Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  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 trie
d 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.”

  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.

  Chapter 24

  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—”