Forever in Your Embrace (57 page)
Read Forever in Your Embrace Online
Authors: Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Love Stories, #Historical, #Nobility, #History, #Europe, #Russia & the Former Soviet Union, #Russia
Taking exception to his comment, Synnovea snubbed him with a well-articulated toss of her veiled head and flounced from their rooms. Tyrone’s breath left him in a rush, and it came as something of a shock when he realized he had been holding it in something comparable to heightening arousal as visions of his naked wife dragging him back to their bed bombarded him. In roweling frustration he stepped into the hall to observe her flight. The angry twitch of her skirts evidenced her vexation with him, but her ire was no less than what he was presently feeling toward himself.
It was relatively early that evening when Tyrone begged compassion from their friends and shushed their protests with the excuse that the duties of the morrow required him to be fully alert. Laying an arm around Synnovea’s shoulders, he waved them off and then followed behind as she led the way to their chambers. Even so, he had difficulty dragging his gaze from her gently swaying hips.
Ali was waiting in the dressing room to help her mistress undress. While the two women carried out his wife’s toilet in private, Tyrone readied his equipment and uniform for the next day. When he went in search of his military trappings and weapons, he had his mind on what he had to fetch and gave no thought to what he’d find in the adjoining cubicle until he saw his wife standing with her arms outstretched in readiness to receive the nightgown Ali was holding. The maid faltered in some confusion, forgetting what she was about, leaving Synnovea sublimely naked.
All the conflicts Tyrone had been battling since their meeting in the bathhouse came back to assault him as he found himself confronting a nymph far too beautiful to be ignored for even an hour. Totally captivated by the stirring vision, he swept his gaze helplessly downward in a lengthy descent over pink-nippled breasts that were soft and round, a rib cage and waist that seemed incredibly narrow, and hips that were trim but utterly tempting. A creamy smooth belly led his eyes downward to a dark nest and long, sleek thighs that were more lithe and smooth than any he had ever viewed. Mumbling an inquiry about the location of his gear, he was too absorbed in the sights to notice where Ali pointed until his wife dragged the gown from the maid’s hands and slipped it over her own head, sadly hiding from view everything that held his attention imprisoned. He stepped beyond her and, in a calmer vein, located his gear. Upon his return, he found her watching him curiously, and though for pride’s sake he wanted to give a plausible reason for having ogled her undraped form, he deemed it far more noble to remain silent rather than spill a farfetched lie.
Tyrone eased his breath out in slow, shallow drafts as he stripped to his breeches in the bedchamber. It took a concerted effort for him to restore some semblance of what had once been an iron will and to turn his thoughts to something less frustrating than the delectable perfection that he had beheld in the adjoining room. In a valiant attempt to thrust from his mind all the heated conflicts he had endured throughout the day, he sat down on his bedside bench and busied himself with the task of organizing the accouterments of a soldier.
Soon after Ali’s departure, Synnovea strolled leisurely into the bedchamber. She was in a singular mood herself after discovering Aleta in their private chambers and was nigh famished for the display of passion that Tyrone had demonstrated so ardently as a lover on the night of his whipping. She was definitely unwilling to be ignored for another long night.
Tyrone almost groaned in misery when he saw her. For his pleasure, her dark hair had been left flowing in shimmering waves down her back, but it was her gown that gave him some inkling of his forthcoming defeat, for it molded itself with endearing delight to her shapely form and was translucent enough to be considered worthless for maintaining a woman’s modesty. It seemed to flaunt every curve and hollow, every hue and shadow until Tyrone felt as if he had no more fortitude than a bleating lamb.
“How early will you leave in the morning?” she asked in a tone so sweet and soft it caused goose bumps to rise on his flesh. Pausing close beside him, she observed him as he polished his sword, now in some distraction.
“Shortly after dawn,” he answered and hurried to find some way to avoid further temptations. “But I’m used to fending for myself, Synnovea, so there’s no need for you to get up. Besides, Ali said that Danika would have food ready in the kitchen and a basket packed for me to take when I come down. I won’t be back until late, so there again, you needn’t wait up for me.”
“I don’t mind,” Synnovea murmured softly.
Tyrone was diligently concentrating on his labors, trying to avoid looking at her any more than he had to. The way she consumed his attention even now, he’d likely forget he had work to do and men to train. “I’d just as soon you stay here.”
Though Synnovea sensed that he was trying to ignore her, she hadn’t forgotten how he had devoured her body in the dressing room. She wasn’t incapable of winning his regard when she wanted it, and she most certainly wanted it now. Feigning a casualness she did not necessarily feel, she slipped her slender fingers through the short hair at the base of his neck, bringing his head up with stunning abruptness. “Your hair is getting long, Ty,” she breathed in a caressing sigh. “Would you like me to clip it for you?”
“Not tonight,” Tyrone replied, only vaguely aware that he had even spoken as he found himself staring into her soft eyes.
“It wouldn’t take much time at all,” Synnovea coaxed, lifting the tawny strands. She reached across his shoulder to retrieve his comb from the bedside table, in the process managing to brush a thinly clad breast against his arm, causing him to close his eyes as he luxuriated in the tantalizing caress. Synnovea was fascinated by the way his hair curled against his neck and threaded her fingers through the strands growing there. “Only a snip here or there to neaten the edges.”
“It’s getting late, and I need my rest,” he managed, totally engrossed in the wealth of beauty revealed by the thin lawn of her gown. The candlelight glowed behind her, clearly defining her softly curving form. The gossamer cloth seemed like nothing more than a vaporish veil, bent on playing havoc with his senses.
Synnovea leaned toward him, allowing the voluminous garment to fall away from her body as she combed his hair across his brow. Tyrone found himself unable to resist her offering, and although he was well aware that such delectable sights would lead to his doom, his eyes greedily consumed everything she offered, ogling her delicately hued breasts and searching out the dark nest where her long, sleek limbs were enticingly joined.
A sudden pain shattered the interlude, drawing a surprised start from Tyrone and making him glance down in search of the cause. Blood welled forth from a long gash on his thumb, which in an instant he had sliced open with his well-honed blade.
“Hell and damnation!” he growled, angry at himself. It seemed that he was just as willing now to be led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar of their bed as he had been when he had taken her to his quarters, and, like before, she’d rend his heart with her tempting ways. “I can’t even polish my sword without suffering some damage when you’re near!” Tossing her a glare, he paid no heed to her look of wounded dismay as he commanded curtly, “Get into bed before I slice off something vital and serve Aleksei’s end.”
Tears gushed forth, and with a choked sob Synnovea hastily retired to her side of the bed, where she sat and through a blurring wetness launched glowers aplenty toward the ignoring back of her stubborn husband. Petulantly she braided her hair, sniffing and blowing her nose until she finally drove Tyrone to seek refuge in the dressing room. He knew if he stayed one moment longer, he’d give way to her tears and coddle her with much more than an apology.
Fearing defeat, he was in no hurry to join her in their bed and allowed at least a half hour to drift past as he bathed. He donned a robe for his return to their bedchamber and found that Synnovea had taken shelter beneath the covers, having tucked them up close beneath her chin. It was obvious from her stilted silence that she had sorely resented his boorish reproach.
Tyrone slipped into bed beside her, assured by her efforts to hug the edge of the bed that he wouldn’t have to worry about being unduly tempted by her flirtatious ploys for the rest of the night. She wanted nothing to do with him, and though he should have been relieved, he felt like cursing himself for getting caught in such a hellish trap.
I
f Tyrone Rycroft had once imagined that he was expending every ounce of energy and skill he possessed in his quest to impress the tsar, he soon realized that ignoring his stirringly beautiful wife and keeping his mind strictly on his goals and duties even while he was away from her demanded much more fortitude and discipline over his thoughts than his first objective had ever required of him. If his preoccupation with Synnovea had seemed intense before his whipping, then it was rapidly becoming an obsession now that they were ensconced not only in the same chamber but in the same bed as well. He was constantly besieged by sights that would have heartened the most indifferent husband, which he definitely was not. Whether fully clothed or scantily garbed, Synnovea was far too fetching for any normal man to resist, and though he still chafed under the spiny barbs of resentment, he felt much akin to an untried youth who drooled in blighted infatuation over an alabaster goddess. Such a lad might have hoped to discover a warm, tender heart beneath those creamy breasts, but Tyrone feared there was nothing there but cold, hard stone.
Not only was his reserve undermined by what he saw in their bedchamber, but he had never been so baffled by a woman in all of his life. Since his encounter with Aleksei, Tyrone had imagined Synnovea an unscrupulous vixen bereft of a conscience. He was certain she had deliberately entrapped him with a thoroughly ruthless disregard for what he’d have to suffer because of her deception, yet the more he was around her, the deeper his perplexity became. As hard as he searched, he could detect no tiniest hint of the sly coquette in that sublime mien. To his utter amazement, Synnovea seemed the paragon of what every man aspired to have for a wife. She was soft-spoken, sweetly attentive, and mindful of him in ways that at times put to rout the image of a conniving, selfish, spoiled
boyarina.
He might as well have been a king the way she anticipated and fulfilled his every need well before he even thought of it. Though he feared he’d again be caught unawares by her subterfuge, there were times when he could actually feel his bruised heart softening to her winsome smiles and the gentle touch of her hand. His breath nigh halted with the bliss of her slender fingers threading through his hair, massaging the tension from his neck or tracing around an ear. Yet he couldn’t shake the suspicion that those knee-weakening caresses were merely part of another ploy. If she had spoken some witch’s incantation to make him her slave, he couldn’t have been more entranced…or more apprehensive about his fate. Much too often of late, he seemed unable to subdue familiar flutterings in the pit of his hard belly, momentarily delectable to be sure, yet savagely brutal when left unappeased. No fiendish torment could have vexed him quite as severely.
Tyrone couldn’t remember a time in his adult years when he had been in such a rutting heat over a woman. In spite of his efforts to remain coolly detached in his wife’s presence, his rebellious body was ever wont to leave him open to the curious stares of those widely innocent green-brown eyes. Angelina had never stirred such erotic cravings within him, at least not to the degree that he was now experiencing with Synnovea, but then, he only had to lift a brow and Angelina would have come wiggling into his lap. He had no doubt that Synnovea would have done the same, but her motives weren’t to be trusted.
The pain of abstinence was becoming so horrendous that there were moments when Tyrone actually feared his lust for his raven-haired wife would rend him permanently useless to any woman. Many nights while Synnovea slumbered peacefully in their bed, he’d pace the floor like a caged leopard, prowling the ebony shadows until finally exhaustion would numb him to everything but a yearning to rest. The emotional upheaval he was being subjected to on a nightly basis made him give serious consideration to the idea of moving back to his old quarters, but as much as he needed the separation, he knew if he returned to his quarters, it would be tantamount to publicly distancing himself from Synnovea. Albeit silently, he’d be casting aspersions against her, a deed that would certainly elicit the tsar’s ire.
Had his back been properly healed and his fighting agility restored to the degree that he’d have felt confident of his prowess in deadly combat, he’d have ridden out in search of Ladislaus just to avoid the defeat that lurked in wait for him in his bedchamber. He was no fool to think that he could lie in bed next to an incredibly tempting woman night after night and still deny her existence. Had he been hewn of granite, there might have been some hope for him, but he was very much a man, subject to all the weaknesses and propensities of his gender, and Synnovea was the visual epitome of everything he had ever desired in a woman. At times, frustration, resentment, outright anger, and hostility vied in direct opposition to the softer feelings of compassion, gentleness, and ardor, as well as a strengthening desire to nurture and protect her as any adoring husband might. He was ever mindful of the fact that she was his and that all the aspirations he had once sought to bring into fruition could now be his for the simple taking…
if only
he’d relent.
It certainly took no mean mental feat for Tyrone to recognize his own heightening agitation. His temper had never been so quick to flare or his patience so thin. For the sake of his men, he knew he’d soon have to repent of his foolish vow. Yet, in an effort to hold his ground no matter how asinine his own obstinacy was beginning to seem even to him, he pushed himself and his regiment relentlessly day after day through long hours of difficult training, crawling on his belly with his face in the dirt or mud, climbing ropes attached to brick walls, and wrestling his way through men equally motivated to keep him and the rest of the troop from reaching their goal. Only by depleting his strength and draining himself of the ability to function normally at night could Tyrone hold out any hope of resisting the tantalizing seduction that awaited him in his bed and perhaps delay the ever-threatening reckoning.
Tyrone’s morning rote began before dawn, when he’d rise, shave, and dress. Shortly thereafter, he’d go downstairs to breakfast with Natasha. He was relieved that Synnovea complied with his wishes to stay abed and refrained from joining them. To face defeat so early in the day would’ve sorely gone against his grain. Mainly his conversation with the older woman centered around his wife, a subject from which he had difficulty straying of late. He’d then leave and be gone until well past supper, at which time he usually came dragging back, thoroughly spent. Before entering the manse, he’d feed and groom the tall black that Ladislaus had left behind and the fine, liver-chestnut steed which he reserved primarily for parades and demonstrating the quality of horsemanship he hoped to encourage in his men.
Upon concluding his tasks in the carriage house, he’d then enter the kitchen, too starved to think of waiting until after he had bathed away the sweat and grime of his day’s labors. If Tyrone might have once supposed that his grubby state would repulse his wife, then in that, too, he found himself mistaken. While the cook worked at other tasks, Synnovea served him his meal and, in doing so, touched him often, which now seemed her wont. Without a doubt, he’d have paid less heed to the server and more consideration to the fare if Danika had been the one laying out his meal. Even bone tired, he couldn’t ignore the delicious sight, womanly feel, and intoxicating fragrance of his wife as she bent over him or brushed against him in passing.
After supper, Tyrone soaked his aching body in a steaming bath which primarily served to ease his strained muscles. Synnovea’s initial attempt to assist him in his bath had provoked him to such a stormy outburst that she had fled in teary haste. It hadn’t taken a great deal of mental prowess for him to recognize the difficulty he’d have to face trying to tether his rampant lusts while she washed his naked body. Thereafter he had been attended by a male servant, who spoke not a word of English, but that suited the quiet serenity Tyrone sought there. It was his only reprieve.
Tyrone was grateful for those nights when, after joining Synnovea in their chambers, he could collapse into bed, too tired to even talk. His one concession to her wifely bent was to allow her to rub a soothing balm over his back for the purpose of keeping the scabs and skin pliable and the scarring to a minimum. For this he’d doff his robe and recline face-down upon the bed. Her gentle massaging relaxed him, and even while she continued kneading his work-strained muscles, his breathing would gradually deepen until he was lulled into sleep.
During these times Synnovea found it difficult to decipher her own emotions, but they seemed pleasantly associated with being a wife. No harsh words disturbed their quiet harmony while she served her husband’s needs, and even if Tyrone still refused to make love to her, at least by yielding himself into her care he was granting her privileges and familiarities reserved for a spouse.
She was no longer hindered by Anna’s strictures or the threat of Aleksei and could now venture out as often as she liked. While her husband was at work, she took several opportunities to visit friends and old acquaintances of her father. One day a week she could be found assisting Father Philip in his efforts to help the poor. At other times she shopped at Kitaigorod, sometimes for necessities, but mostly in search of clothing, gifts, or wines for her handsome husband. More often than not, she was joined on these excursions by either Zelda or Natasha or both women. After making purchases at the marketplace, they would deposit their bundles in the coach, and though Stenka would follow along behind at a leisurely pace with the conveyance, the three women were often motivated to stroll over to Red Square, where most every morning Tyrone could be found drilling his Hussars for a parade. Synnovea never failed to experience the thrill associated with watching the horsemanship of the men and their sharply executed drills, but their commander was the one who primarily claimed her attention.
Occasionally Tyrone would join the
boyarinas
during a well-deserved break from his rigorous training. As much as he resented the fact that he and his wife were closely observed at odd and sundry times by General Vanderhout, the tsar, his own company of men, Aleta in some instances, and a whole host of strangers, Tyrone realized he was becoming increasingly dedicated to the idea that Synnovea was his wife and therefore deserving of some genuine husbandly respect in public. In staking his claim, he often laid a hand upon her back or offered his arm as they strolled with the other two women to either the coach or a more select spot where they’d sometimes share victuals that Danika had packed for them. The difficulty Tyrone found in openly touching his wife or sitting beside her was what he usually had to contend with: the delectation stirred forth by even their most casual contact.
It was toward the end of the fifth week when Tyrone made the mistake of trying to imagine the changes that would occur in his life should he hold to his word and return to England an unmarried man. He would then be free to court other women, and in an effort to create some enthusiasm for the bachelor status he’d have in that event, he sought to form a vision of the women he had courted before his marriage to Angelina. They weren’t nearly as comely in recall, not when he had a young wife whose beauty and charm could easily put them to shame. A few of those former light-o’-loves had even been prone to giggle over the most inane things or else talk incessantly about things that mattered not a whit to him. Not so Synnovea. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he found her subtle wit and softly spoken comments immensely pleasing.
It was while Tyrone was laboriously mulling through this course of thinking that an unexpected dawning came which served his hidebound honor a death blow. With sudden clarity he realized that if he sailed to England and left Synnovea behind in Russia, it would be equivalent to leaving his own heart behind.
One evening, after another week had come and gone, Tyrone was seated on his bedside stool cleaning his gear and military trappings when he became mindful of Synnovea sitting in a chair across the bed from him, diligently sewing tiny cloth frogs on several garments—to be exact, four tunics and a single kaftan, all of which were far too large for her. He was still laboring at his task when she rose, folded the clothes and left them on his side of the bed, along with four pairs of full-legged trousers such as Russian soldiers were wont to wear. Without offering word or explanation, she disappeared into the dressing room.
Quizzically Tyrone eyed what she had left. The long-sleeved tunics were similar to those worn by his men and were made of a soft, weighty material. The cloth frogs served as closures along the slanted openings that stretched from the banded collars downward to beneath the left sleeves of the shirts and the kaftan. In continuing reticence, his wife returned from the adjoining room and, stepping near, placed a pair of calf-length leather boots on the floor beside his bench.
“Are these for me?” Tyrone finally queried, unable to draw any other conclusion. At her nod, he inquired further. “Do you want me to try them on?”
“If you would, Ty,” Synnovea murmured, seeming rather apprehensive as she chewed at a bottom lip.
Tyrone wasn’t inclined to strip away his robe, not while she was there to spur a reaction. His pride had been daunted much too often of late for him to even think of leaving himself open to the humiliation that would follow. After gathering up the boots, a tunic, and a pair of trousers, he sought shelter in the dressing room, where he garbed himself in the clothes she had made. Among his wife’s many other talents, it seemed that she was also an accomplished seamstress, for he soon found himself marveling at the neat handiwork which had gone into making the garments.