should have followed his instincts and gone after her himself.

Ambrose found himself once again becoming quite cranky. And justifiably so, he thought. She was doing it to rile him. He was certain of it. He could just see her sitting in that room, waiting—just waiting to see how long it would take him to reach the end of all patience.

Well, the vixen was going to find out.

By the time he reached the door of the sitting room, the Highlander was in a full rage. Yanking the door open, he took one step into the corridor and stopped.

There she stood.

The words he was forming to greet her with upstairs withered, forgotten on his tongue as he gawked helplessly at the vision before him. His eyes drank in the sight of her as if trying to quench some inexorable thirst. But somewhere deep inside him, Ambrose knew that there was no relief.

Though her raven hair was short and her expression challenging, she was all woman beneath. She was clad in a soft yellow dress that draped off both her shoulders, leaving them pleasantly—no, exquisitely bare. He was certain his mother had worn the same dress, but somehow Elizabeth looked quite different in it. And wonderfully so.

Ambrose’s eyes traveled the surface of the exposed shoulders to the full curves of her breasts and then up again to the ivory splendor of her throat. And as he returned again to that beautiful face, so full of challenge, so full of life, he felt that familiar stirring in his loins.

Elizabeth smiled. Ambrose was wearing black. His blond hair was tied back, but the strands that spilled onto the ebony velvet of his doublet gleamed in the light of the room. The fine hose that displayed the contoured muscles of his legs was also black, so only the gold chain that hung about his neck and the puffy white sleeves that pushed through slits in the arms of the doublet offered any contrast to the image of power that emanated from his richly dark attire. Just standing in his presence, Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken.