Heart of Gold Page 26

  “Did I tell you that I don’t trust you, either?”

  “You did.”

  “And that I hate you?”

  “I believe you said that, too.”

  “That—”

  Ambrose’s hand closed tightly over her mouth. “If you refuse to be silent and hear me out, I’ll have to gag you.”

  She mumbled something into the hard flesh of his hand.

  “Very well,” he responded, not understanding a word she’d just said, but reading the flashing look in her eyes quite clearly. “We can do it like this if you prefer. At least this way you will listen to what I have to say.”

  Ambrose knew he had to make it short before she had time to decide on the next weapon she’d use to fight him off with. “Elizabeth, don’t be misled by a bunch of titles that are truly meaningless. Others might be misled into believing they mean something, but you shouldn’t be. To you, I am and always will be Ambrose Macpherson. But, in the eyes of the world, anyway, I am also Baron of Roxburgh, Lord Protector of the Borderlands. Francis I of this fair land has also seen fit to bestow on me the title Marquis of Troyes, Constable of Champagne—more honorary a title than anything. But in any case, my sweet, the titles and this hunting lodge and everything else inside these walls—including these paintings—belong to me.”

  He gazed for a moment as the shock registered in her eyes, then let go of her mouth. “Well?”

  “You are a liar!”

  “Jacques!” he shouted, releasing her.

  Elizabeth quickly scampered to her feet as soon as she realized he wasn’t restraining her any longer. He was already on foot and striding away from her. Reaching the massive oak door, he jerked it open, and the elderly steward scurried in.

  “Tell her who is master here, Jacques. Tell her.”

  The older man looked questioningly from Ambrose’s face to Elizabeth’s. Then his eyes lit on the sword lying on the marred table.

  “You don’t have to lie for him,” Elizabeth consoled, approaching the little man. “I’ll protect you.”

  “Lie, m’lady?” The man looked wide-eyed at Elizabeth. “I never lie.”

  “Tell her about what we’ve done here, Jacques,” Ambrose prodded. “Tell her everything.”

  Elizabeth stood still as the steward began to talk. He confirmed everything Ambrose had spoken of earlier. Of how the nobleman had owned this estate for quite a few years. He spoke with obvious pride of the construction of the new lodge. And of how the baron was a generous benefactor of artists and a true connoisseur of fine artwork. He spoke of Ambrose’s parents, the good Lord Alexander and Lady Elizabeth Macpherson, and how they occasionally came to stay at the lodge, in spite of the laird’s advancing age. He also talked about other lodges and town houses that the baron had built around the continent. Being a diplomat and traveling often, Ambrose was well known for the quality of his holdings and his ability to offer hospitality to kings and cardinals in places all over Europe.

  The man continued to talk, but Elizabeth was not listening. Ambrose was leaning against his desk, his arms crossed at his chest. His piercing eyes were on her, admonishing her. She looked down.

  “That’s enough, Jacques,” he said commandingly. “You may leave us now.”

  The older steward turned with a quick bow to the two of them and crossed to the door, closing it behind him.

  She studied the pattern of the wide oak flooring for a long moment, then turned her attention to the glistening sweat on her palms. She couldn’t recall a time in her life when she’d felt quite so foolish.

  “Well?”

  Elizabeth glanced hesitantly at his face. She nodded toward the table. “You can use that dull sword if you’d like.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Well, you must be about ready to cut out my tongue,” she whispered.

  “Knowing you, it would most certainly grow back!” Ambrose smiled at her. How could she go from so a fiery devil to so serene an angel in such a short span of time? “Come here!”

  She looked up. He wasn’t angry.

  He motioned to her.

  She walked toward his open arms and nestled inside. She laid her face against his chest. “I—”

  “Next time we have a disagreement,” he said, cutting off her apology, “would you please give me a chance to explain before attacking me with a weapon of war?” He rubbed his chin against her soft hair. He loved the feel of her in his arms. He loved the serenity of this embrace. Perhaps almost as much as he loved the heat of their battles.

  Then there will be a next time, she thought with pleasure. My God, she loved this man.

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Are there any more questions that you might like to ask?” He pulled her away from him and looked into her sparkling eyes. His thumb brushed away a tear from her soft cheek. “Do you want to know about your painting? How I came to have it?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I bought it. From Bourbon, that is.”

  “Did he charge you a lot?”

  “A fortune, the bastard.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to say.

  He smiled. “We are friends. Bourbon and I have become friends since that day at the Field of Cloth of Gold. It is humorous to think about, but the fight over you did bring us together. But I think you should know that the duc’s affection for you did not last too long.”

  “I am not surprised,” she smiled. “He had little regard for women and the long-term relationships they sought.”

  “Aye, that was truly the way he was,” Ambrose smiled wryly. “But he has changed. He just had to find his soul mate. And that he has.”

  “Well, I’m glad for him.” Elizabeth kissed him on the chin and lowered her eyes again, not wanting him to know that thoughts of that nature were right now coursing through her own brain. “How was it that he sold you my work?”

  “He is in trouble with Francis, these days. Political nonsense. I’ve been working on getting him a pardon. But the king doesn’t forgive very quickly those who oppose him. So, for a short while anyway, Bourbon and his wife have gone to Burgundy. Since he needed all the gold he could get his hand on—and wouldn’t take what I tried to give him—I offered to buy some of the paintings he’s been collecting.”

  “And mine was among them?”

  “Aye, but the knave never told me it was your painting. He didn’t even give me a clue, other than saying that he’d bought it at the Field of Cloth of Gold.”

  “He didn’t know.” Elizabeth smiled. “I sold the work to him, but I never said it was mine.”

  “Ah. Well, I suppose I can’t hold that over his head, then.”

  Ambrose wondered, though, whether Bourbon actually did have suspicions about the identity of the artist. There had been no secret between the two of them that the feelings Ambrose harbored for Elizabeth far exceeded any affection the Frenchman had for her. And when the two had discussed the sale of the artwork, Bourbon had seemed quite coy about parting with this particular painting.

  She pushed her body closer against his, sighing contentedly.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Elizabeth Boleyn?” he asked huskily. Her soft, touch, so completely innocent, made his body hard and his blood roar.

  “Apologizing.” Her hands roamed his chest. “I want to make sure that you won’t hold what I did earlier against me.”

  “Hmmm. Perhaps, then, we should also consider what you did to me four years ago, as well.” He pulled her doublet over her head in a single motion, smiling as he gathered her to him again. “And then you can talk me into staying here an extra night. I believe Gavin can use another day to show your sister and your friends the market fair at Troyes. Jacques tells me a great fire burned half the town last month, but that the fair has come back as strong as ever. It’s really quite something.”

  “Then perhaps I can show you the nightgown Mary sent along.” Elizabeth giggled, blushing in spite of herself. “It, too, is quite something.”


  “A bargain, then.”

  “A bargain,” she whispered happily, lifting her lips to his.

  Chapter 25

  Gavin Kerr looked about at the market fair of Troyes in grudging admiration. It did appear that there was almost nothing in this world that a body couldn’t buy there.

  “Come, Gavin.” Mary pulled at his arm, smiling weakly. She drained the last of her cup of wine and handed it to him. “You should see your face. It can’t be as bad as all that.”

  The nobleman glanced quickly at the young woman’s frail body. She seemed to be growing thinner every day. She was not well enough to go through all this excitement. And he’d told her so before they left the barge. But Mary hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

  “I’d be contended just to watch, Mary. The people, that is.” He pulled her to a low stone wall and forced her to sit beside him. She hardly ate anything anymore. For days she’d only nibbled at the food that he himself had brought to her. Only an occasional sip of something to drink. It was amazing she had enough energy even to walk.

  Stretching his long legs before him, Gavin cursed inwardly for letting himself be talked into bringing Mary to the market fair for the second day in a row.

  When the barge had arrived the previous midday, Mary and the Bardis had pressed him excitedly to take them to the fields on the outskirts of town which, for three months of every year, served as a major center of commerce for all of Europe. Now, gazing at the people walking by, Gavin was amazed at the sight of beggars and peasants roaming so freely with nobles and merchant princes. For these summer months, at least, the fields of Troyes belonged to all and had something for everyone.

  So far, the travelers had seen only part of the huge fair, but the Bardis had already seen a half dozen fellow merchants whom they seemed to know quite well, all working their trade. For the place was alive with the sound and smells of commerce. And the fair not only offered such exotic goods as spices and carpets from the Far East, but also novel entertainments and unfamiliar foods at every turn. There were even three silent and mysterious men from the New World, on display inside the tent of a Spanish trader of precious gems.

  Yesterday, Jaime had come to the fair with them. Gavin smiled, recalling how delightful the young girl’s excitement had been to behold. But keeping track of the child on the day’s excursion had visibly drained a considerable amount of energy from her ailing mother. Today, when Mary had begged to go again, Ernesta Bardi—clearly concerned about the young woman’s health—had quickly stepped forward, volunteering to watch the child if Mary insisted on going to the fair once more.

  But it was not just Ernesta who was worried. They were all quite concerned now about Mary. Bodily, she was frail and becoming obviously weaker with each passing day. But her spirits remained high. Though everyone, including Mary, knew that there was no getting better, they were amazed at her placid exterior. She showed no trace of fear.

  But Gavin knew. For on the long voyage from Marseilles, Mary had told him of the disease and the mercury treatment she had been undergoing for the past four years. How strange, he thought, and how special—this relationship between them. Never, with any other woman, had he shared such trust, such confidence, as he shared with Mary.

  And from the first, it had been special. The first time he had knocked shyly at her cabin door, she had asked him in and professed openly how much she loved him. Mary Boleyn had acted as though she’d known him all of her life. She had known him from her dreams. She’d confessed that she’d waited all her life to catch up to him and that now she had somehow done it. But in the same breath Mary had told him that she couldn’t have him. Her sins and her past would not allow it.

  He’d stood beside her bunk, speechless in the face of such openness.

  And when she’d continued, asking for his companionship, his friendship, for the few days or weeks that she had left, how could he deny her?

  Gavin Kerr couldn’t deny her. And he hadn’t. And now he was more than glad that he hadn’t.

  He and Mary Boleyn had matching souls. Different, and yet, there was something in them that drew them to one another. Like two halves of some ancient puzzle. How they could fit together was indeed a mystery. And yet, they each knew it was true.

  As private a man as he was, Gavin Kerr had poured out his life story to her when she’d asked about it. Every triumph, every disaster. Every strength, every weakness. His tales had welled up inside him and spilled out...and she’d listened.

  A few times, when he asked her questions about her past, about her family, she’d just shaken her head. “Nay, my friend. This is my turn to listen.”

  So Gavin had not pressured her. She told him enough. And if this was what she wanted, then he would abide by her wishes. He knew—they all knew—that the time she had left would not be long.

  Mary leaned against Gavin’s shoulder as a shudder coursed through her body.

  “Cold?” he asked, placing his arm around her, rubbing her emaciated upper arm.

  “Just the ghosts of the past, my friend.” Mary quickly cast a weak smile at Gavin and then peered once again into the crowd. Though she had said nothing to anyone, lately her imagination had been playing tricks on her. The moments were not like the attacks she’d had in the past. These just involved seeing things. Trivial things from her past as well as things that had been incredibly important in her life. Things good and bad. Sometimes on the boat Mary had found herself dreaming, hallucinating in broad daylight. She had found herself experiencing events all over again. Moments from her early childhood—a wounded bird in a sunny garden; a long, wet ride in the growing gloom of a winter evening, wrapped inside the warm smell of a man’s lined cloak. She sometimes became confused as people from the present and situations of the past would commingle in a whirling mix of time and place. And there were times when she couldn’t tell what was real and what was not.

  She stared at a group of men not ten yards from where she and Gavin sat. They looked at her; she peered back. Do I know them? she asked herself. She squinted as the sunlight flashed brilliantly off the silver buckle of one. Nay, she sighed to herself. Past and present. Keep them apart, you foolish thing.

  She looked up to Gavin. At least he was real—of that she was certain.

  “How can you enjoy this, Mary? Being in the midst of this chaos.” His eyes were locked on a pair of arguing merchants.

  “It’s just for a short while longer, you gruff old bear,” she teased, following his gaze. Her throat was strangely dry and an odd numbness was spreading through her back. She felt weaker than usual. Taking her cup back from Gavin, Mary looked into the empty vessel.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, lass,” he grumbled. One of the merchants appeared to be complaining about the location of the other’s cloth booth, but Gavin could not get the details, since the two were speaking some language he was unfamiliar with. A crowd had gathered quickly. The Scotsman glanced past a group of armed mercenaries at the booth in dispute. It looked like the young assistants of both combatants were hurriedly setting out trinkets atop makeshift tables. Gavin smiled wryly, nudging Mary. “If I’m not mistaken, these two noisy enemies are going to become fast friends as soon as this crowd of onlookers grows just a bit larger.”

  Mary looked vaguely at the warrior. The numbness had begun to spread into her shoulders and neck. Her eyes were drawn past his dark face to the sky above. The heavens were beginning to flash a number of different shades of gray and blue and green and red in a rapid succession of moments. Sounds of the crowd were fading in and out, and the young woman stared in calm wonder when she saw Gavin’s lips move without any accompanying utterance. In fact, she was hardly even surprised to hear her friend’s words tumbling unintelligibly through the air after a moment’s delay. She was losing her mind. But her throat still felt dry.

  “Are you all right, Mary?” Gavin asked in alarm. The young woman’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Mary!�
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  “Aye, Gavin,” she replied. “I’m here.”

  “Lass, we need to get back.”

  “Gavin, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of something to drink? Some more wine, perhaps.”

  The giant stared at her, uncertain for a moment what to do. He could hear the slight slurring of her words.

  “Please, my friend. Just a cup of something.” She handed back the cup to him. “I’ll be fine here until you come back.”

  Gavin looked around him. They had bought Mary a cup of wine at a merchant’s tent just before sitting. It couldn’t have been more than two or three tents away.

  “Aye.” He nodded. “I’ll be back before you know it. But Mary, promise me you won’t move!”

  She smiled at him as he stood. As his words of concern for her registered in her brain, a warm feeling swept through her. “How solemn would you like that promise to be, Gavin?”

  He gently took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Just a simple one will do. I’ll return in a moment. It isn’t far.”

  Mary watched him disappear into the milling blur of the crowd. She tried to focus her eyes but soon realized wearily that she simply couldn’t manage it. Her head began to spin with the exertion, so she closed her eyes. Turning her body slightly, she let her face take the full warmth of the afternoon sun. The rays of sunshine were comforting against her inner chill.

  Mary felt herself drifting. Suddenly she stood in her father’s tent. He stormed back and forth, his hands cutting the air in his rage. “But it is his child, Father. Please. Believe me.”

  The shadow fell across her face and with it came the coldness. She opened her eyes and saw through the haze a number of men around her. Some stood behind the low wall, casting their shadow over her, while the others seemed to be blocking the crowds. She squinted her eyes. One stood in front of her, his shining buckle hurting her eyes. She gazed up, but could see no face. The radiant light dazzled her, but the shadowy darkness pushed through her like a rod of cold steel.

  “Where is your sister?” The words echoed in her brain.