1

Russia, somewhere east of Moscow August 8, 620

T he lowering sun shimmered through the dusty haze looming in languid stillness above the treetops, tinting the tiny grains of sand with vibrant shades of crimson until the very air seemed aflame. An ominous portent, the reddish aura offered no promise of rain or respite for a parched and thirsty land. Excessive heat and a lengthy drought had scorched the plains and barren steppes, wilting endless areas of grass down to densely matted roots. But here in the mixed wooded region of Russia, bordered on the north and east by the Volga River and on the south by the Oka, the thick forests appeared relatively unscathed by the lack of rain. Even so, amid the voluminous clouds of choking dust stirred aloft by the horses’ hooves, the occupants of the coach and its escort of soldiers still suffered the same as they traversed the vast wilderness.

In her full score years of life, the Countess Synnovea Zenkovna had seen a wide variety of faces her homeland could present. They were as unique as the changing sea sons. The long, brutal winters could be a test of endurance for even the most hearty. In spring, the thawing ice and snow created deceptively treacherous bogs, which in times past had proven formidable enough to dissuade hordes of marauding Tatars and other invading armies. Summer was a temperamental vixen. Warm, lulling breezes and the gentle patter of rain could placate the soul, but when imbued with dry, scorching temperatures such as those that were presently hampering the land, the season served vengeance on anyone foolish enough to travel beneath its broiling sun, a fact which the Countess Synnovea had morosely considered prior to leaving her home.

The conditions were intolerable for a lengthy trek through Russia, especially one that had been embarked upon with equal amounts of urgency and reluctance. If not for His Imperial Highness, Tsar Mikhail Romanov, requesting her presence in Moscow ere the week was out and a full dozen mounted guards sent under the direction of Captain Nikolai Nekrasov to serve as her escort, Synnovea would never have ventured upon such an arduoifs journey until the heat had adequately abated. Given a choice, she would have remained in Nizhni Novgorod, where she’d have continued mourning the recent death of her father. It was useless, of course, for a mere countess to belabor her lack of options when the Tsar of all the Russias had issued a command. Immediate compliance was the only prudent choice for any loyal subject, but leaving her home had not been the worst of it. His Majesty’s announcement that she would become the ward of his cousin upon her arrival in Moscow had dragged her grieving spirit into a darker gloom.

She was, after all, the only offspring of the late Count Aleksandr Zenkov, and now, much to her chagrin, the recipient of royal attention. The tsar hadn’t elaborated on his purpose for assigning her a guardian. Yet when one took into account her sire’s notable performance as an emissary and the many honors that had been heaped upon him, the favor she was presently receiving was understand able. Still, Synnovea found it difficult to think of herself as a helpless waif in need of protection. She had passed an age when most maidens marry, and now with her parents both dead, she had begun to assume the responsibilities of a mistress of vast holdings. Why in heaven’s name did she need a guardian?

Neither a youngling nor a pauper, yet treated like one , Synnovea mused morosely. Against her will, a more viable reason for Tsar Mikhail’s dictate came to mind, causing her to cringe inwardly. Her elongated spinsterhood had in all probability influenced his decision, especially if he had become convinced that her father had failed to address that issue satisfactorily before his death. Despite the demands of protocol, Aleksandr Zenkov had refrained from forcing his daughter into marriage, having nurtured a hope that she would someday discover a love the likes of which he had shared with her mother, Eleanora. Though others might have been convinced that he had dragged his heels in procuring a spouse for Synnovea, Aleksandr had nevertheless made provisions for her far beyond the standard for female descendants, securing lands and wealth in her name while gaining guarantees from the tsar that, upon the demise of her sire, none of these assets would be stripped from her.

Much earlier, Aleksandr had confounded tradition by arranging for Synnovea to be tutored by some of the most respected mentors in Russia as well as abroad. Those who had once wagged their heads while lamenting the count’s lack of a male heir had been taken aback by his zeal to elevate his daughter to a status equal to any son. Then, after the death of her mother some five years ago, Aleksandr had enlisted Synnovea’s assistance in the realm of diplomatic affairs and foreign dignitaries, entrusting her with significant responsibility in those areas, which had ultimately involved her in his extensive travels abroad. Having had an English mother, Synnovea could speak that language as fluently as she could her native Russian, and with a good grasp of French as well, she had been able to pen letters to officials in all three. No son could have done any better.

Yet here she was, being whisked to Moscow like so much chattel belonging to the tsar. And she was loathing every moment of it.

Wearily Synnovea braced an elbow upon the corner armrest and, with a trembling hand, clasped a dampened handkerchief to her brow as she sought to quell another attack of nausea, elicited no doubt by the writhing instrument of torture in which she rode. The wild gyrations of the coach remained unyielding as it swept around curves and jounced over deeply rutted roads. To some degree, the tinkling of harness bells and the jangling of horses’ necklets mellowed the din of drumming hooves and a rumbling conveyance, yet Synnovea was convinced that nothing short of the end of the journey would ease the pain throbbing in her temples. Even the late-afternoon sun seemed puckishly bent on punishing her as it cast its blinding rays into the windows, forcing her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut until the coach passed into the cooler, mottled shade of the lofty trees that flanked the road. When she finally dared open them again, a spotted red haze obscured the interior and the other two occupants of the coach.

“Can it be that you’re distressed, Countess?” Ivan Voronsky inquired with a sardonic smile.

Synnovea blinked several times in an attempt to focus her gaze upon the man who, through no design of her own, had become her traveling companion and temporary protector of sorts. For all of her schooling and travels, it seemed unthinkable that she was destined to be placed under the tutelage of strangers and, toward that end, was being escorted by an individual who she strongly suspected was a Polish sympathizer and a leftover fanatic of Sigismund’s Jesuits. Comments that the self-proclaimed cleric and scholar had made during their enforced proximity had progressively abetted such notions, and although his leanings were nothing that she could positively affirm, Synnovea was nevertheless leery.

“I’m hot, and I’m dirty,” she complained with an exasperated sigh. “This unrelenting pace has left me weary beyond belief. At every station along the way we’ve had to exchange horses because of their exhaustion. When we haven’t been allowed a comparable time to rest throughout the whole of these three days, have I not cause to be distressed?”

On the seat beside her, Ali McCabe shifted restlessly, offering mute testimony to her own fatigue. At the moment, the aging maidservant seemed far more fragile than her threescore two years might normally have indicated, but then, Synnovea was sure her own face evidenced a similar tension.

“Princess Anna urged me to hasten back lest her plans be set awry,” their dour-faced chaperon haughtily informed Synnovea. “Out of respect for her bidding and the behest of His Imperial Highness, we’ve no choice but to obey.”

Annoyed by the man’s Spartan logic, Synnovea whisked slender fingers over a puffed sleeve and promptly wrinkled her fine, straight nose as dust billowed up from the fabric. She had acquired the dark green and black-striped traveling gown in France at the cost of no small sum, and even if she were to find Anna Taraslovna more tolerant of her foreign fashions than Ivan Voronsky had thus far proven himself to be, Synnovea could only conclude that after such a grueling jaunt, the garment’s continued usefulness had been seriously hindered.

Lifting her gaze, Synnovea found herself the recipient of another derisive smirk. She could hardly mistake its import, but then, the man’s contempt was hardly surprising. Soon after establishing his darkly austere presence in the opposite seat, Ivan Voronsky had relentlessly subjected her and her aging Irish maid to rudely critical inspections. Even now, he seemed to wear piety like some accolade of well-deserved honor, and when he looked down his long, thin nose at them, Synnovea had the distinct impres sion that he had judged them and found them seriously wanting.

“Perhaps you might enlighten us as to your reasons for insisting upon our manner of travel, sir,” she prodded. “Had we journeyed by night as Captain Nekrasov suggested, we might have been able to escape the worst of this heat and perhaps even some of the grime.”

Ivan’s dark eyes chilled significantly. “The night belongs to the devil, Countess, and the tender soul should be wary of treading where demons are wont to wander.”

Synnovea rolled her gaze upward, pleading for heavenly support to enable her to extend some kindly forbearance toward the highly opinionated individual. The fact that they had already suffered through many hellish torments apparently hadn’t even entered into the man’s consideration. “Since you were the one who insisted upon this pattern of flight, sir, I’m sure you understand the benefits far better than we’ve been able to.”

Her thinly veiled barb evoked a slightly more caustic tone as the cleric offered a more reasonable excuse than he had hitherto been inclined to do. “Before I left Moscow, I heard rumors of a band of renegades roaming this territory. Since it’s usually the practice of murderers and thieves to pounce upon their victims in the stealth of darkness, it seemed prudent for us to travel during the daylight hours to escape the possibility of being waylaid.”

“A wise decision indeed, if we manage to endure this sweltering heat,” Synnovea rejoined dryly.

Ivan lifted his chin in pompous arrogance and considered her with frosty aloofness. “If you’re uncomfortable, Countess, may I suggest that your extravagant attire is fully at fault. A simple sarafan would’ve better served your needs while modestly adhering to the customs of a Russian maid.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Synnovea sighed, bridling the urge to argue. The conventional sarafan , with its loose lines flaring slightly from shoulder to floor, would have definitely disguised her form better, but the traditional lay ers worn beneath and over the sometimes costly, heavily ornamented gowns would have literally stifled her. “After sailing abroad so many times, I’ve become accustomed to the styles of the French and English courts and have ceased to consider that anyone would find them offensive.”

“Then you do indeed err, Countess,” Ivan Voronsky asserted with vigor. “Indeed, had I not the discipline of a saint, I would have detached myself posthaste from the duties to which the Princess Anna has assigned me and sought other means of travel. Truly, I’ve never seen a Russian-born maid so partial to wearing such lewd foreign trappings.”

The man’s unbridled faultfinding chafed Synnovea’s patience no less now than when he had first voiced his aversion to her garments shortly after his arrival at her stoop. No doubt, had she matched his own stoic black garb, she’d have fallen into better favor with the man.

“Oh, sirrr…” Ali McCabe’s voice trembled with barely suppressed ire as she dared to enter the conversation. “I can understand that ye’ve no ken o’ what’s acceptable ’cross the seas, seein’ as how ye’ve ne’er ventured beyond these climes. Ta be sure, sir, there’s a whole different world o’er there. Why, ye’d be appalled at the license some highborn ladies take ta walk an’ talk right out in the open wit’ men what be neither monk nor close kin. Take, for instance, Queen Elizabeth, God rest her soul. Nary a soul e’er entertained thoughts o’ her bein’ locked away in a terem or secluded in a castle wit’ only women an’ a few holy men in attendance. Can ye imagine all o’ them fine, high-ranking lords flockin’ ’round the late queen, an’ nary a Brit thinkin’ her depraved?”

“Disgusting behavior!” Ivan rose to the bait with eager outrage. “Indeed, I have to wonder why I’m even here after the many visits your mistress made to that realm. I fear my protection has come too late to be of benefit.”

Whatever humor Synnovea had felt over Ali’s bantering discourse vanished abruptly at the man’s slur. Bristling with indignation, she was considering how best to air her objection when Ali McCabe drew herself up sharply in a highly offended snit.

“As if me own sweet lamb is anythin’ less than the innocent she’s always been!” The old woman twitched on the seat, growing more irate with each passing moment. Having closely attended her charge from infancy, the maid was greatly incensed by the cleric’s insinuations. “Whether it be here or there, sir, I can assure ye that no man has e’er laid a wayward hand ta me mistress.”

“That remains to be seen, does it not?” Ivan challenged, a thin eyebrow elevated loftily. “When your mistress wears such close-fitting attire, I can only think that her main purpose is to attract male attention.”

“How dare you suggest such a thing, sir!” Synnovea gasped, taking umbrage at his slander.

Ali’s rancor deepened. “Seein’ as how ye’re ridin’ in me mistress’s coach an’ eatin’ meals an’ stayin’ in rooms what she’s been payin’ for, sir, ye might consider showin’ her the proper respect due a lady just ta show how grateful ye ought ta be.”

Ivan fixed the tenacious little maid with a disdaining sneer. “You’ve been ill-tutored in the treatment of saints, old woman, else you’d know that charity is expected, especially from those who can afford it. Apparently you haven’t been in this country long enough to understand our customs.”

The old woman cocked her head at a curious angle. It was fresh in her mind that Ivan Voronsky had claimed poverty soon after presenting himself to the countess, declaring himself without wealth or possession beyond the clothes on his back and those few he carried within his black valise. Thereafter he had left the full burden of his subsistence upon her mistress, as if he had every right to expect her benevolence. Only the day before, he had voiced the belief that few were worthy of such charity, which had obviously been his way of trying to dissuade the countess from giving a generous purse to a young mother who had been left stranded with an infant at a coach station after the sudden death of her husband. Ivan’s efforts to halt her mistress’s largesse had seemed onerous enough, but when he had suggested the contribution be given to him instead so he could carry the gift to the mother church, Ali had felt rankling spurs dig deeply into the flanks of her Irish temper. His solicitations had solidified her belief that he was far less concerned with the needs of the poor and the destitute than with his own wealth and circumstance.

“Yer pardon, Yer Eminence.” The address was greatly exaggerated as Ali yielded to her unmeasured distrust of the man. “’Tis a simple fact that I’ve not laid me poor eyes on a real saint in some years now, though there be some what seek ta convince folks o’ their piety. Wolves in sheep’s clothin’, I’ll warrant, but that’s neither here nor there, seein’ as how ye’re so fine and saintly yerself.”

The veins in Ivan’s temples became darkly distended as his beady eyes pierced the servant. His stare was so menacing that he seemed on the verge of concocting some strange incantation to make the maidservant vanish into thin air. If he meant to frighten Ali, then in that quest he failed miserably. The fact that Ali had come to Russia with Count Zenkov’s bride some twenty-odd years ago and, since that time, had been treated with kindly deference, which a lord might bestow upon a favored servant, had instilled within the old woman an unshakable confidence in herself and in those whom she loyally served.

“You dare question my authority?” Ivan demanded sharply. “I am of the church!”

“O’ the church?” Ali repeated in an inquisitive tone. “There be churches far an’ wide, sir. Which be the one what sanctioned ye?”

His thin lips twisted in a repugnant sneer. “You wouldn’t know the order, old woman. It was founded a great distance from here.”

It wasn’t the first time that Ivan Voronsky had skirted around his affiliations and ordination, but his evasive an swers only heightened Ali’s curiosity. “An’ the direction, sir? Which way would it be? Up or down?”

For a moment Ivan seemed ready to explode. “Were I to hold out some hope that you’d have knowledge of the province from whence I came, old woman, I might deem an answer worthy of being uttered, but I see no reason to discuss such matters with an old dullard of a servant.”

Ali squawked and flapped her thin arms in high-flying indignation as she twitched on the seat. Indeed, she seemed ready to catapult herself with claws bared upon the man.

Synnovea laid a lightly restraining hand upon her servant’s arm to forestall such a possibility. Nevertheless, the two combatants glared at each other as if tempted to duel to the death, leaving her bereft of any hope that a truce could be established between them. On the outside chance that their ire could be diminished by some slight degree, Synnovea turned a plaintive appeal to the pinch-faced man. “When our tempers have been sorely tested by the horrible conditions that we’ve had to endure these past days, ’tis understandable that we are wont to quarrel among ourselves, but I plead with you both to desist of this bickering. ’Twill only extend the ordeal.”

Had Ivan been of a gentler, more kindly or manly bent, he might have given pause to Synnovea’s plea, for her softly cajoling expression was most engaging. He may have admired the translucent radiance of the large, thickly fringed eyes that slanted slightly upward beneath delicately winged brows. Those mesmerizing orbs were a curious blend of shades: variegated shards of jade flaring outward from pupils and darkening to a warm, clear brown. As a man, he might also have appreciated the fair skin presently glowing with a moist, reddish sheen or even savored her delicate features. Most assuredly, had he been cast from the same mold as others of his gender, he might have been held much in awe by her stunning beauty, but Ivan Voronsky was not like most men. He was more of a mind to think that feminine pulchritude was a finely devised tool of a darker realm, primarily invented for the purpose of diverting extraordinary men like himself from a path toward exalted greatness.

“You err if you think your benefactress won’t hear of this, Countess. You’ve allowed your maid to insult me, and I shall be most specific in telling Princess Anna of your toleration for your hireling’s impertinence.”

Synnovea made her own conjectures as to Ivan’s origins as his hissing whisper filled the confines of the coach. “Tell her what you will, sir,” she invited stiltedly, refusing to be intimidated. “And should I be of such a mind, I might also caution His Majesty about those who yet hold out some hope of a Polish pretender or another false Dmitri gracing the throne. I’m sure such a hero as the Patriarch Filaret Nikitich would find your sympathies misplaced, considering his recent release from a Polish prison.”

Ivan’s small, dark eyes shot sparks as he recognized the havoc she could create in his life. “Misplaced sympathies? Why, Countess, I’ve never heard of anything so absurd. However did you manage to concoct such a ludicrous notion?”

“Was I mistaken?” Surprised by her own trembling disquiet, Synnovea struggled to convey an aplomb that was, at best, strained. “Forgive me, sir, but with all of your chatter about the possibility of a direct descendant of the late Tsar Ivan Vasilievich being alive, I couldn’t help but recall two previous occasions when the Poles tried to place a man upon the throne by claiming he was the late Tsar Ivan’s own son come back to life. How many times must a false Dmitri be revived to vie for the tsardom when everyone knows his father killed him in a fit of temper?”

Ivan detested being challenged by a woman, particularly one who had acquired just enough knowledge of history and the events of the world to be dangerous. It was even more galling to be forced to assuage her suspicions. “You do me a grave disservice, Countess. What I spoke of was no more than speculations derived from reports that I had heard some months ago. Believe me, my lady, I hold Tsar Mikhail in the highest esteem. Why, I wouldn’t be here if the Princess Anna didn’t trust me implicitly.” He managed a stiff smile for Synnovea’s benefit. “Despite your doubts, Countess, I hope to prove myself a worthy escort, certainly one of higher merit than His Majesty’s guards. They are, after all, no more than common men incapable of entertaining any aspirations beyond their own selfish desires.”

“And what of you, sir?” Synnovea inquired with a touch of skepticism. In her mind the cleric fell far short of the gentlemanly standards to which the officer who led the entourage adhered. Throughout his career, Captain Nekrasov had been praised for his unswerving valor and gallant manners. Tsar Mikhail couldn’t have sent a more dedicated soldier to serve as her protector. “Have you truly vaulted well beyond that moat which poses a hindrance to mortal man and founded your feet upon the lofty elements of sainthood? Forgive me, sir, but I remember as a child being cautioned by a kindly priest not to think of myself as some magisterial gift to mankind, but, with humbleness of mind, to consider my frail form to be temporal and with a fervent zeal to look toward a higher source for the wisdom and perfection which I am obviously lacking.”

“What have we here? A learned scholar?” Ivan chortled, failing badly in his attempt at humor. If anything, his tone communicated an underlying hint of malice. He was a man who had set himself to the task of influencing the misguided and had little patience with anyone who overlooked his potential or questioned his importance or ideas. “Imagine such wisdom ascribed to so fair a maid. What is to become of those ancient scribes who, for their enlightenment, have cleaved to the weighty tomes of bygone eras?”

Synnovea sensed the man was chiding her for voicing a logic he considered worthless. Apparently he had his own schemes for the universe, and far be it that any should try to dissuade him from his purpose. Yet she was not above trying. “When a person has a fault deeply rooted within his reasoning, if he continues to nurture that defect, though he may study the works of a thousand philosophers, he shall remain no wiser than before.”

Ivan’s thin lips twitched with growing irritation as he accepted her reasoning as a personal affront to himself. “And, of course, you know such a man.”

Synnovea stiltedly directed her gaze out of the window, knowing full well what he thought. Considering the cleric’s irascibility, it seemed advisable for her to retreat into silence and endure his company without further comment on any subject. She only wasted her breath trying to reason with the man.

The four-in-hand swept past a thick stand of lofty firs edging the road and, in its wake, left widely spreading boughs swaying vigorously. The sweating, foam-flecked steeds strained to pull the weighty coach up yet another incline, and though the animals were nearly spent from the harsh extremes and the unrelenting pace, the driver’s whip gave them no reprieve. It continued to flick out with fiery urgency, forcing them to expend whatever strength they still possessed in a quest to reach the next station before nightfall.

The soldiers valiantly kept pace, yet even those well-seasoned stalwarts, with their faces and tunics darkened by the grime of the road, were beginning to show signs of deep fatigue. No doubt each of them anticipated a respite offered by a night’s lodging in the village up ahead. The seemingly endless trek, the miserable conditions, the countless hours spent in the saddle or enduring the spine-jarring jolts of the carriage, had all coalesced into a diabolical torment, one which seemed particularly bent on sapping the last shred of spirit and vitality from each of them. It was disheartening to think that there was still another grueling day of travel left before they would come in sight of Moscow.

The coach lurched heavily as the team raced around another sharp bend, and once again Synnovea braced back into the plush cushions to keep from being launched into the lap of her maid. Heavy fir branches snapped back suddenly against the conveyance, momentarily startling the passengers, but in the very next instant a more terrifying sound intruded. The exploding bark of gunfire muffled the din of loudly crashing branches and thundering hooves, wrenching frightened gasps from the three and bringing them upright in their seats.

“We’re being attacked!” Ivan exclaimed in high-pitched panic.

Synnovea went cold with dread as another deafening volley reverberated in diminishing waves through the forest. The barrage ebbed to a more tolerable level. Then a shot cracked from the rear of the coach and was promptly answered by a more distant report that ended abruptly in the footman’s shriek of pain. As his scream faded, the driver sawed on the reins, bringing the steeds to a jolting halt. A heartbeat later, the door was snatched open and the occupants found themselves gaping at the unwavering bore of a huge flintlock pistol.

“ Out! ”

The rumbling command wrenched surprised starts from the three as a giant of a man leaned inward, enhancing the threat of his massive weapon. His slanted gray eyes flicked from one to the other until they came to rest upon Synnovea. Half masked by a long, drooping mustache, the brigand’s mouth slowly twisted into a leer.

“Eh, now, what a pretty pigeon we caught for ourselves.”

Synnovea could imagine what the presence of this miscreant meant and she was absolutely terrified. It was difficult to determine the origin of the brigand, for his countenance was as fierce as any she had ever seen. His head was bald except for a long thatch of tan hair tied with a thin leather cord near the scalp and left to hang free over one ear. His faded, sky-blue military coat might have once graced a Polish officer of wide girth, but it now hung open to accommodate the broad chest of its present owner. Perhaps for the same purpose, the sleeves had been stripped away, leaving the bulging arms bare. A dingy yellow sash encircled the brigand’s thick waist, securing a pair of boldly striped, wide-legged pantaloons, the bottoms of which had been stuffed into the slouched tops of a pair of boots frivolously adorned with silver buckles.

Synnovea lifted her chin in an attempt to subdue its trembling and, with more spirit than she had deemed herself capable of, inquired sharply, “What’s the meaning of this outrage? What do you want from us?”

“Treasures,” the rogue answered with a deep chortle. Lifting his powerful shoulders briefly, he enlarged upon his reply as he ogled her. “One kind or another. It make no difference.”

Ivan craned his neck from his dour little collar as he eyed the weapon that threatened them. Anxious about his prospects for survival, he settled on the premise that if he informed this brash intruder of his close association with people of power, the fellow would be reluctant to do him harm. Perhaps the oaf would even see some advantage in ransoming him unharmed. Surely the Princess Anna would be willing to pay a sizable sum for his safe return. Or perhaps her cousin Tsar Mikhail could be persuaded to offer a minute part of his wealth to guarantee the outlaws’ good comportment.

“I urge you, sir, to take heed that you do not set awry the disposition of the tsar by doing harm to those he favors.” Ivan clasped a stubby-fingered hand to his own bony chest, managing to achieve a more dignified mien than he had been able to demonstrate since their forced halt. “I am Ivan Voronsky, and I’m here for the purpose of escorting the Countess Zenkovna to Moscow….” The hulking giant’s cocky grin never wavered, and Ivan’s apprehensions intensified as he realized he had failed to impress the brute. In rising panic, he screeched the last words out in a frantic rush. “By order of the tsar!”

The thief began to guffaw in deepening mirth, utterly destroying the cleric’s expectations. When the miscreant finally sobered enough to speak, he poked a long finger into the darkly garbed chest of the other, making that one wince sharply. “What you mean, you come as escort? You too skinny to fight Petrov. You make a jest, eh? You grow some, then maybe you fight.”

Ivan’s pinched features quivered with ill-suppressed emotions. A confused blend of fear, fury, and humiliation rendered him momentarily incapable of speech and action. Yet when the pistol beckoned him out, he hastily complied amid the sporadic chuckles of the oaf, who stepped back several paces to allow him room to alight. Upon stumbling to the ground, the cleric froze in sudden awe. Everywhere his gaze flitted he could see mounted men, dressed in all manner of array, surrounding the coach and its escort of soldiers. Each bore an assortment of weapons clutched in hand, tucked in sashes, or crisscrossed over their chests. They looked to be a murderous lot, and he could only wonder how he’d fare as their captive.

At the rear of the conveyance, the footman clasped a bloodstained handkerchief over his ear as he, too, cautiously eyed the villains. His still-smoking musket lay in the dust some distance behind the rear wheel where it had fallen after his wounding. Another armed bandit sat on the scrawny back of a mottled gray steed, from whence he covetously eyed the servant’s red livery over the sights of a cocked pistol. A similar threat was carried home to Captain Nekrasov and his men by a vast number of highwaymen. It was widely presumed by the hostages that any attempt to resist would be tantamount to inviting complete annihilation.

In freshening apprehension, Ivan Voronsky began to quake as Petrov sauntered near, for it seemed the towering hulk would commit mayhem upon his person, but in passing him, the brigand only smirked in amusement and leaned into the coach. Seizing the black valise the cleric had guarded so zealously during the journey, Petrov turned with a chortle and emptied the contents into the dust at his feet.

Ivan came alive with a cry of alarm and bolted forward, sweeping his arms about in anxious haste as he sought to catch his belongings before his money pouch could be discovered. He was promptly brushed aside by Petrov, whose well-practiced ear had detected an all-too-familiar clink of coins. Plucking the purse from the tangled mound of clothes, the thief tossed it into the air and guffawed in glee over its significant weight.

“Give me that!” Ivan demanded, jostling the larger man in his quest to seize the small pouch. “It belongs to the church!” His voice rose to a piercing shriek. “I was only carrying tithes to the Moscow church! You mustn’t steal from the church!”

“Aha! The crow now flap his wings like big hawk, eh!” Petrov glanced toward the two women, who were watching from the doorway, and grinned at Synnovea. “Little man protect his gold more than you, pretty lady.”

Petrov hunkered down on his haunches in search of more wealth, shredding the dark vestments that lay in the dust to glean whatever they might hold. His hunt proved futile, and with a roar of rage he soared to his feet, extracting a frightened yelp from Ivan as he seized him. “You tell Petrov where you hide more gold, little bird. Maybe then he won’t squash you.”

Though the sight of Ivan’s hoarded wealth had repulsed Synnovea, it went against her grain to sit calmly by and allow him to be abused without offering some defense, as frail as it promised to be. “Let him go,” she enjoined from the coach. “The satchel is all that belongs to him. Everything else you see is mine. Now let him go, I beg you!”

Petrov complied, and Ivan sagged to his knees in enormous relief as the huge man stalked back to the coach. Lending the countess his full attention, he grinned broadly while he stretched forth a hand to her. Reluctantly Synnovea settled trembling fingers within the enormous paw and alighted as courageously as her shaking limbs would allow. When she came into view of the outlaws, wild hoots and exaggerated cries of admiration rose to a deafening intensity as the thieves expressed their delight with her uncommon beauty. The thunderous din heightened Synnovea’s trepidation, and she glanced around in deepening dismay as a dozen or more stalwarts rushed forward, shouldering each other roughly aside in their quest to be among the first to reach her, already anticipating the succulent sweetmeat they would soon devour. Everywhere her frantic gaze darted she saw a deepening wall of the lecherous leers and assaulting perusals. Their lusting eyes left no curve untouched, no piece of garment intact. Eagerly they pressed in close around her, suffocating her with their hot, panting breaths and rudely pawing hands.

Synnovea clamped her jaw tightly in an effort to subdue her rising panic. Though a virgin still, she could imagine the degradation that would be forthcoming, and her mind raced in a frenzied search for escape or at least some reasonable argument that would convince the thieves to leave her and her companions unscathed.

Ali McCabe was no idealistic fool to hold out any hope that these lawless brutes would honor the gallant creed of highborn gentlemen, and certainly not when they held such a winsome captive within their grasp. The servant scrambled down from the coach and snatched up a stout stick from the ground as she hastened forward. Thrusting herself between her charge and those who sought to test the pliant curves, she raised her weapon threateningly. Though it might well mean her own death, she was totally dedicated to the defense of her mistress. “I’ll warn the lot o’ ye vile vermin!” she railed in frail, strident tones. “The next beastie ta lay a filthy hand on the Countess Synnovea will deal wit’ me. An’ I swear ta do ye ill afore I die!”

Uproarious laughter came from the slavering beasts. They readily dismissed her threats as feeble and stretched forth grubby hands to capture the prize, but Ali proved as cantankerous as an old Tatar warrior. Setting her bony jaw with unquenchable tenacity, she swung the cudgel with swift and wicked intent, cracking a fair share of knuckles and noggins. Teeth were bared in irate snarls as tempers flared beneath the vicious swat of her club. Intent now upon showing her just how easily they could trample her underfoot, the rabble began to close in around the old woman.

Captain Nekrasov surmised that he had been virtually forgotten as he observed the events from beyond the confines of the fray. Rising to the occasion, he leaned forward in his saddle and clobbered a nearby raider with a driving fist. Even as the thief tumbled to the ground, the deafening roar of an exploding pistol cracked through the air, heralding a shot that tore with splintering pain through the captain’s arm and wrenched a cry of anguish from grimacing lips. He clapped a hand to his reddening sleeve and then, in sudden wariness, glanced around, detecting the metallic clicking of several weapons close around him. At least a half-dozen flintlocks were now aimed at him, and by the fixed snarls on the faces of the brigands who held them, they were more than willing to dispense with him.

A dastardly scamp squinted up at him. “Ye’ll die, Kapitan! Ye move one eyeball, an’ ’twill be yer death.” He snapped grimy fingers to demonstrate just how quickly they could deal with him. “Just like that!”

The captain lifted his gaze as several bandits began shuffling back to open a path for another giant, this one flaxen-haired, clean-shaven, and riding on a horse. The thieves’ dispatch in giving ground to this newcomer clearly attested to their obeisance. Scars marked the newcomer’s face, giving rise to the supposition that he had fought many battles in the past. His very presence proved his success, perhaps to the extent that he had dispatched many to their death.

The man leisurely reined his black stallion to a place where he could easily assess the proceedings and settled a confident grin upon Nikolai as he shoved a still-smoking flintlock into his sash. “Your efforts to defend the ladies against such odds gives me cause to wonder if you’re daft, Captain. I’d advise you to be more careful of your life in the future. Next time I shall have to kill you.”

The thieves eyed their commander in a cautious gauging of his mood, but they found nothing unduly disquieting in the contemplative smile he swept over them. Accepting his silence as mute consent, they chortled once again in boisterous merriment and eagerly returned their attention to the countess, roughly buffeting the Irish maid about as she sought to safeguard her mistress.

Outraged gasps were wrenched from Synnovea as she twisted this way and that in a desperate attempt to escape the hands that reached out to seize her. The bandits’ eyes gleamed in avid lust, instilling within her an undermining horror of what she would soon suffer. Though she strained away from this one and that, the rending of cloth affirmed their eagerness to unmask whatever delights remained hidden from view. Her hat was knocked askew, and a sleeve was ripped from her shoulder. The stiffly pleated ruff adorning her throat was no more safe from their greedy divestment than the heavy silk ruching that trimmed the stomacher of her gown. A scream was finally torn from Synnovea as they pulled open her bodice in ravenous greed, revealing the creamy fullness swelling above a lacy chemise. One glimpse of her womanly curves seemed to incite them more, and in frenetic haste they reached out to rip away whatever else they could grasp.

“ Rutting louts! ” the pale-haired chieftain bellowed without warning, startling the lechers who immediately stumbled back from their prey. Passions cooled in rapid degrees beneath the icy gaze that swept them. “Would you maul the wench to death before we leave this place?” he barked. “Is that how you would treat a rare prize? Hell and damnation! Can you not see that she’s worth a pretty coin to us alive? Now loose her and stand aside, the lot of you! Henceforth, I shall claim the wench for my own, for ’tis evident you rogues are unappreciative of what has fallen into your hands!”

Daring any to defy him, the lord-of-thieves urged his steed forward. The brigands stumbled back, readily yielding ground before him until the two women stood alone. Synnovea and Ali were hardly exempt from the awe that had been elicited. The suspicion that this ruffian was to be feared more than his followers filled their hearts with burgeoning trepidation.

The lawless chieftain braced a muscular arm across the elaborate horn of his saddle and subjected Synnovea to a careful scrutiny that ranged slowly downward over the entire length of her. Though she clasped the torn bodice over her bosom, she held herself proudly aloof, seeming far more regal and refined than any woman he had ever known. Her uncommon beauty was equally unmatched.

“Forgive my delay in coming to your rescue, Countess.” His smile conveyed a leisured confidence. “My men are wont to seek diversions wherever they find them and demand recompense when heretofore they’ve found naught but injustice.”

“Injustice, do ye say!” Ali squawked, taking exception to his statement. “As if we weren’t within our proper rights ta defend ourselves against yer murdering riffraff!”

The rogue commander chose to ignore the maid. “What you see around you, my lady, are men whose every possession was stolen by those boyars who wield their power as if directed by demons and who saw fit to reduce them to serfs. Had we been of such a mind, Countess, we might’ve added to your misery by killing your escort. Your footman and the captain were foolish to challenge us. Be grateful they’re still alive and my aim true, for I might have taken exception to their faulty attempts.” He swept a hand about to indicate the soldiers, who were being ordered to dismount. “Anyone who intends to do us ill is in peril of his life.”

Synnovea realized her chin had sagged as she endured a moment of monumental dread of this man. Though he had spoken with a well-tutored tongue, she was nevertheless riveted by the disquieting realization that here indeed was a fierce barbarian the likes of whom might have ridden with Genghis Khan and his army of Mongols, except that his sky-blue eyes and flaxen hair were products of a different breed. His square jaw was devoid of whiskers, and his hair was clipped so short that it looked more like a scruffy, close-fitting skullcap. Despite the countless tiny scars that crisscrossed his face, he was still handsome in a rugged way. That fact did little to ease her qualms, for she found his demeanor absolutely terrifying.

Synnovea managed to reclaim some fragment of her composure. “And what exactly do you and your companions intend?”

“To share a portion of your wealth….” He smiled down at her with unrestrained confidence as his eyes caressed her again. “And perhaps for a time the richness of your company.” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously, raising the hairs on the backs of his captives’ necks. When he sobered, he clapped a brawny arm across his wide chest in a crisp salute. “Permit me to introduce myself, Countess. I am Ladislaus, misbegotten son of a Polish prince and a Cossack wench, and these worthy hearties”—he swept a hand in a wide arc to encompass his roughly garbed compatriots—“are my royal courtiers. They serve me well, do they not?”

The ruffians guffawed at their leader’s wit, but Ali snorted in derision. “A bastard barbarian, and a thief ta boot!”

Ladislaus was amused by the audacity of the gnat-sized woman and nudged his stallion forward, deliberately separating maid from mistress. “Aye, old woman! That I am,” he acknowledged, peering down at her. “My father sought to pay his due by hiring tutors to teach me a gentleman’s manners and language, but he felt no inclination to gift me with the use of his name or his title. Thus, I am what I am.”

Ali’s eyes fairly snapped as she swung her makeshift weapon toward the stallion, but in swift reaction Ladislaus kicked the piece from her hands, spinning the elder about. Struggling to keep her balance, Ali staggered back several steps, but she was fully alert a moment later and unwilling to relent when the man threw a leg over the horn of the saddle and slid to the ground. She skittered toward him and launched a fresh assault with her cudgel. His arm swept out almost gently to knock the club away, but Ali caught the muscular limb and clung to it with as much pertinacity as an outraged bee who had just been swished by the tail of a horse. Before he could shake her off, she sank her teeth into his bronzed skin. A low growl issued forth from the thick throat as Ladislaus jerked free. In the next instant, his fist shot forward, striking the small, wrinkled chin. It was no contest. Ali’s eyes rolled upward, and she slowly slithered to the ground in a senseless void.

“ Yooouuu monster! ” Synnovea railed, incensed by his heavy-handed treatment of her maid. Flying at him with fingers curled into claws, she raked her nails across his face, drawing blood, but with a backward swipe of his arm Ladislaus sent her stumbling away. She fared better than Ali and, though shaken, managed to retain her senses. Her fury remained undiminished, and she berated him in scathing tones. “You cowardly oaf, is this the best your brawn can display? Have you no courage to face one of your own size? Or does the dainty form serve your inflated valor better?”

Ivan Voronsky carefully kept his distance through this fray, justifying his lack of assistance by blandly dismissing the countess’s predicament as something she rightfully deserved. If she had garbed herself appropriately and given credence to his warnings, she might have escaped the rogue’s attention. He wasn’t about to draw notice to himself and court certain disaster because of her foolishness.

Synnovea tried to scurry past the thieving lordling in an effort to reach her maid, but she promptly found her way blocked. Her head snapped up in rising ire, and with lips curling in sneering distaste, she raked her gaze down his long form. Above hide breeches, a leather jerkin hung open to reveal a broad, muscular chest. His arms were bare and bulging with rippling sinews, evidencing a strength that could easily immobilize her. In all, he was a fine specimen of mighty brawn, but at the moment, she saw the epitome of a cruel beast.

Ladislaus stared into the most enraged green-brown eyes he had ever chanced to view. The flaring orbs fairly seared him in her hot displeasure. “You needn’t fret, Countess,” he consoled almost pleasantly. “Your servant will live through this with nothing more to boast about than a small bruise and an aching head.”

“Should I, then, be grateful for your gentle care of us, milord Ladislaus?” Synnovea sneered, offended by the fact that she and all who were with her were completely vulnerable to the frivolous whims of these black-hearted plunderers. “You halted my coach on this lonely road and gave your foul consent to your murderous band of cutthroats to do whatever mischief they might construe. You abused the captain of my guard and, by your twisted reasoning, cast him as the villain! You wounded my footman and now my maid. Would you, beastly tyrant , have me fall to my knees before you in humble apology for daring to travel where your bloodthirsty vipers lurk? Ha! ” With a toss of her head, Synnovea demonstrated her belief that such an idea was preposterous. “Were I armed, knave, you’d be breathing your last this very moment! That’s as much as I sympathize with your claims of ill-treatment from the hands of boyars! Whoever your father is, I’ve no doubt he fervently regrets the creature he spawned during a passing night’s whimsy.”

Ladislaus braced his massive fists against his hips and grinned in hearty amusement at her insults and logic. “I’m sure the old rascal has had much cause to repent that deed, for I give him no more homage than he has given me. ’Twas only his pride at finally siring a son after a brood of daughters that led him to have me tutored at all. He even tried to take me into his home after his wife died, but my pious little sisters couldn’t abide the idea of having a nameless whelp under the same roof. They chided him continually for bringing shame upon the family until he was forced to send me away. Aye, he saw me tutored with the best of them, but he gave me nothing else, not even a father’s affection.”

“I’m sure you’ve taken great delight in withholding your regard in return and bringing him a like amount of humiliation by becoming a thieving scoundrel,” Synnovea rejoined bitingly. “’Twould even seem you’ve extended your revenge by entrapping others in your devious exploits.”

“Your imagination is most vivid, Countess. I’m sure you’ll prove entertaining through the long winter nights ahead. But to say that I revel in retribution when I seize treasures as rare as you lends far too much credit to my vindictiveness. I assure you, my lady, I’m not a man to spite myself to gain recompense from an aging cur.”

Synnovea clenched her fists in the folds of her skirts, refusing to yield this brigand any show of hysteria. “I believe you’re nothing but a coward,” she sneered. “Even with nigh forty men under your command, you made your appearance well after the danger had passed, like some sly weasel fearful of coming out of his hole. Now you make brave noises while your men hold us at gunpoint.”

Ladislaus shrugged, unaffected by her criticism. “I keep my wits while others lose theirs. I watch until all things are made secure.”

“You’re nothing but a nameless cur who lurks in obscurity while your pack of wolves strip away the wealth of honest men!”

“Think what you will, my lady,” he invited, sauntering leisurely around her. “Your opinions are of little concern to me. They’ll change nothing.”

The lady was indeed one of exceptional beauty, he concluded. Readily visible were the regal looks of the highborn in her delicate features and lofty bearing. The green-lined brim of her hat was pinned to the crown on one side by an emerald-studded clasp and was reminiscent of those worn by foreign cavaliers. Upon her departure from the coach, it had lent her a jaunty appearance, but it now sat ridiculously askew atop her head. Her silky black tresses, once woven into a sedate chignon beneath the hat, had been disturbed by her recent mauling. Feathery wisps now flared outward from her temples, as if set on ends by her rage.

“Fate has surely been kind to me this eventide, bringing such a beautiful boyarina within my keeping,” he mused aloud. Reaching out a hand, he lightly rubbed his knuckles against a hotly flushed cheek. “I’m indeed honored by your presence, Countess.”

Synnovea flung off his hand and glared at him with all the defiance she could muster. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I fail to appreciate your sentiments, Rogue, for I most desperately abhor being your captive.”

“In time you’ll come to appreciate me, my lady. Most women do.”

“The stars will fall from the heavens before the event of such an occurrence!”

Ladislaus grinned back at her. Her fiery spirit had whisked away any lingering impression that she was a cold and haughty wench. Not even remotely so , he reflected in growing admiration. “My predictions will come true, Countess. They always do.”

“You boast absurdities,” Synnovea jeered in disdain. “I’ll never cease to abhor you and your kind! I can only pray that some miracle may spare me and my escort from the evil you and your foul followers plan.”

“Nothing short of a miracle will save you from what I intend, my lady,” he promised, his voice imbued with a huskiness that evidenced his deepening interest. “As for me, I’m sure I’ll enjoy this night with you as I have no other.”

Synnovea served quick death to the notion that her ravishment would be some tender interlude that he might leisurely savor. “Let me assure you that I’ll fight you with everything I’m capable of delivering.”

Ladislaus recognized the loathing distaste flaring in her eyes and lifted his shoulders in bland dismissal of her threat. “Be assured, Countess, your reluctance will be a welcome diversion from the women who squabble over me.”

Reaching up, he swept the hat from her head and plucked the brooch from its brim. He held up the bejeweled piece in a dimming shaft of light and then, turning aside to search out Petrov, tossed it to him. “A reward for you, my friend, for spying out the lady’s coach.”

The hulking brigand caught the gift between the palms of his hands and roared in glee as he considered it. “What say you, Ladislaus? This bauble be worthy of your attention.”

The lord-of-thieves caught Synnovea snugly against his side and held her in a steely vise. “Aye, Petrov, but the countess is a far more enticing piece, definitely a wench to warm me through the long winter to come.”

Petrov’s brow jutted sharply upward. “What you think Alyona will do when she learn you replace her with another captive?”

Ladislaus shrugged, unconcerned. “She’ll have to learn to share me.”

Petrov hooted in disbelief. “You take countess to bed, and Alyona will divide you into enough pieces to share with at least a dozen different women.”

Ignoring the other’s warning, Ladislaus sought to extract a sampling kiss from Synnovea, but in shivering aversion she turned her face away. “Let me go, you swine!”

“Not until I’ve pleasured myself with you,” he breathed, momentarily contenting himself with nuzzling her ear. “And maybe…just maybe…not even then.”

He swept an arm downward to encompass her voluminous skirts and, lifting her with an easy strength, dropped her over his shoulder, nearly jolting the breath from her. He glanced around in some wonder, detecting a sudden scuffling around Captain Nekrasov, who had kicked his mount forward in an attempt to rush to the defense of the maiden, but the officer’s steed was swiftly caught and firmly held by several ruffians who proceeded to drag the struggling man from the saddle.

“Come, now, Captain, you cannot expect to keep the countess for yourself. You’re only a servant of the tsar,” Ladislaus chided, jostling Synnovea as he repositioned her on his shoulder. At her frantic struggles, he whacked her across the buttocks with a broad hand, eliciting an enraged shriek.

“Let me go, you braying ass!” Reaching around, she clawed at his neck, only to have her hand swatted away like a pesky gnat. His stinging blow nettled her, and she railed in a temper. “ You…You filthy, baseborn beast! ”

Unconcerned with her epithets, Ladislaus returned to his stallion and, from there, barked a series of orders. When his men gaped back at him, he snapped, “Why do you gawk at me like dumbstruck fools? Must I repeat myself? Take whatever you can lay a hand to. Then ride back to camp and await me there. The men I sent to Moscow will be returning soon with our new compatriots, who’ll be famished for want of food after being shackled on the city streets. They’ll want to feast and rejoice in their newfound freedom, so make them welcome. I’ll return to the camp after I’ve sported with this wench a while, but don’t expect me too soon. If she proves worthy, the tsar may have to find himself another doxy.”

A surge of hope blossomed within Synnovea’s breast as she was lowered to the back of the black stallion. The reins had been left dangling across the steed’s neck, and a short, many-tongued lash hung from the saddle horn, very near at hand. Without pause, she seized the bridle in one hand, the whip in the other, and swept the latter across her captor’s face and arms, slashing at him again and again until she drew a curse from Ladislaus who reached up to snatch the lash from her grasp. Eluding his long fingers, she leaned back, bracing a slippered foot against the brigand’s hardened chest, and shoved with all of her might.

Ladislaus stumbled backward in keen surprise at the forcefulness of the lady’s thrusting kick. He was a man well-seasoned in contests of brawn, but he had marked this winsome maid too delicate to make such a determined onslaught. Even so, she was no serious match for a man.

Another backward swipe of Ladislaus’s hand knocked the whip aside, leaving the slender arm bruised and momentarily useless as it dropped limply into Synnovea’s lap. Clenching her jaw against the pain that throbbed through it, she jerked the reins with her other hand. Alas, the long fingers were there in an instant, snatching the lines from her. A frustrated cry threaded through her gnashing teeth as she kicked at him again and again, knowing all the while she didn’t have the stamina to oppose him beyond the length of a few moments, yet in spite of the odds against her, she was desperately, stubbornly committed to the struggle.

In the next breadth of a heartbeat, Synnovea became aware of just how frail her efforts were against such a man. Ladislaus thrust a broad hand beneath her skirts and squeezed her knee, drawing a shocked gasp from her. When she shoved at his chest, his grip tightened until she could feel his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. The pressure swiftly intensified to an excruciating degree brutally intended to force her to yield, and yield she finally did.

Having won the skirmish, if not the war of wills, Ladislaus loosened his grip and stroked his hand admiringly over her naked thigh. Synnovea’s shocked reaction was hardly subdued. Her eyes flashed with fiery indignation, and with a low, rising shriek of rage, she hauled back an arm and delivered a blow to his cheek with enough force to make his ears ring. It certainly left her arm stinging.

“Take your filthy hands off me, you vulgar viper!” she snarled. “The tsar will have your head for this!”

Ladislaus glared up at her as he withdrew his hand from her skirts and wiped the backs of his knuckles across a reddened cheek. “Before that day arrives, Countess,” he rumbled, “your precious tsar will have to find more capable men to catch me. And though rumors are in the wind that he has hired foreign cavaliers to instruct his Russian soldiers in the art of war, they shan’t defeat me. There is none in his army whom I haven’t already bested. Look you yonder if you doubt my words.” Sweeping his arm about, he indicated her escort of soldiers, who were being crowded together at gunpoint. Bestowing his attention upon her once more, Ladislaus clasped her wrists, holding her fast as his eyes bore into hers. “If you’re foolish enough to hope that some brave champion will save you, Countess, then consider now your wayward reasoning.” He thrust out his chin to indicate Captain Nekrasov, who had been trussed up tightly. He then swept a hand toward Ivan Voronsky, whose outrage had reached its zenith now that he was being forced to shed his clothes. “You see? No one will come to your rescue. It is useless for you to struggle.”

Synnovea curled her fingers, trying to claw the brigand’s face again, but she could do little more than vow through gnashing teeth, “You’ll pay for this offense, Ladislaus. You’ll be caught, tried, and hanged. And I’ll be there to see it! I promise you that!”

He laughed at her pitiful threats. “On the contrary, Countess, you’ll be the one taken and used. You’ll be my prisoner as long as I choose to keep you….”

His words were suddenly lost in a deafening roar of exploding pistols as a sudden din filled the forest glade. Ladislaus jerked around with a surprise start just as three of his men crumpled to the ground. Momentarily aghast, he watched a fourth fall forward in the saddle and slowly tumble to the ground, where he lay in grotesque oblivion with eyes staring sightless toward an ever-darkening sky.

In the next instant the narrow pass echoed with another loud volley that fused with the thunder of clattering hooves as a large detachment of mounted soldiers raced into view. Leading the charge was a dust-covered, helmeted officer who brandished a sword high above his head while his stallion surged far ahead of his troop, deep into the midst of the startled highwaymen. In roweling fear the miscre ants scattered, stumbling over each other in their haste to flee from this avenging demon.

It was a full moment before the realization dawned on them that this particular officer dared far more than those who followed him. At Petrov’s rallying shout, the thieves turned and, with savage eagerness, swarmed around the foolish mortal, intending to drag him from his saddle and deal him a death blow. Alas, they were fools to think that they could kill him so easily. Like a ruthless warrior, the man filled the air with screams of dying men as he swept his blade about in a vicious, venging quest. One after another fell beneath the deadly stroke of his sword until fear again pierced the hearts of the bandits, prompting many to flee.

If Ladislaus had recently boasted that none could defeat him, then it soon became evident that this officer would be equally difficult to overcome. He seemed impervious to the paltry attempts of his attackers as he struck left and right. It was not until a huge, barrel-chested Goliath, standing at the outer limits of the fray, took up a lance and threw it toward the valiant intruder that the hearts of his foes were encouraged. The spear caught the cavalier’s helmet and sent it flying, leaving the man reeling unsteadily in the saddle. Hearty cheers arose from his enemies. Much heartened, they began to scramble toward him again.

The rush of elation that Synnovea had briefly experienced when she first espied the officer was rapidly transformed into a deepening anxiety as she saw her would-be deliverer brace an arm across his stallion’s withers and shake his head in what seemed a feeble effort to clear his muddled senses. His life hung in precarious balance as the rabble surged back toward him, and though Synnovea prayed fervently that he would recover his wits before they hacked him asunder, that dire fate seemed imminent.

Their zeal renewed, the thieves scrambled forward to finish their prey, confident now that he would soon feel the full thrust of their revenge. Perhaps none anticipated that event more than Ladislaus, who watched from the outer limits of the conflict where he held Synnovea captive. A full dozen of his men gave vent to deafening bellows of triumph, already celebrating their victory as they launched their attack, but just as before, their expectations were soon daunted. Though stunned, the officer reacted with well-versed skill, fully aware of the danger he was in. Spinning his horse about in a tight circle to keep his foes at bay, he swung the heavy sword outward in a broad sweep, nearly beheading those who dared the most. When he finally fought clear of his daze, the reddened blade flashed again with more clever aim, flailing its victims and leaving them moaning or reeling lifeless to the ground.

Synnovea saw the officer’s searching gaze reach beyond the melee surrounding him and ferret her out. In that moment he seemed much more than a man to her, though his hair was matted close to his head with sweat and his dirtsmudged face was hardly more than an indistinct blur in the rapidly deepening twilight. His breast of armor was tarnished, dented, and now liberally smeared with blood. Still, if she had ever formed a vision of a knight in resplendent trappings, he was all of that and more to her in that brief moment of time.

Seeing his enemy capable of giving chase, Ladislaus shouted a command for his cohorts to depart and swung up behind his captive, slamming his hard body against her back. He cared not a speck for the bruises she suffered. He was far more concerned with making good his own escape. Jerking the reins, he wheeled the steed about and kicked the gleaming flanks, sending the animal racing away in full retreat.

Synnovea soon found some comfort in the fact that the arm that was clasped about her was strong and fully capable of holding her secure. Otherwise she might have found herself dashed upon the ground, for the stallion fairly flew along the trail. He was of mixed Frisian breeding: strong, long of limb, and swift of pace. He could easily outdistance the short-legged breeds common to Russia. Yet when Ladislaus yanked the animal about to survey the path be hind him, Synnovea saw to her relief that the officer had given chase and was actually gaining on them. The warrior-thief was equally surprised, for his breath caught in a sharp gasp of astonishment.

Reining his mount abruptly about again, Ladislaus cursed savagely and kicked the animal into a frightening race through the trees. The solid trunks were merely swiftly passing shadows in the darkening copse, and though Synnovea held her breath in paralyzed apprehension of that moment when disaster would halt them with a crushing collision, in a corner of her mind she found herself amazed by the agility of the steed. Without a doubt, the stallion was swift and nimble-footed, the man who rode him of equal merit. Still, the pair who gave chase followed like baying hounds led eagerly onward by the scent of their prey.

Synnovea winced as the lower branches snatched at them with ferocious greed, cruelly tearing at her bound tresses and opening long rents in her sleeves. She lifted a hand to shield her face from the spiny claws that slashed at her, but reddened weals were raised repeatedly across her arms. She prayed desperately that the punishing ride would soon come to a swift and safe conclusion, yet when she glimpsed an opening up ahead, her fear intensified into a sudden concern that they would actually escape. In rising panic she glanced over her shoulder, but her captor’s bulk prevented any glimpse of the trail behind them. Nor could she hear anything beyond the fury of their own passing. The stallion’s thudding hooves, the whipping branches, and the harsh breathing of the man who held her seemed to coalesce into a numbing roar in her ears.

Finally they broke into the clearing, and Ladislaus once again turned his mount to apprise himself of the whereabouts of the officer. Heretofore no steed had equaled the speed of his own beast. After the wild plunge through the trackless forest, Ladislaus fully expected to find himself far ahead of the other. It was indeed a shock to see just how little distance actually remained between himself and the one who gave chase.

It was no more than the pause of a breath before the ominous shape of the dark chestnut stallion and its rider charged out of the trees nearly on top of them. Synnovea smothered a startled scream, certain the forceful advance would kill them all. She glimpsed piercing steel-blue eyes beneath sharply scowling brows and, with a sickening dread, awaited the collision, feeling much akin to a helpless sparrow about to be broken by the swift assault of this fierce, hunting hawk.

Ladislaus jerked his arm free and fumbled for his knife, but in the next instant the one who pursued launched himself from his steed. He slammed into Ladislaus and, by some strange miracle, left Synnovea still mounted as he swept the thief out of the saddle. She heard an audible thud as the two men hit the ground. She glanced down over the horse’s flank and caught the flash of Ladislaus’s dagger as it was lifted high. Another hand shot upward to clasp the sturdy wrist and gradually forced the blade backward, away from its mark. A second later, the rustling of dry leaves and the thud of hard-clenched fists meeting solid flesh attested to the fierce struggle of the two men.

While they grappled beneath him, the now-skittish stallion pranced nervously and stirred up small clouds of dust. Faced with the imminent threat of the animal panicking and racing away with her, Synnovea tried to subdue not only her own deepening dread but the steed as well. Slowly she stroked the black’s neck and spoke to him in soft, cajoling tones, all the while cautiously searching for the dangling reins.

Of a sudden, Ladislaus’s head was launched backward from the force of a well-delivered blow. It thumped into the underbelly of the steed, and in the next instant Synnovea found herself fighting to keep her seat as the horse, shrieking in fright, reared on his hind legs and pawed at the air with his forelegs. Twisting her hands in the flying mane, she clung to it in desperation, fully aware of the danger of being swept off the black’s back as the two men fought beneath her with a knife.

The front hooves of the crazed horse struck earth briefly, hardly enough time for Synnovea to resettle herself before he took a bounding leap forward. Her heart matched the long, vaulting stride as she was nearly catapulted from the saddle. It was a terrifying, zigzagging flight through the same trees they had passed moments earlier. Though her pulse kept pace with startling jolts and frantic skips, Synnovea tried not to yield to the foolishness of panic. She knew she had to gain control of the stallion before she found herself the victim of her own unbridled hysteria, but it was nigh impossible to barricade herself against the cold, prickling fear that assailed her.

Leaning forward over the animal’s neck, Synnovea flowed with his movements in a concerted effort to allay his fright. She spoke in a forcefully subdued voice as she tried again to capture a flying rein, but the threat of falling inhibited her reach. Again and again she was forced to retreat to the security of the flying mane. Then, as she stretched out a hand once more in the same fearful quest, a low branch flipped the rein upward, projecting it within easy reach. Anxiously Synnovea swooped her hand around to catch it and, in sobbing relief, clutched the leather strap in her trembling grasp. Good fortune was with her, for hardly a moment later, she managed to capture the second rein in a similar fashion.

Success rallied Synnovea’s spirits. Grasping the lines securely, she claimed a small measure of control over the beast, at least enough to turn him onto the path that would lead them back to where the carriage had been halted. Even so, the stallion was reluctant to show his stride, and though she could see the dark shadow of the conveyance through the ever-deepening gloom, Synnovea could not establish enough restraint on the headstrong animal to lend her assurance that she’d be able to halt him once they reached the area.

Captain Nikolai Nekrasov was sitting near the coach, having submitted himself to the well-practiced care of his sergeant, who was presently bandaging his arm. When the sound of thudding hoofbeats drew his attention toward the lane, he glanced around with a start, fully expecting to see one or more of the thieves returning for their plunder. Espying his charge approaching at an alarming speed, the officer jumped to his feet and shouted orders for his men to form a barrier across the road as he rushed forward to await the charging animal with arms spread wide.

The stallion proved to have a mind of his own. He came to a stiff-legged, jolting halt a short distance from the human trap and then, rearing, thrashed the air with his front hooves. It seemed his intent to continue his flight when he came down again, for his eyes flicked about in search of an avenue of escape, but as the sergeant jumped forward and seized the bridle, Captain Nekrasov whisked Synnovea from the saddle, ignoring the pain that shot through his injured arm as he swept her to safety. The stallion danced sideways in wild-eyed alarm, but the sergeant’s soothing voice and reassuring strokes soon quieted the animal until he finally acquiesced to the gentle hand.

Synnovea leaned in trembling relief against Captain Nekrasov as the strength ebbed from her shaking limbs. For a moment she yielded herself to the comforting embrace of the officer’s arm, hardly realizing the full extent of his admiration as his gaze dipped briefly into her torn bodice. Gradually the Russian officer released his constricted breath and regained control of his racing senses. The faint brush of his lips against her hair seemed accidental as he continued to lend her support, but when she caught the sound of Ali’s weak, plaintive plea, Synnovea gave him no further heed.

“Me lamb,” the servant mewled as the driver stopped bathing her brow long enough to lift her upright. “Come here an’ let me see for meself that no harm has come ta ye.”

Synnovea ran to her maid and submitted herself to the woman’s inspection while she made her own assessments of the elder’s condition. A massive black bruise now marred the wrinkled chin, and even in the meager light, Ali’s pallor was easily discernible.

The exertion proved too much for the tiny maid. Mewling a fretful moan, she collapsed into the supporting arms of the coachman, concluding the worst as she considered her mistress’s tattered condition. “Oh, me lamb! Me lamb! What did that foul beastie do ta ye?”

Synnovea soothed the elder’s fears as she sank to her knees beside her. “I’ve suffered a few minor scratches and bruises, Ali, nothing more, thanks to the tsar’s officer who came to my rescue.”

Ali softly sobbed in relief. “Thank the blessed heavens ye’ve been spared. An’ thank Cap’n Nekrasov for comin’ ta yer aid.”

Synnovea squeezed the small hand reassuringly. “It was another officer who saved me, Ali. He led his men in an attack against the brigands. We’re safe now.”

“If only I could’ve seen the event meself,” the maid murmured weakly. “I’d have enjoyed seein’ that big lummox gettin’ his comeuppance.” Barely had she said that than the aging eyelids sagged closed. Heaving a weary sigh, Ali drifted off.

Synnovea met the gaze of her gray-haired driver as she pushed herself to her feet. “You’d better carry Ali to the coach now, Stenka. She can rest there until we’re under way again.” In caring concern Synnovea continued to fret as she walked beside them. “Gently, now. Ali has had the worst of the fray.”

“Jozef and I will take care of her, mistress. Have no fear,” Stenka replied kindly and then coaxed, “You’d better see to yourself now, mistress, considering the bad fright you’ve had.”

“I will, Stenka,” Synnovea murmured and then noticed the bandage that had been wrapped around the footman’s head. Laying a hand upon his sleeve, she claimed his attention. “Your wound, Jozef—is it serious?”

Jozef shook his head and grinned. “No, my lady, but there’s a hole in my ear large enough to put a cork through.”

“Some lady will find that convenient,” Stenka remarked with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “She’ll lead him about by the ear instead of the nose.”

Synnovea patted the footman’s arm in a conciliatory manner and managed a smile. “You’d better be wary, Jozef. In Moscow there are plenty of pretty maids who’ll take advantage and lead you astray.”

“I shall watch for them with great eagerness, my lady,” Jozef promised her with a chortle.

Satisfied that Ali was in capable hands, Synnovea lent her attention to their immediate departure. Nikolai’s men had suffered only minor wounds and were hurriedly repacking the carriage. The detachment of soldiers who had come to their rescue had given chase to the band of thieves, and no member of either force could now be seen. A short distance from the coach, the ground was littered with the dead, and from what she could ascertain in the swiftly gathering darkness, the highwaymen were the only ones who had suffered loss, for she could see no Russian uniform among the dead. Anxious to be gone before the raiders returned to reclaim their booty, Synnovea faced Captain Nekrasov with a query. “Shouldn’t we leave here before we’re attacked again?”

Nikolai Nekrasov was in full agreement and urged his men to double their efforts. “We must make haste to take the countess to a place of safety. Finish loading whatever is left and let us be off before we find ourselves once again beset by the brigands.”

Synnovea realized she hadn’t seen the cleric since her return and glanced around in some bewilderment. “But where is Ivan Voronsky?”

Captain Nekrasov raised his able arm to point toward a shadowed area beyond a clump of tall trees in the distance. Frowning in bemusement, Synnovea stared in the direction he indicated until a vague, pale blur became distinguishable as the leaf-shrouded form of a small, naked man. “They stole away his clothes, Countess, and every spare piece of clothing we had with us as well. We’ve nothing to share with him.”

Synnovea debated the alternatives. Ivan had been so critical of her European gowns, she didn’t think he’d accept such frivolous finery even out of necessity. Ruefully she advised, “’Twould seem there’s no choice but to search for clothing among the fallen.”

“I’ve already assigned that task to one of my men, my lady,” Nikolai informed her. “Though the selection may not meet with the cleric’s approval, there should be enough to clothe him.”

Synnovea silently demurred at the idea of undressing the dead and quickly excused herself. “I’ll wait in the coach with Ali.”

Though night quickly overtook them, Synnovea and her small party of attendants were soon on the road again. The pace was more cautious now as the moon cast ominous shadows far ahead of them. Each bend in the road was carefully approached. Still, the air was cooler and far better tolerated than the oppressive heat of the day.

Once again, Synnovea had to endure the presence of Ivan Voronsky, but this time he wasn’t at all inclined to argue after being so thoroughly humiliated. When he talked at all, he mumbled angry insinuations against Captain Nekrasov and his men, convinced that they had been motivated by spite to find the most obnoxious, most malodorous garments available. The outlandishly large breeches and leather doublet reeked of old sweat and garlic, a combination which made it imperative for the diligent application of a scented handkerchief.

Synnovea refrained from placating Ivan’s complaints, preferring instead to keep the filtering cloth in place so she wouldn’t have to tolerate the stench. She was also appreciative of the darkness that hid whatever gory stains bedecked the garb, for she preferred complete ignorance of the type of death wound the previous owner had suffered.

They were well on their way again before the realization dawned on Synnovea that she had made no effort to send out her escort in search of the officer who had ridden after her. The possibility that he was lying wounded or dead in the forest made her own lack of concern seem shamefully devoid of compassion, especially since he had risked his life to save her. In seeking her own security, she had dismissed any consideration for the safety and comfort of the officer. Utterly scandalized by her disregard for such a valiant soldier, she knew she’d find little relief from the fretting anxiety that now gnawed at her.