10.2

“Oh!”

Though the syllable was barely audible, Synnovea wielded the fan with disconcerted haste, heedless of the chill in the air.

Indeed, she was nigh suffocating from the hot blush sweeping over her.

She chanced a sidelong glance at Natasha to see what the woman might have garnered from his comment, but even after being reassured that nothing untoward had been noted by her friend, the nervous rhythm of her heart refused to slow.

“Well, no matter,”

she hurried to add in disarray, filling the empty space of their exchange with shaky comments.

“That seems so long ago now! Weeks have flown.”

“Have they?”

Tyrone’s voice was warmly hushed as his eyes plumbed the depths of hers.

“I was sure it was only yesterday, but then, I relive the experience daily nightly…and every hour of my waking.”

Synnovea would have fled in whatever direction had allowed for an easy escape, but when she looked in frantic appeal to Natasha and found the woman smiling in smug satisfaction, it required no mean mental feat for her to realize their hostess was absolutely delighted by the colonel’s ability to scatter her wits and dismantle her defenses.

Gathering her sundered poise by the grit of her teeth, Synnovea tapped her fan lightly upon Tyrone’s forearm to rebuke him for his brazen reminder.

“Perhaps you should give your imagination a rest.

Colonel.

It seems to be caught in a definite rut.”

Tyrone’s lips twitched with humor as his eyes lightly caressed her.

“I assure you.

Countess, my imagination ranges far afield, but usually well within the confines of the same subject.”

Synnovea struggled to subdue the fiery heat that continued to surge upward into her cheeks.

She could perceive the particular quintessence of the man’s dreams if he allowed his mind to dwell on what he had already seen.

No doubt she had been mauled and ravished a score or more times in his fantasies.

Whipping up her flagging will, Synnovea won a small battle with her composure and lightly stroked the fan back and forth along his arm.

Had she given vent to her true feelings, she might have used the delicate apparatus in a more vengeful quest and wiped that maddening grin from his lips.

A slap across the cheek was definitely what the blackguard deserved for being so forward, but it would hardly serve her purpose.

“You’ve come to my rescue so often.

Colonel, I fear I’ve lost count.

I can only hope that you’re as kind to me in your musings.

I wouldn’t want to admonish you for being coarse.”

Tyrone chuckled softly at her reproof, allowing that she had just cause to blush, for his fantasies were indeed sensual and not meant for sharing with a young innocent.

“I sometimes find myself a victim of my dreams.

Countess, but may I assuage your worries with a pledge of my devotion?”

“A pledge will hardly suffice,”

Synnovea responded, managing to tease him with a bewitchingly winsome pout.

She didn’t feel the least bit vindicated by his feeble excuse and was tempted to extract some further revenge.

“I’ll need proof of your claim, Colonel, and since I haven’t seen you of late, you can probably understand how I might think you’re only toying with my affections.”

Natasha restrained the urge to roll her eyes in disbelief as she witnessed the sassy flirtation.

She was now reasonably confident that the Englishman could take care of himself, but when the cannons of Synnovea’s warfare were loaded to the hilt and primed to blow the man’s heart right out of his chest, she found it difficult to remain distantly detached.

Doubting her ability to curb her interference, she begged leave of the couple, fervently hoping the girl’s scheme wouldn’t result in another deadly duel.

“You’ll watch after Synnovea, won’t you, Tyrone? I promised Princess Anna that I’d keep her well guarded.”

Natasha smiled as she gave a little shrug.

“I just never committed myself to doing so entirely alone.”

A lopsided grin once again made an appearance, nearly bedazzling Natasha, who had seen a goodly share of handsome men in her lifetime.

She just hoped that when the fray ended, this prime specimen of the male gender wouldn’t be so outdone with her young friend that he’d sail back to England on the first ship available.

“’Twill be my greatest delight to devote myself entirely to the task, Lady Natasha,”

he declared magnanimously.

The woman patted his arm almost in sympathy.

“Take care of yourself, Tyrone.”

He gave her a clipped nod that sufficed as a bow.

“I can assure you, Lady Natasha, that I’ve tried my best to do that for most of my life.”

“Please continue,”

she said encouragingly and tossed a meaningful glance toward Synnovea.

Turning from the couple, she joined the pair of elderly ladies who were now giggling like adolescents as they sipped wine and reminisced on days of old.

Tyrone was fully conscious of the long-coveted gift he had just been granted.

Having been restricted from Synnovea’s company until now, he found himself feasting upon her stirring beauty.

“’Tis true enough that you’ve held my thoughts and dreams entangled, Synnovea,”

he breathed softly.

“Any man would be hard-pressed to forget what I have seen.”

Synnovea groaned inwardly at his audacious reminder.

“I’m not accustomed to flaunting myself in front of men, Colonel, and I would take it much amiss if you were to speak to anyone about the incident in the bathhouse or anything else that would cause me shame, including your visit to my chambers.”

“No need to fear, Synnovea.

I shall continue to guard our secrets with utmost diligence,”

he averred softly.

Synnovea’s qualms were eased by his gentle pledge, allowing her to sip her wine.

“I fear I’ve been much beset by worry, Colonel,”

she admitted.

“My mother was English, you see, and she instilled within me an aversion to bathing in public.

You were my first encounter to the converse.”

The blue eyes kindled brightly.

“I’m glad no other man has seen the treasures I’ve beheld.”

In all of her trips abroad and those taken within the borders of Russia, Synnovea couldn’t remember a time when she had beheld more beautiful eyes.

They were definitely not the gray she had first supposed when she had glimpsed them in the forest and then later probed in the shadowed bathhouse.

In the glow of the nearby candles they seemed almost an azure hue rimmed by deeper sapphire.

In contrast to his warmly bronzed face, they were all the more vivid, but the same sun which had darkened his skin had also bleached his neatly clipped hair.

Lighter strands capped the top of his head and streaked the darker tawny brown at his temples.

The bruises and swelling were no longer in evidence, and what Synnovea now saw before her made her realize that All’s declaration could no longer be challenged.

Tyrone Rycroft was an exceptionally handsome man.

Synnovea offered him a beguiling smile.

“I was certain Anna had been successful in frightening you off.”

The blue eyes twinkled back at her.

“She only made me more determined to impress His Majesty.”

“Pray tell me, sir, how have you fared in that endeavor?”

Synnovea asked, deliberately positioning her battery of arms as she leaned forward to set her half-filled goblet upon a nearby table.

A candelabra sitting atop the gleaming wooden surface cast forth the radiance of a dozen tapers, the warmly flickering flow of which pierced the scalloped white lace that lay like a hazy veil over her bosom.

“I’m not exactly sure,”

Tyrone replied huskily as his gaze probed the translucent cloth.

Her young breasts seemed to glow with a luster of their own and were just as tempting as he had recalled.

“His Majesty has yet to grant my request.”

Though Synnovea had been admired by men in the past, this was like some potent nectar she had never sipped before, a full, heady draught that made her breasts tingle and her senses come alive.

Basking in this new, indescribable awakening, she traced a slender finger around the rim of her glass, averse to curbing the titillating excitement he had awakened within her.

“And what request was that, Colonel?”

“The very same that I declared to you when Princess Anna turned me away from her door—to pay court to you.”

Tyrone replenished his memory with a more rewarding view into her decolletage as he bent forward to claim the goblet she caressed.

When he lifted the glass and his gaze, his warmly glowing eyes delved into hers as he sipped the brew.

“In truth, my lady, you’ve become my heart’s desire.”

Synnovea smoothed his lace cuff, allowing her fingers to lightly caress the back of his lean hand.

“Do I dare ask how many maids you’ve sworn the same to, Colonel?”

“Ask on,”

Tyrone whispered, advancing a step closer, “and I will answer ‘None.’”

“How is it that you’ve escaped the banns of marriage so long, then? I’d guess you to be of an age….”

“A score, ten, and two, my lady,”

he murmured, sampling her fragrance.

“Old enough to be properly wed, then… if you’ve lent as much heed to other maids as you’ve recently bestowed upon me.

Or mayhap you’ve been the one pursued and have denied any the chance to catch you.”

“I must admit that I enjoy initiating the chase, my lady.”

“Ah, then there have been other ladies whom you’ve fancied,”

Synnovea gently prodded.

Under his close attention, she felt as flighty as a bird in hand.

“Are there other maids as worthy of a man’s attention as you are?”

Tyrone breathed warmly.

“I haven’t noticed any, if they do indeed exist.”

“Are you really so intent upon courting me?”

“Aye,”

he whispered without hesitation, moving forward until his thighs pressed into the fullness of her wide skirts.

The smoldering blue embers touched her lips, and unwittingly Synnovea yielded their softness to his visual caress, parting them as she drew a shaky breath.

She had no idea what sorcerer’s enchantment he used upon her.

Beneath his lingering stare, she could almost feel his mouth moving upon hers.

Much entranced, she watched again as he tasted the edge of the goblet where she had sipped.

“Ah, a most delectable brew.”

He sighed above the rim.

“It seems as if years have passed since I tasted its equal in your coach.”

Synnovea mentally shook herself free from the fascination of his unswerving gaze and flicked a glance about the room in an effort to subdue the delicious tumult within her.

Had she quaffed several glasses of wine, she would have felt no less giddy.

All around them, guests were involved in animated conversations.

It didn’t seem to matter that some were no more than a score in age, while others were three times as old; each seemed imbued with a zeal and a passion for life.

Those who were more mature had certainly made the most of their lives, as well as of their fortunes, and had no need to draw succor from the adventures, accomplishments, or affairs of others.

The younger ones were on their way to making their own lives noteworthy and were eager to learn from the experiences of the elders.

Comfortably absent from the affair were the gossipmongers who were ravenous for any delectable tidbit.

Her companion reached past her to set the goblet on the table, causing Synnovea to catch her breath and stumble back in surprise as she felt his velvet-clad arm brush boldly across her breast.

Though it might have been a chance encounter, every instinct within her denied the possibility.

More disturbing was the delicious thrill that catapulted through her, searing holes in her carefully contrived facade of cool restraint.

Synnovea’s widened eyes chased upward to meet the colonel’s closely attentive regard.

As she searched his visage, a tawny brow rose in challenging amusement, as if he dared her to accuse him of some dastardly crime when both of them were aware that she had intentionally teased him.

For Synnovea, it was like coming up against a cold, hard reality.

The Englishman was no untried youth whom she could blithely lead along with engaging words and flirtatious smiles.

He knew the game far better than she and had accepted her ploy as an invitation.

That realization made her question her own wisdom in selecting such a man for her gambit.

When Tyrone Rycroft was able to see clearly through her subterfuge, how could she hope to successfully maneuver him into a compromising situation and still expect to remain unscathed when it was obvious he had every intention of ushering her to a fate she fervently wished to avoid?

In contrast to his audacity, her strategy seemed suddenly seriously flawed, for he was progressing with greater dispatch than she, in her naivete, could safely handle.

The alacrity with which he was advancing would see her tossed upon her back and divested of her virginity before she even had a chance to reach his quarters.

“I must be excused for a moment,”

she begged unsteadily, knowing she had to think this matter through once again, just to make sure she wanted to subject herself to perils that appeared much more real now.

Of a surety, her courage needed bolstering if she meant to carry through with her ruse.

In truth, she felt as if she had just been bombarded by a volley of cannonballs.

“May I be of some assistance, my lady?”

Tyrone asked with exaggerated politeness.

She seemed so distraught by his touch, he wondered if he might have mistaken her enticement.

“You appear…disturbed.”

Recognizing the esprit in his wayward smile, Synnovea lifted a hand to halt his advance.

She had to keep her wits well aligned or all would be lost.

She didn’t need him touching or wooing her at the present moment, not when she had to escape to some haven where she could recapture some semblance of intrepidity.

She shook her head and sought to step past him.

“I must go.”

“Perhaps a glass of wine will help soothe you,”

Tyrone suggested, deftly catching her fingers within his and bestowing a gentle kiss upon them.

He was reluctant to see her leave, for he was not at all sure she’d return, and if she fled now, it appeared unlikely she’d ever allow him to see her again.

“I must go!”

Synnovea gasped again, astonished by the way her fingers trembled beneath his lips.

Disentangling them from his grasp, she pressed her palm against his broad chest, growing increasingly wary of being detained.

“Please stand aside, Colonel.”

“Will you come back?”

The tawny brow jutted upward again.

“Or should I forget that we ever met?”

Though the inquiry was quietly spoken, the vulnerable disappointment in his tone pierced her heart.

Pausing, she stared up at him in amazement.

As she probed the depths of those translucent orbs which observed her with a shadowed reserve in return, she realized that this was no casual game for Tyrone Rycroft.

He was serious about having her for his own.

Synnovea’s panic began to ebb as she recognized his dedication to winning her.

How could a man force a woman to yield to his ardent bent when he seemed so sensitive to the possibility of losing her? A tentative smile curved her lips as she traced a trembling finger along the silk cording that trimmed his doublet.

“I need a few moments to myself, Colonel, that is all, but I’ll be back.

That much I promise you,”

she vowed in a hushed voice.

“Will you wait for me?”

“As long as it takes,”

Tyrone replied, gathering her slender fingers within his again and bending over them.

His kisses lingered warmly upon her skin, evoking feelings that she could not fully explain, an incredibly stirring experience that flooded her heart with tenderness and a strange sense of joy.

She felt as if she were melting inside and leaned toward him, brushing her fingers almost lovingly over his closely cropped hair, When he straightened to search her face, she drew back, a blush suffusing her cheeks.

Synnovea dared not test the strength of her voice, and with an inarticulate murmur, she left him staring after her in some bemusement as she fled across the hall.

Ali’s absence allowed Synnovea the solitude she desper ately needed to find in her bedchambers.

Though she sought to bring some clarity to her thoughts, she paced about like a caged animal, finding no rational solution for what she was experiencing.

If by his mere presence the colonel could suffuse her being with feelings that closely resembled a gentle regard and then, in the next moment, send her senses reeling giddily out of control, a definite chasm existed between what he had awakened within her and the apathy she had felt toward her betrothed.

It only affirmed what she had known all along: she’d never be content with Vladimir as her husband.

Pushing open a window, Synnovea leaned back against the frame and gazed out upon the starlit sky.

She needed the bracing chill of the night air to clear her mind and to cool her skin after the heat of Tyrone’s kisses.

Yet, as the moon came out from behind a cloud, a movement across the thoroughfare drew her attention.

Shading her eyes against the flickering radiance of the candles burning in her room, she peered intently through the lantern-lit darkness until two shadowy figures standing side by side became discernible.

It was a moment before she recognized the shorter one as Prince Aleksei.

She could only assume his hulking companion was one of the rogues he had hired to watch her, but she found that one’s appearance oddly troubling.

Though the man’s head was covered with a karakul similar to those worn by Mongolians in bygone years, his powerful frame seemed hauntingly familiar.

Aleksei swaggered forward with unmeasured confidence and settled his hands on his narrow hips.

Assured of her undivided attention, he threw back his head and roared his mirth to the night sky.

Synnovea stiffened, feeling scalded by the mocking sound.

He was laughing at her, scorning whatever hopes she had of escaping him.

Of a sudden, Synnovea regained her fortitude with an intensity that would have shocked the prince had he known he had been instrumental in perfecting it.

Like a full-blown temptress, she addressed her attention to her appearance, preparing it for a more thorough siege.

Resolved to show no clemency lest she find herself wedded and bedded forthwith, she readjusted her laces, cinching her slender waist tighter while loosening her bodice to a more tempting degree.

No matter the extent of Tyrone’s experience with the fairer gender, she was now committed to setting him back upon his heels with a more impassioned courtship.

And if Natasha’s warnings about the hazards of pushing a man beyond his limits were correct, then Synnovea silently vowed to make him fairly quake with frustration until he felt compelled to fly to his apartments with her.

Synnovea examined the results of her revamping both fore and aft in the tall looking glass and pronounced herself fit and trim.

Surely no seaworthy galleon had ever been outfitted for battle with the same equipage and weapons she possessed within her cache, but this fine vessel of womanly softness was rigged for a most unusual contest, the entrapment and studied rebuff of no pompous youth, but a man well versed in the art of seduction.

Synnovea descended the stairs with measured tread as her gaze slipped past the colonnades into the great hall.

The candles had been snuffed around the outer perimeter of the room, lending emphasis to a flaming wreath of tapers that encircled a blind balladeer recounting a tale of a princely warrior and a beautiful maiden.

The guests were enthralled by the poetic lilt of his voice and seemed to hang on every word as the man wove his magic.

Tyrone Rycroft proved the singular exception.

He had joined several men in the great hall, but by the swiftness with which his eyes reached her, Synnovea could believe he had been watching eagerly for her return.

He promptly excused himself from his companions and seemed to move through the guests with only one purpose in mind, for his eyes never strayed from her.

When he entered the vaulted alcove enclosing the stairs, those deeply hued orbs measured every detail of her, much like an avid collector of art might assess a treasured piece.

Synnovea had no difficulty recalling that he had seen and perhaps even understood things about her that no one else ever would.

When his eyes touched her hair, she knew he had seen the glory of it tumbling down her naked back.

When his gaze dipped to her bosom, it was as if he but brought to mind the sight of those pale spheres glistening wetly in the warm glow of the lanterns. Even when his perusal swept down the length of her skirts, he seemed to probe the fullness for some hint of the sleek limbs that he had once viewed.

Synnovea shivered at the wealth of emotions his slow, meticulous inspection elicited.

Upon halting on the last step, she tried to snatch her mind free from the slavery of her thoughts, yet the impressions remained, merging with memories of their first encounter, when he had lifted her from the murky depths of the dark waters and she had clung to his manly form.

Her breasts almost ached with a vivid reminder of that moment when she had been caught against his steely hard chest.

In her mind’s eye she could see the fascinating play of muscles across his wide shoulders, the rippling sinews along his ribs, and the taut, flat belly, so briefly glimpsed and yet keenly defined in her mind, with its tracing of hair that mentally led her eye downward to the pure manly heat of him.

Synnovea took a deep breath and released it in a long, shuddering sigh, strangely excited by the wantonness she was experiencing and would have to surreptitiously convey, yet fearful of tempting this man beyond the threshold through which she’d find no easy retreat.

Dragging her mettle up the full length of her spine, she sought to demonstrate a serenity that one might expect of a maiden sheathed in ice, yet inwardly she trembled with the danger of being caught in the vortex of her own growing involvement in this game of enticement.

As he halted before her, Synnovea could do naught but submit to the flame burning in those darkly translucent orbs.

He slipped a hand behind her waist, and her breath nigh halted.

Delicious shivers rippled up her spine as his lean fingers lightly strummed the laces at the back of her bodice.

“You’re even more beautiful than when you left a cen tury ago,”

Tyrone breathed, leaning provocatively near to indulge himself in her heady fragrance.