Heart of Gold Read online

  Elizabeth laughed. It seemed to her that it was the first time she’d laughed in a hundred years.

  The priest sat heavily on the straw, thinking over the journey that lay ahead of her. He weighed his responsibilities. Who needed his help more, right now—his flock or his troubled young friend? Thinking of whether it would be possible for him to accompany her, he vacantly picked up the Macpherson plaid that lay neatly folded beside him. The wet shirt lay beneath it. She had used the remainder of the water he’d brought to wash the crimson stains out of the blood-soaked garment. Her blood, the friar thought, shaking his head. Elizabeth had asked him if he could somehow return these to the Scottish nobleman. But knowing the man’s generosity, Friar Matthew wondered if it wouldn’t be better just to give away the clothes to a needy family.

  “So, then. You think if I walked out in the open, dressed like this, the Florentines would think I’m a man?”

  Hearing no answer to her question, Elizabeth turned in the direction of the friar. He was sitting with the Macpherson plaid in his hands, his face devoid of all color.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, hurrying to his side.

  Friar Matthew held out the kilt that she’d been wearing earlier. “Do you know where this happened?”

  Elizabeth stared at the torn hem of the garment. A large section of the plaid was missing, and she knew exactly where it was. She raised her eyes to meet his.

  “In the woods, right after the murder. It was dark. There was a tree branch. You don’t think he’ll go back?”

  “If he does, and if he finds the plaid, then he’ll recognize it for sure and remember who was wearing it.” The friar’s face was grave. “And when that happens, Elizabeth, he’ll come after you.”

  Elizabeth stared as her heart sank like a stone into the pit of her stomach.

  “That means I have no time. I have to go.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the friar’s face. She twisted the cap in her hands as she wrestled with her feelings. “But first I must warn my sisters. Would he harm them to get to me?”

  “Only if he thinks you are in contact with them.”

  Below them, the horses in the stable were becoming perceptibly nervous and active. The whinnying caught the attention of the two friends, and then Elizabeth caught the scent that was being carried along on the strengthening wind. Fire.

  Pushing against the stiff breeze, Elizabeth opened the shutter, and the two looked out. Over the encampment across the Golden Vale, black smoke was billowing up and racing across the tops of the tents. Something was burning, and Elizabeth felt a cold fear drive sharply into her belly. She and the friar exchanged a quick look, and then they turned hurriedly toward the ladder. Scrambling down from the loft, Elizabeth was off at a dead run with the friar hot on her heels.

  “Wait! You can’t forget this,” Friar Matthew called before Elizabeth could slip out the door.

  The young woman paused an instant, and the friar handed over the large hat. She pulled it hurriedly on her head, yanking it as low as she could over her eyes.

  “We have to be careful. This could be a trap,” Matthew cautioned, and Elizabeth nodded. Then together they dashed out into the early morning light.

  Working their way through the horde of peasants now awake and moving about, the two hurried around the stockade barrier of the tournament field. Scores of poor still sat huddled against the wooden fence that for the past month had separated the peasants from the nobility.

  Certainly no one could be left sleeping in the encampment, Elizabeth thought. In spite of the late-night revelry, everyone, it seemed, was awake and active in the face of the raging fire that appeared ready to engulf the entire English sector of the Field of Cloth of Gold.

  Elizabeth and the friar ran past the companies of soldiers already hauling water in buckets of wood and leather. Some were even using steel helmets—anything to slow the crackling flames that the warm, dry breeze was pushing along.

  The smoke became thicker as the two worked their way into the throng of gentility milling about in the alleyways. Nearing the source of the conflagration, Elizabeth looked wildly about at the panic-stricken crowds scattering before the hot sparks and thick, black smoke that was engulfing the area on the currents of the shifting wind.

  “Mary!” Elizabeth gasped as they pushed through the mob. She looked ahead at the half dozen blazing tents. “She was in my tent. That’s my tent.” Her hands tried to open a path, pushing at the people ahead of her. She needed to get closer. But they were pressing in from all sides. Someone shoved a bucket into her hands; it was full of water. She held it tightly. A man in front tried to pry it away, but she wouldn’t budge. Elizabeth knew she had to get to the front. Oh, please God, don’t let her be hurt. “Mary!” she called at the top of her lungs. The shouts of the jostling men drowned out her words. She felt the crowd move. They were moving closer to the fire, and she let herself become part of that moving mass. Glancing around her, Elizabeth saw the friar a short distance behind. They were separated, but he was still there.

  One instant she was blocked by a wall of human bodies all around, the next she was in the front row, preparing to throw the water on the burning blaze. It was her tent. The heat from the blaze was scorching the skin of her face, and the roar was deafening. Throwing the water on the flaming material, she took a step closer, then put an arm over her face as she prepared to run inside. Above her, she could see the fiery roof of the tent flapping in the grip of the wind. Beside her someone was chopping at one of the lines that held the shelter up.

  If the tent collapses, Elizabeth thought wildly, Mary will be trapped in the flames. She started forward.

  A hand from behind gripped her arm, holding her back. She cringed at the pain that suddenly shot down her arm from her injured shoulder. She squirmed, yanking herself free. The hand took hold of her again. She turned her head to see the one holding her. It was the friar. He was shouting, but Elizabeth could not hear him at all. Following his eyes, though, as he turned his head, she could see the cloaked figure standing amid the crowd of onlookers.

  Mary.

  Elizabeth let him draw her back into the crowd. Working her way toward her sister, she gave one last look in the direction of what remained of the tent. Mary was alive. Elizabeth rejoiced at the thought, wondering in the next moment how her sister had escaped. But as they pushed through the crowd, a lump rose in her throat at the idea of having lost so much. Glancing at the burning tents around her, she considered the losses that others were suffering. And she wondered if this had all started because of what she’d witnessed.

  Nearing the place where Mary was standing, Elizabeth was opening her mouth to call out to her when a massive arm struck her brusquely on the side of the head.

  “Make way,” the rough voice shouted as the giant knight cleared his own path through the swarm of humanity.

  Elizabeth stumbled to the side as Peter Garnesche passed by. She stopped dead, gaping after him. Sir Peter strode to a group of three soldiers who were busily surveying the faces in the crowd. Nodding his head curtly as he spoke, he said something to them that Elizabeth, though only a few paces away, could not hear. Then, turning sharply, he shoved his way through the crowd to another group of his men. His face was dark and smudged with soot, and his hard eyes darted from one face to the next as he went.

  They’re looking for me, Elizabeth thought in a flash of panic as she exchanged a quick glance with Friar Matthew. The priest’s brow furrowed with anxiety.

  Elizabeth tugged the hat down further over her eyes and peered over to where her sister stood. As she did, she saw Mary, the cloak of her hood pulled low, turning and melting into the crowd beyond.

  Elizabeth saw Garnesche’s men approaching. They were everywhere, searching the faces of everyone they could lay hands on.

  It was then that Friar Matthew took charge. “Pretend you can’t breathe, Elizabeth. Your sister is safe. Now we have to get you out of here.”

  She looked at him wide-eyed.


  “Double over.”

  Seeing the soldiers only a few paces away, Elizabeth followed the friar’s order instantly. She knew the ploy of dressing as a man might not work with the Englishman’s cronies. After all, Sir Peter had seen and recognized her wearing the Highlander’s clothes the night before. And the still fresh wound on her cheek was sure to give her away. Garnesche had seen that cut, as well, and Elizabeth was certain he would have mentioned it as an identification mark for his men.

  “Clear the way. Out of the way, there,” the friar shouted as he put his arm around her, pushing his way through the oncoming men. Elizabeth held on to her friend’s cloak, all the while keeping her head down and allowing him to lead her. Anytime Matthew came across an immobile knot of people, Elizabeth gasped for air and emitted the most heart-wrenching cough she could muster.

  Within a few moments, Elizabeth could tell they were leaving the dense throng for a more open area. With the exception of an occasional brush of a passing shoulder, she could no longer feel the press of bodies all around them. Still, she dared not look up, for fear of being recognized.

  “I think we’ve passed the immediate danger,” Friar Matthew said quietly, coming to a halt. “I want you to go back to the stables.”

  “I have to find Mary. She is out there...vulnerable.” Elizabeth looked around; there was no sign of her sister. They had stopped at a crossing of alleyways, but they were still in the English sector of tents.

  “I’ll go after her,” he replied. “I saw the direction that she went. You go back, and I’ll bring her to you.”

  “But—”

  “This is no time to argue with me, child. By now there are probably a hundred English soldiers looking for a woman with a freshly cut face. You’ll be safe among the peasants. They’ll never think to search among the poor French wretches.” The friar looked about him cautiously. “I give you my word I’ll bring your sister to you. Now go.”

  Chapter 9

  If only I were a man, she thought.

  Pushing against the streaming mass of humanity, Elizabeth moved down the cloth-walled alleys toward the open fields and the stable. She hardly dared to look up at the oncoming faces, for fear of being discovered. She knew she had to leave for Italy. It was her only escape. But she had to convince Friar Matthew that she could survive on her own. The friar’s last words as they’d run toward the fires had been that he would not allow Elizabeth to go alone. Even if he could bring himself to believe she would be able to protect herself on the arduous road to Italy, he believed that she would need fellow travelers, with a female especially among her companions. He was certain that would improve Elizabeth’s chances of traveling successfully in the guise of a young man.

  But Elizabeth did not want to disrupt any more lives. She and the friar both knew that finding a trustworthy, female companion who would want to travel to Italy right now was nearly impossible. The friar did not have to mention it, but Elizabeth knew that, in spite of all that was happening, he was already considering going with her. She’d seen it in his face. In fact, he probably was thinking of finding her a safe place—not in Italy, but rather in some remote French convent.

  That wasn’t the answer. She could not remain in hiding the rest of her life, idling away her time and letting someone else take care of her. She could not sit, a silent observer, while the world moved on without her.

  Elizabeth looked up as a young peasant girl banged into her side. The girl murmured a word or two and continued on. But something in the innocent face of the child washed away the thought of her own problems and reminded Elizabeth of her youngest sister, Anne. She wondered where she had gotten to in the midst of the fiery chaos. Mary obviously had been able to escape Garnesche’s wrath, but would the man stoop so low as to bring his fury to bear on a defenseless child?

  Anne was smart, though. Even at her age, she was capable of outwitting those around her on nearly every occasion. Elizabeth knew that the young girl had already made a place for herself at the English queen’s side. And she had a way with their father, as well. No, Anne would be fine. Elizabeth could let her mind rest on that score. But Mary was a different story. Whatever would become of her?

  Glancing across the alley, she saw him first.

  Ambrose’s eyes roamed the crowd before him. Suddenly he spotted a figure traveling against the tide. For an instant their eyes locked. Then she looked hurriedly away and disappeared into the surging throng.

  The Scottish warrior leaped into the alleyway, pushing across the current till he reached the other side. Far off, he saw the large, floppy hat ducking along the edge of the path, and he quickened his long strides, cutting the distance between them in no time.

  Rounding a bend, Ambrose saw her throw an anxious look over her shoulder, but he had nearly caught up to her. So with a quick lunge, the Highlander grabbed the shoulder of his scurrying quarry. Elizabeth pulled hard against his grip, trying to free herself, but the Scottish knight was not about to let her go.

  Pulling her with him, Ambrose backed into a small gap between two tents.

  “Let me go!” Elizabeth struggled against him, but he only tightened his hold on her.

  “Nay! I’ll not let you go. Not until you tell me who it is that you are running away from.”

  “That’s my business, not yours.” She looked up just in time to see a mixture of sadness and anger flicker across his face as he studied the wound on her cheek. She could feel the heat of his gaze wash over her skin.

  “Who did this to you?”

  Elizabeth felt the viselike grip of his fingers dig into her shoulders. She could hear the strong note of anguish in his voice. Then she turned her head, hiding the ugly gash from his stare. “It doesn’t matter. Please let me go.”

  “I won’t!”

  Ambrose’s fingers gently moved up from her shoulders and framed her face. He turned her head until their eyes met. He felt the tremble that coursed through her. “You’re frightened.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, trying to deny it. But the welling up of tears in her eyes spoke the truth.

  “Seeing what he’s done to you...I can understand why. You are freightened. Tell me who it is. Let me help you, Elizabeth. Let me protect you.”

  She felt the caress of his thumb against her skin. Protect you. The words drifted about her in a haze of emotion. Her skin was burning at his touch, and she felt the heat shoot downward until it washed over her heart.

  She fought to keep her mind clear. What was it about this man that gave him the power to wash away all the troubles that surrounded her, all the tribulations that were, right now, threatening her very life? “I’m marked forever.”

  She didn’t know why she spoke those words. It was not like her. But Ambrose’s attention made her feel vulnerable. Exposed. She did not have to look at herself to know what her wound must look like to a man. He had to be appalled, disgusted. After all, women were to be pleasing to the eye. And clearly, she was not. No, she would never be.

  “We are a perfect match.” He reached down and took hold of her fingers, raising them to his own forehead.

  Elizabeth let her hands trace lightly over the scar.

  “You are beautiful, Elizabeth.” Ambrose reached up and pulled the cap off her head. His jaw dropped. “The devil...what have you done to yourself?”

  “My lacerated face you find beautiful, but my shorn hair you do not?” she challenged.

  “The first, I know, is the result of some brute’s vicious act. But the second...this must be self-inflicted.” Giving in to his impulse, he ran his hands through her short tresses. He actually liked the feel of them.

  She shook off of his unrestrained touch with the backs of her hands. “Why do you do this if you find it so unattractive?”

  “Who says I find it unattractive?” Ambrose’s eyes fell on her full lips. “My problem is I find everything about you absolutely fascinating.”

  She did not have to follow his gaze to know that he had every intention of kissing
her. And that he did. Thoroughly.

  All Elizabeth wanted to do was yield to him. And that she did. Utterly.

  She parted her lips as his tongue swept inside. The sound of the men and women rushing by, the roar of the fire in the distance, even the imminent danger of Sir Peter Garnesche, all faded away. Nothing else mattered as Elizabeth took refuge in his caress, in his touch, in his kiss.

  Ambrose felt every muscle in his body harden as Elizabeth’s hands rose to encircle his neck. He dipped deeper into the richness of her sweet mouth, and his arms brought her tight against his body. He remembered what lay beneath. The incredibly beautiful body, the full breasts, the intoxicating taste of her skin.

  Elizabeth pulled away from the kiss. She felt weak at the onslaught of this man’s attentions. She placed her head against his broad chest and tried to still her trembling knees, her pounding heart.

  “How can I feel this way?” she whispered, fighting to keep her voice calm. “So quickly, I mean. I hardly know you.”

  “The passion that two people feel for one another cannot be explained in terms of time or place.” Ambrose looked down and captured her gaze. “We are good together, Elizabeth. I can feel the passion that is raging inside you. Come with me. I’ll never let him get close to you. Never again. I’ll protect you. We’ll find our own place...Scotland, perhaps. I’ll take care of you. We’ll find a corner of eternity for just the two of us. Think of the pleasure we could bring to each other. The passion we could share.”

  She paused, looking deep into his eyes, and then shook her head. This was an offer much like one she’d expect from Bourbon. But there was a difference here that made her hesitate. She would go to her grave before accepting the duc’s offer; Bourbon was at best a friend. But Ambrose Macpherson’s invitation carried a far greater temptation.

  No. She shook her head resolutely. How could she even consider it? Had she already forgotten her mother’s fate? Is that what she wanted? How long would it take Ambrose to tire of her? Where would she go once that happened? She was disgusted with herself for being even momentarily tempted by the man’s words. “Please don’t ask that of me. I can’t.”