Heart of Gold (30 page)

Ambrose pushed her dress up to her waist as he freed himself. The soft silk of her undergarment tore in his hands. He was lost in his abandon. All discipline crumbled like spent tinder before the flames of carnal need.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. His fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her closer, spreading her legs apart and moving between them. “Only this once, we’ll not take our time.”

Clinging to the sheet, she raised her hips to him as he pressed into her soft, moist folds. “Take me, Ambrose.”

In a single motion, he plunged deep within her.

Elizabeth let out a sharp cry as she reached up and grabbed him around the neck. She was seized with a momentary shock of pain. She gasped for breath and held him.

My God, he thought, she was a virgin. The thought cut like the cold, keen blade of a knife into a brain dulled and confused by the fires of desire. Ambrose took a deep breath and tried not to move. He was fully rooted within her. The tightness of her threatened to kill him. But still he remained motionless. His heart hammered against his chest, and his breath was coming in short, quick pants.

Then, gently, the Highlander lowered her to the bed. “You were a virgin,” he growled.

“Don’t hold it against me,” she whispered, trying to lighten his scowl. The pain was beginning to subside. She ran her fingers caressingly over his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Looking down at her passion-filled eyes, he saw a tear break away from the corner of her eye and disappear into her dark hairline. “Jaime. Whose daughter is Jaime?”

“Please don’t be angry,” Elizabeth pleaded in a ragged voice as she saw the fierce light in his eyes. “I’ll tell you all you want to know. I’m sorry.” She covered her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.”

He looked down at the woman stretched in his arms. He was the first man to lay with her. Without being able to explain it, he felt a deep sense of pride.

“How could I be disappointed?” Ambrose protested, as he took her face softly in his hands. “Shocked. Pleased. Surprised. Curious even. But not disappointed, my sweet.” He leaned down and slanted his lips over hers. Her hand once again encircled his neck, and he drew her up tightly to him.

Elizabeth arched her hips as he gathered her in his arms. Suddenly she could feel him pulsing deep within her.

Ambrose shifted his weight slightly, and Elizabeth gasped as a new sensation replaced the discomfort. As he partially withdrew, a feeling of intense heat, of torrid pleasure emanated from the very core of her. Ambrose slid into her again, and somewhere in her head Elizabeth felt as if a rod were being drawn across the taut string of a lyre. A single note resonated throughout her entire body.

Again, ever so slowly, he withdrew, and again the love tone played within her. Again he drove into her, and the sound that she felt more than heard reverberated through her. A rhythm began to envelop her, coming from within, and yet tied to the motion of her lover.

Higher and higher the pitch of the sound went, and Elizabeth found her body rising and falling to the pulsating beat.

Over and over, Elizabeth’s hips rose to accept Ambrose more deeply with every stroke. The moans coming from far down in her throat sounded more like the humming purr of a wild lioness. He wanted to make certain that Elizabeth found pleasure before he did. He had to hold back, but the sounds she made were driving him over a precipice.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She kept pushing, arching against him rhythmically, urgently.

Then she called his name. As if the earth shook, as if her existence depended on the hold of the arms around her, Elizabeth coiled around him. Within her brain a million notes exploded in a chorus of light and sound, color and music. Every singing fiber of her being on fire, her body lifted into his as lightning bolts of reds and yellows thrilled through her—elevating her, transporting her into a crystalline dimension she had only dreamed could exist.

As her body went taut as a wire, Ambrose plunged one last time. Then, momentarily spent, he fell into her welcoming embrace.

Elizabeth caressed his damp skin, gathering him tightly in her arms. For her, the earth had stopped turning as they’d made love. But now, lying there with him, her breath shortened as a knot formed in her chest. Then, without warning, Elizabeth felt tears well up and wash down her face. In the span of a few precious moments, he had been able to release in her a world that had been hidden deep within. A wondrous world.

Because of him. Lying there, she knew it was because of this man, Ambrose Macpherson, that she felt as she did. From the first moment that he’d turned his attention to her in the grandstands at the Field of Cloth of Gold, he had changed her life. She needed him. She loved him.

Elizabeth brushed her lips against his hair as he rested so serenely on top of her. She could feel the pounding of his heartbeat beginning to slow. She cherished the feel of his weight. The strength that flowed from him.

Ambrose lifted himself and rolled off of her. Moving to the middle of the bed, he pulled Elizabeth to his side. She was a tangled jumble of dress and sheets. He looked down into her beautiful face and felt his heart tighten. She looked like a dream, curled up beside him. The burst of passion, the powerful explosion he’d felt only moments ago, had subsided now. But it had been a first even for him. Never in the act of lovemaking had he felt a commingling of spirits as he had felt with her. Never. Though there was something daunting at the thought of it, there was also something satisfying. A sense of completeness swept through him. A sense of oneness that pacified the body, soothed the soul.

But it wasn’t only the strength of their passion that brought such peace, it was the way she felt now, lying in his arms. It was the feel of her body against him, as though she had been made to fit there and only there, where she lay at this moment. In his arms, beside him. She belonged to him.

His voice was gentle when he asked the question. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, lass?”

The young woman looked up and saw the softness in his expression. “I suppose I was afraid.”

“Not of me!” he exclaimed, as his thumb wiped away the traces of tears that were drying on her perfect complexion.

Elizabeth found herself leaning into the warm touch of his hand. “A bit afraid of you, and a bit afraid of myself.”

He looked up into the dark canopy above. “You were an innocent when you came to me that night at the Field of Cloth of Gold. What a fool I was for not seeing it.” He turned to her. “But why did you come? Why did you lead me on so with your pretense of experience?”

She coiled the sheets between her fingers. There was no reason to continue to evade telling him the truth. He should know what she could share with him. “I’ve already told you of my father. Of his plan to send me to King Henry’s bed.”

He nodded silently.

“In part, that’s why I came to you that night.” She searched for the right words. She didn’t want him to think her father’s intentions had been the only reasons she had run to him. Deep inside she knew there was more. “That afternoon, after the joust, my father told me that Henry wanted my virginity. His foolish physicians had told the king a virgin’s innocence could cure his pox. Unfortunately, I was there, at the wrong place. At the wrong time.”

Ambrose cursed the stupidity of such backwardness. “You didn’t believe them, did you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “The arrogant bastard. Using his power over those too innocent to resist.”

“I never gave my father a chance to go through with his threat.” She moved closer to his side. “I came to your tent hoping that you would make love to me. It’s true I was determined to teach my father a lesson. But my coming to you went beyond that alone. If I were to step into womanhood, I was bound that I would make that transition with the person of my own choosing.”

“But you could have told me the truth. I could have taken you out of there without the hell you have put yourself through. It didn’t have to be the way it was.”

“How could I have done that to you?” she protested, raising herself on her elbow. “Here you were, the most handsome man in the entire Golden Vale. The most charming courtier, a champion among warriors, perhaps the most eligible bachelor in the Europe—”

“Perhaps?” he broke in with a smile.

“You had your choice of women,” she continued. “And I should presume so much? Simple, plain Elizabeth Boleyn.”

“The bright and the beautiful Elizabeth Boleyn.”

She clapped him gently on the chest. “There is no need to flatter me, m’lord,” she continued, tracing patterns on his chest. “There I was. Wishing my innocence away, but deathly nervous about going through with it. I was just so afraid to reveal the truth and find myself thrown out of your tent.”

“I never threw a woman out of my tent.”

She dropped her head on his chest. “Please, don’t depress me.”

Ambrose smiled as he ran his fingers in her hair. “Of course, that was before I met you. I’ve turned so many of them away since.”

“Liar!”

Ambrose laughed as he drew her face up to his for a kiss. “I was the real disappointment, wasn’t I? It was I who didn’t come through as you had wished.”

“But you did!” She rolled on her stomach, propping herself on her elbows and looking at him with a twinkle in her eye. “As far as every one else was concerned, we did sleep together that night. They all believed me. Even my sister Mary.”

“And that ruse served your purpose?”

“I ran away,” she whispered quietly, growing serious again. “And here I am. So I suppose it did.”

Ambrose turned onto his side and laid his hand gently on her back. “There never were any husbands or lovers.”

She shook her head. “Nay, and there was never anyone by the name of Phillipe de Anjou.”

Silent for a moment, the Highlander ran his hand over the curve of her buttocks, smoothing the dress beneath his palm. He stopped.

“But what about Jaime? She looks so much like you that it was only natural for me to assume she was yours.” Ambrose gazed into her face. “She’s Mary’s daughter, isn’t she?”

Elizabeth turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. She trusted him. There was no danger for the child in Ambrose knowing the truth. “Aye. Jaime is Mary’s daughter.”

“And the father?”

“Henry of England,” she said quietly, taking hold of his other wrist. “This has been a secret between Mary and me. Only we know. And now you. But we must keep it that way.”

Perplexed, Ambrose stared at her. “Even someone as heartless as Henry would care for his offspring. The child would be treated nobly.”

“We know that. It’s not Henry who worries us most.” Elizabeth paused, searching for the right words. “It’s our father. He bartered away two daughters. He’ll treat Jaime no differently. She’s happy with us. We have been able to provide for her. We are giving her everything she needs. She’s better with Mary and me than she would ever be in the English court.” Her voice took on an imploring note. “I just can’t risk endangering her life. Please understand.”

How could he not understand? Ambrose knew how illegitimate children were perceived in the royal families. They were the pawns of those in search of power—at best.

And Ambrose had enjoyed playing and talking with Jaime many times during this long journey. She was the spitting image of her aunt—in looks and in character. Jaime had spirit.

“You would do best to keep her as far away from that court as you can.”

Elizabeth gazed into his blue eyes, confident in her decision to confide all in this man.

“Thank you,” she whispered quietly.

He traced her lips gently with his fingers. Moving closer, he kissed her tenderly.

“Jaime is a lucky child.” His fingers trailed over the silky skin of her chin to the hollow of her throat and along the line of her collarbone. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Elizabeth shook her head slightly, denying the compliment.

“Ambrose,” she said quietly, after a moment’s pause. “I have a question to ask you. Well, actually a permission, of sorts.”

He laughed. “Permission? Elizabeth Boleyn asking permission?”

“Forget what I said,” she scowled. “Consider it a question.”

“Aye. That’s more like my Elizabeth.”

“The ring.” She turned and reached over to the table and picked up the ring and leather thong.

“Aye. Henry’s ring.”

Elizabeth paused and gazed at it.

“Ambrose, I wore this for years as a keepsake. As a token of your attentions to me. Of what I carried in my heart.” She lifted her eyes to his. “But now I’d like to put it aside...for Jaime.”

The Highlander looked into her misty eyes.

“She doesn’t know her father’s true identity. In fact, she might never know...but I thought it might be a good thing for her to have this someday.” She caressed his chest. “So what do you think?”

Ambrose’s face was serious as he placed his hand over hers, holding hers still.

“That is fine with me, Elizabeth. But I have one condition.”

“Another condition?”

“Aye. Perhaps a final one.”

“Very well. What is it?”

“You can’t give me away.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Never.”

The gentle breeze kissed the two entangled bodies with its soft dawn touch. Elizabeth paused for a moment, listening to the song of a lark outside, and then lifted her lips from Ambrose’s naked chest. She brushed her black hair away from her face and smiled down at his tortured expression.

“What about now? Will you take me yet?”

“You’re the devil’s lass, Elizabeth Boleyn,” Ambrose muttered through gritted teeth. “But I still say nay!”

With a growl that rumbled from a place deep in his chest, the baron threw Elizabeth onto her back and moved on top of her. Securely pinning her hands under his, he grunted contentedly before letting his mouth travel leisurely along the soft skin of her neck, her shoulders, the firm white flesh of her breasts.

He cursed himself for the hundredth time for acting like an unprincipled knave, taking her the night before as he had. And what was worse, he’d silently promised to take his time thereafter. But the next time had been only a few short moments after the first time. And once again they had been too crazed to take and to give what they each had waited so long to share. Again there had been no gentleness, no taking their time.