14

The guests finally took their leave of the bridal chambers, and the stout, wooden outer portal was closed, allowing the groom to secure the bolt against the possibility of any prankish deed befalling them.

When a few of his fellow officers had lingered to advise him on the schooling of a virgin, Tyrone had nodded with museful care, and though he had appeared to listen to every word, his thoughts had wandered.

His judgment was not so sluggish that he couldn’t discount most of his companions’ suggestions as irrelevant.

If he held true to his resolve, then surely their counsel was for naught even if he were of a bent to use it, which was hardly the case.

It wasn’t that he considered his skills with women significantly better than those of his cohorts; indeed, some were touted to be daring roues and masterful lovers of several or more women at any given month or year, whereas he, as pragmatic about his personal life as he was with his career, had limited himself to one serious liaison at a time.

He simply preferred his own way of doing things, at least when it came to nurturing a woman’s pleasurable participation in the intimate rites of love.

If Angelina’s dying confessions could be counted as trustworthy, then by her own vow she had fallen more in love with him after their marriage.

It had only been during that long interval of time, when he had been away in service to his country, that she had grown lonely enough to be otherwise beguiled.

Or so she had sworn to him on her deathbed, where she had, with her last breath, begged him to forgive her.

As for the temptress he had just married, Synnovea had proven herself excitingly responsive to his lovemaking, if indeed he could believe her fervor genuine rather than part of her ploy.

His musings even now strayed, as if beguiled, to alluring recollections of her sliding naked across his bed in her eagerness to make room for him.

Even after he had consumed enough vodka to dull the lacerated rawness of his back, he was still unable to cast that memory as well as other similarly haunting visions from his mind.

With careful diligence Tyrone approached the huge bed wherein his second wife awaited him.

She had doffed the golden robe, and at present her womanly form was discreetly covered by a sheet which she had dragged up over her bosom.

As he loosened his doublet, his smoldering gaze raked over the hills and valleys that formed a provocative terrain beneath the shroud.

“Tsar Mikhail was right,”

he remarked with languor, and then cursed his tongue for having lost its subtle eloquence.

Even with his faculties somewhat encumbered from the effects of the intoxicant, he couldn’t dismiss the turmoil he was about to suffer by withholding himself from her.

“You’re very beautiful, madam, perhaps beyond the degree of any woman I’ve ever known.”

All signs of Synnovea’s feigned gaiety had fled shortly after their guests’ departure.

Now she eyed her husband guardedly, wondering what to expect from him in his present mood and condition.

If he intended to vent his wrath upon her and insult her for having tricked him, she would have no recourse but to accept it.

It was the very least she deserved.

“We’ve had no moment alone in which we could talk, Tyrone.”

“So you wish to talk.”

Tyrone painstakingly executed a bow and then stumbled back a step before he caught himself and straightened.

He grinned, somewhat amused at himself.

“You must pardon my present plight, madam.

I’ve progressed out of character tonight.

You see, I’ve liberally partaken of the fruit of the vine…or rather, that deadly libation you Russians quaff so copiously.

Wicked stuff, that vodka, but it eases my pain….”

He laid a hand over his heart as if mutely declaring the area where serious injury had been inflicted.

“What matter did you wish to discuss, wife of mine? My aversion to being used?”

He rubbed his chest as if sorely chafed by the idea.

“Aye, that has caused me severe wounding by your lovely hand.

None other could have cut me so deftly to the quick.

While I pledged you all I could offer, paltry though it be, you played me for a fool.

Now this poor buffoon is caught, bound by chains of wedlock, and he spies such delectable confection upon his bed that his mind is befuddled by the lusts that goad him.

Alas, there’s no escape for the poor fool.” Clasping a bedpost with one hand, Tyrone leered at her and twirled his free hand through the air, as if urging an audience to respond. “What think you of my folly, madam? And of yours, pray tell? In ridding yourself of one proposed husband, you’ve caught yourself quite another entirely. Are you satisfied with what your mischief has heaped?”

Holding the sheet clasped over her bosom, Synnovea lifted herself cautiously from the pillows and sat upright.

“I wasn’t willing to marry Prince Vladimir….”

“You made that abundantly clear ere now, madam.”

The accusation was launched in sharp retort as he doffed his velvet doublet and flung it onto a nearby chair.

What vexed him more than anything was the fact that he couldn’t ignore the ravishing vision he was presented.

A half-dozen slender tapers burned in the pair of candelabra sitting atop the tables nestled against each side of the bed.

The tiny flames flickering behind his bride eagerly cast their radiance through the filmy tissue of her pale yellow nightgown, temptingly detailing her shoulders, arms, and enough of her bosom to whet his desire to peruse everything else the covering held from view.

If a man could feel harried by the beauty of his bride on their wedding night, then Tyrone was definitely subject to that particular plight.

As he leisurely assessed the sights, it dawned on him that he wanted Synnovea even more now than he ever had, even before their aborted union.

No woman had ever held his mind so completely ensnared as she did now.

From the first moment of their meeting, his life had been disrupted by his fervor to have her.

Now, having won her, he could believe that he was destined to be punished even more.

“What I’m asking, madam, is whether or not you’re pleased with what you’ve accomplished with your game.”

Synnovea’s cheeks warmed to a vivid hue as she struggled to find an answer that might serve to mollify his resentment.

“You cannot answer me?”

Tyrone demanded sharply.

She started slightly at the animosity in his tone and nervously offered a softly spoken supplication.

“Can you not see the truth of the matter yourself, Tyrone? Would not any maid prefer a younger husband above an ancient patriarch? But I never meant to entrap you, please believe me…”

“Nay!”

His tone was derisive.

“You only wanted to use me like some worthless plaything and cast me aside when you no longer had need of me! I was nothing more to you than a rutting coxcomb whom you could use for your own purposes.

The price you were obviously willing to expend for my services was far too enticing for me to ignore.

By sacrificing your virtue, you meant to gain your end no matter the cost to me!”

Turning from her in a manner of angry dismissal, Tyrone careened across the room and entered the dressing chamber, where he promptly found himself confronted by masses of shoes neatly arranged in little satin bags tucked into crannies, tapestry-covered hat boxes and lacquered jewel coffers set in order on shelves near a melange of small, ornate chests that held stockings, handkerchiefs, and other dainties.

Much larger armoires and chests were filled nigh to overflowing with gowns, petticoats, and lace-trimmed chemises.

Amazed by the abundance of clothes he saw around him, Tyrone bemusedly tested the rich cloth of several and then lifted a delicate chemise against the light to admire its transparency.

His own clothes and possessions had been unpacked and placed in neat order beside hers, but surprisingly more conveniently at hand.

He was rather amazed by the consideration that he had been shown in this matter.

True, Ali might have wanted to favor him with such an arrangement, but the tiny servant would never have taken the initiative to do so unless her mistress had first directed her.

Wincingly Tyrone stripped the shirt from his back and tossed it aside.

Selecting the pitcher that felt the coldest to his hand of the two that were available, he splashed water into a basin and suffered through a chilly washing, hoping it would aid him in his endeavor to remain levelheaded once he had slipped into bed beside his bewitchingly winsome wife.

Past that point, he’d have to rely on his slightly inebriated state to lead him into deep slumber from whence he fervently hoped he’d be hard-pressed to wake until morning.

Tyrone donned a pair of chausses to conceal his nakedness, which seemed a crucial necessity for his return to the bedchamber.

Even then, the tight-fitting hose could not be relied upon to hide what would no doubt arise once he saw her again.

The side of the bed nearest the antechamber seemed designated as his own, since the sheet had been folded down invitingly and his bride was ensconced closer to the windows on the far side.

As he negotiated his way there, he avoided meeting his bride’s cautious gaze by perusing the room, noting its wealth of space, rich appoint ments, and softly feminine elegance.

It was apparent their hostess treasured the girl’s company, reserving for her use what had to be the best apartments in the mansion, the exception being the chambers in which Natasha resided.

He hadn’t indulged in such luxuries since leaving England, and only then in much less splendor. The Tudor house, which his father had bequeathed him at the event of his marriage to Angelina, was large and comfortably furnished in the same style as its design, but it was much less ornate than this womanly nirvana in which he found himself.

Pausing near the bedside table, Tyrone pinched out the tiny flames burning atop the candelabrum and turned his back upon his bride, avoiding the visual stimulations that were there waiting to he relished.

If he had ever wondered what pleasurable torture was like, then he was catching a clear sense of it now.

It was pure agony to think that by his own foolishness he could not taste, touch, or savor the rich sensuality of her feminine form.

Merely the awareness of her proximity and the memory of her eager response to his passion warmed his blood, making him grateful for the shadows that allowed him some degree of modesty as he released the knot at his waist and let the chausses fall to the floor Sitting back upon the bed, he dragged the undergarment off his feet and tossed it onto a nearby bench.

Though the only light in the chambers now came from the candles burning behind Synnovea, the ugly weals crisscrossing her husband’s back were vividly displayed.

Synnovea almost cringed at the sight, knowing that she was solely to blame.

The deep slashes extended around to his right side, where the ends of the lash had fallen, and though most of the stripes were healing, a swollen area along a wider gash indicated a corruption of flesh beneath a dark scab, prompting her to slip out of bed.

Tyrone wasn’t a man of such ironclad control that he could resist casting a glance over a shoulder as his wife pulled the silken robe over her head.

The candlelight penetrated the translucency of her nightgown before it settled into place, making him face away abruptly as he felt a sudden, sharp craving pierce him.

She ran into the dressing room and a few moments later emerged carrying a basin of water, a squat jar of balm, and a towel draped over her arm.

Her intent soon became evident as she hastened toward him.

Immediately Tyrone snatched the leggings into his lap, perhaps for the first time in his life self-conscious about his nakedness and what it would reveal.

“There’s a place on your back that has become tainted,”

Synnovea informed him, placing the bowl on the table beside him.

Striking flint against tinder, she lit the candles, which he had snuffed out only moments ago, and turned back to face him.

“It needs a good cleansing and a poultice applied to draw out the poison.”

It didn’t matter that she wore a robe over her nightgown, the flickering flames now burning behind her shone through her diaphanous garments, displaying her womanly form in tempting detail, forcing him to look away while the hammering excitement built to a painful intensity within his loins.

“The sore is of little bother to me now, madam.”

“If you let it go, Ty, it will matter,”

Synnovea argued sweetly.

“I’ll need your dagger to open the wound—”

“I said, let it go!”

Tyrone barked, foreseeing the disaster he’d invite by allowing her to touch him.

He’d likely see his restraints and resolves completely sundered by the gentle brush of her hand.

Indeed, he’d be hard-pressed not to bear her down upon the bed and have his way with her.

He couldn’t forget, even for a moment, that all-too-brief but exquisite interlude wherein they had been joined as lovers.

Synnovea challenged his authoritative tone with a soft inquiry.

“Why won’t you let me tend it?”

“I can do it myself,”

he growled.

“Not hardly,”

she gently scoffed and tilted her head toward the small bench.

“Now, would you kindly sit there where I can tend your back.”

A long moment elapsed as she watched his brows gather in an ominous scowl.

He refused to look at her, but glared across the room until his bride leaned toward him with a softly probing question.

“Colonel Rycroft, are you afraid of me touching you?”

Tyrone’s temper exploded.

“Yes, dammit! I told you before! I want nothing from you, least of all your pity!”

At his thunderous blast, Synnovea stumbled backward and stared in painful confusion at his uncompromising visage.

Tears springing up within her spirit and welling blindingly within her eyes.

A choked sob escaped her, and she caught up the bowl and whirled away, in her haste flinging a widely reaching spray of water across his chest.

Shocked out of his angry reticence by the chill of the water, Tyrone shot to his feet in surprise, losing his prideful modesty as his protective shield tumbled away from his naked loins.

Though barely a second passed before he recovered his wits and snatched for the falling garment, Synnovea’s teary eyes chased toward him and then, as they lowered, widened in amazement.

Tyrone ground his teeth as her questioning stare flew up to meet his again.

A low growl issued forth from his throat and he flung away the fickle chausses, seeing no further need to try to conceal his arousal.

What more was there to hide when a mere glance had stripped him of his pride? “What did you expect?”

he snapped.

“I’m not made of stone! Good Lord, woman, leave me alone!”

With that, he claimed his place in bed and jerked the sheet up to his waist before rolling onto his left side, away from her.

He punched the pillow beneath his head and, refusing to look at her, glowered angrily toward the tiny flames dancing atop the candelabra across the bed.

Shaken by his rage, Synnovea blew out the tapers on his table and carried the basin to the dressing room.

There she gave vent to her resentment by exchanging her nightgown for one of heavier cloth which covered her sufficiently from toe to wrist to neck.

The rivulets streaming down her cheeks refused to be checked as she made her way back to the bed.

There she bestowed a teary glare upon her husband before slipping between the sheets and settling herself also on her left side, as far away from him as she could go.

After briefly considering the discomfort of her tenuous perch, she bounced twice on the bed, scooting back from the edge.

She tossed him a withering glare over her shoulder, yanked the sheet and quilt high over her shoulder, and then huddled beneath the covering where she continued to weep in silent misery.

In the stillness of the room, the bride and her groom lay together less than an arm’s length apart, totally aware of each other, but stubbornly refusing to speak or to move.

Despite the wrath that seethed within him, Tyrone kept his eyes tightly closed to alleviate his heightening distress.

The sight of his bride’s curving form only tormented him the more, but he was determined to beat down his fierce cravings by reining in his thoughts.

He did so by deliberately setting his mind on devising plans for a foray outside the city limits.

It was of paramount importance that he send his scout, Avar, to search out the location of Ladislaus’s camp before he led his men out on such an exercise, for it was definitely a fact that one could go unnoticed far better than a whole regiment.

Synnovea was the first to relent to an exhausted sleep, and her soft, shallow breathing finally lured Tyrone along the same path.

For slightly more than a thrice of hours the couple dozed, albeit fitfully.

Even so, the brief slumber allowed them some respite from the tension of being together and yet painfully separated.

It was well past two in the morning when Tyrone awakened abruptly, aware that Synnovea was slipping carefully out of bed.

In some bemusement, he lay without moving as she crept toward the corner of the chamber where a bright shaft of silvery moonlight streamed in through the windows.

As he watched, she slid his dagger from its sheath that hung alongside his scabbard from his belt, which Ali or some other servant had earlier draped over the back of a chair.

Stealthily Synnovea returned to the bed with the bared blade, and Tyrone braced himself for her attack, well assured that he’d have no difficulty over powering her should she launch an attack upon him.

If she did, he promised himself that he’d see their marriage nullified forthwith, and let the tsar’s threats be hanged.

To be sure, his own lucidity would have to be questioned if he remained with a woman who was utterly mad!

Tyrone’s brows gathered sharply as Synnovea dragged up the sleeve of her gown and laid the edge of the blade to the inside of her forearm.

Her objective seemed clear enough now, and with a low growl he threw himself across the narrow space, startling a gasp from Synnovea, whose head snapped up at the first intrusion of sound.

He seized her slender wrist in an unrelenting vise, wrenching a pained yelp from her, and plucked the sharp blade from her grasp.

“Would you take your own life because you were forced to wed me?”

he demanded sharply.

“That was never my purpose,”

Synnovea assured him in a quavering voice.

His swift assault had left her shaken to the core of her being, and she could not quiet her frantically thumping heart.

Tossing the dagger back into the chair from whence it had been fetched, Tyrone swung his long legs over her side of the bed and rose to his feet.

The chamber brightened considerably as he set ablaze several tapers.

Returning to her, he clasped her chin in his hand and lifted her face to the light.

He held it thus as his eyes probed hers, searching for some evidence of the truth.

“Why else would you make an attempt to slice open your arm if you didn’t intend to kill yourself?”

“It may have seemed that way, Ty, but truly, it was never my aim.”

“I’m listening,”

he prodded impatiently.

Synnovea swallowed with difficulty, gathering the nerve to explain.

“We’ve been together in bed for several hours…and yet you haven’t seen fit to lend me your attention.”

Her voice faltered in painful chagrin as she continued.

“On the morrow…my attendants will come and help me dress.

If there is no blood on the sheet as proof of my virginity, I will be shamed before my friends.”

Tyrone arched a tawny brow as he considered his bride.

She seemed unduly embarrassed by having to plead her cause and just as troubled by her inability to escape the disgrace that she’d surely suffer because of their lack of intimacy.

“If you’ll remember, madam, you’re no longer a virgin.

I stripped you of that distinction before we were so callously interrupted.”

Synnovea bowed her head, shamed by his blunt reminder.

“I was expecting you to be rather rough with me…after what I did to you.”

“Brutish enough to sully the sheets with more blood, you mean.”

He laughed scathingly as she winced and gingerly nodded.

“How chivalrous you think me, madam.”

“If you were to beat me, you’d have just cause.

My actions were deplorable.”

“True,”

Tyrone agreed, “but a gentleman should never follow a poor example.”

He considered her dispirited chagrin and sighed heavily.

“There’s no help for it, I suppose.”

Synnovea shuddered and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, trying to hold back the tears that welled up within her spirit.

What did it matter if she couldn’t provide proof of her innocence? She supposed she wouldn’t be the first maid in Russian history to be shamed by the lack of such evidence.

She felt the mattress dip beneath Tyrone’s weight and peered up at him curiously as he reached toward the chair.

Retrieving the blade, he startled a flinch from her as he whisked the point across the inside of his own arm, opening a small gash.

Several red droplets immediately welled forth, and after a small pool of blood had collected, he reached out to the middle of the bed and blotted his arm upon the bottom sheet.

When he finally glanced back at Synnovea, he found her staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.

“Does that not serve your purpose, madam?”

“Most definitely, sir,”

she whispered, astounded by his gallantry.

When his manly pride had obviously been severely bruised by her careless use of his ardor, it was difficult to imagine him doing such a thing.

“I never expected compassion from you after my deceit.

Why did you do it?”

Tyrone casually dismissed his actions with an abortive laugh, unwilling to let her think he could be easily maneuvered by her feminine wiles.

“Lend no claims of chivalry to this daunted fool, madam.

It was not so much for your reputation as it was for mine.

Without evidence of our union, my cohorts might think me incapable of performing the deed, so I’ve yielded myself to yet another one of your ploys, this time to save face before my own friends, for ’tis evident you have all the assets to lure the most reluctant husband into your arms.”

Synnovea lifted her chin as her own pride felt the prick of his needling.

“If that be so, sir, then how is it that you’ve refrained from coupling with me tonight?”

Tyrone made a concerted effort to appear cavalier about a matter which concerned him more than any other, and although he spoke from the heart, he deliberately made light of the injury that had been inflicted upon him.

“Oh, madam, were it not for my wounded dignity, which flogs me more severely than the brigand’s whip ever could, I wouldn’t be able to bear the temptation of sharing a bed with you, but with every twitch of pain, I’m ever reminded of my folly in allowing myself to believe you wanted me as much as I wanted you.

I fear my own inanity shames me.”