Heart of Gold (17 page)

He was losing control. Suddenly conscious of it, Ambrose forced himself to consider whether he wanted to take her now or slow down and prolong the pleasure he so enjoyed giving. Decisively, he dragged his mouth away, leaning back unsteadily and savoring the moment. His heart pounding, Ambrose looked down at the incomparable splendor of her naked body. She was more beautiful than Venus. His hands slid over the symmetrical perfection of her orb-shaped breasts, and then moved without hesitation downward. His mouth recaptured hers, again muffling her gasp of pleasure.

The cool breeze from the window enveloped Elizabeth’s wet skin, and she started, suddenly aware of the moment. As if emerging from some other world, Elizabeth caught Ambrose’s hand with hers and stopped its journey of exploration. Then, pulling her mouth away and looking down at herself, a shock of full realization struck her, and a dark blush covered her face, spreading rapidly to her neck and chest.

Ambrose, sensing immediately her mood change, sighed deeply. Not again, he thought. He seemed to remember them being here before. He remembered a night long ago, of being fully aroused. He remembered her, on the verge of giving herself to him and then putting a halt to their lovemaking.

“I want you, Elizabeth...” Ambrose began, but his words died away, his eyes lingering on her face. She had closed her eyes; she had turned her face away. She almost looked afraid.

Elizabeth tried to force down the lump in her throat.

Ambrose recalled the bruised and bloody face she’d displayed the last time he’d seen her. The warrior could guess the reason for her fear. His voice hardened as he asked the question. “Where is he?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked at him questioningly. The burning sense of shame quickly replaced her desire to understand, though. Turning from him, she stepped away and picked up the robe. Slipping it across her shoulders, she wrapped herself in the clinging silk before looking back at Ambrose.

A cold blanket of anger quickly replaced what had been flames of desire in Ambrose’s mood. The Highlander’s eyes swept over the room. Seeing her sitting in the tub after discovering the ring, he hadn’t taken even a moment to scan the area beyond the screen. He had been so pleasantly shocked that his attention had focused only on her. But now, looking around at the open trunks, at the piles of paintings interspersed with the jumbled masses of women’s clothing, Ambrose saw the confirmation of his first suspicion.

“It was he! Wasn’t it?”

“Who, Ambrose?” she whispered, all too aware of his eyes searching the room.

“Phillipe...the painter. He was at the Field of Cloth of Gold. He was the man you ran away with, wasn’t he?”

Elizabeth stared at him in silence, startled by his questions.

Ambrose watched her expression. Her face, clouded in a frown, was more beautiful now than it had been when they first met. The years had healed the damage of the brutality she had faced in the Golden Vale outside Calais. What had once been a jagged gash along her cheekbone was now only a thin line of a scar. Her bruises had left no mark, and the creamy complexion of her skin glowed in the lamplight. Oddly, she still wore her hair short, and the shiny, black locks were drying in soft waves around the black eyes that looked so intently into his own.

Unable to restrain himself, Ambrose reached up and smoothed the furrows that marred the wide, intelligent brow.

She stepped back from his touch.

Ambrose’s expression hardened. He knew he should walk out and let her live the life she’d chosen. But his curiosity held him in place. The way she had softened in his arms, the way she had mirrored his own intense desire. He was certain she had been responding to him. Unless, of course, she was all too accustomed to such casual attentions. He cursed himself for the softness he’d shown. Who was it the drunkard passing by had called for, anyway?

“How did you find me?” Elizabeth asked. Her sense of survival now demanded answers to a hundred questions. Had it been Mary’s indiscretion that had led him to her? Did this mean that now everyone knew of their whereabouts? When would Garnesche’s men arrive? A flush of panic colored her cheeks.

“You talk as if you think I was looking for you.” His words were cold, and they were intended to hurt.

And hurt they did. For the briefest of moments she had assumed his presence had to do with their short liaison years back. Elizabeth had thought he’d valued her and had found her after a long search. But obviously she’d been wrong.

“Let me change the question. May I ask what Your Lordship is doing in my humble quarters?” Elizabeth asked, moving farther back and putting a distance between them. “I don’t recall inviting you here.”

Ambrose let his eyes travel the length of her. The thin robe did little to cover the beautiful body beneath. He let his gaze linger suggestively on her breasts before moving lower. “If the way you greeted me was no invitation...”

“Don’t!”

“Don’t what, Elizabeth?” He took a step toward her. “Don’t look at you? Don’t desire you? Don’t touch you? Don’t hold you in my arms? Is that what you are asking of me?”

“Aye.”

“Then don’t look at me as you do. Don’t melt in my arms at the first touch. Don’t stand so provocatively near—”

“Stop!” she exploded.

Ambrose looked up in surprise. She stood facing him, challenging him with her glare. Her eyes blazed, her face flushed with her obvious anger. She looked ready to attack. This was the kind of physical fury a man might expect from another man, but not from a woman. And she was hardly at the point of hysteria. Ambrose knew from experience that this was where most women broke down, dissolving in tears, running away.

“I asked you a question, m’lord, that required only the simplest of responses.” She felt the fire burning in her cheeks. “What happened between us just now was a mistake. I’d forgotten my place and your position. What happened should never have taken place.”

He didn’t believe her words, and he knew she didn’t believe them, either.

“When last we met, I made a proposition.” Ambrose studied her every move. “Was this man’s offer so much better?”

“I try not to cry over what is past.”

“Do you care for him?”

Elizabeth didn’t know how much he knew about her life, but he clearly didn’t know that Phillipe de Anjou and Elizabeth Boleyn were one and the same.

“Is that so difficult to answer?” he pressed.

Elizabeth peered at him from where she stood. She needed to get answers to her questions, but at the same time she didn’t want to push him out prematurely. Was it attraction or need? She didn’t know. But she was finding that the reality of having him in the room was a lot more difficult than dreaming of him nostalgically.

“I don’t have to answer your questions. You, however, are still standing uninvited in this room, and I don’t know why or how you come to be here.”

Ambrose had come to convey a painter safely to Scotland. As he stood gazing on this strong-willed woman, the irony that she was the artist’s mistress struck him. From what he had ascertained from Duke Giovanni, the warrior’s understanding was that Phillipe was a shadow of a man, talented but frail. Here standing before him, however, was Elizabeth Boleyn, a woman of strength and beauty who seemed unable or unwilling to break out of the bondage of what Ambrose knew must be an unfulfilling relationship. Her response in his arms had been too immediate, too strong, too willing.

This was a challenge Ambrose would look forward to. Whatever the bond that held her to the painter, Ambrose set his mind to break it. As difficult as it would be to travel with the artist, Ambrose decided then and there that Elizabeth would accompany them during this journey, and before they reached Scotland, he would make her his own mistress. He had let her go once, but he wouldn’t let that happen again. She presented a formidable challenge. One that he looked forward to immensely.

“Apparently you have no intention of answering my questions, either,” Elizabeth concluded, taking the ring from the screen.

Ambrose watched the way she hung the leather thong around her neck, unconsciously laying the circle of emerald and gold gently between her breasts. The action, so innocent and yet so seductive, was a ritual that she’d apparently done a thousand times.

“Do you wear the ring against your skin like that when you make love to him?”

Elizabeth’s eyes shot up.

“I find it hard to believe he’s never asked you who gave it to you. What did you tell him? Have you told him about the passion we shared? Or does he even care how, to this day, you willingly accept my advances?”

Though Elizabeth felt her face burn with his words, she could not let him have the upper hand. He unnerved her, that was obvious. But it all had to end there. This was a conversation she dared not continue.

She turned her back and moved toward a pile of Mary’s clothing. She needed to cover herself. Standing in the thin robe before him was too uncomfortable. Too revealing. Too vulnerable. She talked with her back to him.

“We have not even seen one another for four years, and yet you ask so many questions. I don’t ask you matters of your personal life. Why not do the same for me?”

“I see I’ve struck close to the truth. You’re running away. Hiding.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I am doing no such thing.” She picked up the first dress that she came across. “Remembering your passionate nature, I need to get into something more proper. That’s all.”

Elizabeth moved quickly behind the wooden screen. Assured that she was hidden from his view, she tried momentarily to make some sense out of Mary’s clothing. It had been four years since she had last worn a dress. But looking at the garment, she realized she’d never in her life worn the style of clothes her sister now wore. With a sigh she removed the robe and stepped into the gown.

When the chemise flew over the top of the screen, Elizabeth bolted upright.

“If you’re truly concerned about my unbridled passion, you’d do well to put on an undergarment first. There’s no telling what I’ll do if you step back over here dressed only in that gown.”

Elizabeth looked down at herself. Oh, my God, she thought. The neckline of the crimson colored gown draped below her breasts. She was completely exposed. Hurriedly, she pulled the chemise over her head, working the garment under the dress. “You are certainly quite knowledgeable about women’s clothing.”

I’ve certainly had more than enough practice removing it, Ambrose answered silently. His eyes once again took in the room.

The painter had obviously gone out with Bardi. Ambrose knew other men like this Phillipe. It was typical that he would leave his beautiful mistress behind. Men like him were afraid of the competition. Afraid they wouldn’t measure up among other men. Well, Phillipe de Anjou was about to face the toughest competition of his life.

Struggling to subdue the willfully revealing lines of the dress, Elizabeth again considered her guest, searching for a clue to explain Ambrose’s presence here. Moving from behind the dividing screen, she brightened with an idea. “You must be in the service of the Baron of Roxburgh.”

Ambrose scowled at her. “Who?” Grudgingly, he was beginning to understand why the painter would not take her out. She was simply too damned beautiful.

“The Baron of Roxburgh.”

“Never heard of him.” Ambrose moved to her side. He reached up and pulled at the chemise that covered the skin from her breasts to her collarbone. She slapped his hand away.

“Come, now, Scotland isn’t that large a country,” she scoffed, letting him turn her around and gasping for breath as he yanked tight the ties on the back of the dress. “The place has only six sheep and a dozen lairds to watch them, from what I hear. You must know him.”

“I serve no one but the King of Scotland and the Regency Council that acts in his name. But your perception of Scotland is a bit off the mark.” His voice was low and husky.

She turned and faced him. This was the proud and noble Scot speaking. “Is it?”

“Aye,” Ambrose said with a drawl. “Scotland is a place like none you’ve ever seen. How can I describe the look of the storm tumbling across the moor? Or the torrents of a foaming Highland stream rushing through the deep green of the glen. I’m telling you, from the rolling river valleys of the Lowlands to the pine forests of the north to the wild, mountain peaks of the Outer Hebrides, it is a place that catches hold of your heart, your very soul. And once it has you, lass, it never lets go. It is a part of you, as you are a part of it.”

Elizabeth paused and looked at him pensively. She hadn’t expected this outpouring of emotion over his homeland. “It sounds lovely.”

“It is lovely.” Ambrose paused, his blue eyes intent upon her. “Like you.”

She stepped back. He was charming her. Again. She felt herself melting inside. It was the same feeling. After all this time. When she answered, she could hear the slight tremor in her voice. “I suppose my knowledge of your home is a bit incomplete. Obviously Scotland is more than just sheep.”

“Aye,” he responded, his eyes piercing hers. “There are two cows, as well, wandering somewhere in the Highlands.”

He watched as the dance of her smile reached her eyes. Her beautiful black eyes.

“Mama?” The child’s voice called out uncertainly from the darkness beyond the dividing screen.

Elizabeth looked quickly into the surprised face of the Scot and held her finger to her lips. Without another word, she disappeared around the screen.

Ambrose, caught off guard by the child’s voice, listened uncertainly to the murmuring voices for a moment.

A child. He should have known. She sounded like a small one. Of course! What else could have driven a woman like Elizabeth back to the painter? When she came to his tent at the Field of Cloth of Gold, he wondered, was she already carrying the child?

It took only a few moments for Elizabeth to settle little Jaime down once again. Casting anxious glances over her shoulder, she thought gratefully that it was a blessing Ambrose Macpherson was not in the service of this Baron of Roxburgh. It would be far too difficult for her to travel with him and keep up her disguise. He would probably see through it, in fact, and that would ruin everything.