Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  She looked up at him, her anguish showing in her eyes. “Please, Ambrose. This is not the time.”

  “But it is, lass,” he continued. “You need to face the truth now, not sometime in the distant future. Out there, at this very moment, messengers are taking the news of your sister’s death to the English court. And to your father.”

  She looked up at him in alarm. Her voice was low and guarded. “Did you send them?”

  “To the English court? Nay, Elizabeth. Not I.” He held her icecold hand in his. “But the man who killed your sister was an English knight. And he was killed by a Scot. Now, think. That market is filled with merchants from all over Europe. If the word is not being conveyed by English merchants, then the Flemish merchants are doing it. They all know how much money there is to be made conveying information. In fact, I heard your sister’s name going through the crowd, though how that happened, I don’t know. But the fact that she was an Englishwoman, the daughter of a member of the king’s council, is no small matter. All Europe knows the power and influence Thomas Boleyn wields in Henry’s court.”

  Elizabeth had heard all this about her father before. But she’d always assumed he would just count her long dead. Now a thought that had been nagging at the corners of her consciousness pushed to the forefront. “You think he had something to do with this, don’t you?”

  Ambrose said nothing, considering how far to take this.

  “Tell me,” she persisted, her voice flat and emotionless. “What interest would he have in me now?”

  “His interest would be to destroy you, Elizabeth.” The Highlander decided to go all the way with this. To scare her. To bring her to her senses. “To make you suffer for your rebellion years back. He could feel he owes that to his king.”

  “We’ll never cross paths. I am going to the Scottish court.”

  “Which is ruled by Henry’s sister, Margaret Tudor!”

  She paled. “Your queen...”

  “Would she consider handing you over to your father?” he asked. “Aye, she would. You mean nothing to her, Elizabeth. But what’s worse, you have lied to her. And betrayed her, as well.”

  “I have done no such thing. I’ve never even met her.”

  “By then you will have.” He pressed. “By the time your father arrives at her court, you will have been presented to her as a man, even though you’re very much a woman. You’ve pretended to be what you are not. But to make matters much worse—Margaret Tudor’s a wildly superstitious woman. And you know how superstitious minds work as well as I. She’ll think you’ve done all of this out of sheer witchcraft. To cast an evil spell on her, to bring her bad luck. Now that I think more on it, she might not hand you over.”

  “She won’t?”

  “Nay, she won’t. She would want to keep the pleasure of burning you at the stake herself.”

  “You are cruel!”

  “Nay, lass,” Ambrose said sadly. “I just know my queen all too well.”

  Elizabeth felt a knot tighten in her gut as the thought of Jaime rushed into her mind. Whatever would become of the child if Elizabeth were to die?

  “Perhaps he won’t know,” she whispered. “Perhaps my father won’t find our trail. Perhaps he won’t recognize me.”

  He shook his head. “What are the chances of that? As soon as he gets the news of Mary’s death, he’ll also learn that you are traveling with me. Pretending to be Mary’s brother for years is all the clue he’ll ever need.” He took hold of her chin and brought her eyes to his. “I recognized you, Elizabeth, as soon as we met. Your father will, too.”

  “What will happen to Jaime?”

  “She’ll go to King Henry’s court in the custody of her grandfather, Thomas Boleyn. And that will mean one more earldom for your father.”

  During those years in Florence, Elizabeth had always considered Garnesche to be the one they should fear the most. Peter Garnesche had been the villain to hide from. But now she knew—it had been her father that she had been running from all along. Indeed, perhaps this cowardly attack at Troyes had been set up by her father. By her own kin.

  It was from her father’s tent that she had been running, that fateful night at the Field of Cloth of Gold. That night when she had witnessed a murder. But perhaps after all these years, Peter Garnesche had pushed the entire event from his memory. Perhaps he no longer cared.

  One thing was certain, though. Ambrose was correct—her father would never forget.

  For a moment, Elizabeth considered telling Ambrose about Garnesche’s treachery. She had never seen any reason to tell him before. She had never seen any purpose in involving Ambrose in a long-buried secret about a crime that had happened so many years ago. After all, even Friar Matthew had counseled her to let the matter rest.

  She stared at the burning candle. Jaime was all that really mattered now. Elizabeth had to make the decision that was right for the child. It was up to her to do the right thing for Jaime.

  “Tell me what you advise, Ambrose,” she said simply. She knew she could trust him. She valued his judgment. With the exception of her encounter with the Englishman in the Golden Vale, the Highlander knew everything about her. And she knew he understood her.

  Ambrose looked steadily into Elizabeth’s alert eyes.

  “To start with,” he said calmly, “you can’t go on sitting in the dark of a boat, mourning a sister who is gone and who entrusted you with her wee one.”

  “Aye. I know that, too.” Elizabeth stood up and walked to the small open window. The night sky was clear, and she could see the moon rising through a grove of trees that ran right to the river’s edge. The barge would soon be getting under way again, as soon as the moon rose high enough to cast sufficient light.

  With the cold moonlight bathing her face, she thought about the life that she had been living. It had never been easy. But now she would need to carry on the deception when the price of being unmasked was so high. It was no longer just herself now that she needed to fear for if she should be caught. Perhaps—for Jaime—it would be best to try to forget the past four years. Perhaps it would be best to become, once again, faceless and nameless, a woman hiding this time in some remote corner of the country. The choice was clear.

  “Do you advise that I become a woman again? Become Elizabeth Boleyn once more?” She turned from the window and faced him.

  “I am saying you should leave this cabin.” He stood and crossed the floor to her. “Jaime needs you. Your being hidden away has bothered her deeply. She saw her mother spending a great deal of time in this cabin before her death. I think she is afraid. She thinks she might lose you, as well. I don’t think I have to tell you how she feels about you, but she told me that she wants her Uncle Phillipe to be her mama now.”

  Ambrose gently wiped away the tears that were rolling unchecked down her face. “Ernesta told me that the wee one depends on you more than she ever depended on her mother. She loves you, lass. And if all this means you should turn back to being who you truly are, then perhaps you should.”

  Jaime must be cared for, Elizabeth thought.

  “And there’s something else. It means less to you than it does to me, but there’s Gavin.”

  “What?”

  “Aye, Elizabeth. I’m deadly serious. Right now, the man is as broken in spirit as he was after Flodden. He blames himself for the death of your sister, and he sees your withdrawal as proof of it.”

  “Ambrose, I could never blame him. It was I who should have—”

  Ambrose took her face in his hands. “Just tell him. Talk to him.”

  “Aye,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

  Change. She could already taste the sweetness and the bitterness that goes with all change. But she’d had her moments in the sun. She’d had her opportunity to paint. She’d felt the glow of success in doing the thing she wanted most to do. And now it was time to change. There were new pages that needed to be turned.

  “I need to find Friar Matthew.”

  Ambrose raise
d an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “The priest that sold you Henry’s ring at—”

  “I remember him. The one who helped you get to Florence.”

  “Ambrose, I’ll give up the pretense. But I need a way to support Jaime and myself.”

  “Elizabeth, I—”

  Placing her hand over his lips, she hushed his words. “I can’t ask any more of you than what I have already asked, Ambrose. Friar Matthew helped me once before to sell my paintings, under different name. He could do it again. Jaime and I could remain in Paris. We’ll change our names. No one will know our whereabouts or who we are. Nay, perhaps it would be better if we moved to one of the villages outside the city. That way I could raise her in safety.”

  Roughly, he pulled her hand from his mouth and held it.

  “Nay! I won’t let you do that, Elizabeth.”

  She could see he was angry. “You’ve just said yourself that we can’t go to the Scottish court after what has happened.”

  “Elizabeth, do the things that we’ve shared mean nothing to you?” He took hold of her shoulders. “Do you honestly think I could just walk away? Just leave you somewhere in France and forget about you?”

  “Ambrose, I don’t want you to do anything dishonorable. I don’t want to see you shamed before your queen for protecting us. And I also don’t want you to do something for us simply because it is the honorable thing to do. I know how men such as yourself readily sacrifice your own happiness because of some perceived sense of duty.”

  She looked straight into his cobalt-blue eyes. They burned her soul with their intensity. She knew she loved him. She hated the thought of parting from him. She could feel the ache of longing in her chest even now. But she wasn’t about to let him hold on to them for the wrong reasons. “I won’t accept your charity, Ambrose. We can look after ourselves.”

  “Damn honor and damn you, Elizabeth Boleyn! Can’t you see what I feel for you?” No longer could he hold back the emotions hidden just beneath the surface, feelings straining to surge into the open. “Don’t you know what you’ve done to me? How my life has changed since we first met at the Field of Cloth of Gold?”

  His fingers were digging into the flesh of her arms. But she prized this mild pain. “Aye. I’ve ruined you.”

  “Don’t jest with me, damn it,” he growled, shaking her once firmly. Ambrose quickly let his hands drop to his sides as he realized what he was doing. “Look at me. I’ve become a raving madman. I used to be cool, controlled, even-tempered.”

  She reached out and brought his hand to her face, gently placing a kiss on his palm. “I like you better this way.”

  His hands framed her face. His gaze locked with hers. “Is that all you will admit feeling for me? Elizabeth, I think from the day we first met, your eyes have betrayed you. You care for me as I do for you. Are you willing to walk away, to forget?”

  She shook her head as tears once again coursed down her face. “I am simply trying to do the best thing, Ambrose. That’s all.”

  “The best thing for whom, lass?” he asked gently. “The best thing for Jaime? What you think is best for me? Forget the last, for what you’ve just suggested is as wrong as it could be. Elizabeth, in this room you are the one who is bound up by your sense of honor and duty to those who depend upon you. You place everyone above you. You think of everyone but yourself.”

  Elizabeth stood shaking her head. “Nay, I—”

  “And also, don’t try to talk as though ‘honor’ belongs in some male dominion. Nay woman, you are living proof that it is not.”

  She couldn’t stay away from him any longer. She slipped her arms about him, placing her face against his chest, holding him tightly. She needed his strength. She needed his love.

  Ambrose held her trembling body against his.

  “Elizabeth, it has taken me a lifetime to find you and another lifetime to get you back.” He kissed her soft ebony hair. “I don’t know if you perceive this to be right or wrong. But know this, lass. I am not letting you go. The past two days have been worse than a thousand years in hell for me. I never want to go through that again. I never want to be away from you again. Never. Do you understand?”

  He lifted her chin and looked into the shimmering blackness of her eyes.

  “I love you, Elizabeth. Tell me that you won’t leave me. That you—”

  She reached up and silenced his words with a kiss.

  “I never thought I would ever hear you say those words,” she whispered, kissing him again and again. Her lips could not get enough of him.

  Ambrose grabbed a fistful of her hair and drew her face back, forcing her to look into his eyes. His lips lingered a breath away from hers.

  “And what about you, Elizabeth? I’ve waited as long as you have.”

  Elizabeth gazed longingly into the depths of his eyes.

  “I love you, Ambrose. I need you.”

  Her simple declaration was all he needed to hear. The grip of his muscular arms tightened, his mouth descended. Their eyes, blazing with intent, never left one another as he drew her onto the bunk.

  She needed him. Physically. Spiritually.

  He needed her as he needed every part of himself. Deep within, he knew they were to be one, now and forever. Deep within, he knew the change had already occurred.

  As the boat rocked in the restless current, Elizabeth moved past her grief, turning to life, to love. Like shipwreck survivors, starved for days, they clung to each other in a gathering storm of love.

  Ambrose drew her to him, and her heart grew stronger with each passing moment. Caught up in the act of living, of loving, Elizabeth hardly felt herself shedding the weight of her grief. But she was, and the flames of her passion grew to a raging inferno, supplanting the darkness of death with the brilliance of being.

  Together, they loved. The impatient hands, the roaming mouths—feeling, tasting—they were two paramours exulting in the quickening expression of their love. The radiance of their love soon dispelled all lingering shadow of loss.

  In the lovers’ frenzied desire, garments flew to the floor. Their clothing removed, Ambrose moved on top of her.

  “Marry me, Elizabeth.” His hands moved over the full curves of her breasts, the soft lines of her belly. “Tell me you will marry me.”

  She lay back on the bunk, her body quivering to his touch. While his lips teased and suckled the rosy nipples, his fingers gently slipped into her moist folds, finding within the nub of desire, stoking the flames.

  Elizabeth groaned. “I think that...I think that I’d be in heaven...”

  “A lovely place, no doubt, my love.” Ambrose nipped at her jaw, kissing her neck, tracing a line with the tip of his tongue into the soft contours of the valley between her breasts. “Don’t make me wait any longer, Elizabeth.”

  She pulled at his blond hair, pushing him onto his back. With a smile, the Highlander helped pull her on top.

  “I am stubborn,” she growled. “Opinionated, too. And headstrong.”

  She shifted her weight on him, moving her legs until she straddled him.

  “I love that about you.”

  “I am emotional and short-tempered. I’ll probably drive you out of your mind.”

  “I can live with that.” His fingers played over the lines of her tender flesh. Her body was so perfect. He wanted her now. He wanted to feel himself buried deep within her. “And it will be an improvement over my present condition.”

  She gasped as he lifted her onto him.

  “Tell me, Elizabeth,” he rumbled, his voice ragged with desire. “Tell me.”

  “Aye, my love.” She lowered herself gently as he entered her. She whispered her response. “Aye, Ambrose. I’ll marry you.”

  Joined in the love embrace, the perfect fit, they locked out any specter of fear and loss. At this moment all that mattered was the two of them. All that existed was the affinity of two hearts and minds. Two bodies and souls. They would have time—a lifetime together—to face the enemies and intr
uders that awaited them. But for now, for tonight, each lived only for the other—together basking in the glow of fulfillment.

  Chapter 27

  Gavin remained behind when they left Paris.

  Once Elizabeth surfaced from her mournful isolation, the warrior soon recovered from his sorrow over Mary’s death. But he could not quite grasp the truth about his friend Phillipe de Anjou.

  With Ambrose standing behind her, glaring at the black-haired giant, Elizabeth had told Gavin the truth—that she was a woman. Dumbfounded, the Lowlander had been unable to utter a word. But when he finally stammered out that he didn’t believe it and required proof, Ambrose had been at his throat, at once.

  And Gavin had believed her.

  They sailed out of King Francis’s fine new port at La Havre, going west around the tip of Cornwall and north through the Irish Sea to the Scotland. The seas of the Solway Firth tossed their little ship, but soon the travelers found themselves making their way past the red stone walls of Sweetheart Abbey and the round towers of Caerlaverock Castle and into the calmer waters off the tiny village of Gretna. There Elizabeth and Ambrose, together with Jaime, the Baldis, and the baron’s company of soldiers, secured horses and began their trek into the hills east of Gretna and on into the green, rolling valleys of the Borders.

  On the second day’s ride, they dropped down into the river valley of the Teviot, and followed its sparkling waters east, toward the ancient border stronghold of Roxburgh Castle. As they rode along, Elizabeth’s eyes continued to survey the lush and fertile farm land, the broad expanses of forest, the rocky upland moors. The place struck her with its beauty, its wildness, its strength. She didn’t know if she had ever seen a sky as blue as the one that covered the open spaces that they crossed.

  To Elizabeth, the Borderlands between Scotland and England presented a study in pastoral beauty. Small, neatly thatched cottages stood side by side with rugged stone and sod huts. Flocks of sheep grazed on craggy hills, while cattle roamed the river’s grassy edge. As they rode along, farmers and fishermen doffed their hats to the passing baron, and children and maidens ran alongside the warriors, dispensing fresh bannock cakes and wildflowers.