15

If Tyrone Rycroft had once imagined that he was expending every ounce of energy and skill he possessed in his quest to impress the tsar, he soon realized that ignoring his stirringly beautiful wife and keeping his mind strictly on his goals and duties even while he was away from her demanded much more fortitude and discipline over his thoughts than his first objective had ever required of him.

If his preoccupation with Synnovea had seemed intense before his whipping, then it was rapidly becoming an obsession now that they were ensconced not only in the same chamber but in the same bed as well.

He was constantly besieged by sights that would have heartened the most indifferent husband, which he definitely was not.

Whether fully clothed or scantily garbed, Synnovea was far too fetching for any normal man to resist, and though he still chafed under the spiny barbs of resentment, he felt much akin to an untried youth who drooled in blighted infatuation over an alabaster goddess.

Such a lad might have hoped to discover a warm, tender heart beneath those creamy breasts, but Tyrone feared there was nothing there but cold, hard stone.

Not only was his reserve undermined by what he saw in their bedchamber, but he had never been so baffled by a woman in all of his life.

Since his encounter with Aleksei, Tyrone had imagined Synnovea an unscrupulous vixen bereft of a conscience.

He was certain she had deliberately entrapped him with a thoroughly ruthless disregard for what he’d have to suffer because of her deception, yet the more he was around her, the deeper his perplexity became.

As hard as he searched, he could detect no tiniest hint of the sly coquette in that sublime mien.

To his utter amazement, Synnovea seemed the paragon of what every man aspired to have for a wife.

She was soft-spoken, sweetly attentive, and mindful of him in ways that at times put to rout the image of a conniving, selfish, spoiled boyarina .

He might as well have been a king the way she anticipated and fulfilled his every need well before he even thought of it.

Though he feared he’d again be caught unawares by her subterfuge, there were times when he could actually feel his bruised heart softening to her winsome smiles and the gentle touch of her hand.

His breath nigh halted with the bliss of her slender fingers threading through his hair, massaging the tension from his neck or tracing around an ear.

Yet he couldn’t shake the suspicion that those knee-weakening caresses were merely part of another ploy.

If she had spoken some witch’s incantation to make him her slave, he couldn’t have been more entranced…or more apprehensive about his fate.

Much too often of late, he seemed unable to subdue familiar flutterings in the pit of his hard belly, momentarily delectable to be sure, yet savagely brutal when left unappeased. No fiendish torment could have vexed him quite as severely.

Tyrone couldn’t remember a time in his adult years when he had been in such a rutting heat over a woman.

In spite of his efforts to remain coolly detached in his wife’s presence, his rebellious body was ever wont to leave him open to the curious stares of those widely innocent green-brown eyes.

Angelina had never stirred such erotic cravings within him, at least not to the degree that he was now experiencing with Synnovea, but then, he only had to lift a brow and Angelina would have come wiggling into his lap.

He had no doubt that Synnovea would have done the same, but her motives weren’t to be trusted.

The pain of abstinence was becoming so horrendous that there were moments when Tyrone actually feared his lust for his raven-haired wife would rend him permanently useless to any woman.

Many nights while Synnovea slumbered peacefully in their bed, he’d pace the floor like a caged leopard, prowling the ebony shadows until finally exhaustion would numb him to everything but a yearning to rest.

The emotional upheaval he was being subjected to on a nightly basis made him give serious consideration to the idea of moving back to his old quarters, but as much as he needed the separation, he knew if he returned to his quarters, it would be tantamount to publicly distancing himself from Synnovea.

Albeit silently, he’d be casting aspersions against her, a deed that would certainly elicit the tsar’s ire.

Had his back been properly healed and his fighting agility restored to the degree that he’d have felt confident of his prowess in deadly combat, he’d have ridden out in search of Ladislaus just to avoid the defeat that lurked in wait for him in his bedchamber.

He was no fool to think that he could lie in bed next to an incredibly tempting woman night after night and still deny her existence.

Had he been hewn of granite, there might have been some hope for him, but he was very much a man, subject to all the weaknesses and propensities of his gender, and Synnovea was the visual epitome of everything he had ever desired in a woman.

At times, frustration, resentment, outright anger, and hostility vied in direct opposition to the softer feelings of compassion, gentleness, and ardor, as well as a strengthening desire to nurture and protect her as any adoring husband might.

He was ever mindful of the fact that she was his and that all the aspirations he had once sought to bring into fruition could now be his for the simple taking… if only he’d relent.

It certainly took no mean mental feat for Tyrone to recognize his own heightening agitation.

His temper had never been so quick to flare or his patience so thin.

For the sake of his men, he knew he’d soon have to repent of his foolish vow.

Yet, in an effort to hold his ground no matter how asinine his own obstinacy was beginning to seem even to him, he pushed himself and his regiment relentlessly day after day through long hours of difficult training, crawling on his belly with his face in the dirt or mud, climbing ropes attached to brick walls, and wrestling his way through men equally motivated to keep him and the rest of the troop from reaching their goal.

Only by depleting his strength and draining himself of the ability to function normally at night could Tyrone hold out any hope of resisting the tantalizing seduction that awaited him in his bed and perhaps delay the ever-threatening reckoning.

Tyrone’s morning rote began before dawn, when he’d rise, shave, and dress.

Shortly thereafter, he’d go downstairs to breakfast with Natasha.

He was relieved that Synnovea complied with his wishes to stay abed and refrained from joining them.

To face defeat so early in the day would’ve sorely gone against his grain.

Mainly his conversation with the older woman centered around his wife, a subject from which he had difficulty straying of late.

He’d then leave and be gone until well past supper, at which time he usually came dragging back, thoroughly spent.

Before entering the manse, he’d feed and groom the tall black that Ladislaus had left behind and the fine, liver-chestnut steed which he reserved primarily for parades and demonstrating the quality of horsemanship he hoped to encourage in his men.

Upon concluding his tasks in the carriage house, he’d then enter the kitchen, too starved to think of waiting until after he had bathed away the sweat and grime of his day’s labors.

If Tyrone might have once supposed that his grubby state would repulse his wife, then in that, too, he found himself mistaken.

While the cook worked at other tasks, Synnovea served him his meal and, in doing so, touched him often, which now seemed her wont.

Without a doubt, he’d have paid less heed to the server and more consideration to the fare if Danika had been the one laying out his meal.

Even bone tired, he couldn’t ignore the delicious sight, womanly feel, and intoxicating fragrance of his wife as she bent over him or brushed against him in passing.

After supper, Tyrone soaked his aching body in a steaming bath which primarily served to ease his strained muscles.

Synnovea’s initial attempt to assist him in his bath had provoked him to such a stormy outburst that she had fled in teary haste.

It hadn’t taken a great deal of mental prowess for him to recognize the difficulty he’d have to face trying to tether his rampant lusts while she washed his naked body.

Thereafter he had been attended by a male servant, who spoke not a word of English, but that suited the quiet serenity Tyrone sought there.

It was his only reprieve.

Tyrone was grateful for those nights when, after joining Synnovea in their chambers, he could collapse into bed, too tired to even talk.

His one concession to her wifely bent was to allow her to rub a soothing balm over his back for the purpose of keeping the scabs and skin pliable and the scarring to a minimum.

For this he’d doff his robe and recline face-down upon the bed.

Her gentle massaging relaxed him, and even while she continued kneading his work-strained muscles, his breathing would gradually deepen until he was lulled into sleep.

During these times Synnovea found it difficult to decipher her own emotions, but they seemed pleasantly associated with being a wife.

No harsh words disturbed their quiet harmony while she served her husband’s needs, and even if Tyrone still refused to make love to her, at least by yielding himself into her care he was granting her privileges and familiarities reserved for a spouse.

She was no longer hindered by Anna’s strictures or the threat of Aleksei and could now venture out as often as she liked.

While her husband was at work, she took several opportunities to visit friends and old acquaintances of her father.

One day a week she could be found assisting Father Philip in his efforts to help the poor.

At other times she shopped at Kitaigorod, sometimes for necessities, but mostly in search of clothing, gifts, or wines for her handsome husband.

More often than not, she was joined on these excursions by either Zelda or Natasha or both women.

After making purchases at the marketplace, they would deposit their bundles in the coach, and though Stenka would follow along behind at a leisurely pace with the conveyance, the three women were often motivated to stroll over to Red Square, where most every morning Tyrone could be found drilling his Hussars for a parade.

Synnovea never failed to experience the thrill associated with watching the horsemanship of the men and their sharply executed drills, but their commander was the one who primarily claimed her attention.

Occasionally Tyrone would join the boyarinas during a well-deserved break from his rigorous training.

As much as he resented the fact that he and his wife were closely observed at odd and sundry times by General Vanderhout, the tsar, his own company of men, Aleta in some instances, and a whole host of strangers, Tyrone realized he was becoming increasingly dedicated to the idea that Synnovea was his wife and therefore deserving of some genuine husbandly respect in public.

In staking his claim, he often laid a hand upon her back or offered his arm as they strolled with the other two women to either the coach or a more select spot where they’d sometimes share victuals that Danika had packed for them.

The difficulty Tyrone found in openly touching his wife or sitting beside her was what he usually had to contend with: the delectation stirred forth by even their most casual contact.

It was toward the end of the fifth week when Tyrone made the mistake of trying to imagine the changes that would occur in his life should he hold to his word and return to England an unmarried man.

He would then be free to court other women, and in an effort to create some enthusiasm for the bachelor status he’d have in that event, he sought to form a vision of the women he had courted before his marriage to Angelina.

They weren’t nearly as comely in recall, not when he had a young wife whose beauty and charm could easily put them to shame.

A few of those former light-o’-loves had even been prone to giggle over the most inane things or else talk incessantly about things that mattered not a whit to him.

Not so Synnovea.

Though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he found her subtle wit and softly spoken comments immensely pleasing.

It was while Tyrone was laboriously mulling through this course of thinking that an unexpected dawning came which served his hidebound honor a death blow.

With sudden clarity he realized that if he sailed to England and left Synnovea behind in Russia, it would be equivalent to leaving his own heart behind.

One evening, after another week had come and gone, Tyrone was seated on his bedside stool cleaning his gear and military trappings when he became mindful of Synnovea sitting in a chair across the bed from him, diligently sewing tiny cloth frogs on several garments—to be exact, four tunics and a single kaftan, all of which were far too large for her.

He was still laboring at his task when she rose, folded the clothes and left them on his side of the bed.

along with four pairs of full-legged trousers such as Russian soldiers were wont to wear.

Without offering word or explanation, she disappeared into the dressing room.

Quizzically Tyrone eyed what she had left.

The long-sleeved tunics were similar to those worn by his men and were made of a soft, weighty material.

The cloth frogs served as closures along the slanted openings that stretched from the banded collars downward to beneath the left sleeves of the shirts and the kaftan.

In continuing reticence, his wife returned from the adjoining room and, stepping near, placed a pair of calf-length leather boots on the floor beside his bench.

“Are these for me?”

Tyrone finally queried, unable to draw any other conclusion.

At her nod, he inquired further.

“Do you want me to try them on?”

“If you would, Ty,”

Synnovea murmured, seeming rather apprehensive as she chewed at a bottom lip.

Tyrone wasn’t inclined to strip away his robe, not while she was there to spur a reaction.

His pride had been daunted much too often of late for him to even think of leaving himself open to the humiliation that would follow.

After gathering up the boots, a tunic, and a pair of trousers, he sought shelter in the dressing room, where he garbed himself in the clothes she had made.

Among his wife’s many other talents, it seemed that she was also an accomplished seamstress, for he soon found himself marveling at the neat handiwork which had gone into making the garments.

Synnovea came to him with a smile as he emerged from the narrow room and, begging his permission, knotted a braided leather cord around his lean waist.

When she stepped back to consider the clothes she had created as well as the man who now wore them, her eyes began to mist with tears.

He looked so handsome that she could feel only remorse for having once squandered his affection.

Tyrone stepped before the silvered glass to consider his reflection and was prompted to cock a dubious brow at his altered appearance.

“I look like a Russian.”

Synnovea surreptitiously brushed at the moisture blurring her vision and cleared her throat hastily before she spoke.

“Aye, and a very handsome one at that.”

Mystified by the strange thickness in her tone, Tyrone peered at her over a shoulder, but Synnovea turned aside, refusing to let him ponder the emotion written on her face.

“Are you well, madam?”

She nodded jerkily and managed a strangled reply.

“Of course.”

Unconvinced, Tyrone canted his head in an effort to draw her gaze, curious to know what was troubling her, but she hurriedly busied herself, straightening bric-a-brac on a nearby chest.

Tyrone gave up his efforts, refusing to press her for an explanation.

Angelina had often baffled him with her moody tears and melancholy, which had usually come with her fluxes and been just as unpredictable.

He thought it prudent to return his attention to the trousers without inquiring into Synnovea’s monthly cycles.

After all, they were hardly on intimate terms, considering his continuing abstinence.

Despite recent revelations that had brought him face-to-face with his growing mental entanglement with her, there was still that part of him that hadn’t yielded to the idea that he couldn’t do without her.

Facing the mirror again, Tyrone gathered the loose folds in his hand and considered the roominess of the trousers.

“No wonder they’re so comfortable.

They’re large enough for two men.”

Covertly Synnovea eyed the torpid bulge molded by the tightly clasped pantaloons, and though she yearned to draw near and press him for a more ardent response than he had thus far been willing to offer her, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the congeniality they were presently sharing.

A myriad of different things seemed to hinder it, and she was loath to see it shattered once again.

Then, too, she hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of her entrance into the bathing chamber, when she had only wanted to offer him help with his bath.

Nor could she forget his nakedness and the ruddy hue that had swept into his face when he had caught her eyeing the lusty flag that had hauled itself upright at her approach.

The memory of his thunderous explosion even now made her tremble in trepidation, making her cautious of provoking similar outbursts.

“I’ve also made you a suitable cap and coat to wear with your clothes, if you’re of a mind to try them on, Ty,”

she murmured, unwilling to meet his gaze in the mirror.

Tyrone glanced around the room in search of the articles of clothing.

“Where are they?”

“I’ll fetch them,”

Synnovea eagerly replied and returned to the dressing room.

Hurriedly she fetched his new coat, the lining of which she had made from the same lamb’s wool as the handsome astrakhan.

The cap was a necessary item of clothing in Russia, no less than the coat, and though she had searched through her husband’s clothing, she hadn’t found any outer gear warm enough for what he’d need.

“You made these?”

Tyrone asked in amazement, after accepting the items from her and examining the detail of each.

Synnovea inclined her head in a single nod of affirmation.

“Here in Russia you’ll be needing more protection from our winters than your English garments can provide.

I’m not sure how you managed to survive the weather last year, but I’d be remiss in my duties as a wife if I didn’t see you properly outfitted for the colder months.”

“I’m grateful, madam.”

Tyrone couldn’t have been more sincere.

“I was greatly hampered last winter by the crispness of the icy winds until Grigori took pity on me and loaned me some of his clothing.

I might not have fared well at all if he hadn’t.”

After shrugging into the coat, Tyrone settled the cap upon his head at a jaunty angle, but Synnovea giggled and, shaking her head in disapproval, reached up to rearrange the latter.

Tyrone accommodated her shorter height by bending his knees, and for a moment their eyes melded in warm communications.

Synnovea was feeling no less than giddy when she stepped back, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to curb a grin.

It was amazing to her how quickly he could move her from tears to laughter without uttering a word, but then, perhaps it was all the roiling emotions to which she was now prey that caused such flighty behavior within her.

Her whole world now seemed centered on him, and as yet.

he hadn’t shown any indication that he’d ever forgive her.

Synnovea’s eyes glowed warmly in admiration as she perused her husband’s tall, broad-shouldered form outfitted in the simple garments.

She thought him no less than magnificent.

“I’m delighted to find my wife so talented,”

Tyrone said, perusing his reflection.

“Your gifts are very fine indeed, madam.

I’m both awed and pleasured by them.”

“I’m pleased to give them, sir,”

Synnovea replied, her smile deepening.

“How do the boots fit?”

“So well that I can almost believe that they were made for me.”

“Actually they were.

I found an older pair of yours in your armoire and took them to the only bootmaker my father trusted.

Are they comfortable?”

“Very,”

he answered with enthusiasm.

“Would you like to try on the kaftan now?”

she invited.

“I thought you might enjoy having one to wear after your baths at night.”

“I would indeed,”

Tyrone agreed and disappeared once again into the safety of the dressing room.

When he returned a few moments later wearing the blue robe, Synnoyea stepped behind him and ran a hand admiringly across the full breath of his wide shoulders as she peered past his arm at his image.

“It suits you well, Ty.”

Her husband grinned at her in the mirror.

“I think you’re trying to make a Russian of me, madam.”

Synnovea threaded her fingers through the short hair curling at his nape.

“Your hair isn’t long enough for that.”

Even her most casual touch bestirred Tyrone’s senses, and though he strove to sound normal, he had lost the strength in his voice…and in his knees.

“It needs cutting.”

“Would you like me to trim it tonight?”

she asked near his shoulder.

Knowing the havoc which that simple service would create in him, Tyrone yawned and made the excuse “Not tonight, Synnovea.

I’m really tired.”

“Then I’ll put away your new clothes,”

she offered, gathering the garments she had made.

As she faced him, she held out a hand expectantly for the kaftan, but her husband dawdled as he unfastened the frogs.

When she remained near at hand, he finally turned aside before he dared sweep the garment over his head.

Even if her view was from a rearward angle, Synnovea was not above perusing all that she saw.

She yearned to reach out and run a hand caressingly over the hard vales and ridges of his back and stroke his granite-hard buttocks, but she knew if she roused his ire again what she’d likely invite.

Feeling the weight of his wife’s gaze, Tyrone cast a glance askance and found a yearning in those soft orbs that almost snatched his breath away.

He was sure it mirrored his own and could sense his doom drawing nigh.

Synnovea was still waiting in silence when he handed back the kaftan.

She folded it over her arm, but her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his long, manly form as he lifted a knee upon the bed and leaned forward toward the pillow, where he braced himself on an elbow.

What came into view would have made a meek maid blush and turn aside, but she had never considered herself as such.

Tyrone winced slightly and, slowly expelling a pent-up sigh, lifted himself to make a necessary adjustment to his privy parts.

When he realized his wife was still observing him, he looked around and found her smiling in amusement.

“Something wrong, madam?”

he asked, arching a curious brow.

“Oh, I was just wondering to what lengths a man will go to spite himself.”

“Are you referring to me?”

“Who else, sir?”

Tyrone didn’t rightly know how to answer.

Mutely he watched the rather jaunty twitch of skirts as his wife went to the dressing room.

Her amused giggles floated back from the dressing room, and he almost groaned, knowing full well what she found so humorous.

He was spiting himself.

He was hot, hard, and eager, and she was everything he yearned to have in all of his erotic dreams.

Synnovea returned to the bedchamber gowned in a filmy creation that left nothing to the imagination.

Tyrone was certain she was bent on tormenting him, yet his eyes seemed to have a will of their own as they followed her around to the far side of the bed.

She lifted the voluminous gown, allowing him an unhindered glimpse of a shapely thigh as she climbed onto the mattress.

After crawling near, she sat back upon her heels, seeming completely at ease beneath his perusal, and began to massage his scarred back with a balm that kept his skin pliable.

By dint of will, he turned his face aside and lowered his head to the pillow, at length allowing her gentle ministering to soothe his tensions.

Never had he known such tender kindness…or unyielding torture.

Finally Synnovea put away the salve, wiped off the excess, and snuffed out the candles behind her.

Tyrone pulled the feather comforter up over them before leaning across to his bedside table to do the same.

Settling back upon the bed, he turned on his side away from her and lay in pensive silence, trying desperately to forget that she was even there.