Forever in Your Embrace (54 page)

Tyrone heaved a weary sigh. “She’ll have plenty enough time to demonstrate her feelings toward me while we’re here. I can’t very well have the marriage annulled while Tsar Mikhail is breathing down my neck to see that I comply with his edict.”

“Your work here in Russia wouldn’t be very effective if you were allowed to do such a thing,” Grigori pointed out, piqued with his friend for having contemplated such a thing. “We Russians have a way of taking offense when one of our
boyarinas
is cast aside or embarrassed by a foreigner. Aleksandr Zenkov was a diplomat well respected in this country. I’d urge you as a friend to tender favorable treatment of his daughter.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost! What do you think I’ll do to her? Beat her?” Tyrone was incredulous. “Synnovea is my wife! If for no other reason than that, she’s deserving of my protection and care!” A bit outraged at Grigori’s warnings, he doffed his breeches and settled his long frame into the steaming bath. Immediately, he sucked in his breath as the hot water reminded him of the mangled condition of his back, especially the area that Synnovea had recently tended. Still feeling the weight of the captain’s perplexed frown, he cocked a challenging brow at the man. “Was there something else you wished to discuss with me?”

Thoughtfully Grigori perched on a nearby stool. “You’ve managed to bemuse me more than any man I’ve ever known, my friend. You speak of distancing yourself from your wife, and yet in the next breath vehemently declare that she’s yours to care for. When you first came here, you seemed loath to involve yourself with women, as if you hated them all. During that space of time I never saw a soldier fight as fiercely as you did. Although you held true to the code of honor, once you were instructed to serve vengeance upon the enemy, you did so with a tenacity that no foe could long withstand. You seemed to take no account of the danger your valor incited, as if you really didn’t care if you were killed—”

“Of course I cared!”

Grigori wasn’t easily put off by the interruption. “In a way, I suppose you did, but you certainly didn’t seem to give serious heed to the risks. Indeed, if you thought a task too dangerous for any of your men, you were always the one who took the chance.”

“There’s something to be said for experience, or haven’t you realized that as yet?” Tyrone countered tersely. “I’ve more skills in fighting than anyone in our regiment and have faced death many times over. If my ability hadn’t been well seasoned by actual clashes of arms, I wouldn’t be here in Moscow doing what I’m being paid to do—instructing the rest of you.”

“I’ve often wondered if you’d consider the perils of warfare with more prudence if you were content with your life.”

“You probe too deeply,
tovarish,
” Tyrone mumbled through his hands as he vigorously soaped his face. “Though I understand that you’re trying to find some logic in all of this, I can give you no guarantee that I’ll be doing anything differently from now on. God willing, I’ll serve out my due and live to tell of it.”

“I shall say that prayer for both of us, my friend. ’Tis my hope that we’ll have long life and good fortune, and in that quest I offer an earnest plea that you take into account the brevity of our lives even without the threat of conflict and hasten to restore goodwill between you and your bride.”

Tyrone rinsed the soap from his face and peered up at the man, who grinned and casually saluted him before sauntering away. Tyrone eyed him for a moment and then leaned back in the tub to consider the man’s advice. Though Grigori’s words had vexed him, he couldn’t discount the fact that they had been spoken with as much truth as good intent. Frowning musefully, he thought back on a few of his rather expeditious advances into the roiling core of several frays, including his attack on Ladislaus’s band. In retrospect, he had to admit that his actions might have seemed reckless and daring, but in each event he had seen the necessity for a strong show of force. Had he acted otherwise, innocents might have suffered and Synnovea would have belonged to Ladislaus rather than to him, a situation he would have detested despite the discord that presently existed between them.

Properly groomed and handsomely attired, Tyrone was again accompanied to the bridal chambers by those same cohorts who had carried him upstairs the night before. When they stood outside the anteroom and called for entry, the sounds that emanated forthwith from the rooms were closely reminiscent of a gaggle of geese coming to rest upon a lake. After a brief elapse of time, the portal creaked open just wide enough to allow a young
boyarina
to peer through the narrow space.

“A moment, please…my lords.” The plea was punctuated with breathless halts and giggles. “Lady Synnovea…hasn’t yet finished…dressing….”

“Bid her to come forth so we may see her beauty,” Walsworth urged with a chortle.

“Come now, maid,” Tyrone cajoled as he plied his best grin upon her. “Would you also hold the groom at bay when he has ventured forth to fetch his bride? Stand aside, I say, and let me enter.”

Synnovea’s muffled voice came from within the bedchamber, bidding the
boyarina
to open the doors of the anteroom. In eager response, the groom and his friends entered amid the vivacious laughter of elegantly garbed ladies and a pair of young chambermaids, who skittered about in their haste to remove a tub from the dressing room. While the men had made use of the bathing chamber downstairs, the copper vessel had served Synnovea’s needs upstairs, allowing her to bathe and perfume herself in privacy before she and Ali were joined by tittering maids and curious matrons who had craned their necks in an effort to apprise themselves of the condition of the bed and its sheets. Ali was still smoothing down the hem of her mistress’s
sarafan
when the men came striding boldly through the portal, intruding too quickly upon the bride. Synnovea whirled away from their searching eyes as she hastened to fasten the last few silken frogs on her
sarafan,
frustrating Zelda’s efforts to cover the loosely flowing black hair with a veil. In the next moment the princess stumbled back in surprise as Tyrone halted beside them and lifted the shimmering cloth from his wife’s head.

“If it’s all the same to you, Princess, I’d rather see my wife’s hair unfettered by braids and veils,” he declared with a dashing grin, but at Zelda’s horrified stare, his smile turned somewhat dubious. “Apparently it does make a difference.”

With dark eyes dancing warmly, Synnovea glanced over her shoulder at Tyrone, pleased that he should lend some husbandly consideration to her while her friends were there. When he leaned near, her eyes swept his features admiringly. She caught a fleeting whiff of a manly fragrance and, underneath it, the scent of soap, hardly anything at all, yet enough to weaken her knees. “Here in Russia a married woman mustn’t reveal her hair to anyone but her husband,” she informed him shyly. “If you’d like me to leave it unbound when we’re alone, you need only tell me.”

Tyrone reached out and slowly stroked a hand down the softly waving length, recalling the first time he had fed his gaze upon the long tresses, though at the time, he had been reluctant to waste any opportunity to peruse her sleek, naked form.

“I’d prefer it,” he murmured simply and, with a gracious nod of apology to Zelda, returned the veil to her. The princess accepted the filmy cloth with a demure smile and hurried to attach it. In turning, Tyrone found himself meeting the broad grin of his second-in-command, who approached with a chilled glass of watered wine.

“Perhaps Lady Synnovea would enjoy teaching you the customs of our country,” Grigori suggested. “I’m sure both of you would glean great benefit from the lessons.”

“I see no need for your matchmaking talents, my friend,” Tyrone commented with skeptical humor. “As you well know, we’re already married.”

The captain’s grin widened. “A good
svakhi
wouldn’t rest until she is confident that both the bride and the groom are content with each other. And if you’re unhappy, Colonel, how will I ever get my promotion?”

“What fickle friendship you portray!” Tyrone admonished drolly. “And here I was certain you were entirely sincere, but I see now that you only seek to advance yourself!”

Grigori shrugged good-naturedly. “I have to do it somehow.”

Smiling radiantly, Natasha swept into the chambers and invited their guests to come downstairs and partake of the feast that Danika had laid out for them in the dining room. She bade Tyrone to lead the procession with his bride upon his arm and encouraged the other men to choose their spouses or unwed maidens to whom they could lend the same consideration. Natasha accepted Grigori’s gallant invitation and bestowed a smile upon the young Russians as she queried, “What do you think of your commander’s choice for a bride?”

“I believe it to be an excellent match, my lady. I admire your taste in friends.”

“And I yours,” she replied with a gracious nod. “But tell me, what does the colonel have to say about it all?”

“I’m sure nothing but good will come from this union, Countess,” the captain offered magnanimously. “In time, the two will be very happy.”

Sensing the officer’s clear understanding of the situation, Natasha nodded in smiling contentment, quite willing to accept his prediction, which of course was exactly what she had wanted to hear.

The revelry was launched with a great deal of feasting and tippling as the couple sat together at the morning feast. Exhorted by the guests to follow the customs of the land, the newlyweds kissed to sweeten the meal after each crescendoing cry of “
Gorko! Gorko!
Bitter! Bitter!”

A short time later, a small band of hired
skomorokhi
arrived to entertain them and perform colorful mimes. Many of the guests bedecked themselves in outlandish costumes and eagerly participated in the games and dances. Even Tyrone found his mood lifting to some degree as the wine eased the pain of his lacerated back. As bidden by the tsar, he made a show of enjoying the festivities and cavorted with his bride about the house and grounds, sometimes chasing others or being chased, hiding and then seeking.

The jester played his part with enthusiasm, sniffing and snarling, growling and howling as he prowled around with the pelt of a gray wolf draped across his shoulders, searching for any damsel whom he could catch to be the firebird of the tale. He was still roaming far afield when Tyrone caught Synnovea’s hand and whisked her out into the garden.

Deliberately matched together in the pairing off of couples, they had been bound together by a ribbon tied about their wrists. Where one went, the other surely had to follow. Tyrone espied an obscure crevice between two stout trees that had merged at the base some years before and, after slipping into it, lifted Synnovea into the niche between his splayed legs. What made the spot fairly secure as a hiding place was a large shrub that encompassed the sturdy trunks on three sides, but Tyrone hadn’t reckoned on the nook becoming a place of torture. The trees grew at the same slanting angles, compelling Synnovea to lean into him as he, in turn, braced his buttocks against the sloping trunk. His care in keeping his mangled back away from the rough, irritating bark forced him to subject himself even more to her alluring proximity and the susceptibility of his own manly cravings, for he had to clamp an arm behind her waist to keep her from losing her balance. The space narrowed progressively as he became aware of nearly every rounded curve and sleek limb hidden beneath his wife’s softly textured
sarafan.
But that was not all, by any means. The knoll between her slippered feet caused her to twist and shift her weight fairly often as she sought a more comfortable position. The hard brush of her thighs against his loins lit fires that he had wished to avoid, and he soon found himself battling a far different game than merely playing hide-and-seek with a “wolf.”

It wasn’t long before Synnovea became cognizant of the heavy thudding of her husband’s heart and the noticeable protrusion beneath his breeches. Her surprise was all too apparent when her eyes dropped to his lap and then flew up to peruse his stoic demeanor. Tyrone gazed down his noble nose at her as if to distance himself from the tumult she had awakened within him, yet as much as his overt display chafed against his pride, there was no denying the obvious.

Tyrone remained unyielding in his reticence, yet Synnovea was nevertheless heartened by the fact that he hadn’t yet set her from him. A memory of that moment in his quarters when he had lifted her astride his velvet-clad loins came winging back to her, awakening a heightening hunger within her to feel again that succulent pressure against her womanly softness. She had no hope that he’d relent of his hide-bound taciturnity, but she wasn’t above offering him the opportunity. Threading slender fingers through the short locks curling at his nape, she rose up against him, pressing every curve and hollow of her body to his manly torso. She heard his breath catch while her own nigh halted with the bliss elicited by her boldness as she snuggled her loins around his tumescence. Lifting eyes that had grown dark and sultry, she rubbed a hand caressingly over his shirt, admiring the muscular firmness she felt beneath it.

“Can we not appease our desires while we’re in this private place?” she whispered softly.

Though Tyrone made no effort to respond, his attitude of acquiescent stillness encouraged his wife to continue her seduction. Her softly parted mouth and caressing tongue played languidly upon his lips. The soft nipples peaked beneath her bodice and teased his manly ardor as she rubbed her breasts tantalizingly against his chest, yet he resisted her offerings, making no effort to either claim or reject them.