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  Ambrose gazed silently into her deep, dark eyes. He had never made this offer to anyone. He had never sought a mistress that he might keep for any period of time. There were dangers in that. Dangers of getting attached, of getting caught up in a lengthy relationship. Of giving up one’s freedom. But despite it all, he had made the offer. And she’d rejected it. This woman was so different from the others. Different from any woman he had ever been with in his life.

  But Ambrose knew women, and he thought for a moment of pursuing the advantage he sensed he had right now. Ambrose Macpherson was a master of the powers of persuasion. Particularly when it concerned women. He knew if he tried again, if he set his mind to it, she would agree. But for the same reasons that he’d never asked another before her, he held back. Something inside told him he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  Elizabeth searched for the right words. She didn’t want to hurt him or seem ungrateful for his offer. But how could she explain to him that becoming someone’s mistress was not the life she could accept? Even if that someone was as attractive and alluring as the man standing in front of her. Elizabeth looked up into the Highlander’s handsome face. She could see the hint of disappointment in his eyes. But then her eyes were caught by the small gash along the line of his jaw.

  “Was this self-inflicted?”

  Ambrose caught her hand as she tried to probe the small injury on his chin.

  “Nay, lass. This was a good-morning kiss from your French courtier.”

  “Bourbon? You two fought?”

  Ambrose let his hands fall to his sides. Even though the two knights had resigned themselves to the fact that neither was responsible for Elizabeth’s injury, Ambrose still wondered if perhaps the duc was the reason Elizabeth rejected his offer. She had changed her mind and walked out of his bed last night. Well, fallen out of his bed. He wondered now if her willing attitude had not just been a way to make the handsome French nobleman jealous enough to propose marriage. Women! Ambrose wanted to banish this new thought from his mind, but even as he pushed it away, he felt it taking root. He still remembered the Frenchman’s words. Someday asking for her hand in marriage. Someday. That had been the emphasis. The Highlander didn’t want to think she was simply trying to push things along.

  “Aye,” he replied. “We fought. But perhaps it will distress you to know that your friend got the worst of it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Hardly. It’s about time someone caught up with the snake.”

  Ambrose gave her a suspicious glance. “The gentleman seems quite fond of you.”

  “The gentleman is fond of all women, regardless of their wit, shape, or rank.” She leaned down and picked up her hat. “But that’s what drew me to you. You are not like that, are you?” she asked wryly.

  “Of course not!” He was quick to answer.

  “Of course not!” Too quick, Elizabeth thought. She placed the hat on her head and pulled it down over her eyes. “Well, I have to go.”

  Ambrose’s hand shot up to her elbow. “Where to?”

  “Paradise!” she whispered dreamily.

  “With him?” Ambrose asked shortly. It wasn’t Bourbon, but it had to be someone else. She must value the man greatly to continue guarding his identity from both the duc and him. “What he has done to you still has not convinced you to get away?”

  “Aye, it has.” She stretched up on her toes and kissed him quickly on the lips. “I’ll always remember this Field of Cloth of Gold.” She tried to turn toward the crowded alleyway.

  Ambrose caught her by the elbow and pulled her toward him. “This was yours to keep.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the large emerald ring that the warrior placed in her palm. “I—”

  “Think of it as a keepsake, lass. Just remember me by it.”

  As she gazed up into his eyes, Elizabeth closed her fingers over the gift. Then she turned without another word and disappeared into the throng.

  Chapter 10

  Dawdling is the thief of time, Friar Matthew thought.

  “I’d been waiting for you, Elizabeth. Then you didn’t come, and it was getting so late,” Mary explained. “I must have dozed off.” The dark-haired young woman gazed out into space as she recollected the events. Elizabeth sat beside her, holding her hand, while the lanky priest stood by the shuttered window, waiting less patiently for her to continue her tale.

  Elizabeth urged her on. “And that’s when you heard the voices?”

  “Yes.” Mary nodded. “Just outside the tent—beside my bedding—they were talking. There were two or three, I think. But I heard one of them clearly. He was giving commands to the others.”

  She looked from her sister’s face to the friar’s.

  Matthew followed the young woman’s gaze. How interesting that Mary hadn’t once asked about how Elizabeth had come by the gash on her cheek. How typical of her.

  “He said, ‘Silence her,’” she continued. “‘Cut her throat, or smother her, but don’t let her cry out. And whatever happens, don’t let her live.’”

  Elizabeth shuddered at the moment of fear Mary must have experienced.

  “So how did you escape them?” the friar exploded. “For God’s sake, Mary!”

  The young woman looked up in shock at the exasperated cleric. “Really, Friar. I’m telling you everything as it happened.”

  “Please, Friar Matthew, give her time,” Elizabeth pleaded, as she watched the priest throw up his hands with a sigh. “Go on, Mary. What happened next?”

  The young woman collected her thoughts and gave the priest another quick look before continuing. “Well, when I heard that, I jumped out of bed. I assumed they’d be coming in the front, so I grabbed for my cloak. It was then that I knocked over the brazier. The hot coals spilled right across the floor of the tent.” She looked wide-eyed at her sister. “The rushes on the floor lit up like one big torch. The flames and the smoke were everywhere...in an instant.”

  “Were you hurt?” Elizabeth asked quickly, glancing down at the ivory skin of her sister’s hands.

  “No. I ran!” she answered. “I scrambled as fast as I could to the back of that tent and slipped under the cloth wall.”

  “So no one saw you escape?” the friar asked shortly, turning then to Elizabeth. “It’s just possible that if they don’t find you in the encampment, they might decide you perished in the fire. That would be good for us.”

  “They were after me, Friar Matthew,” Mary asserted with a note of temper in her voice. “Why would anyone want to hurt Elizabeth? Most of these people don’t even know who she is. On the other hand, everyone knows me.”

  He tried to hold his tongue, but he couldn’t. “Why would anyone want to use violence against a vain and silly ornament like you?” Friar Matthew scolded. Other than their similar complexions, the two sisters had nothing in common. And Matthew was losing patience with Mary. “After all, what use would there be in anyone coming after you? One just doesn’t cut willow branches when there is a house to be built.”

  Perplexed, Mary looked up to her sister. “But I like willows.”

  Matthew shook his head. Brilliant she was not. But right now there was a much bigger problem at hand. While going after Mary, he’d heard from some peasants about a reward for anyone who could bring news of the whereabouts of Elizabeth Boleyn. Perhaps they did think she perished in the fire, but perhaps they did not. Friar Matthew knew that Garnesche was not a man to just sit and wait. From what Matthew had heard, the father of the girl was pretending to be heartsick over her disappearance, and Sir Peter Garnesche had taken the lead in the search for her. What liars, he thought. Clearly, the most important thing was to get her out of here...now. As good as many of these commoners were, to them Elizabeth could mean nothing more than a possible reward, and they all had empty stomachs and families to feed. She would not be safe here for long. “Elizabeth, I’ve already arranged for you to leave here on the hour.”

  Elizabeth looked up at her friend. There was no sense in arguing or in trying
to find the whereabouts of the place he was sending her. She had to leave this camp. Once away from it, she could take control of her own destiny.

  Elizabeth flinched as Mary’s nails dug into the skin of her hands. She looked at her sister. The young woman sat, her face devoid of all color. Her eyes had welled up with tears, and as she watched, the glistening drops overflowed and coursed down her pale cheeks.

  “I need to talk to you, Elizabeth.” Mary’s voice broke, and she threw a glance at the friar. “I need to talk to you alone.”

  Elizabeth turned to the friar. The man shook his head and took a step toward them. He had to stop Elizabeth from allowing her frivolous sister to continue using her. The elder sister had finally realized the value her father put on her. Why was she being so blind to the younger sister’s manipulative ways? He opened his mouth to speak, but Elizabeth shook her head, stopping him. At his next attempt to intervene, Elizabeth frowned in response. He shrugged and turned to go, pausing by the ladder. “You’re leaving in an hour, Elizabeth.”

  The two women watched as the friar disappeared.

  “Elizabeth!” Mary broke into sobs, throwing her arms at once around her sister’s neck. “You can’t leave me. Please, don’t. You promised to take care of me. You know how ill I am.”

  Elizabeth held back her own sadness, but reached around and hugged the young woman to her. “I’m not leaving forever, Mary. I’m just going in search of a place and work that I can do—yes, work. Once I find it you can join me there, wherever it is. I remember my promise. I’ll take care of you.”

  “But whatever is going to happen to me?” Mary hiccuped as she straightened up, drying her tears with the backs of her hands. “My life is in danger, you know.”

  Elizabeth knew that there was no point in telling Mary that the assailants were not after her. By explaining the events to her sister, she would just put Mary in the same danger that she herself was in. In addition, Elizabeth knew that in her sister’s highly dramatic and imaginary world, Mary might very well relish the idea of a life in jeopardy, without really understanding the ramifications.

  “Sir Thomas mentioned yesterday that he’ll send you to Kent.” Elizabeth tried to be convincing. “That won’t be bad for the short term. Before you know it, you can leave and come and stay with me.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth...” Mary hid her face in her hands and broke down. Her cries this time were heart-wrenching. “I can’t go to Kent. I can’t go with Father. And I thought I could count on you. But now you tell me that I can’t. I have no one. I should just take my life with my own hands and be finished with this misery.”

  Painfully, Elizabeth watched the suffering young woman weep. “That’s not an option, Mary. So stop talking rubbish.” She took a deep breath and tried to think things through clearly. It was her own fault. If she hadn’t been, for so many years, so supportive and caring when it came to her sisters, she would be on her way to safety right now. Elizabeth knew the problem very well. For years now she had not simply been the older sibling, she’d been the only mother figure, the only nurturer that her sisters had known.

  Mary saw her sister pause as she considered the situation. The young woman realized that she had to tell Elizabeth everything—before her sister had a chance to come up with some rational solution for the dilemma at hand. Mary didn’t want to chance that. Elizabeth had to know the truth. “The French physician had some additional news when he examined me last night.”

  Elizabeth stared at her sister. Mary’s face in an instant had gone from deep despair to utter happiness. She was sometimes difficult to keep up with.

  Mary tucked her legs under her and sat like an excited child. “Don’t you want to know what he said?”

  “I do, but perhaps not at this moment.”

  Elizabeth had less than an hour left to decide on a plan that would be acceptable to her younger sister. She couldn’t think, though, while Mary chattered away. “Can this wait?”

  “Nay, Elizabeth. It can’t.” Mary sulked. “I don’t care if you want to know or not. You’re the one who brought that physician to me, and you’re the one who will share my secret.”

  “Secret?”

  “The upset stomach, the nausea, the endless naps...all those things were not a new stage of the pox. They’ve been happening because I’m...I’m...”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You’re what, Mary?”

  “I’m pregnant!”

  “You’re what?”

  “Pregnant. With child.”

  “With child!” Elizabeth repeated, her head whirling with this news.

  “When a man and a woman lie together, that’s often the outcome.” Mary looked into her older sister’s astonished face. “You could be pregnant, too. I mean, now. As we speak.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, you.” Mary nodded knowingly. “You slept with the Scot, didn’t you?”

  Elizabeth shook her head to clear it of all she was hearing.

  “Was he as good in bed as everyone claims?”

  “Stop!” Elizabeth yelled. “Stop this nonsense. Let’s go back to what you said earlier. You said you were pregnant.”

  “I am. I’m carrying Henry’s child.” Mary turned on her tears once again. “I’m carrying the king’s son, and I can’t even come out into the open for fear of my life.”

  “The king’s son? Mary, don’t talk that way.” Elizabeth scolded. “First of all, if you are pregnant, you don’t know if you are carrying a boy or a girl. But that’s not really important, anyway. Is it?”

  “Of course it is. Just think of it, Elizabeth, if I had a boy...” Mary smiled dreamily. “He’d be the heir to the throne of England.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! The way you’ve been treated, you’d be lucky to have him recognized as Henry’s bastard. And even if he is accepted as that, he’ll never be heir to the throne. Not Cardinal Wolsey, nor the church, nor the noble families would stand for that.”

  “Stop being so perverse,” Mary snapped petulantly. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am, Mary.” Elizabeth turned away, shaking her head. Her problems were getting more complicated with each passing moment. Clearly, she had to get her sister out of here, too. Mary hadn’t a clue how much trouble her wagging tongue could bring. To herself, and to her unborn babe.

  Elizabeth sighed. As much as she would like to deny them, Elizabeth knew deep down that there were a few traits Mary had obviously inherited from their father. Being an opportunistic social climber was one of them.

  She glanced back to see Mary eyeing her sulkily once again.

  “You know, Elizabeth, if you would stop taking my head off and give me a chance, I could explain everything,” Mary said.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “I have it all figured out.” She looked hopefully at her older sister. “This is the way it’ll work.” Elizabeth sat silently while Mary hurried on. “I’m pregnant, but not everyone should know. Not yet, anyway. You can stay with me during my term. I will need you to look after me. The physician said yesterday that as long as I’m well cared for, I could have a perfectly healthy child. You can take me back to France, and we will stay there until my son is born. Then I’ll send for Henry, and after he comes for us, I’ll ask him to give you permission to paint. You won’t have to hide your work anymore, Elizabeth. You might even get a chance to paint the portrait of the next King of England. A portrait of my son in his mother’s arms. Isn’t that exciting?”

  All Elizabeth could do was stare at her sister. It was too early a stage for the pox to be affecting her mind.

  “Mary, if this is your plan, then why don’t you take it to Sir Thomas?” Elizabeth could hear her temper becoming shorter. “This is so much in line with his thinking that I’m sure he’ll go along with any condition you would set.”

  Mary brightened before another thought crossed her mind, darkening her brow. “But...there are problems.”

  “Oh, there is more?” Elizabeth asked incredulo
usly.

  “I went to see Father already. This morning. He says he doesn’t believe the child is Henry’s. He says no one else will believe it, either. That dreadful cousin of ours, Madame Exton, told him that I couldn’t have been pure when I lay with the king. That the child must be someone else’s.” Mary didn’t want to tell Elizabeth everything that had been said in their father’s tent earlier. It hadn’t been a very genteel scene. Sir Thomas had refused to believe her and had told her in no uncertain terms that if Mary was pregnant, she would be sent away to some cloistered nunnery where she could be separated from all who knew her. Mary had walked off, stunned, confused, and angry, but Friar Matthew had found her and brought her back to Elizabeth. Mary looked into her sister’s face. “But I know Henry will believe me. I was a virgin, after all. He’ll remember that. I will be giving him the son that he wants so much.”

  Elizabeth waited until Mary finished speaking and then started for the steps. “Friar!” she called, looking over the edge of the loft.

  “Where are you going?” Mary asked, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Elizabeth glanced back at her sister. “We are going to Italy.”

  “Italy! But I’ve never been to Italy.” Mary looked about her helplessly. “What happens if I don’t like it? Elizabeth? Elizabeth, I don’t want to go.”

  Elizabeth turned sharply and, crossing the floor, knelt directly before her sister. She would help her in spite of herself. “You will go to Italy, Mary. That is your only way out of this mess. So you’ll do it. And you will like it.”

  Chapter 11

  The Chapel del Annunziato

  Florence, Italy

  Four Years Later—April, 1524

  Art is long, life short. For man, his days are as grass, as the flower of the field, so he flourisheth...