Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  Elizabeth turned her back to pick up her cloak. Busying herself with folding the garment, she tried to ignore the image of him stepping out of the water.

  “But not before I made him confess the truth.” Ambrose tied the towel loosely around his waist as he moved behind her. She smelled of lavender and the fresh summer air.

  “You wanted to know the whereabouts of his mistresses?” She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He was standing far too close. She leaned over and placed the ring on the table. Elizabeth found herself suddenly fighting the urge to recoil, to run away. After all, wasn’t this why she had come here? To lose her virginity?

  “Hardly.” Ambrose let his lips brush against her skin. It was as soft as it looked. He felt her body go tense. “Why did you give the ring to the priest?” he asked softly.

  “Why did you offer him so much gold to take it back?”

  “So you’ve seen him since.” Ambrose let his finger run seductively down her back. He smiled as he saw the obvious shudder that ran through her.

  Elizabeth clutched her cloak tight in her hand. She knew she had to relax. She had to let this just happen. She had to admit it had helped to get some glimmering of the kind of man this Ambrose Macpherson was...from Friar Matthew. This afternoon, when the priest had returned to her tent with word of Sir Ambrose’s generosity, Elizabeth had listened closely to his story. She had known Friar Matthew for a long time, and she’d given him the English king’s ring, knowing that many would benefit from it. The ring certainly had no monetary or sentimental value to her. Elizabeth had earned what money she’d needed for Mary’s physician by selling the painting earlier. And if only for her sister’s sake, she knew it would be far better if Mary’s eyes never chanced to fall upon it.

  And then the priest had come back, telling her—to Elizabeth’s astonishment—that the Scottish nobleman had bought the ring from him. The young woman had never expected the priest to approach him. What must he have thought, learning that the ring he’d given as a token had been handed over to someone else the same day? But then, it had been too late to worry about such things.

  Sitting there in her tent, beaten and fairly certain of what course she would take, Elizabeth had been surprised to hear that the Scottish knight had asked about her. And then the priest had told her of the man’s generosity and compassion.

  After hearing all that, Elizabeth had agreed with Mary, that this was the right course, that this man was the one to come to. After all, she would never see him again. Never.

  Ambrose reached up and pulled the pin that held her hair in place. The sliding mass of black curls tumbled caressingly over his hand. He breathed in the heavenly scent, wondered at the silken softness. He ran his hands down her shoulders, thinking back over what he’d managed to pry out of the priest. There was so much that fascinated him about this woman.

  “Considering his tongue-flapping profession, your priest friend is not much on talking when he doesn’t want to.”

  “That’s very curious, coming from a diplomat.” She watched as his hands confidently encircled her waist. She tried to hide her own trembling hands and hesitantly dropped her cloak on the bench.

  “Hmm, so you know about me,” he crooned, his lips a breath away from her ear. His strong arms pulled her tightly to him.

  “Of course. You are the most charming courtier ever to wield a lance.” Her soft voice carried just a touch of irony. “Your name is on the lips of every lady in France. They tell me that wherever you pass by, your squires have to sweep up the swooning maidens that are left in your wake.”

  “Oh, is that so? And are you feeling a wee bit light-headed, as well?”

  “Of course. Well, I’m feeling something.” She looked down as his hands roamed the front of her dress. Gently moving up to cup her breasts. “But thinking of it now, it may just be a touch of gas.”

  “We must be eating from the same pot.” Ambrose chuckled as he turned her in his arms. He tensed. Even in the dim glow of the brazier, he could see the swollen cheek that she’d been keeping away from him. Immediately his brow darkened.

  “Who did this to you?” his hand reached up to feel the lump, but she turned her face away, not wanting his sympathy.

  “I had to fight my way through legions of women to get to you.” Elizabeth winced as his hands framed her face and turned it to him. She reached up and tried to remove them but to no avail.

  “You must tell me who beat you this way.” His voice was sharp.

  “So much like a knight,” she said with a sigh, trying to lighten the mood. “But I think she is even too tough for you. Rotund. Middle-aged. With a very strong right arm. But she may still be outside.”

  Ambrose looked at her askance. “That is no answer, lass.”

  “In fact, I think I might have suffered a blow to the head. My memory is a bit vague right now.” Elizabeth tried to avert her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look into his intense and beautiful blue eyes. Talking came easy to her. But looking at his handsome face made something inside her go soft. This close to him, she could smell his good, clean, masculine scent. She was very conscious of the chest that her arms rested against.

  “Let me help. I know who you are.” Ambrose knew a lot more about her than the priest had divulged. And he was not fooled by her quick tongue. Someone had hurt her, and he planned to find out who. The Highlander lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his direct gaze. “You’re Elizabeth Boleyn. Eldest daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, King Henry’s ambassador to France. Born of Catherine Valmont. You’ve spent most of your life in the French court. Not surprisingly, your beauty and brains are well spoken of. And, as the Duc de Bourbon knows, you are not one to share your bed openly with just anyone.”

  “He told you all of this?” she whispered. “I’m flattered, m’lord. You must have gone to a great deal of trouble to learn all these things. The truth is, I’m not what one might call ‘well known’ at this level of society.”

  “Did someone hurt you because of my gift to you? Because of my attention to you at the joust?”

  Elizabeth thought back to the encounter she’d had with her father earlier. It was curious that Sir Thomas had not mentioned even a word about the attention she’d received from the Highlander at the joust. He’d been there and witnessed it, as everyone else had. She still shook her head in response. “It looks a lot worse than it feels. I’m fine, m’lord.”

  “Whoever you are trying to protect does not deserve you, lass,” Ambrose took a half step back and looked at her from head to toe. She was a striking young woman, radiating beauty, charm, and something more. Confidence. Even in her disheveled condition. “If you would allow me, I’d take great pleasure in teaching the man who did this a few lessons on how a woman should be treated.”

  “Please stop!” She took his hand in her own. “I didn’t come here to discuss this...this minor mishap.”

  “Then why did you come?” Ambrose asked as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He paused as he gently kissed them. “Did you come to punish him? To get even?”

  He turned her hand in his and stroked the soft palm before bringing it once again to his lips. The streaks of colors on her fingers caught his attention.

  “Perhaps!” she whispered, coiling her hand and placing it in the folds of her skirt.

  “Well, how far must your vengeance take you?” He stepped toward her, pulling her again into his embrace.

  “My ven—” the words died on her lips as he leaned toward her. She felt his mouth possess hers. All at once hard and soft, demanding and giving, seductive and playful.

  “How much does he need to suffer?” He whispered the question, tilting her head and deepening the kiss. Her mouth was soft, pliable, warm. Her sweet taste was intoxicating. Suddenly he couldn’t get enough of her. With a silent roar, desire swept through him, desire for skin against skin, body against body. Ambrose knew it should matter that she wasn’t there solely because she wanted him. But somehow, he simply didn’t care. He knew
that when the night was done, when their passion was—for the moment—sated, she would feel differently. Next time, she would come wanting him.

  Elizabeth found herself short of breath. She could feel the hammer of her heart in her chest. She had not expected this. So quick. The kiss, this man’s mouth, was undoing her, melting her. She felt herself going limp in his embrace, her mouth yielding to his mouth, her body molding to his body. She raised herself on her toes as her hands instinctively encircled his neck. She felt rather than heard his groan of pleasure as her body pressed involuntarily against his.

  “Tell me, how much does he need to suffer?” Ambrose’s hands worked their way through the laces of her dress front as his lips bit and teased her neck, her jaw, her lips.

  “Endlessly!” she whispered.

  Chapter 4

  Elizabeth had expected it to be quick, painful, and done with.

  How could this happen? Her senses, now inflamed by the attentions of Ambrose Macpherson, cried out for release. And as far as she could tell in the amber haze that was swirling in her brain, she was still a virgin.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes as Ambrose worked her fingers gently from their death grip on the sheets. She looked up into his passion-filled eyes as he kissed her palm.

  “Hold me, Elizabeth. Don’t be afraid. Touch me.”

  She watched in dismay as Ambrose lowered her hand and let it trace downward over the hard muscles of his abdomen. Her fingers played a dance of wonder over his skin. He shifted his weight off of her, to give her better access. She froze. He was naked, Elizabeth realized with a jolt. And so was she, nearly.

  She had been so consumed with the magic of this man’s beguiling touch, of his hands, his mouth, his kisses, that she had hardly paid any attention to her own circumstances. They were gone...forgotten. Elizabeth had only the vaguest awareness of his strong arms removing her dress, lifting her off her feet, and carrying her to bed. After that, she’d been lost to everything.

  Now, looking down at her open chemise, her exposed breasts, she yanked her hand out of his grasp, trying to cover her flesh. But he was too quick for her.

  “Not so fast.” He lifted her hands above her head, trapping them there with one hand. “You have the most beautiful body of any woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I want to savor every moment. We can’t rush this.” Ambrose’s eyes lowered to the full breasts. To the raised aurora that invitingly beckoned his lips. He bent down and kissed the soft curves of the valley between her heaving breasts. Then moving on, he tenderly suckled her rose-colored nipples.

  Elizabeth groaned uncontrollably in response. She wanted him. He was making her insane. But somewhere inside her head she knew she had to stop. She had to stop the rhythmic dance that was taking over her body, had to stop the liquid heat that was rushing through her. She could not go through with this.

  Ambrose tried to control the pounding roar of his heart. He was losing control fast. She was incredible. Her beauty, her sweet taste were driving him wild. He wanted to take her now. But more, he wanted to extend this sweet torture. For his own selfish reasons, he wanted Elizabeth to remember him, to remember this night as the best lovemaking she’d ever had. Ambrose felt her hands work their way out of his grip and work themselves into his hair. She pulled at him. He rolled and brought her on top of him, stripping her of the open chemise as they rolled.

  Elizabeth gasped as she found herself looking down at the handsome warrior. Her breasts, still tingling from his kisses, rested heavily on his chest. She was afraid. Afraid of her own body’s responses. Something inside of her was taking over. Something she could not control. His hands were working across the skin of her buttocks, working their way toward the juncture of her legs. Against her judgment, against her very will, she thrilled to this act of lovemaking. She was ashamed of herself. But she could not deny it.

  Ambrose couldn’t hold back. Elizabeth’s cascading waves of black silk framed her angelic face. Her cloudy eyes searched his face with curiosity, uncertainty. Her full lips, swollen from his kisses, drew his eyes. He wanted those lips on his body. He wanted to teach her things that her French lover obviously had not. The foolish man. He lifted her by the waist.

  Elizabeth sat up slowly and watched as Ambrose’s hands brushed her hair gently away from her breasts. Then he shifted her weight. Elizabeth looked down as she felt the throbbing member against her. Throbbing to enter her.

  No, she thought in a panic. No! She had to get away. She couldn’t go through with this.

  Everything a blur around her, she leaned backward suddenly and, with a thud, fell heavily into the rushes on the floor.

  Ambrose peered over the end of the bed at Elizabeth, shocked to see the naked beauty scuttling backward away from him.

  His voice had a touch of humor when he spoke. “I’ve made more than a few women wild in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever driven one stark-raving mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” she whispered, modestly turning to hide her exposed body.

  “Here, lass,” Ambrose called sharply, sitting up. “Watch out for the brazier!”

  Elizabeth scrambled to her feet just before upsetting the coals.

  “What’s wrong?” Ambrose stood, taking a step toward her.

  “Don’t!” Elizabeth shouted, raising her hand pleadingly. “Please don’t.” She looked frantically about for her clothes, grabbing at the first things she could find. “I’m sorry, m’lord...I—”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Ambrose said, his tone soothing. She was scared. He couldn’t believe it, but in an instant she’d gone from the heights of passion to the depths of cold desperation. He needed to calm her fears. “I don’t know what that man has done to you. But, that’s him. Not me.”

  Elizabeth fumbled with the oversized shirt as she tried to pull it over her head. “What man?” Her head just wouldn’t go into the sleeve.

  “You are young, beautiful. In fact, stunning. Any man would be a fool not to want you as his own. To treat you better.”

  “I am not just a rose sitting about, waiting to be picked, m’lord. I’ll decide for myself what I want. I’ll make my own choices.” Damn, she thought, hearing the shirt rip.

  “Then why do you stay with one who abuses you? Hasn’t someone ever told you that you deserve better than that?”

  Elizabeth’s head finally appeared through the collar opening. Her hair was in total disarray. “If my well-being is truly a concern to you, then I have to inform you that I am quite self-sufficient.”

  Ambrose’s eyes traveled the length of her as she tried to close the open collar. She looked wonderful in his shirt. “You might think yourself as in charge, lass. But clearly you are not. Just look at you. You are a woman. A beautiful woman who—”

  “There is nothing wrong with that.” Elizabeth snapped.

  “Let me finish,” he growled, silencing her with a glare. “You are a stubborn, beautiful woman who obviously has not been told the difference between what she should tolerate and what she should not. You will never be in charge, Elizabeth, until you are able to recognize and act on that difference.”

  Elizabeth’s head pounded with the thought of all that still lay ahead. “Simply, m’lord. Could you please tell me in simple terms...What the devil you are talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you and your lover, my thick-headed English—”

  “Don’t you dare call me that, you...you... What lover are you talking about?” My God, she was losing her mind. Elizabeth’s brain whirled as she tried to make some sense out of all that was happening. Then her eyes widened as her gaze fell on the Highlander’s imposing arousal. “I...Never mind. I have to go.”

  “The Duc de Bourbon. I should have known.” Ambrose reached down grabbed his tartan, and tossed it to her. “The man nearly went wild when I asked him about you this afternoon. The filthy knave. I can’t believe I was so blind. It was he.”

  Elizabeth paused, gaping at the warrior. Bourbon?”

  “Aye. The cowar
d Bourbon. I should have flattened his face before he did this to you.” Ambrose ground his fist into his palm. “When did he do it? Was it after I questioned him? Did he come to you after I left?”

  Elizabeth gaped at the nobleman. “I don’t know what it is you are talking about, but I don’t need anyone to defend me. I can tell you right now that I will kill, with no hesitation whatsoever, any man who raises a hand to me again.”

  “Aye, lass. That’s the spirit. And it’s about time.”

  Elizabeth stood for a moment longer, now totally confused. She had no clue whether their discussion had reached its conclusion. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if she’d heard half of what was said. She shook her head. She had lost her mind. “Good night, m’lord.” Elizabeth turned as she pulled her hair back and tied it with a thong.

  “Where are you going?” Ambrose asked. Though there was something comical in seeing her wearing his baggy shirt and ankle-length kilt, his belt wrapped twice around her, there was also something quite arousing in the picture.

  “I’m going in search of my sanity and perhaps even justice,” Elizabeth murmured as she swept toward the tent’s opening. “And my future. That’s my only chance.”

  Ambrose stood by his bed and watched her leave. This had been, by far, the strangest encounter he’d ever had with any woman in his life.

  Looking down at his still erect member, Ambrose thought about his would-be lover, even now wandering through the Field of Cloth of Gold, appareled in some very fine, albeit large, men’s clothing.

  Elizabeth Boleyn was, indeed, a strange creature.

  Chapter 5

  The drunkards roaming the Golden Vale that night never imagined that the Scottish lad walking among them was a woman.

  From the cloth great hall far off across the field, the sounds of merrymaking and music broke in gentle waves over Elizabeth’s consciousness. Vaguely, she glanced across the knolls to the glow of the bonfire that lit the huge tent from within. With unseeing eyes, she continued on past huddling couples and men lurching about in various degrees of inebriation.