Heart of Gold E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Macpherson Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 575

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

USA Today Bestselling Author  Winner of the Holt Medallion for Best Historical Romance  From the wild shores of the Scotland's Western Isles to the bloody fields of France to the glittering courts of Europe, the Macpherson Series follows a family's fight for Scottish independence against the Tudor king, Henry VIII. RITE OF PASSION At the tournament of two kings, Elizabeth Boleyn has attracted not only the eyes of Henry Tudor, but those of the Scottish warrior, Ambrose Macpherson, whose bold offer might be her only salvation... QUEST OF LOVE Ambrose Macpherson feels attraction for the daughter of the English diplomat. That the hated English king is pursuing her makes Elizabeth an even greater prize. But after witnessing an act of treachery that could topple the crown, Elizabeth has vanished. Ambrose knows that fate will allow him no rest until he finds her…

Leseprobe

HEART OF GOLD

MAY MCGOLDRICK

BOOK DUO CREATIVE

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Heart of Gold; Copyright © 1996 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative

First Published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc, 1996

Cover by Dar Albert, at WickedSmartDesigns.com

To Leah Bassoff, Constance Martin,

and the memory of Pat Teal…

Three women who provided

the wings that made flight possible.

PROLOGUE

The Field of Cloth of Gold

The English Possession of Calais,

on the coast of France

June 1520

The two knights collided in a shower of sparks, their metal-tipped lances exploding into splinters.

The snorting chargers rushed onward, carrying the men past one another, and Ambrose Macpherson glanced back over his shoulder in time to see his opponent bounce unceremoniously onto the soft earth of the lists. A roar went up from the French courtiers in the grandstands, but the Scottish warrior did not acknowledge the cheers until he saw the squires of the downed English knight hoist the angry fighter to his feet. Ignoring the glare of King Henry’s defeated champion, Ambrose stood in his stirrups and waved his shattered spear to the noisy and colorful crowd of spectators. Trotting over to the special box where Francis I, King of France, sat beside Henry VIII, King of England, Ambrose lifted his visor and saluted the two most powerful monarchs in Europe.

“Once again, well done, Sir Ambrose,” the French king shouted. Turning to the burly king beside him, Francis clapped Henry Tudor on the shoulderand whispered confidentially, “This is the Scot you should have killed at Flodden, Henry. Not that we think you didn’t try, seeing that scar of his.” France needed more men like Ambrose as allies, Francis thought to himself. It was rare to find brains, courage, and power all in one man. “He’s making the most of his opportunities here, don’t you think?”

King Henry tried to look bored as he glanced down at this warrior-diplomat who’d been defeating his best fighters all month.Henry studied the hard lines of the man’s face. The Scot’s features were handsome enough, were it not for the deep scar crossing his brow from the top of his open helmet to his eye. The mark of a fighter, Henry thought somewhat wistfully, wondering vaguely what he himself would look like with such a scar. With a curt nod of his head, Ambrose wheeled his charger and galloped off toward the barriers.

“Aye, Francis,” King Henry conceded. “But he has yet to ride against our man Garnesche.”

“Come, Henry. With a lance, this Macpherson is the best horseman in Europe.”

“Nay, these are empty words.”

“Well, England, we have this golden ring set with a ruby the size of your eye that says he’ll defeat your Garland—”

“Garnesche. Sir Peter Garnesche.” Henry glared at his regal rival and removed a huge emerald ring from his finger. “Very well. This little trinket should hold its value against yours. Sir Peter will unhorse this Highland jester on the first course.”

This friend of France is of hardier stock than all of England’s fighters put together, Francis thought. Perhaps we should up the wager. Calais, perhaps. Nay, we’d only end up fighting to take possession of it, anyway. “We’ll just see if this champion of yours can remain in his saddle any better than the others. If he keeps his seat after five courses, Henry, the wager is yours.” Handing the ruby ring to the nobleman standing behind them, the French king smiled wryly. “Would you trust our Lord Constable to hold the bet, or would you prefer to have one of yours do the honors?”

Henry glanced over at the stern-faced Lord Constable, then back at the broad, pale face of his ambassador, Sir Thomas Boleyn, standing attentive and eager at his shoulder. With a shrug, he tossed the ring to the French official. “You trust the worthy Constable with your kingdom...we think he can be trusted with a bauble. Sir Thomas, tell Sir Peter to arm himself.”

* * *

The pale blue sky was warm, and Ambrose leaned his weary body back against the barriers, sipping water from a ladle while his squires attended to his mount. Looking across the open ground toward the grandstands, he thought to himself what a wasted opportunity this month had been for each of these two fiercely competitive monarchs. A wasted opportunity for each country. These great princes had come to the Golden Vale to discuss peace. To settle the differences that had kept their countries at odds for the past hundred years. Instead, they had spent the time trying to outdo each other in wit and shows of strength.

Thank God for their arrogance, Ambrose thought. Thank God for the incredible personal competitiveness that drove these two men. Thank God for the individual pride that had—so far, anyway—kept them from finding a way to come to an accord and forge an alliance that would seriously jeopardize Scotland’s future, as well as the future of all Europe.

Ambrose smiled grimly, thinking of how these two kings so often acted like two spoiled adolescents, each trying to surpass the deeds and wealth of the other. Indeed, once, in the middle of the month, when Henry had suggested wrestling and laid his heavy arm on the French king’s neck, only a massive diplomatic effort had stopped the two from going to war after Francis deftly tossed the English king to the ground.

And the Scottish knight had to make sure these two rivals would remain just that. For the good of all, the balance of power had to be maintained.

Ambrose scanned the fields outside the jousting lists. The rolling meadows were covered with the peaked tents and banners of the French and English nobles and their entourages. In planning this occasion, thoughts of expense had been discarded. And everything was for show. Covered with the golden tents and royal pavilions, erected to house the ten thousand lords, cardinals, knights, and ladies of each court, the sight was visually dazzling. It was intended to be. Even the fountain that stood by the great hall spewed wine instead of water. This was diplomacy at its most opulent, at its most futile.

Ambrose took in the sight with a twinge of disgust, for his eyes also took in the hungry peasants being held back by soldiers beyond the grand gate on the far side of the field. Tents of gold cloth were being used by the nobles for these few short weeks, while many of these hungry villagers and their children begged for food and slept year-round in the open air. Politicians are largely blind men, Ambrose thought in disgust. And it’s true everywhere.In England, in France, and even in Scotland. Once, years back, he’d thought the best course was to distance himself from politics. But along the way, he’d learned it was the profession he was best suited for.

On the surface, Ambrose Macpherson was a warrior without peer and the trusted emissary of the Scottish crown. He was a man of action and a man of learning. Though educated at St. Andrew’s and the university in Paris, Ambrose had mastered the arts of war fighting beside his father and brothers in the turbulent years of civil unrest that divided Scotland during his youth. Returning to the side of King James IV when war threatened with England, he had fought valiantly beside his king when Scottish blood was spilled on the fields of Flodden. That had been seven years ago, and Ambrose had received land, position, and fame for his continuing acts of valor and devotion.

But that hadn’t been all. Being a free spirit, Ambrose had sought adventure and challenge. That had led him to every court in Europe. Renowned across the continent for his diplomatic achievements and his physical prowess, Ambrose Macpherson was respected as a man of honor in a world of treachery.

The sound of the heralds’ trumpets brought Ambrose’s attention back to the lists. These would be the final jousts of the day and of the tournament. Tomorrow he’d be riding to Boulogne, and from there sailing on to Scotland. He was looking forward to being home for the christening of his new nephew.

But first he had to ride against the Englishman Garnesche—formidable opponent, Ambrose thought. He’d seen him unhorse every knight he’d jousted with.The man was strong as a horse and as lithe as a cat. Ambrose moved toward his horse. The final joust of the day.

* * *

The two knights faced each other as the sounds of the drum roll and the blasts of the trumpets filled the air. Peter Garnesche wore a cloak of cloth of gold over his full armor. Ambrose Macpherson was finely appointed in black satin and velvet. The razor-sharp blade of a Highland dirk could not cut the steady heat of their gazes as each opponent studied the other.

The crowd fell silent as the jousters made their way to their respective sides of the tiltyard. As he passed by the grandstands, Ambrose let his eyes roam the glittering rows of nobility dressed in their colorful finery. He saw the waving kerchiefs of the many young women who’d been beating a steady path to his tent these warm nights. He knew the ways of bringing pleasure to those he bedded. And, thus far, he was free of the scourge of pox that was running rampant. Having that reputation had made Ambrose a most popular courtier wherever he went. But lately he’d found himself somewhat bored with the selection of willing ladies at large. They all seemed the same. Too experienced and all too willing. There was no challenge.There was not even a pretense of innocence.

Ambrose shook his head to clear his thoughts of such nonsense. Concentrate, he thought to himself. Here he was, a moment away from facing the most challenging of his opponents, and he was still thinking from the proximity of his codpiece.

About to steer his courser toward the field, Ambrose was caught by the unwavering gaze of a young woman standing at the end of the seats. There was an air of power, of assurance in her glance. So much for being bored with the selection of the available ladies, he thought.Aye, some new blood, a new spirit.

Ambrose lowered his lance, saluting the unknown maiden, and wheeled his black stallion.

Elizabeth Boleyn blushed at the champion’s sudden attention. And the heads that turned in her direction caught her quite off guard.

Since this was the French king’s challenge, the English queen held her kerchief aloft, and Ambrose and Peter Garnesche waited like two great bulls, straining at their tethers in their impatience to do battle. Once more the heralds sounded their trumpets, and as the notes faded away, a deadly stillness descended upon the yard.

The kerchief fell, and the two warriors spurred their steeds into action.

As they thundered down the stretch, Ambrose began to lower the tip of his long lance. With a motion that had grown as familiar as a wave of his hand, the Highlander pinned the end of the lance against the side of his chest with his muscular upper arm. Watching the onrushing knight lower his lance, Ambrose realized immediately why the English fighter had been so successful. Garnesche’s lance was not completely lowered; the metal tip was pointed directly at Ambrose’s visor.

Fighting the instinct to raise himself in his saddle, Ambrose kept his spear pointed directly at his foe’s heart.

With a deafening crash, the two warriors collided, the Englishman’s lance exploding on Ambrose’s shoulder, above his shield, while the Scot’s weapon splintered in the direct hit to Garnesche’s protecting shield. It took all of Ambrose’s strength to remain on his horse as they passed.

The sounds of the cheering crowd rolled across the field as the two fighters turned and rode back to their positions, replacing their spent weapons.

“He cheated, m’lord,” the young squire blurted out as he handed Ambrose the new lance. “He lowered his lance late!”

“Aye, but it just confirms the Englishman’s reputation.” Ambrose looked reassuringly at the lad. “I should have expected such tactics.”

The two warriors faced each other once again, awaiting the signal. The heralds blared, the kerchief dropped, and the men flew down the course.

Leveling his lance early, Ambrose raised himself high in his saddle as the horse galloped on furiously. The crowd gasped. Despite the enormous weight of the cumbersome armor, the Highlander held himself and his lance rock steady as the courser raced toward the charging foe. Standing in his stirrups, the Scottish champion was sure to be unhorsed by the impact or beheaded by the lance of his opponent should his strength falter.

Garnesche sneered through his visor at the oncoming Scot. The fool was finished.

An instant before the men closed, Ambrose sat hard in his saddle. The Englishman’s lance was now aimed high, directly at his face. Leaning into the attack, Ambrose never flinched at the oncoming blow.

The impact of the lance against the center of his foe’s shield resounded clear across the tiltyard, while the tip of Garnesche’s lance whistled past Ambrose’s head.

Raising his visor as he reined in his steed, Ambrose dropped his shattered weapon and turned amid the roar of the spectators to see the English knight sprawled flat on his back.

Cursing loudly and viciously, Peter Garnesche grabbed at the hand of his squire and pulled himself abruptly to his feet, glaring all the while at the Scot.

Ambrose’s blond hair spilled freely over his shoulders as he removed his helmet. Dropping the metal armor into his squire’s hands, the young warrior turned and trotted his stallion toward the grandstands and the royal box. He smiled at the grudgingly appreciative English crowd and gave a small salute to the cheering French. The two kings each greeted the champion, though Francis was clearly in the better humor.

“These are the finest of warriors, Sir Ambrose,” the French king called out. “And you have vanquished every one.” He motioned for the Lord Constable and took his winnings from the minister’s open fist. Holding up the Tudor king’s emerald ring to the light, he looked at it admiringly for a moment before handing it over the railing to the young knight. “I should have gotten England to wager Calais!”

Francis and Ambrose exchanged a smile while the surly English king looked on unamused.

With a nod of his head, the Scottish warrior turned away from the royal box and steered his horse down past the rows of French courtiers. Acknowledging the adulation of the still excited throng, he searched the crowd. He saw the women leaning forward in their seats, hoping for a chance to capture his attention. But his gaze swept over them all.

And then he saw her. She stood where she had been before. She hadn’t moved.

Elizabeth studied the image of the warrior. He was all power, all elegance. She had seen enough. She was ready to start. She could feel the tingling, the excitement—in her hands, in the tips of her fingers. The sight of the man as he sat on the magnificent horse, watching her, would remain emblazoned in her memory.

Ambrose had never seen eyes as beautifully dark as hers. They were riveted on him. Studying him. He felt her gaze boring through his shield, roaming his body, studying him. She wanted him, he could tell. He would have her in his bed. Tonight.

Drawing his sword, Ambrose placed the great emerald ring on the razor-sharp point and extended it toward the young and beautiful maiden.

Elizabeth held out her hand as the knight deftly placed the token in her upturned palm.

The crowd fell silent as they watched the exchange. Then a thousand wagging tongues came alive with gossip.

1

Her mind raced but her hand was slow to follow.

Elizabeth dipped the brush in the paint mixture and once again raised it to the canvas.

“What are you calling it?”

“The eighth wonder of the world!” Elizabeth murmured as she took a step back, studying her latest creation. The Field of Cloth of Gold. She had captured it. The sweep of the rolling countryside outside Calais. The grandeur and the majesty of the royal processions. The unadorned lowliness of the gawking poor. The blue skies overhead and the green fields of late spring. The thick, gray clouds darkening the distant skyline. The gaudy liveries of scurrying servants. The competitive thrill of the joust. The conquering knight. Her best work so far.

Mary shifted her weight on the couch as she stuffed more pillows behind her head. “May I see the ring?”

Elizabeth turned in surprise and looked at her younger half-sister. This was the last thing Mary needed right now, with this illness that was plaguing her. As if the sores from the pox were not bad enough, Mary had been unable to hold down any food for the past week. This once beautiful and robust young woman lay on Elizabeth’s bed, exhausted and spent. Elizabeth held back her pity and her tongue. After all, what could she say to this seventeen-year-old who had already endured more pain than others might bear in a lifetime? Elizabeth’s mind wandered vaguely to thoughts of her other sister, Anne, and she wondered whether the youngest sister had been the source of Mary’s knowledge about the afternoon’s incident. The thirteen-year-old Anne was, for most part, Mary’s eyes and ears these days.

“Where is the ring, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t have it anymore.”

“For God’s sake, don’t pity me.” Mary turned her face away, speaking as much to herself as to her sister. “He took my innocence. He slept with me. He used me. So what if you are the one that ends up with his ring?”

“You slept with the Scot?”

“Don’t be funny, Elizabeth. You know what I’m talking about.”

It was no secret that Mary had been the mistress of Henry VIII, King of England, in the recent months. The affair had begun immediately after Mary and Anne were summoned to England and to the court by their father only four months ago. From what Elizabeth had been able to gather from Anne, their father had clearly encouraged Mary to respond in kind to the handsome young king’s amorous advances, and Sir Thomas had even gone so far as to arrange private meetings in the hunting lodges away from court...and away from the queen. It was common knowledge that the king had long ago grown tired of the woman who could bear him no son.

Ten years back, after death of his wife, Sir Thomas Boleyn had sent Mary and Anne to France to be brought up in the company of Elizabeth, his daughter from an earlier liaison. Growing up together in France in the household that their father kept in the court of Queen Isabel, the bonds had grown strong between the three young siblings. Elizabeth, then ten years old, was only three years older than Mary. Nonetheless, from the start she had taken on the role of guardian and had looked after and offered guidance to her newfound half-sisters.

It was a joy to have them. As a young child, before her sisters’ arrival, Elizabeth had been an extremely lonely child. With no parents and no friends, Elizabeth had found other ways to capture the magic she missed in her life. The little girl had a God-given gift. Elizabeth Boleyn had the ability to see and depict beauty in the darkness around her.

She could still remember what it had been like the night of her mother’s death. Dry-eyed, sitting by the burned-out hearth, she had held a fistful of warm ashes in one hand, a charred twig in the other. Using stick and ash, the young girl’s small fingers had quietly, desperately swirled and traced a lifeline of patterns. Standing and moving to her mother’s cold, lifeless body, Elizabeth had touched her mother’s face, as beautiful in death as it had been in life. She left smudge of ash on the high cheekbone.

Elizabeth had only wished the ash could make her warm.

The rest of her childhood was spent drawing on boards, floors, and walls—using whatever subjects she could find and then letting her imagination fill the void.

Years later, she began to paint. As long as Elizabeth made no trouble for her new guardian, she was allowed to run away from the confining prison of her quarters and spend countless hours with the craftsman and the artists that visited Queen Isabel’s court. None of the men had ever minded or questioned the bright-faced child who sat silently watching, her knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes intent on their every move. With apprentices bustling about, some of the painters had, in fact, shown interest in the little girl and, as she quietly told them of her interest, provided her with precious scraps of canvas or pigment for paint. She had watched the artisans fashioning their brushes, gazed with wonder at the mixing of paints, and studied the planning and the steps of each artist’s technique.

Elizabeth had practiced all she learned. While other young children of the court might fear and avoid the dark corners of the grim castle keep, Elizabeth had taken sanctuary in them. Though the dark stone walls exuded dampness and cold, Elizabeth herself radiated the glowing vibrancy of life. The bold colors that she used in her paintings shone with sunlight and warmth. The lively detail of her work evoked smiles and good cheer in the few who shared her secret.

And then her sisters had arrived.

As time passed,the three black-haired daughters of Sir Thomas Boleyn had soon attracted the roving eyes of courtiers and knights from France and from many different countries. Of the three, Mary had always been the one drawn to the glamour of that fashionable life. Indeed, something in Elizabeth’s sister had always cried out for the fawning attention of the court rakes, but nothing unfortunate had ever occurred. Not while Mary had been under Elizabeth’s care.

Four months had now passed since her sisters had left. During the years Mary and Anne had been with her, Elizabeth had learned to discipline her creative urge. She would only paint when time allowed and when her siblings did not need her. After their departure, it had taken a long time to overcome her loneliness for them. But as time passed, Elizabeth had actually grown fond of her newfound solitude. It allowed her time to paint. With no disruptions, no one to baby, soothe, or look after, she was tasting the first fruits of freedom. But freedom was short-lived.

Suddenly Elizabeth found herself unexpectedly summoned to Calais by Sir Thomas. On arrival, she’d found Mary sick and bedridden. Her sister had contracted the dreaded pox.

She knew what it was. The scourge of every court in Europe. A miserable disease that attacked a lover’s body first, and then attacked the mind.

Elizabeth tended to Mary with loving care. There was no need for scolding the younger woman. If the syphilis didn’t kill her now, then Mary could look forward to a lifetime of suffering.

Though she herself had always shunned the allure of the court and its shallow inhabitants, something within Elizabeth kept her from condemning Mary for becoming the love interest of the most powerful man in England—the man who held their father’s future in his hands. After all, Elizabeth had always had her talent, her painting, her secret life, and her hopes of becoming a great painter. Those dreams offered all the passion that Elizabeth sought in this life. They made her independent, even as a woman. Lost in her art, she needed no man to look after her, to protect her. But Mary was different. She needed attention. She wanted glamour. As Elizabeth strove to be the observer and to capture the image, Mary had always taken pleasure in being the object, the observed, the center of all attention.

Elizabeth thought now of the price her sister was paying. She picked up the brush and started to paint puffs of clouds scudding across the clear blue sky.

“Anne told me everything that happenedtoday at the tournament,” Mary whispered, watching the smooth strokes of her sister’s brush. “I have to warn you.He is a womanizer.”

“You know him?” Elizabeth asked without breaking stride.

“It is hard not to notice him. That Scot is a good-looking man. But don’t worry, sister. He is clean. I haven’t slept with him.”

The crash of the jug against the floor jolted Mary to a sitting position. She looked down sheepishly, trying to avoid the blazing temper of her older sister.

“I warn you!” Elizabeth took a step toward the cowering creature. “If I hear you even one more time belittling yourself as you have been...” She took a deep breath to control her anger before continuing. The walls of these tents were too thin for her liking.“You cannot hold yourself responsible, Mary. If someone should to take the blame, it is that king of yours for giving this god-awful disease to a mere child.”

“Then you believe me that he is the only one I have ever slept with?”

“Of course I believe you.”

The soft tears that left Mary’s eyes did not go unnoticed by her older sister. Elizabeth moved quickly to her and gathered the young woman in her arms.

“Henry doesn’t. He hates me. He called me ugly. He said he never wants to see my sickly face.The night before you arrived, I went to him. I was delirious with fever. He wouldn’t even let his physician tend to me. He called me a...” Mary clutched at the neck of her sister and wept.

“Hush, my love. That’s all in the past. That’s all behind you now. Just think of the future. Of a beautiful future.”

Elizabeth clutched Mary tightly in her arms—holding her, rocking her. She knew her words lacked conviction. She bit her lips in frustration as she thought of the cold and selfish king. But men were all alike in that respect. Born free to do as they wished. Free to take what they claimed was theirs by right, but never abiding by any civil rules.

“Oh, Elizabeth!” Mary wept. “What future? They once called me the fairest girl in France. Every man at court was after my affections. You know how popular I was. Now see what I’ve become. No man will ever want to look at me. I’ll never have any place in society. No one will want me not even as a friend. I’m already shunned. I just want to die. Why doesn’t Death just come and take me?”

“Stop your foolish talk, Mary. That will not happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because Death has to face me first before he gets to you.”

“You think you could scare him off the way you scare me?” Mary asked with a weak chuckle.

“Of course!”

Mary closed her eyes and took comfort in the protective embrace. She should have asked Father to bring Elizabeth here sooner. Everything would get better now that she was here. Elizabeth would take care of her, the way she always had. She would never be alone. And she’d get better. Her sister had said so. Elizabeth had already sought the assistance of the French king’s physician in examining her illness. The man had been here twice and was coming back this afternoon. He had sounded quite hopeful the last time.

The gentle footstep outside the tent separated the two. Elizabeth moved quickly to her painting and threw a sheet over it.

“Why don’t you want me to see it?” The young girl stood in the opening of the tent, watching her eldest sister with a pout on her pretty face.

“Anne, you should not march in on grown-ups as you do. It is not proper.” Mary whispered in her weak voice from the couch. “You know very well that Elizabeth doesn’t want anyone looking at her pictures.”

“I am not anyone. I’m her sister. And what you say is untrue. I saw her show her paintings to the Duc de Bourbon!”

“She saw what?” Mary turned to her older sister in surprise. Elizabeth had sworn Mary to secrecy years back. No one was to see her pictures. No one was to be told. Mary knew it was Elizabeth’s greatest fear—that if people discovered her paintings, they would be taken away.After all, it was not proper for a young woman to pursue such hobbies to the extent that Elizabeth did. Mary had been shocked in seeing that some of Elizabeth’s paintings actually portrayed nude men and women. Though truthfully, considering the builds of some of the men, she’d been tempted more than once to ask Elizabeth whom she’d used as models.

“I saw her with my own two eyes,” Anne broke in before Elizabeth could respond. “In fact, I saw her accept a bag of gold coins from the duc and leave one of the paintings with him.”

Mary jumped out of her place and flung herself at her older sister. “My God! You did it. At last!You sold your work. Which one? How did you convince him to buy one of your paintings? A woman’s painting! How did you approach him?How much did you get for it?What made you do it?”

Elizabeth looked up and captured the gaze of her excited sister. She couldn’t relate the truth. Not all of it. After all, she had done it for Mary herself. To pay the French physician’s fee. But she couldn’t let her know.

The Duc de Bourbon, for the past couple of years, had been a persistent pursuer of Elizabeth’s. An admirer, true, but Elizabeth knew the duc loved to pursue every young woman who rejected his advances. The nobleman hated to be denied, and he surely thought that she, too, would fall to his charm and wealth—all the young women eventually succumbed. She knew the man had many mistresses. But that was a situation Elizabeth could not accept. She was simply not interested in becoming an ornament, tucked away and brought out from time to time for some man’s pleasure as her mother had been so many years ago. She had let the duc know her feelings on the matter. But the man was not giving up. In their most recent encounters, the duc had been most devious in his efforts to seduce her. She’d been regularly infuriated by his persistent antics and his pathetic tales. So now Elizabeth thought with some satisfaction of how she had earlier today been able to mislead the young nobleman over the painting. She had made up stories that were too unbelievable, but the duc had, for some reason, accepted her tale.

“Tell me, Elizabeth,” Mary asked again, “how did you convince him to buy your work?”

“I lied. He thinks he’s become the patron of a very talented, though as of yet unknown artist. An unknownmale artist. He thinks I was just playing the part of the kind-hearted liaison.”

“I would have thought he’d be a jealous monster at the thought of your acting for another man.”

“I don’t see why.” Elizabeth sighed as she cleaned and put away her brushes. “My relationship with the duc has never been anything more than one of innocent acquaintance...at least on my part. I’ve never been attracted to him, and I’ve never led him on.”

“No? Do I have to remind you how men think?” Mary moved back to the couch and sat down. This topic was one in which she had a great deal more expertise than her older sister. “It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. The fact is, Elizabeth, you don’t belong to any man. So you are fair game.”

“Oui! I know the poems...we women are the ‘tender prey’ for these overgrown, ‘love-struck’ boys. Well, I’m not. Though I guess I may have embellished the story to take that into account. I did tell him the artist is a crippled nobleman with leprosy who hides himself away in a priory and never sees visitors.” Elizabeth removed her apron and tucked it away. “I suppose after hearing that story there was no reason for the duc to feel challenged.”

For all her words, though, Elizabeth hoped she would not cross paths with the French nobleman for the rest of her stay here. With the heartache of her sister’s ailment, she was in no mood to deal with a persistent courtier.

“Father wants you, Elizabeth.” Anne’s voice had the singsong quality of a child who knows a secret. The other two women both turned to her in unison.

“Father? What does he want?” Elizabeth had seen her father only from a distance since arriving in the north of France. There was nothing extraordinary in that, however. From the first day she had—as a child—entered Sir Thomas’s household, their relationship had never been anything more than politely detached. In fact, unless it was due to Mary’s illness, Elizabeth had no idea why her father had summoned her, a daughter he had always seemed intent on ignoring.

“I’ll tell you for one of those gold coins.”

“No chance, you brat,” Elizabeth said curtly, her eyes twinkling. Taking the sides of the painting carefully, she moved it to the back wall of the tent. “I’ll find out on my own.”

“Perhaps,” Anne responded. “But I’ll get one of those coins yet.” As the words left the girl’s mouth, she leaned over and grabbed a couple of Elizabeth’s brushes, bolting for the tent’s opening.

It took Elizabeth only a moment to realize what Anne had done. She turned and ran after her.

“You spoiled, greedy monster.” The older sister chased Anne into the bright afternoon sun. There was no sign of the girl. She was as good at disappearing as she was at appearing.

Elizabeth’s eyes roamed the setting before her. There were people everywhere. Squires and stable boys, soldiers and servants, some people dressed in finery and others in rags. Horses and dogs, dull gray carts and brightly painted wagons. The very air was vibrant with action. The gold cloth of the tents reflected the rays of the sun. It looked as though the ropes had captured that celestial orb, holding it down. Elizabeth made a mental note of that. Another touch for her work.

“I have to admit, lass, that I’m offended.”

The soft, masculine burr of the accent made Elizabeth turn slowly in the direction of the voice. It was the Highlander. Uncontrollably, she felt her heartbeat quicken at the sight of the giant warrior, dressed in a Scottish tartan now standing only a step away. His deep blue eyes were unwavering as they gazed into hers.

His long, blond hair streamed over shoulders that were wide and powerful. Like a great cat he stood, lithe and balanced and, she thought, ready to pounce.

Ambrose was stunned. She was even more beautiful up close than he had thought her to be. From the grandstand, where he’d first seen her, the young woman’s presence, her confidence, her unwavering eyes had piqued his interest. But now, seeing her like this, he was taken aback by the full lips, the high sun-kissed cheekbones, the long luminous lashes, and the incredibly large black eyes that stared back at him in surprise. It was her eyes, black as coal, that had first captured his attention. She was taller than most women, but even in her unattractively sensible clothes, she was quite graceful.

“I’m Ambrose Macpherson. What’s your name, lass?”

“Why did you say you were offended?” Elizabeth’s mind was racing. Her next painting had to be of this man in his kilt. The sight was definitely too impressive to go uncaptured.

Ambrose smiled.

Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat.

“You were giving this dirt-packed alley more attention than you gave to the joust earlier today.” Ambrose took a step toward her, allowing a horse cart to make its way past. He noticed that she didn’t retreat from him. But he did see a gentle blush spread across her perfect ivory complexion. As her eyes wandered away from his to the groups of people moving by, the young warrior’s eyes continued to roam the young woman’s body. She had her hair hidden under a severe-looking headpiece, but from a loose tendril that lay against her forehead he could tell she was dark-haired. The dress, discolored in spots, was rolled up to her elbow and untied at the neck. The tease of what lay beyond the next tie was tempting. She had the stance and the boldness of a noblewoman but the appearance of a maid. Ambrose let his eyes fall on her lipsagain. They were full, sensuous, inviting.

“You fought an exciting match.” She caught his eyes on her.

“I had an exciting audience.”

“I thought them dead,” Elizabeth teased. “You surely deserved a better reception than what they gave.”

Ambrose looked at her with a half grin. He’d thought the French reception quite enthusiastic, at least among the feminine members of the crowd. “Is it safe for me to assume that you were impressed?”

“By them? I prefer the living. The dead don’t impress me much.”

“I don’t mean them.” Ambrose frowned in jest. “I was trying to bring the discussion back to me.”

This time Elizabeth looked at him appraisingly. “You think well of yourself, don’t you?”

Ambrose laughed in response. Oh, no. He wasn’t going to make himself a target by answering that question. Studying her closely, he tried to remember if he’d encountered her before today. He was quite sure he hadn’t. This one was different. Beautiful, but different from the others. It was something in the way she held her head, slightly cocked, her eyes clear, alert.

“I haven’t seen you before. Did you just arrive today?”

Elizabeth did not seem to hear him. He was handsome, incredibly so. But not proud and aloof. “You could have broken your neck at the joust, standing in your stirrups as you did.”

“French or English?” he asked. She had watched from the French section during the joust, but the tent she had walked out of moments ago stood in the English quarter of the camp.

“Did you get that scar pulling a stunt similar to the one you pulled today?” Elizabeth studied the deep mark on the knight’s brow. Though his loose blond hair covered some of it, it was clearly a badge of honor. She had to add this touch to her painting later.

“You are not married, are you?” he asked. She didn’t seem too willing to answer his questions—not yet, anyway.

Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the activities in the alley. “There is so muchmore to see here than at the tournament field.”

“Any jealous lovers?”

“Real people, in their element.”She hid a smile. “They are so interesting to watch.”

“Would you come to my tent? Perhaps tonight?” Ambrose reached out and took her hand in his. His thumb gently stroked the soft skin as he lifted her fingers to his lips. She was not wearing the ring he had given her earlier. “I’ll make it interesting.”

Elizabeth shivered involuntarily at the feel of his lips against her skin. Their gazes locked. He was so beautiful and so openly sensual. And here she was standing in the midst of all these people, flirting with him. This was so unlike her. Besides, her father was waiting.

“I have to go.” She pulled back in haste and, without so much as a backward glance, ran down the alley in the direction of her father’s tent.

2

...the root, roasted and mixed with hog’s lard, makes a gallant poultice to ripen plague sores. The ointment is good for swellings in the privities. Indeed, the best of the Galenists hold that once those afflicted with the pox expel the evil humors by lying with the virgin, the decocted root will cure the pustules with nary a scar...

Camararius, Hortus Medicus

“On the treatment of the Pox”

The bloodied squire landed in a heap at her feet.

Elizabeth started, suddenly aware of the commotion she had walked into. She’d been intent on making herself presentable to her father. Now the dress ties and the condition of her hair were forgotten.

Pressed along the sides of the alley between the tents, spectators were taking in the activity wide-eyed, but with no intention of becoming involved. Elizabeth could see blood pouring from a gash above the lad’s ear. She stared at the young man, who was groggily dragging himself erect, and instinctively put a hand out to help him up.

A voice filled with malice thundered from the center of the alleyway. “Don’t touch the lazy bastard!”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed at the knight lurching ominously toward her. “He needs care,” she shot back. “He—”

“You!” The knight stopped before her. His eyes had the glazed look of one either drunk or mad. Yanking the squire away from her, Sir Peter Garnesche’s glare became a sneer. Casting the lad to the side, he spat his next words over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from Elizabeth’s face. “Go lick your wounds, boy. The Scot’s lady wills it.”

Elizabeth looked with loathing on the huge warrior. Like everyone else, she knew him to be among the English king’s friends, but she also knew him as the man who, four months ago, had escorted her sister Mary to England—and to a lifetime of suffering. She turned away; she had no desire to converse with him.

“Wait, m’lady,” the knight sneered, calling loudly as she walked off. “Perhaps you or your sister can give my squire the name of a good physician.”

Elizabeth felt the prickly heat wash over her as she hurried from the ugly scene. The onlookers’ laughs pounded in her head. Something brutal hung in the air around the man like a venomous cloud. She had to take Mary away from these vile people. She had to convince her father of that.

Though she was half-English by birth, Elizabeth Boleyn had good reason to feel no shred of loyalty to England or to its people. France was the country of her birth, and for Elizabeth, it was home.

Not that her childhood had been awash with sunlight. After her mother’s death, and before Mary and Anne had joined her, Elizabeth had spent long, regimented years under the loveless supervision of her English nanny, Madame Exton. With the exception of the moments when she’d been able to escape to her painters, Elizabeth would prefer to blot this period from her memory. From early on, this manipulative woman had given her young charge a bad taste of English ways, particularly regarding the use of intimidation in child rearing. Even though Madame Exton had continued to run Sir Thomas’s household in France through the years, life under the woman’s iron rule became much easier to endure once the three girls had faced it together.

Sir Thomas Boleyn’s tent was clearly marked with the banner depicting the family coat of arms, and Elizabeth paused before approaching the attendant standing outside. Running her hands quickly down her skirts to straighten her appearance, she thought through what she wanted to say to her father and wondered once again why he’d sent for her. She knew him to be a hard man whose ambitions had taken him high in the government of the English king, but he was also her father. And he had always provided for her.

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth entered her father’s tent.

* * *

“You don’t know her, Thomas,” Sarah Exton countered, never looking up from her needlework. “She won’t do what you want simply because you command her. You must work her to your will.”

Sir Thomas Boleyn stopped to glare at his cousin and then continued his pacing, pulling irritably at his gray speckled beard as he crossed the room. “This is no girl’s game, Sadie. We are talking about the fortunes of this family. About—”

The shadows at the tent’s opening stopped him, and he looked quickly at the attendant and the young woman who entered his spacious quarters.

Elizabeth’s direct gaze captured the older woman’s. The once-over look that her father’s cousin gave her was clearly disapproving.

“Good afternoon, Sir...Madame.” Elizabeth curtsied and stood quietly.

“Come here, girl, and sit.” Her father waved at the chair by the woman and gestured for his squire to let them be. The elder manmade no show of affection for the daughter whom he’d not seen in more than two years.

Obediently, Elizabeth seated herself by her overseer,who now bent over her work, seemingly ignoring all around her.

Sir Thomas paced the room, looking carefully at his daughter’s intelligent, flashing eyes, at the strong set of her mouth and chin. Just like her mother’s. But as Catherine had been gentle and forgiving when it’d come to him, Elizabeth was fierce and avenging. From the time he’d taken in the young girl when her mother died, Sir Thomas had never cared to be alone with her. Even as a child, she’d been able to turn his charity to guilt. Even now, her very presence was enough to prick sharply at his conscience, at the festering wounds that he tried to bury deep. Though Thomas Boleyn had been the one to walk away from Catherine, the pain of losing Elizabeth’s mother still ached within him. It was a hurt barely contained beneath the layers of tough skin. An anguish ever-present, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it.

Elizabeth was tall, her complexion clear and healthy. She was not a voluptuous beauty, Sir Thomas thought. Not like Betsy Blount, Henry’s first mistress, nor like Mary orany of the others.

“I don’t know what he...” The courtier paused, his irritation turning to outright anger. “Oh, the hell with it! Who can understand such things?”

Elizabeth noted the furtive shake of the head that Madame Exton directed toward him. She sat quietly as her father turned and stalked to the table littered with official-looking documents. Sir Thomas lifted a tankard of ale and drained it, banging it on the table before turning back to her.

“Elizabeth, I have always been good to you, haven’t I?”

“Oui, Sir Thomas—”

“Speak no French with me, girl!” he exploded.

“Y—yes, Father,” she stumbled, surprised at the ferocity of his manner. She stared at him as he visibly contained himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm, controlled.

“Elizabeth, it’s time you took your place in the world.” The diplomat paused, turning his black eyes on her. “The point is, you have caught the eye of one who will raise you to the uttermost heights of society, and you will take...you would do well to take that place.”

The young woman cursed the Duc de Bourbon under her breath. She should have known better than to be sociable with the nobleman this morning. The man had certainly stooped low. Now he was trying to force her compliance through her father. No chance, she thought.

“Father, I have to explain.” Elizabeth paused, trying to gather together the words that were eluding her. “Ihave no wish to—”

Her father’s glare silenced her. He was standing directly before her, his fists planted on his hips. “Girl, this has nothing to do with your wishes. This has to do with duty.”

“Duty?” she exclaimed.

“Aye. Duty.”

She blurted out the words before she could stop them. “What duty do I owe to a lust-infected nobleman?”

The power of the man’s slap knocked the young woman from her chair, sending her sprawling into the middle of the room. There was a sharp pain in her head, and then numbness, ringing, and the taste of her own blood. She crouched before her father, her shaking hand pressed to her face.

“You will never, hear me, never again speak ofyour king in such terms.”

“My king?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened in disbelief. She glanced involuntarily at Madame Exton in her attempt to understand. The older woman’s head never lifted.Her father’s words brought her attention back to him.

“The king desires to take you into his bed, Elizabeth.”

“No!” the young woman gasped, her hands clutching desperately at Madame’s skirts. The tears rushed down her face uncontrollably. “No...he has...no...he has only seen me but once. This morning at the joust. It was only from a distance. This can’t be. He has given his illness to Mary, Father.”

“I know that!” Sir Thomas shouted. There was nothing he hated more than hysterical women. “She wasn’t pure enough. He liked her well enough, but she wasn’t pure enough to cure his pox.”

Madame Exton laid her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “The king’s doctors have told him that he must lay with only the purest virgins to rid himself of the disease.” She looked at the young woman reassuringly. “It will bring great honor to you and to our family.”

Elizabeth stared at the woman in horror. She was speaking so softly. No emotions. No excitement. Elizabeth could hear the words clearly. “It is a small sacrifice, Elizabeth. And as Sir Thomas says, it is your duty.”

“I cannot. I am not!” she exclaimed, casting about in desperation for some answer, some reason that might halt this madness. “I am not pure. I’ve been raised in the French court. I’ve been with many men.”

The older woman’s hand closed on Elizabeth’s mouthroughly, smothering the words that were tumbling out. “Don’t lie, Elizabeth. You are forgetting your company. If Mary were sitting here and speaking these words, I would have believed every one of them. But this is you. The pure and innocent Elizabeth. The one who has always hidden away from the glamour and from the temptation. The one who skipped even her own presentation at court.” Madame Exton took Elizabeth’s chin in her scrawny hands and jerked it upward. Her voice was as sharp as a dagger’s edge. “I’ve watched you for many years, my girl. Don’t waste your breath with lies. Just do as you are told.You owe that to your family.”

“You have no option, girl,” Sir Thomas added. “And just think of it, if you bear him a boy child, it’ll be so much the better for all of us, and for you.”

Elizabeth slowly raised herself unsteadily to her feet. Her legs were shaking, and she wondered vaguely whether her knees would support her own weight. But then the look of disbelief on her face changed to something else as the terrible reality of her situation set in.

“But I…” There was anguish in her voice.

“There’s nothing more to discuss, Elizabeth. Now go and prepare yourself. When the king’s entourage leaves for Calais in the morning, you will leave with us.” Dismissing her, he turned back toward the table.

The world had gone gray around her, its heavy mists swirling damply within. Her only sensation was the cloudy weight that was settling inexorably on her mind, her body, on her very soul. “But...what of Mary?” she asked in a daze.

Her father half turned to answer, his voice rough, his words clipped. “She’ll go back to Kent. To the convent near Hever Castle. Don’t you concern yourself about her. Go. Go now!”

3

“You have the power to make your own future.”

As Elizabeth hurried along the torchlit alleyways through the camp, Mary’s words kept reverberating in her head. From a small knoll, she glanced across the tented field at the great dinner hall that had been erected out of canvas painted to look like stonework. Its glamour was only a veneer. At the approach of a roving party of men, weaving and lurching their way along, Elizabeth pulled the dark cloak low over her face.

“Hey, you pretty thing! Hey...there goes a woman!”

Elizabeth panicked at the sound of the drunk courtier and lengthened her strides. She would not let them know she was afraid. She would not be their prey. But then she thought of what she was about to do.

“This is insanity,” Elizabeth murmured to herself. She could hear the anguish in her own whisper. “I’ve gone mad! The whole world’s gone mad!”

The young woman put a hand to her face. The swelling had hardly subsided. She could still feel the ache that had made her eyes tear for so long after she’d returned to her tent. But it wasn’t the physical pain that had torn at her heart; it was a pain that ran far deeper. She’d been sold out by her own father. Traded for...what? For another man’s vile use.

When Elizabeth had returned, Mary had been there, waiting for her. Offering comfort, guidance. Coming here, at this hour of the night, had been Mary’s idea. Her younger sister had given her the weapon that Elizabeth had desperately needed. Mary had shown her a way to fight their father.

The Scottish warrior’s shield hung beside the tent’s entryway.

Elizabeth stepped inside.

* * *

Sinking deeper into the warm water, Ambroseclosed his eyes to the red glow of the coal brazier that had been used to heat the bathwater.

She had not come. He had expected her to. But then, he was no longer one to keep a vigil over any woman. Even one as fascinating as this one was turning out to be, he thought, glancing over at the table—at the emerald ring that he’d given her earlier.

Lying there, soaking his bruised and tired muscles, he let his thoughts drift back over the events of the day, of their political importance. He thought again about the letter of false promises that had been signed by the two kings just a short while ago.

It was common knowledge in diplomatic circles that Henry had come to this meeting with the intention of breaking down the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland. The English king’s chancellor, the crafty Cardinal Wolsey, had left no path untried in his maneuvering to gain some hold on the French king, in his search for some wedge to drive between Francis and the troublesome Scots.

But Ambrose had been successful in disrupting all hope of any real trust between the two monarchs. For, in a private meeting just before the signing, the Scottish nobleman had managed to convey to King Francis proof that his enemy the Holy Roman Emperor Charles was waiting to meet secretly with Henry in Calais. On hearing this, Francis had been ready to confront the treacherous English king on the fields. But with the Lord Constable and Ambrose’s intervention, they had been able to restrain the French monarch from immediately embroiling himself in a war with England. In fact, Ambrose had been able to persuade him to go on with the show of signing the treaty with the double-dealing Henry, while pursuing a different course—a waiting game—and meanwhile trying to gain some inside information regarding the details of Charles’s and Henry’s upcoming meeting.

Ambrose had done what needed to be done. Based on the information he’d had, secret envoys of the Roman Emperor had met with the English king earlier today. Now it was up to the Lord Constable’s contacts to reveal the details. There was one thing that was certain, though: The Auld Alliance between Scotland and France had survived the Field of Cloth of Gold. The Highlander had done his job.

Ambrose opened his eyes and reached contentedly for the tankard of ale that sat on the small stool beside the tub.

She was standing just inside the tent.

* * *

“I’m offended once again!”

Elizabeth hid a smile as she gave him a quick glance. Consciously turning her full attention back to the emerald ring that sat on the small table, she continued to stifle her urge to study his naked body. “You are far too sensitive for a man your size.”

Ambrose’s eyes traveled the length of her as she untied the dark cloak and let it fall to the ground at her feet. “I would have hoped that my present vulnerable condition might have attracted a bit more attention than that ring.”

“I don’t think there are too many things in this world that would attract more attention than this thing.” She picked up the ring. The emerald caught the dim light of the brazier and lit up.

“If you were that fond of it, why did you give it up?” Ambrose watched her long, slender fingers, the tilt of her beautiful chin. Her midnight-black hair was gathered on top of her head. Stray tendrils curled against her perfect profile.

Elizabeth could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin. She wouldn’t turn. She couldn’t.

“How did you get it back?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Ambrose gazed at the lass. She was no maid-in-waiting. He had found that out earlier. And she was not used to answering questions. She asked her own. “Three of the Lord Constable’s men dragged a poor village priest in here. He was caught trying to sell it to get his mistresses separate rooms.” Ambrose grinned into his tankard as he quaffed the ale. Her sidelong glance was quick, but he saw it. “They thought he’d stolen the ring from me.”

“I hope you made sure they dragged the wretch all the way to Guisnes Castle.”

“I certainly did.” Ambrose paused and then stood in the tub.

Elizabeth turned her back to pick up her cloak. Busying herself with folding the garment, she tried to ignore the image of him stepping out of the water.

“But not before I made him confess the truth.” Ambrose tied the towel loosely around his waist as he moved behind her. She smelled of lavender and the fresh summer air.

“You wanted to know the whereabouts of his mistresses?” She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He was standing far too close. She leaned over and placed the ring on the table. Elizabeth found herself suddenly fighting the urge to recoil, to run away. After all, wasn’t this why she had come here? To lose her virginity?

“Hardly.” Ambrose let his lips brush against her skin. It was as soft as it looked.He felt her body go tense. “Why did you give the ring to the priest?” he asked softly.

“Why did you offer him so much gold to take it back?”