Forever in Your Embrace (48 page)

“What do you care about them?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to maintain a festive mood,” he retorted. “Otherwise I’d dump you here and be done with you.”

Synnovea struggled briefly in his arms, but he tightened his grip until she was forced to relent. When his long, steely fingers continued to dig into her ribs, causing her to squirm uncomfortably beneath the pressure, she was forced to complain. “You’re hurting me.”

“Am I?” Tyrone smiled blandly and loosened his grasp. “You must excuse me, madam. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

“I think it was deliberate,” she accused. “Perhaps part of the retribution you said you wouldn’t seek.”

His harsh smile clearly conveyed the fact that he didn’t give a damn what she thought. “To a tiny degree, perhaps, but certainly nothing to equal what I’m really feeling toward you.”

“Why don’t you just have me flogged and be done with it!” Synnovea challenged acidly. “Perhaps that would assuage your anger some small whit.”

“I’d never tarnish a form as fair and alluring as yours, madam. As your husband, ’twould be the same as spiting myself.”

Natasha was awaiting them near the front portal, and as she escorted Synnovea into the great room to join their guests, Tyrone doffed his muddy boots and made his way in stocking feet to the kitchen, where a manservant took the boots away to clean them. While Tyrone waited for their return, a young girl of no more than three peeked at him from behind the cook’s apron, gaining his attention. Her wide, beautiful green eyes and softly curling dark hair were very much like Synnovea’s, but it was her faltering timidity that clearly reminded him of what he had recently perceived in his bride’s manner. In the past few hours he had seen little evidence of that haughty maid whom he had confronted in the bathhouse, and he could believe that Synnovea was now as much afraid of him as this tiny elfin creature who presently shied away.

Tyrone went down on a knee near a spot where wooden blocks had been left scattered over a small area of the floor. The child watched him with growing interest as he began to construct a tiny edifice. Degree by small, cautious degree, she approached to admire his handiwork and, in sudden glee, chortled with him when a more difficult addition collapsed his creation into a disorganized heap.

The cook, Danika, observed the making of their friendship with a warm smile, but when the man began to speak to her daughter in a foreign language, she, too, was completely lost in confusion and unable to ease the girl’s perplexed frown. When he sought to translate, Danika’s confusion only deepened and she shrugged and spread her hands, conveying the fact that she didn’t understand.

Synnovea was sent to fetch her bridegroom for the wedding guests, who were awaiting his presence in the great room. Having been informed of his whereabouts, she approached the open door of the kitchen, but when she espied him chatting with the child, she paused outside the portal, not wishing to intrude. Though the child was unable to catch the drift of his words, she seemed captivated nonetheless, as evidenced by the slowly widening grin that curved her small, angelic mouth. Synnovea found her own heart strangely warmed by his gentle manner with the girl. She could not help but think of those moments when he had carefully nurtured her passion even at the sacrifice of his own pleasure. Were it not for his animosity toward her now, she’d have been content to have such a man as her husband. There was no doubt in her mind that he was far and away more honorable and handsome than either Aleksei or Vladimir.

The manservant brought Tyrone’s boots back and presented them not only clean but neatly polished. After slipping them on, Tyrone rose and took the girl’s small hand in his. “I must go now,” he informed her, “but I’ll be living here, and I’d be delighted to visit you here in the kitchen before I go to work each morning. Will that be all right with you?”

The little one looked up at him, bewildered by his questioning tone, but her small face brightened suddenly when Synnovea entered the kitchen. Having grown immensely fond of the
boyarina
in the short span of time they had lived in the same house, she ran to take her hand. Tyrone straightened and, in stilted reticence, watched his bride as she spoke to the girl in Russian. Of a sudden, the child’s face grew radiant, and turning to the colonel, she dipped into a curtsy, eagerly babbling an answer.

Synnovea reluctantly lifted her gaze and timidly translated the child’s answer as she met the blue eyes that rested upon her. “Sophia would like you to know that she’d be pleased to have you visit her as often as you’d like.”

Tyrone noticed his bride’s heightened blush and, when she hurriedly dropped her gaze, realized that she had misread his close attention as some fierce displeasure. He didn’t feel generously disposed toward explaining that in spite of his hostility toward her, he was nevertheless taken with her soft, beguiling manner.

“I was reluctant to interfere in your discussion with the girl,” Synnovea apologized, laying a gentle hand upon Sophia’s shoulder as the child, in some awe, lightly fingered the pearls that adorned the
sarafan.
“But I thought you needed a translator.”

Tyrone conveyed a cool reserve as he suggested, “Now that we’ll be living under the same roof, I suppose you should teach me the language. We’ll have to find something to pass the time together since we have so little in common.”

Synnovea almost cringed at his blatant derision, but at the sound of footfalls hurrying down the hall, she forced back a start of tears and faced Natasha as that one swept into the kitchen in an anxious dither.

“Synnovea!” the woman gasped breathlessly, clutching a hand to her heaving bosom. “Prince Vladimir and his sons are here! I’m sure they’ve come to look Tyrone over, and from the mood they’re in, he’ll likely be needing reinforcements.”

Tyrone met his bride’s worried glance with smiling mockery. “Your rejected betrothed, I presume?”

Synnovea wrung her hands in dismay, unconsciously voicing a frantic whisper. “What are we to do?”

“Calm yourself, madam,” her groom advised. “It won’t be the first time I’ve met one of your suitors. I just hope this particular prince doesn’t prove as irascible as the last.”

“You’d better be warned,” Natasha cautioned him. “Prince Vladimir’s sons have a penchant for brawling. They like nothing better than settling arguments with their fists. In other words, Colonel, they might make Aleksei seem like a blessed saint by comparison.”

“Then the next moments may well see the end of our celebration,” Tyrone predicted ruefully. Raising a brow, he offered his arm to his bride. “Shall we face them together, my dear? After all, it isn’t every day that a rejected swain meets the husband of his betrothed.”

Synnovea felt the sting of his sarcasm and lifted her chin loftily. “You’ve no ken what the brood is capable of when riled, and right now, you’re in no condition to make light of the matter.”

“Perhaps not, my dear, but the introductions should prove interesting, don’t you agree?”

“
If
you survive them!” Synnovea quipped, reluctantly accepting his arm as Natasha hastened away.

Tyrone glanced down at his bride with a sardonic smile curving his handsome lips as he led her into the hallway. “I suppose I should brace myself to face not only these but a whole legion of discarded suitors who’ve been left in your wake. It might prove more challenging than fighting the enemies of the tsar. Had I been more astute, I might’ve taken a warning when I espied you with Ladislaus.”

Synnovea dared to express what his words seemed to insinuate. “Perhaps you might have reconsidered my rescue.”

“Definitely a possibility, madam,” Tyrone replied, feeling in no mood to reassure her. Still, when Synnovea tried to withdraw her arm in sudden exasperation, he clamped his own arm against his side, forbidding her escape. “Tut-tut, my dear. We must obey His Majesty and keep up appearances for our guests.”

Synnovea bestowed a heated glower upon him, but made no further effort to pull away, sensing that it would be futile to even try. Thus, Tyrone escorted his bride into the great hall in an overtly chivalrous manner, just as one might expect of a newly wedded groom.

Applause and burbling compliments from the guests greeted the couple’s entry into the crowded room, but Vladimir wasn’t in the mood to be gracious. As Natasha had already ascertained, he was feeling as surly as an old, wounded bear. He swung around with a loud snort of derision when his eldest son advised him that Synnovea was approaching on the arm of her groom. While several of his offspring followed the newly wedded pair, affirming their eagerness to fight, his faded blue eyes pierced the tall man at her side.

Synnovea glanced about in growing dismay, espying familiar faces closing in around them. It unsettled her unduly to think that Tyrone would again be called upon to pay the penalty for her outrageous scheme.

A short distance behind the bellicose clan, several English officers lowered their goblets and cautiously observed the proceedings, sensing the intent of the princes to entrap the groom in a brawl. Considering the colonel’s avid quest to have the girl, they hadn’t been at all surprised when they had heard that he had gotten into a fray with her guardian, who had hired men to punish him for his audacity. Nor were they astonished by the repercussions they were presently witnessing, no doubt brought about by the tsar’s quickly executed directive to negate further intervention. It was no secret that trouble followed one who coveted a forbidden treasure. And it was obvious by the bride’s beauty that she was a prize some men would kill for.

Grigori joined the Englishmen and spoke to them in a hushed tone, warning them to be prepared if his commander was attacked. “If they want to brawl about this matter, we’ll invite them outside. Understood?”

Eager smiles lit the faces of the colonel’s friends, but for the time being, Grigori cautioned them to merely watch until it became evident that Tyrone couldn’t defend himself. They had seen their comrade in action before and were confident of his ability to handle most situations, but if a confrontation was in the offing, they were ready to even out the score, since he was definitely outnumbered and not in a condition to fight his way through on his own.

“So! You’re the rascally devil who stole the maid from me,” Vladimir rumbled caustically. “What are you Englishmen, anyway? Savages that you must steal our brides from beneath our noses and make off with them to do your evil deeds? You intruding rake, you should be horsewhipped!”

The threat seemed imminent as his sons muttered irately and pressed close around the couple. Tyrone cocked a challenging brow at the white-haired boyar when the elder’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword. The intimidation was too obvious to ignore.

Synnovea stepped toward Vladimir, hoping to placate him with a softly cajoling plea, but she was prevented from accomplishing her objective when Tyrone caught her elbow in an unrelenting vise. He was no more inclined to hide behind her skirts now than he had been when he had hung from the wooden beams in the carriage house.

“Stay out of this, Synnovea,” he growled low. “I’m quite capable of handling this matter on my own without your interference.”

“But Vladimir may listen to me,” Synnovea implored in a whisper, briefly glancing toward the towering ancient. Daring much, she laid a trembling hand in plaintive appeal upon her husband’s chest. “Please let me try, Tyrone. You’ve been through enough on my account, and I’d rather not see you harmed more than you have been.”

Vladimir loudly harrumphed at the girl’s marked concern for the foreigner. Goaded by jealousy, he stepped forward and, clasping the colonel’s arm, pulled him around to face him. “Would you take counsel from a woman?”

“Aye! If there is wisdom in it!” Tyrone retorted, jerking free of the man’s grasp. “No man tells me to whom I should give heed!”

With an angry growl, the old man voiced his contempt for the stranger. “The tsar may have asked you and other young whelps like you to come here and give our soldiers instruction, but most boyars are offended by the presence of foreigners in this country. You not only intrude into our ways of doing warfare, English knave, but you tamper with our women as well!”

“Who bleats about intrusion?” Tyrone barked. “I gained audience before His Majesty’s throne and begged him for petition to court the maid long before you ever knew she existed. You came well after and secretly connived with the Taraslovs to write a betrothal contract without consideration for the tsar’s wishes. Now the nuptials have been performed, and you’re still seeking to challenge my right to the girl. Do you argue with a royal decree when the vows were spoken in the presence of Tsar Mikhail?”

A low snarl tore free of Vladimir’s throat. “I served a gentleman’s proper due and followed the formal rite of behavior in asking Prince Aleksei for the Countess Synnovea’s hand in marriage. Where were you when the contracts were being signed and sealed?”

Tyrone sneered at the ancient’s feeble declaration. “I was forbidden to even see the maid by the very ones who sealed the documents with you. By deed and favor, I had more claim to her than you. If not for me, she’d never have reached Moscow. She’d have been forced to appease the lusting appetites of some bastard thief who thought to seize her for his own!”

“You think because you saved her once from a band of rogues that you own her now?” Vladimir bellowed incredulously.

“Nay!” Tyrone flung back. “Synnovea is mine because we spoke the vows together as witnessed by the tsar! So vex me no longer with your trifling arguments, old man, for I’m not in the least compassionate toward your failed endeavors.”