Heart of Gold (32 page)

Ride hard. She cringed at the thought of it. Elizabeth was not sure she was ready to ride at all.

“Ready?” He stood, fresh as summer breeze, holding out his hand for her to take. “Let’s eat.”

She took his arm and allowed him to lead her toward the door. She imagined the faces of twenty servants plastered to the outer door listening to this latest moment of pleasure they’d shared. Uncontrollably, a flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks. Discreet. They needed to be more discreet. Approaching the door, she once again let her eyes roam the wonderful treasures that adorned every wall in sight.

Suddenly she came to a halt. There, to her left, between the two bright windows. Her eyes riveted on her own work.

Ambrose followed her gaze. He’d wanted her to find the piece herself. In fact, to make it possible he’d asked the steward, Jacques, to be sure Elizabeth was shown into the study this morning. And he’d followed, unable to pass up the opportunity of seeing her expression when she found out.

He stood, beaming expectantly. Elizabeth whirled on him.

“You worm!” she burst out.

She was thoroughly prepared to skin him alive.

Ambrose took a step back as Elizabeth advanced on him, an old broadsword in hand. She’d pulled the weapon from the display of armor before the Highlander could gather his wits. Her vehement exclamation was the last thing he’d been expecting. Nor, Elizabeth arming herself was the least expected response.

“Put that thing down before you hurt yourself,” he ordered. She didn’t even pause in her advance.

“There is only one person who is about to be hurt!” The long, heavy blade flashed in the sunlight. “And that’s you.”

Ambrose ducked as the weapon cut through the air only a hand-span from his head.

“Well, why not use my sword, then? It will make for a quick death.” He moved nimbly around the table. “At least it’s sharp, lass.”

Her eyes locked on the table.

The table! Elizabeth’s rage flared to new heights.

“Nay,” she seethed. She swung the blade again, as Ambrose pulled back. “That will be too kindly an end for you. I’d like to see you die a slow and painful death!”

Totally perplexed, Ambrose gazed wonderingly at the fury etched in her face. There was no question, she had to be rabid. “Can’t we talk about this first?”

Elizabeth ignored his entreaty. “So,” she hissed. “Is he late?”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t look so innocently at me, you pig! Was your plan for him to walk in while you had me spread on the table?” She leaned on the table and shook a fist at him. “Or was it last night? You must have had them put me in his room. That way he could walk in on us there, I suppose!”

Ambrose put both his hands on the table and looked questioningly into her eyes. “Who are you talking ab—”

The sword arced straight overhead, the edge of the blade cutting deeply into the wood at the spot where the Highlander’s hands had rested.

As lithe as a cat, the warrior grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched the sword out of her grip. As he looked up with a wry smile, Elizabeth punched him squarely in the face.

He hardly blinked as she held her hand in pain.

Ambrose reached over the table in an attempt to grab her by the shoulder, but she jumped back, tripping and falling clumsily on her buttocks.

“Let me ask this again. Who is this that you talking about?” Ambrose moved around the desk.

She shrank back from his approach. “Don’t you come near me!”

“Who do you think was supposed to walk in while we were making love?” He reached down, trying to help her to her feet.

“Don’t touch me!” She tried to fight off his hands, but he had the advantage.

“Elizabeth!” He gathered her in his arms, restricting her movement. But she fought in his grasp, snarling like a caged she-wolf. “What have I done? Who do you think was supposed to walk in?”

She tried to knee him between the legs. As he held her at arm’s length, the legs of the two combatants tangled and they fell with a thud.

“The Marquis of Troyes, you fool!” She tried to bite him, but he pulled back. “Or whatever else you want to call him. The Constable of Champagne! The Duc de Bourbon!”

“Who?” he asked, dumbfounded. The baron grunted as she landed a kick to his groin area.

Elizabeth quickly rolled away from him and sprang to her feet. She pointed an accusing finger at the wall.

“He is the man that bought that painting from me!” She glared down at where he crouched in pain on his hands and knees, his head tucked into his chest. She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “My God! What did I do? Ambrose!”

The warrior moved like lightning and struck decisively.

Elizabeth blinked up into his face. He had her flat on her back, his weight checking any movement on her part. “I can’t breath,” she gasped.

“Fine! That makes two of us.”

Elizabeth tried to free her hands, but there was no hope. He had her. “I hate you!”

“Nay, lass. You don’t,” he returned. “But let’s start from beginning. What was it you said about Bourbon walking in here?”

“You heard me, pig!”

“What the devil could have given you that idea?”

“Let me go first, you bully. Then I’ll talk.”

“Not a chance, my sweet. I value my...my life too much.” He placed more of his weight on her body, and she gulped for air. “Ready to talk?”

Elizabeth grudgingly nodded, and Ambrose eased himself somewhat to the side.

She took in a deep breath and looked up into his serious expression. “My painting, you boor! The one on the wall. I sold that to Bourbon four years ago at the Field of Cloth of Gold. He is a collector of paintings.”

“So?”

“Isn’t this his place?” she asked through clenched teeth. “The title, the estate, the lodge. All these paintings—aren’t they all his?”

“What difference does it make who all these things belong to?”

“Not a damn bit of difference!” Elizabeth snapped back.

“Well, then?”

She sighed deeply. “If you think I am simple enough to fall for this pretense of innocence now, you are mistaken.” She waited for an answer. A protest. Something! But the baron said nothing. He simply continued to stare at her blankly. Finally she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Wasn’t it your filthy plan to bring me here, to take advantage of me, then to allow Bourbon to walk in and catch us in the middle of something? And don’t give me that shocked look, Ambrose Macpherson. I know how men’s minds work. I have lived as one of you for the past four years.”

She took a breath to control her anger and disappointment. “You wanted to fling me in his face, to flaunt me like some rare animal that you’d hunted down and caught. I know your way! After all, the last time you two met, didn’t you fight over me? Admit it, you just wanted to rub his nose in it. You wanted to show off your catch...before you discarded it!”

He stared at her in disbelief before a smile crept across his face. Suddenly his body began to shake hard with laughter.

She watched him in silence as he rolled off of her and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. The knot that had grown in her throat now threatened to choke her as her eyes misted over. “What I’ve said is true, isn’t it?”

Ambrose heard the heartbreak in her voice. It was hardly more than a whisper. She tried to sit, but he pulled her roughly to his side. Once again she tried to fight him, but he gathered her in his embrace so tightly that she couldn’t move.

“Aye, I brought you here. But there was no taking advantage of you, my sweet. If you recall, you attacked me first. And secondly, I don’t show off what’s mine. In fact, I tend to be quite private with what I have. I think it comes from being a second son. So what’s mine, stays mine. And I don’t flaunt those things in front of others. Finally, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there will be no ‘discarding.’ Nay, lass, don’t look so surprised. I’m keeping you. The question is, love, what am I going to do with you?”

“Don’t try to fool me with cheap, endearing words, you fake. I know you don’t mean them.” Elizabeth turned her face away as a tear escaped, leaving a glistening track down her cheek.

“I can call you anything I like, Elizabeth.” Ambrose took her chin in his hand and gently drew her face back toward his. “Because I do mean what I’ve said. But that was an impressive story you just told.”

“It was the truth!” she muttered, trying to look away.

But he wouldn’t let her. “Nay, lass. It wasn’t.”

“Then it must have been close enough to the truth,” she responded, pulling an arm free and gesturing toward the room and its contents.

“None of it was!”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Go ahead, continue to lie, if you like.”

He started to reply, but she cut him off immediately. “But don’t forget, Ambrose Macpherson, I am not believing a word of anything you tell me.”

“Aye, Elizabeth,” he said seriously. “I’ll try to remember that. Your—”

“Let me up first,” she demanded. “I am quite uncomfortable like this.”

“Too bad. I don’t trust you.” He glared at her. “Now let me start—”

“Did I tell you that I don’t trust you, either?”

“You did.”

“And that I hate you?”
“I believe you said that, too.”

“That—”

Ambrose’s hand closed tightly over her mouth. “If you refuse to be silent and hear me out, I’ll have to gag you.”

She mumbled something into the hard flesh of his hand.

“Very well,” he responded, not understanding a word she’d just said, but reading the flashing look in her eyes quite clearly. “We can do it like this if you prefer. At least this way you will listen to what I have to say.”

Ambrose knew he had to make it short before she had time to decide on the next weapon she’d use to fight him off with. “Elizabeth, don’t be misled by a bunch of titles that are truly meaningless. Others might be misled into believing they mean something, but you shouldn’t be. To you, I am and always will be Ambrose Macpherson. But, in the eyes of the world, anyway, I am also Baron of Roxburgh, Lord Protector of the Borderlands. Francis I of this fair land has also seen fit to bestow on me the title Marquis of Troyes, Constable of Champagne—more honorary a title than anything. But in any case, my sweet, the titles and this hunting lodge and everything else inside these walls—including these paintings—belong to me.”

He gazed for a moment as the shock registered in her eyes, then let go of her mouth. “Well?”
“You are a liar!”

“Jacques!” he shouted, releasing her.

Elizabeth quickly scampered to her feet as soon as she realized he wasn’t restraining her any longer. He was already on foot and striding away from her. Reaching the massive oak door, he jerked it open, and the elderly steward scurried in.

“Tell her who is master here, Jacques. Tell her.”

The older man looked questioningly from Ambrose’s face to Elizabeth’s. Then his eyes lit on the sword lying on the marred table.

“You don’t have to lie for him,” Elizabeth consoled, approaching the little man. “I’ll protect you.”

“Lie, m’lady?” The man looked wide-eyed at Elizabeth. “I never lie.”

“Tell her about what we’ve done here, Jacques,” Ambrose prodded. “Tell her everything.”

Elizabeth stood still as the steward began to talk. He confirmed everything Ambrose had spoken of earlier. Of how the nobleman had owned this estate for quite a few years. He spoke with obvious pride of the construction of the new lodge. And of how the baron was a generous benefactor of artists and a true connoisseur of fine artwork. He spoke of Ambrose’s parents, the good Lord Alexander and Lady Elizabeth Macpherson, and how they occasionally came to stay at the lodge, in spite of the laird’s advancing age. He also talked about other lodges and town houses that the baron had built around the continent. Being a diplomat and traveling often, Ambrose was well known for the quality of his holdings and his ability to offer hospitality to kings and cardinals in places all over Europe.

The man continued to talk, but Elizabeth was not listening. Ambrose was leaning against his desk, his arms crossed at his chest. His piercing eyes were on her, admonishing her. She looked down.

“That’s enough, Jacques,” he said commandingly. “You may leave us now.”

The older steward turned with a quick bow to the two of them and crossed to the door, closing it behind him.

She studied the pattern of the wide oak flooring for a long moment, then turned her attention to the glistening sweat on her palms. She couldn’t recall a time in her life when she’d felt quite so foolish.

“Well?”

Elizabeth glanced hesitantly at his face. She nodded toward the table. “You can use that dull sword if you’d like.”

“What good would that do?”

“Well, you must be about ready to cut out my tongue,” she whispered.

“Knowing you, it would most certainly grow back!” Ambrose smiled at her. How could she go from so a fiery devil to so serene an angel in such a short span of time? “Come here!”

She looked up. He wasn’t angry.

He motioned to her.

She walked toward his open arms and nestled inside. She laid her face against his chest. “I—”

“Next time we have a disagreement,” he said, cutting off her apology, “would you please give me a chance to explain before attacking me with a weapon of war?” He rubbed his chin against her soft hair. He loved the feel of her in his arms. He loved the serenity of this embrace. Perhaps almost as much as he loved the heat of their battles.

Then there will be a next time, she thought with pleasure. My God, she loved this man.

“I’ll try to remember.”

“Are there any more questions that you might like to ask?” He pulled her away from him and looked into her sparkling eyes. His thumb brushed away a tear from her soft cheek. “Do you want to know about your painting? How I came to have it?”

She nodded slowly.

“I bought it. From Bourbon, that is.”

“Did he charge you a lot?”

“A fortune, the bastard.”

Elizabeth didn’t know what to say.

He smiled. “We are friends. Bourbon and I have become friends since that day at the Field of Cloth of Gold. It is humorous to think about, but the fight over you did bring us together. But I think you should know that the duc’s affection for you did not last too long.”