The heavy carved door swung slowly open on its noisy hinges. A thickset older man peered out at the giant suspiciously.
“I’m here to see the painter.”
The man continued to gawk wide-eyed at the warrior.
“The painter? Phillipe de Anjou?” Ambrose asked curtly. “Does he live here?”
“Sí, m’lord.”
“I’m here to see him.”
“You can’t, m’lord.”
“Is he not at home?” Ambrose demanded shortly. He was tired and his patience was wearing thin. “Where has he gone? I need to find him tonight.”
The porter shook his head, denying the request and trying to push the door shut.
Ambrose placed his heavy boot firmly in the doorjamb and stopped the door from flattening his face. The porter’s face reflected his sudden terror.
“I mean no harm to anyone.” Ambrose didn’t need a hysterical servant on his hand right now. “I’m the Baron of Roxburgh. A friend of Duke Giovanni. I am to take the painter to Scotland with me. Now where is he?”
The man’s face brightened with recognition at the Highlander’s words. “Baron! We didn’t...Signor and Signora Bardi were not expecting you.”
Ambrose really had very little interest in the Bardis. “Then the painter Phillipe is at home?”
The porter’s eyes involuntarily flickered upward, and Ambrose knew he had arrived in time.
“Signor Bardi is dining at Signor Condivi’s tonight. We expect them back shortly. But if you will wait here, I’ll get the letter that my master wrote for you. It’s the letter that I was to give to you if you arrived after they had departed tomorrow.”
Without waiting for a reply, the man disappeared inside the house, leaving the door ajar.
There was no time to waste. Ambrose was not about to let the merchant make decisions for him. The servant had said nothing about the painter being out with Bardi, and, following the direction of the man’s gaze, Ambrose had a good idea where he was. He had not ridden like a madman for the past two days just to be left standing at the door.
Pushing through the entryway, Ambrose stepped in a large, darkened central hall. The embers in the large fireplace at the far end were enough to illuminate the room with a dim amber glow. The heavy furniture looked well made, but not ostentatious. This Bardi was not a poor man, but he was clearly not one of Florence’s merchant princes.
There was no sign of the porter. Quietly Ambrose worked his way across the room, easily finding the stairs. As he got ready to make his way up from the ground floor, his eyes were caught by the large portraits that decorated every wall.
Even in the dim light, they were magnificent. The bright oils gleamed in the flickering glow of the fire, and although the features of the subjects depicted were not discernible in the dark room, the bold colors and dynamic movement captured in the paintings were evidence of a master artist.
Climbing the stone steps to the first-floor landing, Ambrose paused before an open window and gazed at a painting on the wall. The waxing moon was just rising, and the Highlander’s eyes lingered on the Madonna and Child. There was something familiar in the face of the Madonna. But it was not the customary depiction. The pout on the Virgin’s face was subtle, but unmistakable. The Christ child’s round face, however, projected the joyful innocence of a child at play, and the tiny hands that reached up for the Madonna’s face were so realistic that Ambrose could not resist reaching out and touching the canvas.
He knew this man’s work. He looked closer. There was a signature on this painting. There wasn’t any on the one that hung in his study.
Suddenly a sound from somewhere at the back of the house roused the warrior, and he continued up the stairs, taking them now three at a time. At the top, Ambrose stood and looked down a short hallway at a partially open door.
Like the first hint of dawn, a beam of golden light spilled into the unlit corridor. The Highlander slowly and carefully worked his way to the door. Noiselessly, he pushed the door open and entered the large room.
The silence that greeted him was complete, and Ambrose let his eyes roam, taking in the total disarray of the room. To his left, a tall, painted dividing screen stood, and on a small table against the wall directly ahead, a small oil lamp cast its warm light on the wall. The warrior’s eyes were immediately drawn upward to the painting that hung above the lamp. It was a panoramic scene of noble pageantry, and around the equestrian figures at the center, tents spread out like nuggets of gold amid the rolling green meadows.
Ambrose smiled, recognizing the depicted event. Moving closer, he studied the painting. Calais. Obviously the artist had been there.
Elizabeth Boleyn. That was what Ambrose best remembered of the event. The Field of Cloth of Gold. She had walked out of his life without ever completely entering it. But standing there, lost in the picture, Ambrose felt in his chest that gnawing sense of loss. That same gnawing ache he felt every time he thought of the woman. For the life of him, he couldn’t explain why he savored her memory as he did. Still, wherever he went—around the globe, in every court in Christendom, in the midst of street crowds—his eyes continued to search for her. He sometimes wondered if she was happy with the man she’d run away with. Yes, he had pursued her far enough to know that Elizabeth Boleyn had never returned to England with her father. Neither had she returned to her home in France.
This painter has more than just skill, Ambrose thought, shaking off his melancholy. The man has a social conscience and real depth of understanding. Ambrose focused on the masterwork before him. The depiction of the poor, the mockery of the class differences—these things spoke volumes about the artist. And then the joust. Looking closer, Ambrose couldn’t help the smile that was creeping across his face. This man had painted Garnesche and him, with the exception that Ambrose was wearing a kilt. No armor, just his tartan and kilt. Ambrose didn’t recall meeting any of the court artists during his time at the event.
Ambrose chuckled to himself and then turned. As he did, his eyes were drawn to an object hanging from the wooden screen. Hanging at the end of a leather thong. A ring.
An emerald ring.
Chapter 15
Elizabeth closed her eyes tight as the sting of the soap worked its way through her eyelashes. Finishing the work of lathering her hair, she reached blindly over the side of the tub for the bucket of clean water, but her hand failed to find the handle. Cursing quietly, Elizabeth tried to rub the soap from her eyes with the backs of her hands.
The shock of the water flooding over her head jolted Elizabeth upright. Forcing her eyes open, she stared up in alarm.
Then her heart stopped.
“You are as beautiful as I remember.”
Her mouth began to move, but her tongue failed to respond.
Ambrose looked down at the incredible beauty before him. She was rising like some raven-haired Venus from the watery recesses of his mind. The smooth glistening skin of her face, of her shoulders and arms, the curves of her full, round breasts threatening to emerge from the covering bath, the full inviting lips, and the large black eyes, mesmerizing and demanding in their power.
Elizabeth gathered her knees to her chest and, crossing her arms, tried to cover her exposed flesh. Her mouth felt dry, her throat constricted. Ambrose Macpherson stood motionless before the tub in his Highland gear. She blinked uncertainly, somehow expecting that he would disappear at any moment. Her mind was playing tricks on her. The figure looming above her could not be real. The dark, handsome face was just a figment of her overly active imagination. But the giant simply continued to stand there, his powerful frame relaxed, his stance wide and confident. This was the way she remembered him. The knee-high leather boots, the kilted hips, and the Macpherson tartan crossing his chest. His dust-covered gear brought back another memory. The memory of a fighter just leaving the tournament grounds. And then the intense blue eyes—yes, he was just as she remembered.
“This must be a dream,” she finally whispered.
>
“It must be,” Ambrose repeated, as he knelt beside the tub and took her shining face in his large hands. Pulling her close to him, his eyes swept over her features and then locked onto her wet, inviting lips.
My God, he’s real. The realization hit her as Ambrose’s thumbs gently caressed her cheeks and his eyes roamed her face. Elizabeth’s mind told her to panic, to pull away, to tell him to leave. But her heart wouldn’t let her. She just couldn’t. Since she had last seen him, there had been something growing in Elizabeth that she could not deny. Tonight, right now, there was nothing she wanted more than to be kissed by this man. She wanted to be touched, to feel as she’d felt once before.
Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the moment as he tipped her chin up, reaching for her lips. Hovering somewhere in the hazy cloud just above the subconscious, Elizabeth felt her protective shield, her armor peel away, only to be replaced by another garment. Soft, delicate, it was a fabric of sheer magic, it was a moment of release. Feeling his face descending to hers, Elizabeth knew she had no choice but to respond.
As Ambrose touched his lips to hers, he felt her hands reach up and caress his face. Their lips brushed gently in search of remembrance.
As if outside herself, Elizabeth felt her own body shudder as Ambrose’s hands reached into the water and encircled her waist. His mouth was covering hers now, and she opened her lips willingly to his.
As his tongue delved into the depths of her mouth, a heat coursed through her body, scorching her with a sudden flame. Elizabeth’s startled hands flew up to encircle his neck. Her tongue, her mouth molded to his and her body ached with the need to follow. A boldness took control of her as her hands traced his back, his neck. Her fingers were raking through his hair, while her mouth answered the seductive rhythm of his thrusting tongue.
Ambrose was oblivious to all that he’d come for. She had awakened in him a desire so fast, so unbridled, that he was in near danger of falling victim to his need. There was only one thing that mattered. He could see the passion in her eyes. She was in his arms, and she was willing. He wanted her. One moment Elizabeth was half submerged in the tub, the next she was standing in his embrace, his arms about her waist. Ambrose’s mouth moved insistently against hers as a rush of wild desire directed his action. His hands roamed her back, cupping her buttocks and pressing her against his hard arousal. He smothered her gasp with his kiss as she pressed her length against his.
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.
Heart of Gold Page 13
