13.3

Synnovea reluctantly lifted her gaze and timidly translated the child’s answer as she met the blue eyes that rested upon her.

“Sophia would like you to know that she’d be pleased to have you visit her as often as you’d like.”

Tyrone noticed his bride’s heightened blush and, when she hurriedly dropped her gaze, realized that she had misread his close attention as some fierce displeasure.

He didn’t feel generously disposed toward explaining that in spite of his hostility toward her, he was nevertheless taken with her soft, beguiling manner.

“I was reluctant to interfere in your discussion with the girl,”

Synnovea apologized, laying a gentle hand upon Sophia’s shoulder as the child, in some awe, lightly fingered the pearls that adorned the sarafan .

“But I thought you needed a translator.”

Tyrone conveyed a cool reserve as he suggested, “Now that we’ll be living under the same roof, I suppose you should teach me the language.

We’ll have to find something to pass the time together since we have so little in common.”

Synnovea almost cringed at his blatant derision, but at the sound of footfalls hurrying down the hall, she forced back a start of tears and faced Natasha as that one swept into the kitchen in an anxious dither.

“Synnovea!”

the woman gasped breathlessly, clutching a hand to her heaving bosom.

“Prince Vladimir and his sons are here! I’m sure they’ve come to look Tyrone over, and from the mood they’re in, he’ll likely be needing reinforcements.”

Tyrone met his bride’s worried glance with smiling mockery.

“Your rejected betrothed, I presume?”

Synnovea wrung her hands in dismay, unconsciously voicing a frantic whisper.

“What are we to do?”

“Calm yourself, madam,”

her groom advised.

“It won’t be the first time I’ve met one of your suitors.

I just hope this particular prince doesn’t prove as irascible as the last.”

“You’d better be warned,”

Natasha cautioned him.

“Prince Vladimir’s sons have a penchant for brawling.

They like nothing better than settling arguments with their fists.

In other words, Colonel, they might make Aleksei seem like a blessed saint by comparison.”

“Then the next moments may well see the end of our celebration,”

Tyrone predicted ruefully.

Raising a brow, he offered his arm to his bride.

“Shall we face them together, my dear? After all, it isn’t every day that a rejected swain meets the husband of his betrothed.”

Synnovea felt the sting of his sarcasm and lifted her chin loftily.

“You’ve no ken what the brood is capable of when riled, and right now, you’re in no condition to make light of the matter.”

“Perhaps not, my dear, but the introductions should prove interesting, don’t you agree?”

“ If you survive them!”

Synnovea quipped, reluctantly accepting his arm as Natasha hastened away.

Tyrone glanced down at his bride with a sardonic smile curving his handsome lips as he led her into the hallway.

“I suppose I should brace myself to face not only these but a whole legion of discarded suitors who’ve been left in your wake.

It might prove more challenging than fighting the enemies of the tsar.

Had I been more astute, I might’ve taken a warning when I espied you with Ladislaus.”

Synnovea dared to express what his words seemed to insinuate.

“Perhaps you might have reconsidered my rescue.”

“Definitely a possibility, madam,”

Tyrone replied, feeling in no mood to reassure her.

Still, when Synnovea tried to withdraw her arm in sudden exasperation, he clamped his own arm against his side, forbidding her escape.

“Tut-tut, my dear.

We must obey His Majesty and keep up appearances for our guests.”

Synnovea bestowed a heated glower upon him, but made no further effort to pull away, sensing that it would be futile to even try.

Thus, Tyrone escorted his bride into the great hall in an overtly chivalrous manner, just as one might expect of a newly wedded groom.

Applause and burbling compliments from the guests greeted the couple’s entry into the crowded room, but Vladimir wasn’t in the mood to be gracious.

As Natasha had already ascertained, he was feeling as surly as an old, wounded bear.

He swung around with a loud snort of derision when his eldest son advised him that Synnovea was approaching on the arm of her groom.

While several of his offspring followed the newly wedded pair, affirming their eagerness to fight, his faded blue eyes pierced the tall man at her side.

Synnovea glanced about in growing dismay, espying familiar faces closing in around them.

It unsettled her unduly to think that Tyrone would again be called upon to pay the penalty for her outrageous scheme.

A short distance behind the bellicose clan, several English officers lowered their goblets and cautiously observed the proceedings, sensing the intent of the princes to entrap the groom in a brawl.

Considering the colonel’s avid quest to have the girl, they hadn’t been at all surprised when they had heard that he had gotten into a fray with her guardian, who had hired men to punish him for his audacity.

Nor were they astonished by the repercussions they were presently witnessing, no doubt brought about by the tsar’s quickly executed directive to negate further intervention.

It was no secret that trouble followed one who coveted a forbidden treasure.

And it was obvious by the bride’s beauty that she was a prize some men would kill for.

Grigori joined the Englishmen and spoke to them in a hushed tone, warning them to be prepared if his commander was attacked.

“If they want to brawl about this matter, we’ll invite them outside.

Understood?”

Eager smiles lit the faces of the colonel’s friends, but for the time being, Grigori cautioned them to merely watch until it became evident that Tyrone couldn’t defend himself.

They had seen their comrade in action before and were confident of his ability to handle most situations, but if a confrontation was in the offing, they were ready to even out the score, since he was definitely outnumbered and not in a condition to fight his way through on his own.

“So! You’re the rascally devil who stole the maid from me,”

Vladimir rumbled caustically.

“What are you Englishmen, anyway? Savages that you must steal our brides from beneath our noses and make off with them to do your evil deeds? You intruding rake, you should be horsewhipped!”

The threat seemed imminent as his sons muttered irately and pressed close around the couple.

Tyrone cocked a challenging brow at the while-haired boyar when the elder’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword.

The intimidation was too obvious to ignore.

Synnovea stepped toward Vladimir, hoping to placate him with a softly cajoling plea, but she was prevented from accomplishing her objective when Tyrone caught her elbow in an unrelenting vise.

He was no more inclined to hide behind her skirts now than he had been when he had hung from the wooden beams in the carriage house.

“Stay out of this, Synnovea,”

he growled low.

“I’m quite capable of handling this matter on my own without your interference.”

“But Vladimir may listen to me,”

Synnovea implored in a whisper, briefly glancing toward the towering ancient.

Daring much, she laid a trembling hand in plaintive appeal upon her husband’s chest.

“Please let me try, Tyrone.

You’ve been through enough on my account, and I’d rather not see you harmed more than you have been.”

Vladimir loudly harrumphed at the girl’s marked concern for the foreigner.

Goaded by jealousy, he stepped forward and, clasping the colonel’s arm, pulled him around to face him.

“Would you take counsel from a woman?”

“Aye! If there is wisdom in it!”

Tyrone retorted, jerking free of the man’s grasp.

“No man tells me to whom I should give heed!”

With an angry growl, the old man voiced his contempt for the stranger.

“The tsar may have asked you and other young whelps like you to come here and give our soldiers instruction, but most boyars are offended by the presence of foreigners in this country.

You not only intrude into our ways of doing warfare, English knave, but you tamper with our women as well!”

“Who bleats about intrusion?”

Tyrone barked.

“I gained audience before His Majesty’s throne and begged him for petition to court the maid long before you ever knew she existed.

You came well after and secretly connived with the Taraslovs to write a betrothal contract without consideration for the tsar’s wishes.

Now the nuptials have been performed, and you’re still seeking to challenge my right to the girl.

Do you argue with a royal decree when the vows were spoken in the presence of Tsar Mikhail?”

A low snarl tore free of Vladimir’s throat.

“I served a gentleman’s proper due and followed the formal rite of behavior in asking Prince Aleksei for the Countess Synnovea’s hand in marriage.

Where were you when the contracts were being signed and sealed?”

Tyrone sneered at the ancient’s feeble declaration.

“I was forbidden to even see the maid by the very ones who sealed the documents with you.

By deed and favor, I had more claim to her than you.

If not for me, she’d never have reached Moscow.

She’d have been forced to appease the lusting appetites of some bastard thief who thought to seize her for his own!”

“You think because you saved her once from a band of rogues that you own her now?”

Vladimir bellowed incredulously.

“Nay!”

Tyrone flung back.

“Synnovea is mine because we spoke the vows together as witnessed by the tsar! So vex me no longer with your trifling arguments, old man, for I’m not in the least compassionate toward your failed endeavors.”

Tyrone stepped back slightly, eyeing the sons, who had begun to move forward in an overt show of aggression.

Drawing Synnovea with him, he retreated another step, but only to ensure that none would be at his back if they launched an assault.

He glanced at the ancient and managed a casual shrug without being unfavorably reminded of the discomfort he still suffered in his back.

“If you and your sons would care to join us for the festivities, Prince Vladimir, you’re welcome to remain.

Willy-nilly, go or stay, you can do as you wish, but know this: if it’s a fight you want, you’ll have to come back another day.”

“So good of you, English Colonel, to invite us to share in your celebration!”

Sergei derided, making the mistake of clapping Tyrone on the back.

That one sucked his breath in sharply, and at very close range, Synnovea saw her husband’s wide shoulders tense with the agony of the other’s touch.

The blue eyes blazed in sudden fury, and in less than a heartbeat he swung around to face the youth, his breath slashing through tightly clenched teeth.

Seizing Sergei by the front of his kaftan, Tyrone yanked him forward until the younger man saw firsthand the seething rage that fairly flamed in the bright eyes.

His feigned friendship was completely fragmented beneath the awe-inspiring dimensions of the colonel’s rage.

It frightened Sergei mightily, and he reacted instinctively, winning his freedom with a frantic jerk.

In the next instant he was snatched again by the scruff of his neck as he tried to scramble away.

His left arm was caught and twisted painfully behind his back.

At his loud yelp, his brothers leapt forward to intervene, but another agonizing wrench brought a desperate appeal from the young prince that they should hold fast to their places.

“Have a care where you touch me, whelp,”

Tyrone gritted close behind the youth’s ear.

“Or I swear you’ll leave here with only one arm.

Do I make myself clear?”

Vladimir and his sons had full command of the English language and each clearly understood the warning.

It was the father who stepped forward and, with a booming voice, demanded Sergei’s release.

“Let my son go or I’ll set the dogs to your foul carcass ere this night is over!”

Tyrone scoffed at the huge man, not even remotely intimidated by the threat.

“Then call off your baying hounds or you’ll have good reason to hunt me down.”

Vladimir raised his bushy white brows in sharp surprise.

It was a rare man indeed who stood up to him and his collection of sons.

Lifting a wrinkled hand, he gestured lamely for his family to retreat.

In response, Tyrone sent Sergei sprawling forward into his brothers.

Claiming their attention with a rather terse chuckle, Tyrone laid a hand to his breast and dipped his head in an abbreviated bow of apology.

“I must beg forgiveness for my ill temper, my lords.

I was involved in a confrontation with a band of ruffians several nights past, and they did their best to lay open my back.

’Tis tender yet, so as long as you keep your hands to yourselves, perhaps I can respond to your visit with as much grace as a favorable host might extend.”

Sullenly Sergei glared at him as he rubbed his bruised wrist.

“You rile easily, Englishman.”

“Aye, ’tis a fault I suffer when pain is inflicted upon me.”

Tyrone glanced around at the family, noticing their gazes were now centered on Synnovea.

As a whole, their yearning expressions evidenced deep measures of regret, as if each of them had become enamored not only with her beauty but with the winsome charm of the maid.

The elder, in particular, seemed pained as he gazed upon her with undiminished longing.

Tyrone was not above wresting a bit of revenge for their attempts to bully him.

Drawing his bride forward, he laid an arm around her slender waist and held her close against his side, clearly establishing his claim upon her for the benefit of the sons and their sire.

“Would you now congratulate me on my good fortune in taking so fair a bride?”

His invitation was admittedly farfetched, considering their resentment, but after accepting a goblet from a servant’s tray, he held it aloft.

“My lords, may I propose a toast to the Lady Synnovea Rycroft, wife of my be-knighted self and good woman of my future house?”

He sipped the wine and, leaning near his bride’s ear, murmured encouragement as he handed the goblet to her.

“Drink up, my sweet.

Remember, we’re to make merry for our guests.”

Synnovea had no heart for concurring to the travesty he proposed, but by order of the tsar she had to make the best of the moment.

After taking a tiny sip, she gave the goblet back with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“Smile,”

Tyrone urged, drawing her away from the guests.

She stiffly complied as she gritted through grimacing lips, “Is that better?”

“You’re vexed with me,”

he chided with exaggerated concern as he escorted her into the entrance hall.

“Does it matter?”

She lifted a querying brow, awaiting his answer.

Tyrone glanced away in a museful vein and happened to espy Nikolai, who had just entered the foyer.

Perhaps he had no cause to be jealous of the younger officer, but he was clearly in a mood to vent his own frustration with the situation in which he found himself.

With a forced smile, he faced his bride as he halted and locked his arms about her.

Though she stiffened, he leaned over her ear to whisper, “Appearances, madam.

They must be maintained even when you think no one is watching.”

Duly warned, Synnovea submitted to his kiss, but she was hardly prepared for the thoroughness with which it was executed.

His open mouth slanted across hers with almost brutal intensity, devouring hers with an unchecked hunger as he drew her small tongue into the cavity of his mouth and caressed it with his own.

Unconsciously she rose up against him, freely offering everything she had as a sacrifice to the flaming heat of his lips.

Though she slipped her arms around him, she suddenly remembered the condition of his back and found no place for her hands to rest above his waist.

Finally she let them fall to her sides again as she leaned into him.

Boisterous applause and loud whistles came from the English soldiers, who had entered the hall behind them.

The men gathered close around the couple, prompting Synnovea to draw back in acute embarrassment.

Tyrone allowed her to escape to a circle of women while he accepted the good wishes of his friends, who drew him back to the great hall.

Nikolai was certainly none too pleased about what he had just witnessed.

In light of the guarantee that had been coerced from the tsar, the lustful kiss seemed an affront to the girl.

Even if Nikolai hadn’t been at odds with the colonel before, he was swiftly approaching that frame of mind.

Indeed, he promised himself that if he found a chance, he’d warn Synnovea of her husband’s duplicity.

Above all, he wanted to beg her to hold herself aloof from her husband until he sailed back to England.

Anxious for such an opportunity to present itself, Nikolai closely observed the couple for the rest of the afternoon, but as the hours passed and evening came upon them, his disposition grew decidedly morose.

The pair acted as if they were totally taken with each other as they mingled with their guests.

Hand in hand, they stood together and decorously bade farewell to Vladimir and his sons.

Later that evening, when the bride and groom were called to another lavish banquet, they shared a place at the head of the table to which Natasha had directed them.

The cushioned bench wasn’t overly wide, but their hostess maintained that it had become a traditional place of honor for newlyweds in her household.

As narrow as it proved to be, there was much hilarity evoked from the onlookers as the couple strove to wedge themselves in.

Once they were ensconced, they might as well have been joined at the hip, for Tyrone was forced to wrap his right arm around Synnovea’s ribcage and to lean back enough to allow her shoulder to overlap his.

Being for the most part right-handed, that left him ruefully considering how he was going to fare feeding himself with his left.

It nearly broke Nikolai’s composure to watch the couple from the far end of the table.

Beneath his grim stare, the colonel seemed to delight in handling his Synnovea, as if the man had any right to touch her after the pledge he had gained from the tsar.

The long fingers stroked along her ribs, sometimes pausing near a ripe breast or possessively resting upon her hip.

What made it even worse was the fact that she seemed to relish not only her bridegroom’s touch but lending wifely assistance in feeding him.

They seemed to make a game of it, kissing often and even going so far as to steal food from the other’s mouth.

Finally, when the bench became a hindrance to their comfort, mainly for Synnovea, who suffered the most against her husband’s steely flank, she sought to rise, but Tyrone deftly clamped an arm about her slender waist, lifted her, and then resettled her upon his thigh, much to the hearty approval of his men.

Nikolai realized the worst of his worries was yet to come as the time approached for the couple to retire to their bridal chamber.

Because he had been visually confronted by the Englishman’s inclination to liberally kiss and handle Synnovea, he refused to trust the man with her.

And though he wanted to warn Synnovea of what her husband intended in hopes of preventing their union, he was repeatedly frustrated as the evening wore on, for he found no chance to catch her alone.

When she finally left the hall, escorted by Natasha and the handful of women who had been invited to attend her, his hazel eyes sadly followed.

In the moments following Synnovea’s departure, some of the men had begun to chide Tyrone for stealing the most beautiful maid from beneath their noses.

Questions concerning the haste of their marriage also were presented, but he refused to elaborate and brushed the inquiries off with a grin.

“You’ve all heard rumors of my impatience to court the countess.”

Hoping the fruit-flavored vodka would deaden his senses sufficiently before he arrived upstairs, he took another sip as he braced a shoulder against the molding of a door.

“The tsar took pity on my pain and cast down all other plans for her betrothal by arranging the ceremony himself.

That’s all there is to it.”

Natasha returned to the great room and announced that the bride was awaiting her groom.

The men chortled in glee and crowded close around Tyrone, who drained his cup in what appeared to be eager anticipation.

Only he was cognizant of his ongoing attempt to deaden more than the wounds in his back, for the idea of being privately ensconced with Synnovea had already stirred memories that sorely threatened his efforts to remain distantly detached from the tempting beauty.

As his friends crowded near, Tyrone immediately retreated, fearing they would forget and pound him upon the back.

“Have a care or you’ll make me useless to my bride.

The condition of my back has a way of dismissing everything else from mind.

So I beg you, proceed with care in your attempt to cheer me on.”

“Lift him on your shoulders, lads!”

an English officer named Edward Walsworth encouraged.

“He should save his strength for better things.

Besides, he’s quaffed so much vodka, he may be unable to find his way upstairs to savor other pleasures.”

Amid their guffawing laughter, Tyrone was hoisted onto their shoulders and then carted upstairs, their booming, outrageously ribald chants accompanying their ascent.

In the anteroom of Synnovea’s apartments, they lowered Tyrone to his feet before the entrance of the adjoining bedchamber and jostled behind him to get a glimpse of the bride outfitted for her husband’s pleasure.

Tyrone would never have denied the fact that he had liberally indulged in strong spirits throughout the celebration.

Even so, when his eyes beheld a sight that he had both feared and yearned to see, there was no way that he could blame his swiftly thudding heart on his heavy imbibing.

For some time now, he had been aware of Synnovea’s unrivaled beauty, but when faced with the fact that she was his by right of wedlock and that he could freely exercise the many prerogatives which that particular union allowed him, he felt a sharp pang of regret that he, in the heat of outraged pride, had foolishly allowed himself to set such extreme limits on his manly lusts.

It seemed that Mikhail had been far wiser than he to acknowledge that a change of heart might be in the offing, and for that, Tyrone had to give the monarch immense credit for being able to understand how well the shroud of rage could blind a man.

With the subtly demoralizing and relaxing effects of the fruited vodka he had consumed, Tyrone wasn’t at all sure his staunch objectives could withstand one night with Synnovea, much less three years.

If he maintained his abstinence, he was certain it would mean a far greater torment for him than even the whip had reaped.

Standing within the circle of her attendants, Synnovea looked as enticing as any bride had a right to look.

Her dark hair had been separated into a pair of braids to signify her newly married state and then interwoven with gleaming gold ribbons.

An exquisite robe of shimmering, translucent gold flowed loosely to the floor from her shoulders, and though the meager glow of the candles didn’t allow access through the lustrous silk at the moment, Tyrone was keenly aware that beneath that particular garment and the gown she wore underneath, his bride was just as soft and beautiful as she had always been.

Whether in his memories, his dreams, or reality, the sight of her never failed to set his body to battling with his brain.

The manly guests loudly hooted their approval of the bride’s comeliness, and as Synnovea glanced their way, she graced them with a timid smile.

Princess Zelda eyed the groom for a moment before leaning near the bride’s ear to whisper.

Synnovea nodded eagerly as her gaze swept toward Tyrone, but a blush immediately stained her cheeks when she became cognizant of the fact that they had aroused his curiosity with their hushed comments on his anatomy.

With that realization, the two women giggled in secret delight.

Tyrone lifted an arm and braced it against the framework of the arched doorway, well aware that he had become the topic of their discussion.

From the way their flitting perusals swept over him, he could believe their dialogue had something to do with his physical attributes.

On that subject Synnovea possessed firsthand knowledge, yet as he continued to stare, she refrained from giving further comment, deterring the princess from offering other suppositions.

It hardly kept his bride from meeting his gaze with more candor than she had hitherto displayed, at least since their marriage vows had been spoken.

Tyrone’s entry into the chamber had brought back a memory of a similar event a thrice or so years ago, when he had glimpsed his first wife, Angelina, bedecked in her bridal finery.

His mood had been different then, buoyant and cheerful, as was common among bridegrooms who anticipated the taking of virginal fruit.

It could be like that again, he told himself, if only he’d relent…

Or it might be even better, the thought intruded as he pondered the difference in his courtship of his two wives.

In comparing his sudden attraction to Synnovea to his final capitulation to Angelina’s pleas, he was forced to admit that the difference was like night and day.

Angelina had been the offspring of his parents’ neighbors, yet he had all but ignored her during her younger years.

She had finally attracted his attention only a pair of years before their wedding.

In truth, their marriage had come about mainly by the wearing down of his manly resistance by a sweet young thing.

Other courtships had waned for different reasons, some because of the brevity of time allowed by his profession, many because of his own dwindling interest or a realization that a deeper union with a particular woman wasn’t in his best interest.

He could hardly commend his cool-headed logic this time.

Indeed, considering his zeal to have Synnovea, it seemed incredibly farfetched to suppose that he could successfully ignore her presence in the same room, much less in the same bed.

He had asked Natasha, with all the discretion he had been capable of mustering, to provide him with separate quarters no matter how tiny or cramped.

The woman had smiled graciously and given the excuse that she usually had so many guests, it seemed unlikely that she’d be able to grant his request without restricting her gregarious penchant for hospitality.

That was precisely the time he decided he was cursed by his own manly lusts.

Glancing back over his shoulder at his cavorting and frolicking guests, Tyrone shushed their loud bantering until the murmuring comments of the women could be heard above the din.

He ambled forward to the circle of ladies, his eyes gleaming brightly as he carefully regarded the radiance of his bride.

While her attendants observed every glance, every movement the newly married couple made, Synnovea gave him a diffident smile as she watched him warily.

A stiff bow to the ladies sent them scurrying and sniggering from the chambers, allowing Tyrone to step before his bride.

“Again, madam, for the benefit of my escort,”

he whispered, justifying his close attention.

Lifting her small chin, he indulged himself in her delicately refined beauty for a passage of a long moment before lowering parting lips to hers.

He made no effort to convince himself that he kissed her merely for the sake of his companions; he knew better than to believe that lie.

Synnovea yielded herself completely to his inquiring kiss, daring to meet his tongue when it slipped inward to search the depths of her mouth.

He was her husband, after all, and though no one knew of her longing, she now realized that she desired him more than she had ever thought possible.

The taste of vodka pervaded her senses as he devoured her offering with leisured deliberation.

When he drew back, he left her silently groaning in disappointment.

Slowly wending his way back to the anteroom, Tyrone cooled his blood and brain forthwith by thinking of Aleksei going freely about his business.

If he had been able to obtain the tsar’s permission, he’d have chased that boyar down as he fully intended to do with Ladislaus.

Nothing short of facing that toad in a deadly contest would satisfy him.

Tyrone drank a last toast with the men to the forthcoming night, as if highly anticipating the torment he would soon suffer.

He wasn’t so much into his cups that he wasn’t aware of Nikolai covertly eyeing Synnovea through the doorway.

After encountering so many suitors, Tyrone wasn’t in the mood to share even a glimpse of his bride’s unconfined beauty with another man, especially one who had followed so closely on his heels to plead his cause with His Majesty, as if the major had striven one-tenth as hard as he to gain the tsar’s attention just for the privilege of courting the lady.

Deliberately Tyrone reached back a hand and pushed the door closed behind him before lifting a challenging stare to the Russian major.

By the coldness in his eyes, he let it be known that Synnovea was his, and he’d fight any worthy who had intentions of intruding.

He stared until Nikolai, flushing a dark angry red, turned crisply on a heel and made his exit.