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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