Heart of Gold (9 page)

If life were a dream with no guilt and no consequences, Ambrose Macpherson’s side would be the very place she would go. But the world she lived in was one in which the outcome of such a fantasy would undoubtedly bring betrayal and unhappiness. It was the way of the world. Elizabeth’s hand unconsciously moved to her face. She did not have to see her wound to know she was disfigured for life. The Highlander would not even look at her. No man would want to look at her.

And then it occurred to her that this suited her plans. Quite nicely, in fact. The young woman straightened. Gazing down at the kilt that she still wore, Elizabeth brightened.

“Then you agree.” The friar clapped his hands, seeing his young friend’s face shed its grim expression.

Elizabeth bounced to her feet and moved to a bundle of worn clothing the friar had dropped in the corner of the loft. “I’ll go to Italy.”

“Who is in Italy?” the priest asked, watching in amazement as the young woman unfolded each item and held it against her frame.

“Some of these will fit!”

“Those are twice your size.” The holy man leaped to his feet, moving quickly toward her. “Wh—what are you planning to do, Elizabeth?”

She ignored his question as she continued measuring the clothing. “But no more than twice. And some are quite...hmm.”

“Young woman...” He didn’t like the look in her eyes.

Elizabeth reached over and put her hands on the priest’s shoulder, turning him toward the ladder. “Please get me a very sharp knife and some water.”

The man dug his heels into the soft straw flooring. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me what you are up to.”

“I will not tell you anything unless you go and get me those things.” Elizabeth looked the priest squarely in the eye.

The friar stood a moment longer. Then, realizing he simply hadn’t the heart to add to this innocent child’s troubles, Friar Matthew grudgingly gave in and climbed down the ladder of the loft, muttering a complaint at every rung of his descent.

The man needed his face rearranged.

As the first rays of light crept across the roof of his tent, Ambrose pulled his traveling clothes out of the leather pack. Wrapping his kilt about him, he found himself getting angry again at the thought of the abusive Duc de Bourbon. The bloody bastard. Why was it that so many fine women put up with such treatment?

He had lain awake for what had remained of the night after Elizabeth left his tent. His thoughts had centered on her. Ambrose Macpherson had spent his entire life not wanting to get tied down to any place or to any woman. He liked his life. He enjoyed his independence. He could come and go. And he could pick and choose among the best, the bonniest. Ambrose enjoyed sampling, taking, and pampering the women he crossed paths with. But like a bee approaching any delicate flower, he liked to taste and then move on. After all, the world was filled with them. And why should he settle for one, when he could have so many?

Last night, though, had been bothersome. Ambrose forced himself to admit that Elizabeth’s broken condition had been the cause. Damn the Duc de Bourbon, he thought.

The Highlander slammed his fist into his palm, then made a conscious effort to shake off the emotion. Such thoughts did no one any good. But perhaps before leaving for Boulogne, he would pay a visit to the amorous duc.

“Macpherson!” the French voice shouted angrily from outside the tent. “Come out, you dog!”

Ambrose stiffened, recognizing at once the Duc de Bourbon’s voice and the challenge in his words. Striding quickly across the tent, he threw open the flap and stepped out into the windy morning. The duc and five of his men were standing in the empty alleyway.

When the French nobleman saw the Scot, bare-chested and unarmed, come out of the tent, he quickly unbuckled his sword and tossed it to the retainer standing behind him. It was bad enough that Macpherson had bedded Elizabeth, but roughing her up the way he had was beyond endurance. And marking her face. He would pay dearly for that. The rage that had been seething, building within Bourbon since she ran, suddenly boiled over as the duc moved across the alley.

They were both large men, and when they collided in the middle, the ground shook with the impact.

Ambrose connected solidly with the nose of the duc, and Bourbon’s head snapped back even as his fist fell like a hammer on the ear of the Scot. Either blow would have felled a lesser opponent, but the two men hardly flinched as they continued to attack each other with a violence so sudden and so unrestrained that it surprised even the trained fighters looking on.

The fury continued unabated, the warriors battering unmercifully at one another until suddenly the duc was lying dazed on the ground, blood spewing from his flattened nose. Ambrose stood over him, a raging pulse pounding in his brain. “Get up, you coward.”

Bourbon looked up at the giant warrior through a haze. He pushed himself groggily to a sitting position. “I’ll kill you before I ever let you touch her like that again.”

“You are the one that needs to die, knave.” Ambrose took a step back to give the man the room to stand on his feet. He was not done with him. “How does it feel to get a taste of your own treatment?”

The French nobleman stood unsteadily and took a swing at the Highlander’s face. “You cut her. You marked her for life, you animal.”

The man’s fist went wide of Ambrose’s face by quite a distance, and then Bourbon once again lay flat on the ground.

In an instant the Scottish knight was standing on top of the Frenchman. One of Bourbon’s men took a half step toward the two, but then backed off at the threatening glare of the Scot.

“What do you mean, I cut her?” Ambrose put his boot squarely on his adversary’s chest. “You’re the one who beats her for nothing.”

Bourbon grabbed the boot and threw Ambrose to the ground. Scrambling on top of him, he grabbed the Scot by the throat. “Me? I’ve...I’ve never laid a hand on Elizabeth. Do you hear me? Never. I’ve admired and respected her since the time she was only a girl. I’ve even hoped to have her hand in marriage. We French take care of our women, you mountain pig. We don’t beat them.”

Ambrose pushed the man off of him and leaped nimbly to his feet. In an instant, Bourbon followed suit. Suddenly Ambrose had a gut feeling that his adversary was speaking the truth. “She came to me with a swollen face.” He ducked, avoiding another punch thrown by Bourbon. “I was perfectly justified in assuming it was you who did it. Have you forgotten how angry you became when I asked about her earlier? I thought you had punished her for my attentions.”

“If you knew her better, you scoundrel, you would understand that she is not one to be owned or punished or made use of in any form. She is a woman of character and talent. But before I grind you into the dirt, just tell me why did you do that to her. You slept with her. Why did you have to cut her?”

Ambrose reached out and grabbed Bourbon on the throat. “I did no such thing, you blackguard. She left my tent in the same condition as she arrived.”

“She wore your tartan!”

“So she did.”

“Then you admit you slept with her!”

“That is none of your business,” Ambrose growled.

“I’m making it my business!”

“No one has given you the right.” Ambrose increased the pressure on Bourbon’s throat. “Where is she now?”

Bourbon pushed the Highlander’s hands away. “There is no need for you to know where she’s gone. You’ve used her as you use all your women. Just move on and throw out your line for the next catch.”

“I’m asking you a question.” Ambrose once again moved toward the Frenchman. “Where is she?”

“She’s no longer your concern. Not that I think she ever was!”

“Listen to me, you pigheaded dandy!” Ambrose shoved Bourbon back a pace and walked threateningly toward him. “Someone beat her up pretty badly before she came to me last night. And you are telling me that after she left here someone cut her face. You claim you didn’t do it. Now try moving your brain from your codpiece to your head and think. She could still be in danger. Whoever did these things to her could do even more harm. Now, where did you see her last?”

Bourbon’s thoughts went back to his last encounter with Elizabeth, his anger toward the Highlander dissipating like a morning fog. My God, he’d been so stunned by the words that he’d heard her say that he’d paid no attention to anything else. She wasn’t just standing with Garnesche; she’d been trying to get away from him! And she had gotten away, he remembered.

Ambrose watched in silence as the nobleman’s eyes cleared, finally comprehending the meaning of what was being said.

“Do you have a drink in there?” the Frenchman asked quietly.

“Aye.” Ambrose nodded, leading a pensive Bourbon into the tent.

She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Well, she had to lose her name, her identity, her family. And most important of all, she had to lose her hair.

As Friar Matthew looked on aghast, Elizabeth sliced off her ebony locks in chunks, talking quickly as she worked.

Elizabeth laid out her plan for him. She would go to Florence. The Medici family was back in power and stability had returned to the prosperous city of art and culture.

She would find a place, working as an apprentice, or as a laborer if need be, with one of the great artists who resided there. Brilliant, old Leonardo was dead, but perhaps with Raphael. Or with the young genius Cellini. Perhaps, if the heavens smiled on her, she might secure employment in the shops of the great painter and sculptor Michelangelo Buonarroti.

As she talked, Friar Matthew recalled that his order was building a church on the outskirts of Florence. Elizabeth told him she would need a letter of introduction to the friars there so that she could show her talents—her ability to paint.

She would travel there under the guise of a young man, she would get work as a young man, and she would live as a young man. She could do it. Elizabeth knew she could.

Friar Matthew looked at her with incredulous eyes. Elizabeth talked as if she had prepared this masquerade for many years, and he told her his thoughts. Elizabeth admitted that what he said was true. She had dreamed of doing this, many times before. But all that planning, all that preparing, had only been a fantasy. A wonderful, unattainable dream.

The friar knew very well about Elizabeth’s paintings. Over the years, she had worked so hard to become the proficient artist he knew her to be. He had seen so many of her works, and he knew she was good. More than good, he admitted. She was exceptional. It had been a pleasure to be her accomplice in supplying the poor village churches around Paris over the past two years with the magnificent religious portraits signed only “Phillipe.”

Like any other artist, Elizabeth had needed an audience. A group that would respond to her choice of subject matter, to her composition, her color choices, and her uniquely individual style. Without a master that she could learn from, Friar Matthew’s tidings had been an indispensable learning tool.

“I can’t watch any more of this, Elizabeth!” Friar Matthew cried. “It’s unnatural, I tell you!”

The black hair slipped in silken cascades to the floor of the loft.

“I’m almost finished,” she said, casting an adventurous eye around at her friend. “I need you to tell me how the back looks.”

“You look like a...like a boy...God help me!”

“Come, now, Friar. You’re acting like an accomplice to murder.”

“Well, that’s exactly how I feel,” he moaned. “I feel as if I’ve just helped murder a lovely young woman who came to me for help.”

“Such foolishness,” she scolded gently, standing and straightening out her well-worn attire. She pulled an oversized cap over her newly cropped locks. Spying the friar’s look of shock, she removed it for the moment. “Friar, this is nothing compared to what is yet to come. I’m just starting.”

“I heard everything you just said, Elizabeth. But what we’ve done with your paintings is far different than what you are asking now. It is one thing to take a beautiful piece of artwork and hang it in a church for everyone to admire. But cutting your hair, dressing in these men’s clothes, traveling God knows where...it’s just too...well, too drastic! When I was encouraging the development of your talent in the past, my conscience was at ease knowing that you were protected from exposure. I knew you were in no danger so long as you were under your father’s roof. But this has already gone too far.”

“I see. You heard my plan, but you think I shouldn’t go through with it.” Elizabeth looked him challengingly in the eye. “What choice do I have, Friar? You’ve always told me that we must look beyond the trials of our lives. That we must forge ahead.”

“I suppose I should have known better.” The friar rolled his eyes. “Now I’m at the mercy of my own words!”

She scowled fiercely at her friend. “Well, do I look convincing?”

“Well, you sound convincing,” he murmured under his breath.

“That’s a good start, anyway!”

Matthew looked at the transformation before him. Elizabeth truly looked like a young man. The layers of baggy clothes covered her feminine curves, and the black tresses now fell in handsome waves to a point above her shoulders. Her bruised and swollen face, now a bit cleaner, lacked the whiskers of a man, but the cut on her face would leave a scar that no courtly woman would wear openly—uncovered and unpainted. Even the way she was standing! So confident. So self-sufficient.

“Walking all the way to Florence. Living the life of a man.” Friar Matthew shook his head gravely. “I tell you again, young woman. It’s unnatural.”

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.