Heart of Gold (31 page)

So once again Ambrose had renewed his promise to go slower the next time.

It had been a wondrous night. How many times he had broken his promise, he couldn’t remember.

Ambrose had to admit it was very difficult—nearly impossible—to go slowly with a woman like Elizabeth. In bed, the woman was a she-devil. A raging moor fire, one that incinerated everything in its path. Even now she continued to writhe restlessly beneath him. As he moved from one breast to the other, eliciting a low moan from her, he considered how the morning light would show nearly every inch of his skin gloriously scorched.

Indeed, he had awakened her out of her half-sleep only moments ago with a gentle touch, a seductive whisper. He wanted to show her the ways—the many different ways—that he could give her pleasure. But he also wanted to show her there could be more to their lovemaking than simply lust. He wanted to show her the dreamlike moments that could precede it. He wanted to show her the tender side of romance.

But she had immediately taken charge. Her sense of curiosity, her need to discover had hours earlier laid waste to any remaining vestige of constraint. In the graying light, Elizabeth’s lips had roamed freely and extensively the length and breadth of his body—exploring and delighting in the sweet torment she knew she was inflicting. Ambrose sighed deeply and took her taut nipple firmly in his mouth. She had given him incredible pleasure, but now it was his turn.

Feeling like a goddess, Elizabeth wallowed in the billows of the soft mattress as Ambrose paid homage to her body. Several times she tried to move, to follow his lead in these acts of love, but each time his hands nudged her gently back onto the pillows.

Ambrose slid his fingers over the soft triangle of her womanhood. Uttering a gasp, she worked herself up once again onto her elbows.

“Just lie back, love,” he ordered, bringing his face close to hers. “This is my turn.”

She gazed at him as his lips gently skimmed her cheeks, her lips.

“This is just not fair,” she whispered with a smile. “I want to please you, as well.”

His mouth covered hers, his kiss delicious and thorough. When Ambrose was finished, there were no arguments left in her. Indeed, sighing contentedly, Elizabeth felt her body and her spirit growing ever more soft and warm in his arms.

“Aye, lass,” he growled huskily. “But you are pleasing me by staying as you are.”

She closed her eyes as he lay her back on the bed. Ambrose paused for a moment to note the look of trust in her face. His eyes surveyed the smooth skin and the womanly curves of her beautiful and giving body. Only he himself truly knew the tenderness—and the fire—that coexisted in that body.

They had only a short time remaining there at the hunting lodge. Soon they would rejoin the others. Continue their journey to Scotland. Once beyond these walls, Elizabeth would again become Phillipe de Anjou. And then what? Ambrose thought. Perhaps she really could continue pulling off the deception. Pretending to be what she was not.

And he himself? Ambrose ran his fingers lightly over the sensitive skin at the top of her thighs, smiling faintly at the shiver his action provoked. What of him? He would go back to longing for her, and waiting for her.

Ambrose sighed, his face growing serious in the light of the approaching dawn. A sense of urgency crept into his soul. Suddenly it became overwhelmingly important that she remember what they shared here tonight. Crucial that she recall the night with longing. Essential that Elizabeth think of it often—and want it back again. More than that, she must want him. Again and again.

Yes, Elizabeth must give up this farce and be his. As a woman. She must belong to him. Only him. He would protect her, cherish her.

But he couldn’t require her to give it all up. On every level, he knew that to be the truth.

Ambrose knew that art, for him, merely filled some void in his life. To Elizabeth, it was a love, an addiction far greater than any profession. To him a hobby and a pastime, no matter how great its value. But to her, painting was a passion. Ambrose knew he would have to compete with that.

The Highlander had a challenge before him. He had to show her a better way, a better future. He had to teach her love. His love. Then, perhaps, she would stop her pretense of being a man. Then, perhaps, she would be his.

She could paint. No matter if others frowned at her for being a woman—she could paint for him. She would always have a place beside him.

This was his chance.

As Ambrose lowered his mouth to her belly, Elizabeth’s hands drifted carelessly to his shoulders. But her lips parted and her breath caught in her chest as he moved his lips even lower.

He left nothing untouched. His lips tasted the sweetness of her, lingering over every inch of her skin. Elizabeth’s senses tingled and inside, a bubbling mass of molten heat began to erupt and pour into every corner of her body, flooding her consciousness with a glowing white heat.

“Ambrose!” she called out weakly, as his lips stoked the blaze of erotic passion already raging within her.

She cried out his name again. This time in desperate need. The flames of desire threatened to consume her. Elizabeth’s body arched, her breath shortened. Her eyes could no longer see the objects in her chamber, for the lightning bolts of reds and yellows and whites were shooting across her face at incredible speeds, obliterating everything beyond. Her insides were coiling, melting, reforming.

“Ambrose!”

The Highlander raised his face slowly and moved with excruciating care up onto her body, trailing kisses that scorched her skin from her navel to her chin.

Then, once again taking possession of her mouth with his, he slid into her. Slowly. Ever so slowly.

As he did, Elizabeth’s mind went white, a pulsating inferno exploding in the deepest recesses of her body and her soul.

Pressing her knees together to deal with the passing twinge of discomfort, Elizabeth put her hand out and leaned against the corridor wall.

Ambrose had warned her that she could be uncomfortable in the morning. He’d even suggested that perhaps they should take it easy.

Nay! she had responded. Too caught up in the delirious heights of passion they’d soared to, Elizabeth had been nothing if not definite in her unwillingness to put a stop to—or even slow for a moment—their hours of love. As far as she could see, this would have to be a memory she would savor for a lifetime.

So the longer she could extend this night of bliss, the better the remembrance, she thought.

And Ambrose Macpherson had gladly obliged.

But eventually, as the rising sun gently nudged the full moon over the western hills, the private realm of night love gave way to the reality of the day.

Responsibility called to them. They had to leave.

“Could I get something for you, madame?”

Elizabeth nearly leaped out of her skin as the voice of the elderly man croaked quietly behind her. But the voice quickly registered. She’d met old Jacques, the estate’s diminutive steward, yesterday on their arrival. Once again she wondered that none of the servants of the lodge so much as raised an eyebrow at her men’s clothing. Elizabeth turned to face him slowly.

“Nay, but thank you.” Her mind raced. “I was just admiring the collection of paintings on my way down.”

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” He gestured toward the canvases that adorned every wall.
“
This is the work of some of the finest and best-known artists in Europe.”

“Quite impressive,” she murmured. “They are brilliant. I am a...I’ve a fondness for work of all painters. I just wanted to take a better look before we depart.”

Jacques’s face creased into a thousand wrinkles as he beamed at her interest. It was obvious to Elizabeth that the man took great pride in those things for which he was responsible.

“M’lady, what’s displayed here in the main corridor and on the stairways represents only a small portion of the collection. The valuable pieces hang in the rooms downstairs.”

The old man winked conspiratorially and nodded his head toward the stairs. The young woman smiled as the little man took hold of Elizabeth’s arm, limping along beside her.

“If you would allow me—” he nearly cackled in a hushed voice— “I could show you my most favorite works.”

“What are they? Raphael’s original sketches?” she teased. Glancing back at the work hanging from the walls, she wondered how they could be any finer than what she’d been looking at. “You don’t have Leonardo’s notebooks, do you? There is talk in Florence that Leonardo kept secret journ—”

“You can see for yourself.” Jacques pointed to a door as they reached the bottom of the great stairs. It was a room Elizabeth hadn’t yet been through.

“These are what my master calls his ‘hidden gems.’” The steward pulled a ring of keys from his shirt and opened the door with a flourish. As Elizabeth stepped inside of the giant room, her mouth opened in amazement. “They are all the early work of the world’s greatest artists. The masterpieces of the—as yet—undiscovered. I believe this is the reason the master loves to spend so much time here.”

The man continued to talk as Elizabeth stood in awe, her eyes taking in the hundreds of canvases that adorned the room. They were beautiful. All of different styles, some primitive, some using the new boldness of the Italian colorists. She walked toward one of the walls and began her survey of the works. Some were signed, but the signatures of the artists were clear from the styles and the composition and the brushwork of the paintings themselves. Elizabeth could identify the creator of nearly every one. “He must have sent people around the world to have all of these brought here.”

Jacques shook his head. “The master is very proud to say that he chose and purchased every piece in this room himself. Finding the work of genius, he says, is not something one delegates to others.”

Elizabeth moved farther down the room. She paused before the startlingly realistic, and unflattering, portrait by someone she didn’t know, a painter named Hans Holbein. His work hung beside the work of Durer.

“And the master believes there is real value hidden within these pieces,” the steward continued. “In spite of the fact that most of these paintings were done to feed an empty stomach, they are not—as you see in the use of colors and in the subject’s depictions—traditional in any way. These painters’ talents, these men’s minds, were not limited by the restraints of set boundaries.”

“Not these men’s minds, Jacques. These artist’s minds.”

Elizabeth and the steward turned at once. Neither had heard Ambrose follow them in.

The elderly man bowed a greeting to the baron before heading for the door. Elizabeth watched with curiosity a silent exchange between the two of them. There was nothing said, but it seemed Jacques understood.

Ambrose glanced back as the door closed behind him. Then his gaze returned to Elizabeth. She stood once again in her men’s clothing, her femininity disguised. In spite of the masculinity of her look and her attitude, his blood ignited. He knew what lay beneath.

Elizabeth blushed openly as she looked at his handsome face. Again Ambrose had donned his Highland gear for their ride into Troyes, and her pulse quickened at the memory of their bodies lying so closely together. She could remember every sensual touch, every bold act, every moment of joyous ecstasy. Nay, stop it, she admonished herself inwardly. She cast a quick glance at the closed door.

“Do you think anyone in the lodge guesses what we were up to last night?”

Ambrose answered her with silence.

She turned her gaze back to him. He looked suddenly dangerous. He took a step. She backed away. He followed. Elizabeth moved around the table, and he followed.

“Ambrose...” she warned in a low voice.

“They don’t guess, love. They know what we were up to until dawn.” He reached with the quickness of a cat and captured her wrist. “After all, I’m quite certain everyone heard you.”

Elizabeth looked nervously at the door and then at Ambrose. He was smiling.

“What are you doing?” she asked, reluctantly allowing him to pull her from behind the table.

“I am about to make love to you.”

“Here?” she whispered, her eyes widening at the prospect.

“Here, on this table.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. She felt her face burn with heat. “You are not. Someone might walk in!”

Ambrose silenced her opposition. He crushed his mouth to hers.

“Ambrose,” she protested, trying to catch her breath. Her hands halfheartedly pushed at his chest. “You said we have to be on the road. We can’t do this here.” She shivered with excitement as his lips and mouth fastened on the skin of her neck. She could feel his hardening manhood rising beneath the soft wool of his kilt. “I—I have the wrong clothing. It won’t work.”

Holding her tightly, Ambrose pulled first at her doublet, then pushed at her breeches and her hose. Her gasp of surprise turned quickly to a moan of pleasure.

“Don’t forget where we are, my love,” he said, nodding smilingly at the paintings around them. He lifted her gently onto the desk. “No boundaries.”

Their love was fast and powerful, his strokes smooth, their release pure and complete. Spent, she gazed up to the ceiling, her limbs still tingling from their frantic lovemaking.

Ambrose placed a kiss on her lips as he straightened, offering her a hand up.

“We can’t just do this anytime or anyplace you feel like it,” she scolded, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Aye, we can.” He tried to help her with her hose, but she slapped his hand away. “As long as we both want it and we both enjoy it.”

She couldn’t deny his words. She had enjoyed it. Fiercely so.

Elizabeth watched him from the corner of her eye as she tidied her attire. He wasn’t tired of her. He still wanted her. Lying in the bath, she’d had her fears of how he would feel now that their night was through.

“We’ll have breakfast before we get on our way.” His words were so calm and self-assured. “Gavin will probably reach Troyes about midday today. If we ride hard, my sweet, we could get there this afternoon.”