Forever in Your Embrace (49 page)

Tyrone stepped back slightly, eyeing the sons, who had begun to move forward in an overt show of aggression. Drawing Synnovea with him, he retreated another step, but only to ensure that none would be at his back if they launched an assault.

He glanced at the ancient and managed a casual shrug without being unfavorably reminded of the discomfort he still suffered in his back. “If you and your sons would care to join us for the festivities, Prince Vladimir, you’re welcome to remain. Willy-nilly, go or stay, you can do as you wish, but know this: if it’s a fight you want, you’ll have to come back another day.”

“So good of you, English Colonel, to invite us to share in your celebration!” Sergei derided, making the mistake of clapping Tyrone on the back. That one sucked his breath in sharply, and at very close range, Synnovea saw her husband’s wide shoulders tense with the agony of the other’s touch. The blue eyes blazed in sudden fury, and in less than a heartbeat he swung around to face the youth, his breath slashing through tightly clenched teeth.

Seizing Sergei by the front of his kaftan, Tyrone yanked him forward until the younger man saw firsthand the seething rage that fairly flamed in the bright eyes. His feigned friendship was completely fragmented beneath the awe-inspiring dimensions of the colonel’s rage. It frightened Sergei mightily, and he reacted instinctively, winning his freedom with a frantic jerk. In the next instant he was snatched again by the scruff of his neck as he tried to scramble away. His left arm was caught and twisted painfully behind his back. At his loud yelp, his brothers leapt forward to intervene, but another agonizing wrench brought a desperate appeal from the young prince that they should hold fast to their places.

“Have a care where you touch me, whelp,” Tyrone gritted close behind the youth’s ear. “Or I swear you’ll leave here with only one arm. Do I make myself clear?”

Vladimir and his sons had full command of the English language and each clearly understood the warning. It was the father who stepped forward and, with a booming voice, demanded Sergei’s release. “Let my son go or I’ll set the dogs to your foul carcass ere this night is over!”

Tyrone scoffed at the huge man, not even remotely intimidated by the threat. “Then call off your baying hounds or you’ll have good reason to hunt me down.”

Vladimir raised his bushy white brows in sharp surprise. It was a rare man indeed who stood up to him and his collection of sons. Lifting a wrinkled hand, he gestured lamely for his family to retreat. In response, Tyrone sent Sergei sprawling forward into his brothers.

Claiming their attention with a rather terse chuckle, Tyrone laid a hand to his breast and dipped his head in an abbreviated bow of apology. “I must beg forgiveness for my ill temper, my lords. I was involved in a confrontation with a band of ruffians several nights past, and they did their best to lay open my back. ’Tis tender yet, so as long as you keep your hands to yourselves, perhaps I can respond to your visit with as much grace as a favorable host might extend.”

Sullenly Sergei glared at him as he rubbed his bruised wrist. “You rile easily, Englishman.”

“Aye, ’tis a fault I suffer when pain is inflicted upon me.”

Tyrone glanced around at the family, noticing their gazes were now centered on Synnovea. As a whole, their yearning expressions evidenced deep measures of regret, as if each of them had become enamored not only with her beauty but with the winsome charm of the maid. The elder, in particular, seemed pained as he gazed upon her with undiminished longing.

Tyrone was not above wresting a bit of revenge for their attempts to bully him. Drawing his bride forward, he laid an arm around her slender waist and held her close against his side, clearly establishing his claim upon her for the benefit of the sons and their sire. “Would you now congratulate me on my good fortune in taking so fair a bride?” His invitation was admittedly farfetched, considering their resentment, but after accepting a goblet from a servant’s tray, he held it aloft. “My lords, may I propose a toast to the Lady Synnovea Rycroft, wife of my be-knighted self and good woman of my future house?” He sipped the wine and, leaning near his bride’s ear, murmured encouragement as he handed the goblet to her. “Drink up, my sweet. Remember, we’re to make merry for our guests.”

Synnovea had no heart for concurring to the travesty he proposed, but by order of the tsar she had to make the best of the moment. After taking a tiny sip, she gave the goblet back with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“Smile,” Tyrone urged, drawing her away from the guests.

She stiffly complied as she gritted through grimacing lips, “Is that better?”

“You’re vexed with me,” he chided with exaggerated concern as he escorted her into the entrance hall.

“Does it matter?” She lifted a querying brow, awaiting his answer.

Tyrone glanced away in a museful vein and happened to espy Nikolai, who had just entered the foyer. Perhaps he had no cause to be jealous of the younger officer, but he was clearly in a mood to vent his own frustration with the situation in which he found himself. With a forced smile, he faced his bride as he halted and locked his arms about her. Though she stiffened, he leaned over her ear to whisper, “Appearances, madam. They must be maintained even when you think no one is watching.”

Duly warned, Synnovea submitted to his kiss, but she was hardly prepared for the thoroughness with which it was executed. His open mouth slanted across hers with almost brutal intensity, devouring hers with an unchecked hunger as he drew her small tongue into the cavity of his mouth and caressed it with his own. Unconsciously she rose up against him, freely offering everything she had as a sacrifice to the flaming heat of his lips. Though she slipped her arms around him, she suddenly remembered the condition of his back and found no place for her hands to rest above his waist. Finally she let them fall to her sides again as she leaned into him.

Boisterous applause and loud whistles came from the English soldiers, who had entered the hall behind them. The men gathered close around the couple, prompting Synnovea to draw back in acute embarrassment. Tyrone allowed her to escape to a circle of women while he accepted the good wishes of his friends, who drew him back to the great hall.

Nikolai was certainly none too pleased about what he had just witnessed. In light of the guarantee that had been coerced from the tsar, the lustful kiss seemed an affront to the girl. Even if Nikolai hadn’t been at odds with the colonel before, he was swiftly approaching that frame of mind. Indeed, he promised himself that if he found a chance, he’d warn Synnovea of her husband’s duplicity. Above all, he wanted to beg her to hold herself aloof from her husband until he sailed back to England.

Anxious for such an opportunity to present itself, Nikolai closely observed the couple for the rest of the afternoon, but as the hours passed and evening came upon them, his disposition grew decidedly morose. The pair acted as if they were totally taken with each other as they mingled with their guests. Hand in hand, they stood together and decorously bade farewell to Vladimir and his sons.

Later that evening, when the bride and groom were called to another lavish banquet, they shared a place at the head of the table to which Natasha had directed them. The cushioned bench wasn’t overly wide, but their hostess maintained that it had become a traditional place of honor for newlyweds in her household. As narrow as it proved to be, there was much hilarity evoked from the onlookers as the couple strove to wedge themselves in. Once they were ensconced, they might as well have been joined at the hip, for Tyrone was forced to wrap his right arm around Synnovea’s ribcage and to lean back enough to allow her shoulder to overlap his. Being for the most part right-handed, that left him ruefully considering how he was going to fare feeding himself with his left.

It nearly broke Nikolai’s composure to watch the couple from the far end of the table. Beneath his grim stare, the colonel seemed to delight in handling
his
Synnovea, as if the man had
any
right to touch her after the pledge he had gained from the tsar. The long fingers stroked along her ribs, sometimes pausing near a ripe breast or possessively resting upon her hip. What made it even worse was the fact that she seemed to relish not only her bridegroom’s touch but lending wifely assistance in feeding him. They seemed to make a game of it, kissing often and even going so far as to steal food from the other’s mouth. Finally, when the bench became a hindrance to their comfort, mainly for Synnovea, who suffered the most against her husband’s steely flank, she sought to rise, but Tyrone deftly clamped an arm about her slender waist, lifted her, and then resettled her upon his thigh, much to the hearty approval of his men.

Nikolai realized the worst of his worries was yet to come as the time approached for the couple to retire to their bridal chamber. Because he had been visually confronted by the Englishman’s inclination to liberally kiss and handle Synnovea, he refused to trust the man with her. And though he wanted to warn Synnovea of what her husband intended in hopes of preventing their union, he was repeatedly frustrated as the evening wore on, for he found no chance to catch her alone. When she finally left the hall, escorted by Natasha and the handful of women who had been invited to attend her, his hazel eyes sadly followed.

In the moments following Synnovea’s departure, some of the men had begun to chide Tyrone for stealing the most beautiful maid from beneath their noses. Questions concerning the haste of their marriage also were presented, but he refused to elaborate and brushed the inquiries off with a grin. “You’ve all heard rumors of my impatience to court the countess.” Hoping the fruit-flavored vodka would deaden his senses sufficiently before he arrived upstairs, he took another sip as he braced a shoulder against the molding of a door. “The tsar took pity on my pain and cast down all other plans for her betrothal by arranging the ceremony himself. That’s all there is to it.”

Natasha returned to the great room and announced that the bride was awaiting her groom. The men chortled in glee and crowded close around Tyrone, who drained his cup in what appeared to be eager anticipation. Only he was cognizant of his ongoing attempt to deaden more than the wounds in his back, for the idea of being privately ensconced with Synnovea had already stirred memories that sorely threatened his efforts to remain distantly detached from the tempting beauty.

As his friends crowded near, Tyrone immediately retreated, fearing they would forget and pound him upon the back. “Have a care or you’ll make me useless to my bride. The condition of my back has a way of dismissing everything else from mind. So I beg you, proceed with care in your attempt to cheer me on.”

“Lift him on your shoulders, lads!” an English officer named Edward Walsworth encouraged. “He should save his strength for better things. Besides, he’s quaffed so much vodka, he may be unable to find his way upstairs to savor other pleasures.”

Amid their guffawing laughter, Tyrone was hoisted onto their shoulders and then carted upstairs, their booming, outrageously ribald chants accompanying their ascent. In the anteroom of Synnovea’s apartments, they lowered Tyrone to his feet before the entrance of the adjoining bedchamber and jostled behind him to get a glimpse of the bride outfitted for her husband’s pleasure.

Tyrone would never have denied the fact that he had liberally indulged in strong spirits throughout the celebration. Even so, when his eyes beheld a sight that he had both feared and yearned to see, there was no way that he could blame his swiftly thudding heart on his heavy imbibing. For some time now, he had been aware of Synnovea’s unrivaled beauty, but when faced with the fact that she was his by right of wedlock and that he could freely exercise the many prerogatives which that particular union allowed him, he felt a sharp pang of regret that he, in the heat of outraged pride, had foolishly allowed himself to set such extreme limits on his manly lusts. It seemed that Mikhail had been far wiser than he to acknowledge that a change of heart might be in the offing, and for that, Tyrone had to give the monarch immense credit for being able to understand how well the shroud of rage could blind a man. With the subtly demoralizing and relaxing effects of the fruited vodka he had consumed, Tyrone wasn’t at all sure his staunch objectives could withstand one night with Synnovea, much less three years. If he maintained his abstinence, he was certain it would mean a far greater torment for him than even the whip had reaped.

Standing within the circle of her attendants, Synnovea looked as enticing as any bride had a right to look. Her dark hair had been separated into a pair of braids to signify her newly married state and then interwoven with gleaming gold ribbons. An exquisite robe of shimmering, translucent gold flowed loosely to the floor from her shoulders, and though the meager glow of the candles didn’t allow access through the lustrous silk at the moment, Tyrone was keenly aware that beneath that particular garment and the gown she wore underneath, his bride was just as soft and beautiful as she had always been. Whether in his memories, his dreams, or reality, the sight of her never failed to set his body to battling with his brain.

The manly guests loudly hooted their approval of the bride’s comeliness, and as Synnovea glanced their way, she graced them with a timid smile. Princess Zelda eyed the groom for a moment before leaning near the bride’s ear to whisper. Synnovea nodded eagerly as her gaze swept toward Tyrone, but a blush immediately stained her cheeks when she became cognizant of the fact that they had aroused his curiosity with their hushed comments on his anatomy. With that realization, the two women giggled in secret delight.