Heart of Gold

by May McGoldrick

  “How could I be disappointed?” Ambrose protested, as he took her face softly in his hands. “Shocked. Pleased. Surprised. Curious even. But not disappointed, my sweet.” He leaned down and slanted his lips over hers. Her hand once again encircled his neck, and he drew her up tightly to him.

  Elizabeth arched her hips as he gathered her in his arms. Suddenly she could feel him pulsing deep within her.

  Ambrose shifted his weight slightly, and Elizabeth gasped as a new sensation replaced the discomfort. As he partially withdrew, a feeling of intense heat, of torrid pleasure emanated from the very core of her. Ambrose slid into her again, and somewhere in her head Elizabeth felt as if a rod were being drawn across the taut string of a lyre. A single note resonated throughout her entire body.

  Again, ever so slowly, he withdrew, and again the love tone played within her. Again he drove into her, and the sound that she felt more than heard reverberated through her. A rhythm began to envelop her, coming from within, and yet tied to the motion of her lover.

  Higher and higher the pitch of the sound went, and Elizabeth found her body rising and falling to the pulsating beat.

  Over and over, Elizabeth’s hips rose to accept Ambrose more deeply with every stroke. The moans coming from far down in her throat sounded more like the humming purr of a wild lioness. He wanted to make certain that Elizabeth found pleasure before he did. He had to hold back, but the sounds she made were driving him over a precipice.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She kept pushing, arching against him rhythmically, urgently.

  Then she called his name. As if the earth shook, as if her existence depended on the hold of the arms around her, Elizabeth coiled around him. Within her brain a million notes exploded in a chorus of light and sound, color and music. Every singing fiber of her being on fire, her body lifted into his as lightning bolts of reds and yellows thrilled through her—elevating her, transporting her into a crystalline dimension she had only dreamed could exist.

  As her body went taut as a wire, Ambrose plunged one last time. Then, momentarily spent, he fell into her welcoming embrace.

  Elizabeth caressed his damp skin, gathering him tightly in her arms. For her, the earth had stopped turning as they’d made love. But now, lying there with him, her breath shortened as a knot formed in her chest. Then, without warning, Elizabeth felt tears well up and wash down her face. In the span of a few precious moments, he had been able to release in her a world that had been hidden deep within. A wondrous world.

  Because of him. Lying there, she knew it was because of this man, Ambrose Macpherson, that she felt as she did. From the first moment that he’d turned his attention to her in the grandstands at the Field of Cloth of Gold, he had changed her life. She needed him. She loved him.

  Elizabeth brushed her lips against his hair as he rested so serenely on top of her. She could feel the pounding of his heartbeat beginning to slow. She cherished the feel of his weight. The strength that flowed from him.

  Ambrose lifted himself and rolled off of her. Moving to the middle of the bed, he pulled Elizabeth to his side. She was a tangled jumble of dress and sheets. He looked down into her beautiful face and felt his heart tighten. She looked like a dream, curled up beside him. The burst of passion, the powerful explosion he’d felt only moments ago, had subsided now. But it had been a first even for him. Never in the act of lovemaking had he felt a commingling of spirits as he had felt with her. Never. Though there was something daunting at the thought of it, there was also something satisfying. A sense of completeness swept through him. A sense of oneness that pacified the body, soothed the soul.

  But it wasn’t only the strength of their passion that brought such peace, it was the way she felt now, lying in his arms. It was the feel of her body against him, as though she had been made to fit there and only there, where she lay at this moment. In his arms, beside him. She belonged to him.

  His voice was gentle when he asked the question. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, lass?”

  The young woman looked up and saw the softness in his expression. “I suppose I was afraid.”

  “Not of me!” he exclaimed, as his thumb wiped away the traces of tears that were drying on her perfect complexion.

  Elizabeth found herself leaning into the warm touch of his hand. “A bit afraid of you, and a bit afraid of myself.”

  He looked up into the dark canopy above. “You were an innocent when you came to me that night at the Field of Cloth of Gold. What a fool I was for not seeing it.” He turned to her. “But why did you come? Why did you lead me on so with your pretense of experience?”

  She coiled the sheets between her fingers. There was no reason to continue to evade telling him the truth. He should know what she could share with him. “I’ve already told you of my father. Of his plan to send me to King Henry’s bed.”

  He nodded silently.

  “In part, that’s why I came to you that night.” She searched for the right words. She didn’t want him to think her father’s intentions had been the only reasons she had run to him. Deep inside she knew there was more. “That afternoon, after the joust, my father told me that Henry wanted my virginity. His foolish physicians had told the king a virgin’s innocence could cure his pox. Unfortunately, I was there, at the wrong place. At the wrong time.”

  Ambrose cursed the stupidity of such backwardness. “You didn’t believe them, did you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “The arrogant bastard. Using his power over those too innocent to resist.”

  “I never gave my father a chance to go through with his threat.” She moved closer to his side. “I came to your tent hoping that you would make love to me. It’s true I was determined to teach my father a lesson. But my coming to you went beyond that alone. If I were to step into womanhood, I was bound that I would make that transition with the person of my own choosing.”

  “But you could have told me the truth. I could have taken you out of there without the hell you have put yourself through. It didn’t have to be the way it was.”

  “How could I have done that to you?” she protested, raising herself on her elbow. “Here you were, the most handsome man in the entire Golden Vale. The most charming courtier, a champion among warriors, perhaps the most eligible bachelor in the Europe—”

  “Perhaps?” he broke in with a smile.

  “You had your choice of women,” she continued. “And I should presume so much? Simple, plain Elizabeth Boleyn.”

  “The bright and the beautiful Elizabeth Boleyn.”

  She clapped him gently on the chest. “There is no need to flatter me, m’lord,” she continued, tracing patterns on his chest. “There I was. Wishing my innocence away, but deathly nervous about going through with it. I was just so afraid to reveal the truth and find myself thrown out of your tent.”

  “I never threw a woman out of my tent.”

  She dropped her head on his chest. “Please, don’t depress me.”

  Ambrose smiled as he ran his fingers in her hair. “Of course, that was before I met you. I’ve turned so many of them away since.”

  “Liar!”

  Ambrose laughed as he drew her face up to his for a kiss. “I was the real disappointment, wasn’t I? It was I who didn’t come through as you had wished.”

  “But you did!” She rolled on her stomach, propping herself on her elbows and looking at him with a twinkle in her eye. “As far as every one else was concerned, we did sleep together that night. They all believed me. Even my sister Mary.”

  “And that ruse served your purpose?”

  “I ran away,” she whispered quietly, growing serious again. “And here I am. So I suppose it did.”

  Ambrose turned onto his side and laid his hand gently on her back. “There never were any husbands or lovers.”

  She shook her head. “Nay, and there was never anyone by the name of Phillipe de Anjou.”

  Silent for a moment, the Highlander ran his hand over the curve of her buttocks, smooth
ing the dress beneath his palm. He stopped.

  “But what about Jaime? She looks so much like you that it was only natural for me to assume she was yours.” Ambrose gazed into her face. “She’s Mary’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  Elizabeth turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. She trusted him. There was no danger for the child in Ambrose knowing the truth. “Aye. Jaime is Mary’s daughter.”

  “And the father?”

  “Henry of England,” she said quietly, taking hold of his other wrist. “This has been a secret between Mary and me. Only we know. And now you. But we must keep it that way.”

  Perplexed, Ambrose stared at her. “Even someone as heartless as Henry would care for his offspring. The child would be treated nobly.”

  “We know that. It’s not Henry who worries us most.” Elizabeth paused, searching for the right words. “It’s our father. He bartered away two daughters. He’ll treat Jaime no differently. She’s happy with us. We have been able to provide for her. We are giving her everything she needs. She’s better with Mary and me than she would ever be in the English court.” Her voice took on an imploring note. “I just can’t risk endangering her life. Please understand.”

  How could he not understand? Ambrose knew how illegitimate children were perceived in the royal families. They were the pawns of those in search of power—at best.

  And Ambrose had enjoyed playing and talking with Jaime many times during this long journey. She was the spitting image of her aunt—in looks and in character. Jaime had spirit.

  “You would do best to keep her as far away from that court as you can.”

  Elizabeth gazed into his blue eyes, confident in her decision to confide all in this man.

  “Thank you,” she whispered quietly.

  He traced her lips gently with his fingers. Moving closer, he kissed her tenderly.

  “Jaime is a lucky child.” His fingers trailed over the silky skin of her chin to the hollow of her throat and along the line of her collarbone. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  Elizabeth shook her head slightly, denying the compliment.

  “Ambrose,” she said quietly, after a moment’s pause. “I have a question to ask you. Well, actually a permission, of sorts.”

  He laughed. “Permission? Elizabeth Boleyn asking permission?”

  “Forget what I said,” she scowled. “Consider it a question.”

  “Aye. That’s more like my Elizabeth.”

  “The ring.” She turned and reached over to the table and picked up the ring and leather thong.

  “Aye. Henry’s ring.”

  Elizabeth paused and gazed at it.

  “Ambrose, I wore this for years as a keepsake. As a token of your attentions to me. Of what I carried in my heart.” She lifted her eyes to his. “But now I’d like to put it aside...for Jaime.”

  The Highlander looked into her misty eyes.

  “She doesn’t know her father’s true identity. In fact, she might never know...but I thought it might be a good thing for her to have this someday.” She caressed his chest. “So what do you think?”

  Ambrose’s face was serious as he placed his hand over hers, holding hers still.

  “That is fine with me, Elizabeth. But I have one condition.”

  “Another condition?”

  “Aye. Perhaps a final one.”

  “Very well. What is it?”

  “You can’t give me away.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Never.”

  The gentle breeze kissed the two entangled bodies with its soft dawn touch. Elizabeth paused for a moment, listening to the song of a lark outside, and then lifted her lips from Ambrose’s naked chest. She brushed her black hair away from her face and smiled down at his tortured expression.

  “What about now? Will you take me yet?”

  “You’re the devil’s lass, Elizabeth Boleyn,” Ambrose muttered through gritted teeth. “But I still say nay!”

  With a growl that rumbled from a place deep in his chest, the baron threw Elizabeth onto her back and moved on top of her. Securely pinning her hands under his, he grunted contentedly before letting his mouth travel leisurely along the soft skin of her neck, her shoulders, the firm white flesh of her breasts.

  He cursed himself for the hundredth time for acting like an unprincipled knave, taking her the night before as he had. And what was worse, he’d silently promised to take his time thereafter. But the next time had been only a few short moments after the first time. And once again they had been too crazed to take and to give what they each had waited so long to share. Again there had been no gentleness, no taking their time.

  So once again Ambrose had renewed his promise to go slower the next time.

  It had been a wondrous night. How many times he had broken his promise, he couldn’t remember.

  Ambrose had to admit it was very difficult—nearly impossible—to go slowly with a woman like Elizabeth. In bed, the woman was a she-devil. A raging moor fire, one that incinerated everything in its path. Even now she continued to writhe restlessly beneath him. As he moved from one breast to the other, eliciting a low moan from her, he considered how the morning light would show nearly every inch of his skin gloriously scorched.

  Indeed, he had awakened her out of her half-sleep only moments ago with a gentle touch, a seductive whisper. He wanted to show her the ways—the many different ways—that he could give her pleasure. But he also wanted to show her there could be more to their lovemaking than simply lust. He wanted to show her the dreamlike moments that could precede it. He wanted to show her the tender side of romance.

  But she had immediately taken charge. Her sense of curiosity, her need to discover had hours earlier laid waste to any remaining vestige of constraint. In the graying light, Elizabeth’s lips had roamed freely and extensively the length and breadth of his body—exploring and delighting in the sweet torment she knew she was inflicting. Ambrose sighed deeply and took her taut nipple firmly in his mouth. She had given him incredible pleasure, but now it was his turn.

  Feeling like a goddess, Elizabeth wallowed in the billows of the soft mattress as Ambrose paid homage to her body. Several times she tried to move, to follow his lead in these acts of love, but each time his hands nudged her gently back onto the pillows.

  Ambrose slid his fingers over the soft triangle of her womanhood. Uttering a gasp, she worked herself up once again onto her elbows.

  “Just lie back, love,” he ordered, bringing his face close to hers. “This is my turn.”

  She gazed at him as his lips gently skimmed her cheeks, her lips.

  “This is just not fair,” she whispered with a smile. “I want to please you, as well.”

  His mouth covered hers, his kiss delicious and thorough. When Ambrose was finished, there were no arguments left in her. Indeed, sighing contentedly, Elizabeth felt her body and her spirit growing ever more soft and warm in his arms.

  “Aye, lass,” he growled huskily. “But you are pleasing me by staying as you are.”

  She closed her eyes as he lay her back on the bed. Ambrose paused for a moment to note the look of trust in her face. His eyes surveyed the smooth skin and the womanly curves of her beautiful and giving body. Only he himself truly knew the tenderness—and the fire—that coexisted in that body.

  They had only a short time remaining there at the hunting lodge. Soon they would rejoin the others. Continue their journey to Scotland. Once beyond these walls, Elizabeth would again become Phillipe de Anjou. And then what? Ambrose thought. Perhaps she really could continue pulling off the deception. Pretending to be what she was not.

  And he himself? Ambrose ran his fingers lightly over the sensitive skin at the top of her thighs, smiling faintly at the shiver his action provoked. What of him? He would go back to longing for her, and waiting for her.

  Ambrose sighed, his face growing serious in the light of the approaching dawn. A sense of urgency crept into his soul. Suddenly it became overwhelmingly important that she remember
what they shared here tonight. Crucial that she recall the night with longing. Essential that Elizabeth think of it often—and want it back again. More than that, she must want him. Again and again.

  Yes, Elizabeth must give up this farce and be his. As a woman. She must belong to him. Only him. He would protect her, cherish her.

  But he couldn’t require her to give it all up. On every level, he knew that to be the truth.

  Ambrose knew that art, for him, merely filled some void in his life. To Elizabeth, it was a love, an addiction far greater than any profession. To him a hobby and a pastime, no matter how great its value. But to her, painting was a passion. Ambrose knew he would have to compete with that.

  The Highlander had a challenge before him. He had to show her a better way, a better future. He had to teach her love. His love. Then, perhaps, she would stop her pretense of being a man. Then, perhaps, she would be his.

  She could paint. No matter if others frowned at her for being a woman—she could paint for him. She would always have a place beside him.

  This was his chance.

  As Ambrose lowered his mouth to her belly, Elizabeth’s hands drifted carelessly to his shoulders. But her lips parted and her breath caught in her chest as he moved his lips even lower.

  He left nothing untouched. His lips tasted the sweetness of her, lingering over every inch of her skin. Elizabeth’s senses tingled and inside, a bubbling mass of molten heat began to erupt and pour into every corner of her body, flooding her consciousness with a glowing white heat.

  “Ambrose!” she called out weakly, as his lips stoked the blaze of erotic passion already raging within her.

  She cried out his name again. This time in desperate need. The flames of desire threatened to consume her. Elizabeth’s body arched, her breath shortened. Her eyes could no longer see the objects in her chamber, for the lightning bolts of reds and yellows and whites were shooting across her face at incredible speeds, obliterating everything beyond. Her insides were coiling, melting, reforming.

  “Ambrose!”

  The Highlander raised his face slowly and moved with excruciating care up onto her body, trailing kisses that scorched her skin from her navel to her chin.