14

T he 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.”

“You’re no fool, sir,” Synnovea replied in a muted tone. “Indeed, you’re far more astute than any man I’ve ever met.”

Tyrone jeered. “Have you knowledge of so many men, my girl, that you can be considered a judge of unquestionable merit?”

Synnovea’s cheeks warmed beneath his sarcasm. “I’ve never known anyone but you on an intimate basis.”

“Perhaps not, but you certainly have a legion of hungry males sniffing at your skirts, just waiting for the chance to lift them.”

She took exception to his statement. “I’ve given them no encouragement!”

“Should I believe you singled me out, madam?” Tyrone laughed with rampant skepticism. “Or was I the only poor dupe to be caught in your trap?”

“You know I’ve been with no other man but you.”

He lifted his shoulders in a bland shrug. “Which leaves me convinced that I played the fool with an untutored maid.”

“I may not have had much experience with men,” Synnovea argued, “but I have a good head on my shoulders and the ability to think for myself. You were the only one I would have chosen in any case.”

“Now that statement I must challenge, madam. Not that you don’t have a fine head, my dear,” he rejoined, intentionally misinterpreting her point. “None better, to be sure. Indeed, it was unquestionably your fair looks and form that caused me to fall prey to your whims.”

Synnovea glanced away in frustration. She was beginning to think that this particular Englishman could be as infuriating as he was aggressive.

Having won the argument, at least for the moment, Tyrone bent his attention to his latest wound. He dragged the tail of his bride’s nightgown out from under her and began wiping away the blood that had once more collected. As much as he yearned to be made of stone at the moment, it was hard for him to ignore the slender limb and winsomely curving hip which he exposed.

He snorted as he failed to stem the flow. “The way I’m now bleeding, our friends will likely lend you sympathy for having endured my savagery.”

“’Twould seem you’re far too acquainted with serving a death blow to your enemies to be anything less than brutish with a blade in your hand, sir.”

“I keep the weapon keen for such a purpose, madam. I never once considered that I’d be turning it upon myself. But then, my zeal of late seems to be my own worst enemy.”

Synnovea watched his attempts for a long moment before she dared to speak. “Whatever it’s worth, Ty, I’m grateful you provided the blood. Otherwise your friends and mine might have thought me…” she paused, wondering if she should put words to his thoughts, and then managed to strangle out, “a trollop.”

Old memories came flooding back to haunt Tyrone, and he looked away with a pensive sigh. “I suppose preserving his wife’s honor is the least a husband can do.”

Synnovea’s eyes gleamed with sudden moisture. “I have trouble believing you’re of such a mind to consider me worthy of your protection, especially when it’s a matter regarding my virtue.”

“You know little about me, Synnovea,” he replied, not caring to explain further.

“That’s true,” she agreed gloomily. “I know you not at all.”

Tyrone heaved another pensive sigh. “I once knew a man who, after hearing the gossip that another had spread abroad about his wife, called her lover out in a duel. The swain made light of her affection and let it be known that he had used her merely for a whim and had tossed her aside when she began to bore him. He was one of those casual gallants who plucked fruit from every skirt he could lift with his charming lies. Had the husband been as vindictive as Aleksei, he might have gelded the man and left him to pine in remorse for all the women he had once bedded.”

“What happened after the duel?” Synnovea asked hesitantly. “Did the lover apologize?”

“The husband killed him,” Tyrone replied with rueful bluntness. “He found the roue and challenged him to a duel nearly a fortnight after the woman had foolishly tried to rid herself of his child. By that time she was in her fifth month and thought to make amends to her husband, though he had pledged to take her to the country and stay with her until the child was born. For some reason, she had imagined that she could make everything right again if she just rid herself of the other man’s child. In her quest to dismiss the babe from her life, she threw herself down the stairs while her husband was away, thinking to kill the child she was carrying. She accomplished her goal, but she took a fever and, a week later, died in her husband’s arms.”

Synnovea lifted her eyes to search his. “You seem greatly troubled by your tale, Ty. Was this woman someone you were fond of?” A long, silent interlude followed as he stared off into space, and she tried again. “Your sister, perhaps?”

Tyrone finally released a sigh. “No matter now, madam. She’s gone, buried in the grave.”

During another long passage of a moment, Synnovea considered his aimless efforts to stem the bloody flow, until she finally felt led to break the painful silence with a soft query. “Will you not let me tend your arm now, Ty?”

He was set to brush aside her offer, but he realized with some surprise that he was unwilling to injure her with another brusque refusal. Grudgingly he relented. “If you must.”

Suddenly a-smile, Synnovea leapt from the bed, incognizant of the view she presented to her husband as her gown swirled away from her body. The sight of her lithe limbs and shapely derriere nearly made him gasp. It certainly gained his full attention.

When she returned with a fresh basin of water, he was seated upon the bench to which she had earlier directed him. He had draped a towel across his naked loins, allowing her to keep her mind on the task of dressing his wound. Gently she did so, aware of his unrelenting stare while she cleansed and wrapped bandages around his arm.

“May I tend your back now?” Synnovea questioned, bracing herself for another tirade. She kept her gaze carefully lowered and her attention focused on tying off the cloth.

“Do what you must, madam. I’m too tired to argue with you.” It was a lame excuse for giving in to her beguiling manner, but it served Tyrone well enough for the moment. He was tired and had no desire to fight with her any longer.

Much to his relief, she went to fetch his dagger and the jar of ointment, allowing him to ease his breath out in slow drafts. Whenever she was near, he could hardly breathe, wanting her as he did.

Synnovea gently washed his back with a mild soap before she applied the tip of the blade carefully to the pusfilled lesion. Tyrone stiffened slightly as she slit it open, but he was nevertheless amazed by her gentleness. During his years as a soldier, he had become well acquainted with the hurried roughness of military surgeons. In sharp contrast to their abuse, the touch of her hands seemed like a lover’s caress.

Working quickly, Synnovea flushed the wound until fresh blood oozed from the newly opened gash. Then, with tender compassion, she smoothed the balm over the area and wrapped strips of clean cloth around his chest, leaning close over his shoulder as she brought the ends together. As he accepted the strips from her hands, the green-brown eyes swept downward from his temple to the crisp lines of his jaw. Though in recent weeks she had enlivened many a deficient daydream with images of her Englishman, she had never examined his features from this particular angle before. She found the view no less intriguing than all the others she had stored in her memory.

Synnovea moved around in front of him and secured the bandage with a double knot over his chest. “I never meant for this to happen, Tyrone,” she stated in a cautious tone, wary of bringing up the subject, but feeling a need to speak her mind. “It was never my intention to see you hurt. You seemed so adept as a soldier, I never dreamt that Aleksei would be able to catch you unawares. Nor did I expect that he and Ladislaus had joined forces.”

Tyrone laughed with caustic disbelief. “I could almost be convinced of your charity toward me, madam, except that I’ve been painfully instructed not to trust you. That particular lesson has been seared into my memory as deeply as the scars on my back.”

“I was desperate,” Synnovea pleaded in a strained whisper, dearly hoping he would understand. “I couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Vladimir. I favored the loss of my good name rather than his attentions as a husband. And you were so willing…so tenacious in your desire to have me…”

“Aye! I was willing!” Tyrone readily acknowledged. “How could I not be? Your beauty tempted me from the very beginning, and in your resolve, you deliberately lured me on with a sweet promise. I saw it in your eyes and on your lips. How could I have known you’d be leading me into a trap, one that nearly cost me dearly! I’m much relieved to find my head still attached and my cod in good working order!”

A hot blush warmed Synnovea’s face as her eyes were drawn to his scantily clad loins. “I never dreamt that Aleksei would become so violent—”

“The hell you say!” Tyrone growled. Coming to his feet, he made no further attempt to hide his nakedness as he strode past her to the far end of the room. Then, when she turned to face him in some bewilderment, he came back to stand close in front of her. At least his rage helped to cool the heat in his loins, if not the roiling resentment burning within him. Settling his hands on his narrow hips, he leaned toward her slightly and gave vent to his vexation. “I don’t know the exact moment you singled me out as your victim, madam, but no well-tried harlot could have accomplished the task with such winning appeal. You were as alluring as any earthbound goddess ever craved to be. Aye, madam, that you were, and though I’ve wandered to countries beyond your imagination, I’ve seen no finer wench, no fairer form, than you. ’Twas the cunning way you employed your charms that saw me entrapped like some foolishly rutting apprentice. You were so sweet and beguiling, I never had a chance against your powers of persuasion. Your eyes were so warm and inviting, your lips so soft and yielding, your breasts so eager to be touched, and like some blind, weanling fool, I thought your silken thighs would welcome me. Even now I yearn to mount you and appease my desire. There’s an unrelenting ache in my loins, and although I’m gratified to be able to feel this lusting need, I’m distraught nonetheless because of this damnable yearning that sorely besets me. I know well enough, should this continue, you’ll rend my privy parts more thoroughly than Aleksei’s blade ever could,”

Synnovea stared up into eyes that fairly blazed into her own, not knowing what to say to ease his indignation. He seemed more incensed by the fact that he had let himself be deceived by a woman, and yet she had been carried away as much by his ardor as he had been by her wiles. Her enticement, at best, had been totally unskilled, whereas his manly persuasions had been firmly bolstered by experience. It was true she had set out to accomplish her will, but somewhere in the midst of it all, she had surrendered not only her body to him but her heart as well. She’d never have been so eager to yield him her virginity had he not worked his own enchantment upon her. Yet if she tried to convince him of that simple fact, she’d no doubt be ridiculed for concocting a farfetched fantasy.

“Ty.” Synnovea’s voice was soft and gentle, much like a silken caress smoothing down the nettles of his pride. “Could we not go to bed and talk for a while…I mean, about each other? I really don’t know you at all…and I would like to…very much.”

A terse laugh escaped Tyrone as he dropped his head back upon his shoulders and stared at the shadowed ceil ing. He tried to collect his thoughts, but he was like a caged beast distracted by his lusts, an animal smelling the scent of a bitch in heat, driven to a raging hunger by her nearness; and yet, because of some hidden barrier that hearkened back to his injured pride, he refused to salve the rutting instincts that drove him to distraction. And all she wanted to do was go to bed with him—and talk!

“Synnovea, Synnovea,” he groaned as if plagued by a great pain. “You turn my being inside out, my night into an excruciating anguish, my day into a living hell…and then cajole so sweetly in my ear. What am I to do, deny you when you pluck the gutstrings of my manly mettle with your silken pleas? I lose heart for diatribes when you ply your fetching ways upon me.”

Synnovea waited in silence until he lifted his head and fastened those penetrating blue orbs upon her. Her voice was barely a whisper in the stillness of the chambers. “Truly, Ty, I didn’t foresee such hurt to come to you. You were the one I wanted to claim as my lover, whether by truth or a lie. ’Twas never my intent to bind you to me against your will.”

Tyrone sighed heavily and gestured lamely toward the bed, knowing what distress it would cause him to lie down beside her and not touch her. Yet for the time being, he was willing to allow the arguments to lie dormant. “We can talk if you wish, Synnovea, or go back to sleep if you’re of such a mind.”

Purposefully he took a deep, steadying breath, as if about to plunge beneath a gigantic wave. Following her to the edge of the bed, he watched her crawl to the far side while his eyes longingly stroked the curving hips and the valley between her buttocks, which the gown molded so enticingly. She slipped beneath the covers and, drawing them up beneath her chin, kept her gaze carefully averted as he stretched out beside her. When he drew the sheet up over his lower torso, she turned eagerly on her side to face him, as if expecting a whole flood of revelations to gush forth from his lips.

Tyrone mentally groaned at the idea and, rolling onto his stomach, reached back for the candelabra. Bringing it near, he blew out the tapers and soon became appreciative of the darkness that shadowed their faces. It was a cold, hard fact that he could lose himself in the variegated depths of those beautiful green-brown eyes.

“Can we not just go to sleep?” he sighed wearily. “Of late, I’ve been unable to get much rest.” He didn’t care to elaborate by telling her that he had found most of his nights haunted by his lust for her. “I must confess that I’m in desperate need of it now.”

“Whatever your pleasure may be, Tyrone,” Synnovea answered softly, grateful for his cordial manner. Her eyes followed his movements as he reached down to the foot of the bed and pulled the down-filled comforter over her. Smiling, she wiggled deeper into the warmth he had provided, content to have him near.

The sun had climbed above the treetops and was just spreading its radiance over the city when Tyrone reluctantly drifted up from the depths of rapturous dreams and roused to a vague awareness that he hadn’t been basking in just another lustful fantasy. Full reality suddenly penetrated, and he flicked his eyes open, half expecting to find Synnovea awake and deliberately teasing him. She was there, all right, but sleeping soundly with her head on his pillow and a slender thigh resting across his naked loins. He could feel the faint, tickling brush of her breath against his shoulder and, through her gown, every enticing vale and mound of her softly curving form. Bound as he was to the mattress, he felt as if he had been lashed with silken bonds to a rack upon which he was being scourged by sweet, delectable torture.

Indulging in an occasion that he had never before been granted, Tyrone studied his sleeping bride at his leisure. Try as he might, he could find no hint of the wily vixen who had led him into her trap. Rather, he beheld an innocently slumbering maid not even a stoic heart could resist. Softly curling wisps had escaped her braids and now framed her oval face, leading his gaze enticingly to a dainty ear where a spiraling strand curled coyly around it. She had a fresh, natural radiance about her. A soft, rosy blush brightened her cheeks, and below elegantly winged brows, silkily spiked lashes lay in slumbering repose upon fair skin. Her features were delicately refined, her nose straight and her lips soft and beguilingly parted, temptingly ripe for a lover’s passionate kiss. When his eyes caressed such winsome beauty, it was difficult for him to remember that she had deceived him at all.

Obviously his bride had been drawn to him in her sleep, for the sheet and coverlet had fallen to the floor, leaving her with only the lace-trimmed nightgown to provide her protection from the chill now present in the room. The garment had ridden up, leaving a gently curving hip and a slender thigh naked to his gaze. Reluctant though he was to leave such sweet torment, Tyrone knew he’d likely suffer defeat if he remained beside her one moment longer. By simply amending his position a few scant degrees, he could penetrate the vulnerable softness and placate his hotly flaming passion in her dewy warmth. As much as it would have relieved his plight, it hardly would have served his purpose.

Carefully easing himself free of those silky limbs, Tyrone slid across the bed and, without pause, came to his feet. Immediately he repented his lack of caution, for a sudden, splintering pain exploded in his head, giving him cause to wonder if he had been caught in the clutches of something abhorrently evil. Clasping the heels of his hands to his throbbing temples, he held his head carefully in place until the anguish abated to a more tolerable level. He stumbled to the dressing room and there splashed cold water over his face and shoulders.

Having been granted leave for the day, he grabbed casual clothing and thrust his long legs into a pair of breeches. Upon returning to the bed, he allowed himself another admiring perusal before he lifted the bedcovers from the floor and tucked them around his sleeping bride. Departing the chambers, he made his way downstairs and asked directions from a passing servant, encountering one who had been taught English by Synnovea’s mother years ago. As the manservant led the way to the bathing chamber, he seemed amiably disposed to exercise his command of the language.

“Yur bride begin coming here to visit vhen she vas young child. Beautiful she vas! And her mother, too! Though zhe boys alvays chase Countess Synnovea, she give them no mind. She vas more interested in her studies and traveling vith her family. She has zhe mind of her own.”

“Nothing has changed,” Tyrone observed dryly, drawing a chuckle from the servant.

“She is much like zhe Countess Andreyevna, I think. Both can make a man’s head swim. At least, my lord, yu vill never grow bored living vith yur bride.”

“That comprises my greatest worry—just how long I’ll be able to live married to the lady.”

The elder wasn’t at all surprised by the Englishman’s comment. Rumors of his confrontation with Prince Vladimir and the old man’s sons had spread throughout the manse well before the wedding reception had ended. “I’m sure even a few scant years vill seem like heaven, sir.” he predicted with a merry twinkle in his eyes and then swung open a door for him. “Here yu are, Colonel Sir. Enjoy yur bath.”

Tyrone discovered many of his friends already enjoying the bathing facilities, having stayed overnight in chambers reserved for guests. They had gained the march on him by at least an hour and welcomed him with hearty bantering, chiding him for his tardy arrival, as if he had discovered worthier diversions to while away his time. Tyrone cringed at their gleeful laughter, but they only crowed the louder when they saw him grimace in pain.

Grigori came forward with a towel wrapped around his lean hips. Solicitously he handed a small vial of vodka to his commander. “This should ease your plight to some degree, Colonel.”

“Or put me in the grave,” Tyrone quipped. Nevertheless, he tossed the drink down with a shiver of revulsion, promising himself henceforth lhat he’d limit his consumption of the libation for his own good. To say the brew was deadly was definitely an understatement of the truth.

Lieutenant Colonel Walsworth gestured to the bandages that still bedecked Tyrone’s torso and arm. “Tell us, now. Did your lady claw at your back or try to hold you off?”

Tyrone waved away the officer’s raucous speculations.

“’Twas nothing more than a tainted wound or two that my wife treated, so spare me your humor, Edward, until I’m better able to handle the abuse, or I’ll be wont to seek revenge.”

Walsworth’s hearty laughter nearly deafened Grigori’s chuckling statement. “There’s another day of celebration planned, Colonel.” Winning Tyrone’s dubious regard, the Russian lifted his broad shoulders in a casual shrug. “It’s common to make the most of every occasion here in Russia. It saves us from the tedium of our long winters. And, of course, our fruited vodka seems to lighten the spirits even before we’re into the festivities.”

“Try to keep your wits clear, my friend,” Tyrone cautioned. “On the morrow we must return to duty.”

Grigori followed him to a secluded corner where a large bathtub was being filled by a manservant. “You sound as if you have something dire on your mind.”

Tyrone cast a glance toward the attendant and, for the sake of caution, delayed his answer until that one had left. If Synnovea’s mother had spent enough time on the premises to instruct a servant in the language, no doubt others were also versed in it. “As soon as it’s practical, I mean to confront Ladislaus in his lair. My goal is to capture him and other leaders of his band before the year is out. On the morrow I plan to introduce some new tactics to the men in anticipation of that event.”

“Will you leave your bride so soon?” Grigori asked in amazement. More than anyone, he knew how fervently his commander had sought to win the maid and was surprised that he had decided to go back to duty so early. “You certainly have reason to take a few days off, considering the condition of your back.”

“The tsar has informed me that he’d like us to put on a parade for some foreign dignitaries in weeks to come. Between the task of readying men for a parade and others for the campaign I mean to launch against Ladislaus, I can foresee the possibility of being pressed for time between now and then. And you know well enough that I cannot allow my personal life to interfere with my responsibilities as a commanding officer.”

“You’ve been here for almost a year and haven’t yet taken any time off for yourself. I thought, under the circumstances, you’d be staying in the city and training the troops here rather than going after Ladislaus.”

“Winter is rapidly approaching. If we delay until spring, we may never find his camp. We must act before the first snow. That means we can’t waste any time now. We’ll have to plan our strategy and condition the men to be ready for anything we might have to face. I want them thoroughly confident of their own capabilities. We can’t leave anything to chance if we intend to capture Ladislaus and his cohorts.”

“If you’re so adamant about going after them, a scout should be sent out to search for the brigands’ camp.”

“I’ve already thought of that. Avar will be the likely choice to go. He has no love for Ladislaus after the brigand stole away his sister last year.”

“How do you suppose Prince Aleksei found them?”

“Ladislaus let it be known here in the city that he was looking for me. It’s not too hard to guess that Prince Aleksei responded to the call when he realized he’d have to get me out of the way. Whatever their connection, I don’t think they’re the best of friends.”

“Considering the whipping they gave you, I’d say you were extremely fortunate that Lady Synnovea sent her maid to the castle to bid Major Nekrasov to come to your rescue.”

Tyrone was clearly bemused. He couldn’t remember a time when Synnovea had been given any opportunity to send Ali on such a mission, at least not while he had been in full command of his senses. But then, being clobbered on the head had left much of what had happened hopelessly muddled. “What do you mean? When did she do that?”

“Major Nekrasov told me the other day that Ali brought him word that you were in terrible trouble. From what I understand of it, the old woman was visiting the cook at the Taraslovs’ when your captors carried you into the carriage house.”

“I must express my gratitude to Ali,” Tyrone replied, still somewhat confused by the captain’s revelation. “Until now, I never knew how I had actually been delivered from their schemes, except that Nikolai and Tsar Mikhail were there when I most needed them.”

“Ali told the major that her mistress had sent her.” Thoughtfully Grigori scrubbed a hand over the bristly stubble covering his chin before cocking a querying brow at his commander. “How could Lady Synnovea have been at the Taraslovs’ when she was supposed to be sick upstairs? At least, that’s what Prince Adolphe had been led to believe.” Though his superior seemed suddenly intent upon loosening the knot which held the bandages together over his chest, Grigori pointedly awaited an answer.

Tyrone’s eyebrows twitched upward noncommittally. “Perhaps she wasn’t upstairs at all. Perhaps she was with Ali at the Taraslovs’.”

Cautiously lowering his voice, the Russian boldly offered a conjecture. ‘The countess was with you, wasn’t she?”

Tyrone frowned sharply as he grasped the bandages with both hands and ripped them in twain. “Even if true, Grigori, do you actually think I’d tell you?”

“Whether you do or not, my friend, your answer will go no further than the two of us. You know that.”

In spite of Synnovea’s flagrant disregard for him, Tyrone was unwilling to cause her shame. “Would I boast of such an event? The lady is my wife.”

“Tsar Mikhail was most anxious to have you and your bride speak the vows in haste.” Grigori gently prodded with a smile. “What really happened that night?”

Tyrone growled in exasperation and tried to make light of his vexation. “You may never get promoted to major, my friend, if you don’t learn to keep your questions to yourself.”

Chuckling, Grigori voiced a few suppositions of his own. “Now, I know you’re no liar. Colonel, so I rather suppose that Prince Aleksei and Ladislaus caught you unawares and ordered the whip laid to your back. And if Ali was sent to fetch Major Nekrasov from the Taraslovs, I’m inclined to believe that the Lady Synnovea was taken there with you. If you were forced to marry her, then I can better understand why you were so out of sorts with her yesterday.”

Although surprised at the accurateness of the captain’s conjectures, Tyrone carefully maintained his silence.

“It all falls into place,” Grigori mused aloud as he thoughtfully scraped a hand across his chin again. “You were obviously caught with the girl and, because of that reason, were forced to pay penance by her guardian, Prince Aleksei…”

“The devil you say! He wanted her for himself!”

“Then you were whipped for taking the lady from him.” Grigori’s eyes danced with humor as he heckled his commander. “All this time you’ve been hot and eager to take her into your bed. You just couldn’t wait for the tsar to give her to you. Now you’ve had to pay for your error and are angry with her—”

“What the blazes!” Tyrone barked, feeling the prick of truth in the man’s conclusions. “Do you imagine yourself able to read my mind?”

“I know you, my friend.” Grigori briefly lifted his wide shoulders in an indolent shrug. “If you weren’t upset with her, you’d stop this feeble pretense.”

“So I’m pretending, am I?”

“If things were as they should be between the two of you, you wouldn’t care if the whole Russian army came marching into this house to seek you out. You’d still be making love to her upstairs, and you wouldn’t come down until you had thoroughly exhausted your cravings.”

Tyrone stared at his second-in-command. He couldn’t deny Grigori’s deductions, for he’d only be lying. Indeed, the man seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

“And what’s more, you’re not going to be satisfied until you make peace with her and settle this rift between you. Your bride is very beautiful, Colonel, and if you love her as I think you do, you’d hasten to make amends before she loses heart.”

In a show of irritation, the colonel tossed aside the bandages. “It’s not that simple, Grigori. I mean nothing to her.”

The younger man scoffed in disbelief. “I challenge the truth of that statement. If you asked me, I’d say that she’s quite taken with you”

Tyrone tossed his head jeeringly. “She’s an actress of great merit. I applaud her skill.”

“Spare your lady such slander, my friend! It’s absurd to think that she doesn’t care for you!”

“How can you claim to know the mind of the maid when she bemuses me at every turn?” Tyrone angrily questioned. “I’ve no idea what she’s thinking, though recently I foolishly imagined I did!”

“Colonel, does our friendship mean nothing to you? Do you consider me a loyal compatriot? A tovarish ? Have I not proven my worth as such? Did I not warn you that Nikolai had followed your lead and had rushed to the tsar to plead for the countess’s hand himself? You wanted to challenge the man outright, yet I cautioned you to wait. Can you not allow that another may be able to see the truth more clearly than you may be able to at the present moment? You’re too close to the heart of the matter to view it objectively. You’re anxious for answers and entertain hasty judgments. Let your wife have a chance to verify her love.”

Tyrone heaved a weary sigh. “She’ll have plenty enough time to demonstrate her feelings toward me while we’re here. I can’t very well have the marriage annulled while Tsar Mikhail is breathing down my neck to see that I comply with his edict.”

“Your work here in Russia wouldn’t be very effective if you were allowed to do such a thing,” Grigori pointed out, piqued with his friend for having contemplated such a thing. “We Russians have a way of taking offense when one of our boyarinas is cast aside or embarrassed by a foreigner. Aleksandr Zenkov was a diplomat well respected in this country. I’d urge you as a friend to tender favorable treatment of his daughter.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost! What do you think I’ll do to her? Beat her?” Tyrone was incredulous. “Synnovea is my wife! If for no other reason than that, she’s deserving of my protection and care!” A bit outraged at Grigori’s warnings, he doffed his breeches and settled his long frame into the steaming bath. Immediately, he sucked in his breath as the hot water reminded him of the mangled condition of his back, especially the area that Synnovea had recently tended. Still feeling the weight of the captain’s perplexed frown, he cocked a challenging brow at the man. “Was there something else you wished to discuss with me?”

Thoughtfully Grigori perched on a nearby stool. “You’ve managed to bemuse me more than any man I’ve ever known, my friend. You speak of distancing yourself from your wife, and yet in the next breath vehemently declare that she’s yours to care for. When you first came here, you seemed loath to involve yourself with women, as if you hated them all. During that space of time I never saw a soldier fight as fiercely as you did. Although you held true to the code of honor, once you were instructed to serve vengeance upon the enemy, you did so with a tenacity that no foe could long withstand. You seemed to take no account of the danger your valor incited, as if you really didn’t care if you were killed—”

“Of course I cared!”

Grigori wasn’t easily put off by the interruption. “In a way, I suppose you did, but you certainly didn’t seem to give serious heed to the risks. Indeed, if you thought a task too dangerous for any of your men, you were always the one who took the chance.”

“There’s something to be said for experience, or haven’t you realized that as yet?” Tyrone countered tersely. “I’ve more skills in fighting than anyone in our regiment and have faced death many times over. If my ability hadn’t been well seasoned by actual clashes of arms, I wouldn’t be here in Moscow doing what I’m being paid to do—instructing the rest of you.”

“I’ve often wondered if you’d consider the perils of warfare with more prudence if you were content with your life.”

“You probe too deeply, tovarish ,” Tyrone mumbled through his hands as he vigorously soaped his face. “Though I understand that you’re trying to find some logic in all of this, I can give you no guarantee that I’ll be doing anything differently from now on. God willing, I’ll serve out my due and live to tell of it.”

“I shall say that prayer for both of us, my friend. ’Tis my hope that we’ll have long life and good fortune, and in that quest I offer an earnest plea that you take into account the brevity of our lives even without the threat of conflict and hasten to restore goodwill between you and your bride.”

Tyrone rinsed the soap from his face and peered up at the man, who grinned and casually saluted him before sauntering away. Tyrone eyed him for a moment and then leaned back in the tub to consider the man’s advice. Though Grigori’s words had vexed him, he couldn’t dis count the fact that they had been spoken with as much truth as good intent. Frowning musefully, he thought back on a few of his rather expeditious advances into the roiling core of several frays, including his attack on Ladislaus’s band. In retrospect, he had to admit that his actions might have seemed reckless and daring, but in each event he had seen the necessity for a strong show of force. Had he acted otherwise, innocents might have suffered and Synnovea would have belonged to Ladislaus rather than to him, a situation he would have detested despite the discord that presently existed between them.

Properly groomed and handsomely attired, Tyrone was again accompanied to the bridal chambers by those same cohorts who had carried him upstairs the night before. When they stood outside the anteroom and called for entry, the sounds that emanated forthwith from the rooms were closely reminiscent of a gaggle of geese coming to rest upon a lake. After a brief elapse of time, the portal creaked open just wide enough to allow a young boyarina to peer through the narrow space.

“A moment, please…my lords.” The plea was punctuated with breathless halts and giggles. “Lady Synnovea…hasn’t yet finished…dressing….”

“Bid her to come forth so we may see her beauty,” Walsworth urged with a chortle.

“Come now, maid,” Tyrone cajoled as he plied his best grin upon her. “Would you also hold the groom at bay when he has ventured forth to fetch his bride? Stand aside, I say, and let me enter.”

Synnovea’s muffled voice came from within the bedchamber, bidding the boyarina to open the doors of the anteroom. In eager response, the groom and his friends entered amid the vivacious laughter of elegantly garbed ladies and a pair of young chambermaids, who skittered about in their haste to remove a tub from the dressing room. While the men had made use of the bathing chamber downstairs, the copper vessel had served Synnovea’s needs upstairs, allowing her to bathe and perfume herself in privacy before she and Ali were joined by tittering maids and curious matrons who had craned their necks in an effort to apprise themselves of the condition of the bed and its sheets. Ali was still smoothing down the hem of her mistress’s sarafan when the men came striding boldly through the portal, intruding too quickly upon the bride. Synnovea whirled away from their searching eyes as she hastened to fasten the last few silken frogs on her sarafan , frustrating Zelda’s efforts to cover the loosely flowing black hair with a veil. In the next moment the princess stumbled back in surprise as Tyrone halted beside them and lifted the shimmering cloth from his wife’s head.

“If it’s all the same to you, Princess, I’d rather see my wife’s hair unfettered by braids and veils,” he declared with a dashing grin, but at Zelda’s horrified stare, his smile turned somewhat dubious. “Apparently it does make a difference.”

With dark eyes dancing warmly, Synnovea glanced over her shoulder at Tyrone, pleased that he should lend some husbandly consideration to her while her friends were there. When he leaned near, her eyes swept his features admiringly. She caught a fleeting whiff of a manly fragrance and, underneath it, the scent of soap, hardly anything at all, yet enough to weaken her knees. “Here in Russia a married woman mustn’t reveal her hair to anyone but her husband,” she informed him shyly. “If you’d like me to leave it unbound when we’re alone, you need only tell me.”

Tyrone reached out and slowly stroked a hand down the softly waving length, recalling the first time he had fed his gaze upon the long tresses, though at the time, he had been reluctant to waste any opportunity to peruse her sleek, naked form.

“I’d prefer it,” he murmured simply and, with a gracious nod of apology to Zelda, returned the veil to her. The princess accepted the filmy cloth with a demure smile and hurried to attach it. In turning, Tyrone found himself meeting the broad grin of his second-in-command, who approached with a chilled glass of watered wine.

“Perhaps Lady Synnovea would enjoy teaching you the customs of our country,” Grigori suggested. “I’m sure both of you would glean great benefit from the lessons.”

“I see no need for your matchmaking talents, my friend,” Tyrone commented with skeptical humor. “As you well know, we’re already married.”

The captain’s grin widened. “A good svakhi wouldn’t rest until she is confident that both the bride and the groom are content with each other. And if you’re unhappy. Colonel, how will I ever get my promotion?”

“What fickle friendship you portray!” Tyrone admonished drolly. “And here I was certain you were entirely sincere, but I see now that you only seek to advance yourself!”

Grigori shrugged good-naturedly. “I have to do it somehow.”

Smiling radiantly, Natasha swept into the chambers and invited their guests to come downstairs and partake of the feast that Danika had laid out for them in the dining room. She bade Tyrone to lead the procession with his bride upon his arm and encouraged the other men to choose their spouses or unwed maidens to whom they could lend the same consideration. Natasha accepted Grigori’s gallant invitation and bestowed a smile upon the young Russians as she queried, “What do you think of your commander’s choice for a bride?”

“I believe it to be an excellent match, my lady. I admire your taste in friends.”

“And I yours,” she replied with a gracious nod. “But tell me, what does the colonel have to say about it all?”

“I’m sure nothing but good will come from this union, Countess,” the captain offered magnanimously. “In time, the two will be very happy.”

Sensing the officer’s clear understanding of the situation, Natasha nodded in smiling contentment, quite willing to accept his prediction, which of course was exactly what she had wanted to hear.

The revelry was launched with a great deal of feasting and tippling as the couple sat together at the morning feast. Exhorted by the guests to follow the customs of the land, the newlyweds kissed to sweeten the meal after each crescendoing cry of “ Gorko! Gorko! Bitter! Bitter!”

A short time later, a small band of hired skomorokhi arrived to entertain them and perform colorful mimes. Many of the guests bedecked themselves in outlandish costumes and eagerly participated in the games and dances. Even Tyrone found his mood lifting to some degree as the wine eased the pain of his lacerated back. As bidden by the tsar, he made a show of enjoying the festivities and cavorted with his bride about the house and grounds, sometimes chasing others or being chased, hiding and then seeking.

The jester played his part with enthusiasm, sniffing and snarling, growling and howling as he prowled around with the pelt of a gray wolf draped across his shoulders, searching for any damsel whom he could catch to be the firebird of the tale. He was still roaming far afield when Tyrone caught Synnovea’s hand and whisked her out into the garden.

Deliberately matched together in the pairing off of couples, they had been bound together by a ribbon tied about their wrists. Where one went, the other surely had to follow. Tyrone espied an obscure crevice between two stout trees that had merged at the base some years before and, after slipping into it, lifted Synnovea into the niche between his splayed legs. What made the spot fairly secure as a hiding place was a large shrub that encompassed the sturdy trunks on three sides, but Tyrone hadn’t reckoned on the nook becoming a place of torture. The trees grew at the same slanting angles, compelling Synnovea to lean into him as he, in turn, braced his buttocks against the sloping trunk. His care in keeping his mangled back away from the rough, irritating bark forced him to subject him self even more to her alluring proximity and the susceptibility of his own manly cravings, for he had to clamp an arm behind her waist to keep her from losing her balance. The space narrowed progressively as he became aware of nearly every rounded curve and sleek limb hidden beneath his wife’s softly textured sarafan . But that was not all, by any means. The knoll between her slippered feet caused her to twist and shift her weight fairly often as she sought a more comfortable position. The hard brush of her thighs against his loins lit fires that he had wished to avoid, and he soon found himself battling a far different game than merely playing hide-and-seek with a “wolf.”

It wasn’t long before Synnovea became cognizant of the heavy thudding of her husband’s heart and the noticeable protrusion beneath his breeches. Her surprise was all too apparent when her eyes dropped to his lap and then flew up to peruse his stoic demeanor. Tyrone gazed down his noble nose at her as if to distance himself from the tumult she had awakened within him, yet as much as his overt display chafed against his pride, there was no denying the obvious.

Tyrone remained unyielding in his reticence, yet Synnovea was nevertheless heartened by the fact that he hadn’t yet set her from him. A memory of that moment in his quarters when he had lifted her astride his velvet-clad loins came winging back to her, awakening a heightening hunger within her to feel again that succulent pressure against her womanly softness. She had no hope that he’d relent of his hide-bound taciturnity, but she wasn’t above offering him the opportunity. Threading slender fingers through the short locks curling at his nape, she rose up against him, pressing every curve and hollow of her body to his manly torso. She heard his breath catch while her own nigh halted with the bliss elicited by her boldness as she snuggled her loins around his tumescence. Lifting eyes that had grown dark and sultry, she rubbed a hand caressingly over his shirt, admiring the muscular firmness she felt beneath it.

“Can we not appease our desires while we’re in this private place?” she whispered softly.

Though Tyrone made no effort to respond, his attitude of acquiescent stillness encouraged his wife to continue her seduction. Her softly parted mouth and caressing tongue played languidly upon his lips. The soft nipples peaked beneath her bodice and teased his manly ardor as she rubbed her breasts tantalizingly against his chest, yet he resisted her offerings, making no effort to either claim or reject them.

Synnovea could take heart only in the fact that her husband was a man and not a stone statue as he gave every evidence of being at the moment, but now her own cravings had intensified and she yearned for appeasement. There was only one thing that would snatch him from his affected indolence, and though she dared much by her impertinence, she slipped a hand down between them and clasped the hard shaft through his breeches.

Tyrone tried in vain to curb the pulsing excitement that robbed him of every sane thought but one, and that was the realization that he was no less susceptible now to his wife’s wiles than he had been a few nights ago. Except that she had become emboldened by the sensuality he had awakened within her. Her parted lips were temptingly moist and softly yielding, and he knew that beneath her clothes he’d find a place just as alluring, just as easy to reach. He had only to lift her skirts and pull her thighs astride him to take his ease—

“Someone’s coming!” Synnovea’s whisper was a mixture of panic and disappointment as she pushed herself away from him, at least as much as she was able.

The gray wolf pounced forward in an exaggerated stance, startling a gasp from the bride. Howling in victorious glee, the jester quickly snipped the ribbon that bound the couple together and, seizing her wrist, dragged her off toward the manse while casting a backward glance at the groom, who scowled after him in rampant annoyance. It was no more than what the jester expected from a newly wed, and blithely he continued on his way, giving the husband no reprieve. Once inside the manse, he took special delight in hiding the bride in a place not easily accessible to discovery.

Tyrone’s blood cooled forthwith, and by dent of will he managed to adjust his mien to a facade of good humor. Still, visions of Aleksei garbed in wolf pelt and chortling in vindictive glee sorely nettled his mood as he stalked after the culprit. At his entry into the manse, the gray wolf skipped around him and, in strident tones, tauntingly bade him to find the captured firebird in the gilded cage ere the evil brothers were able to kill him and claim her as their prize. The laughter-laden foray found Tyrone dodging the mock ploys and attacks of his friends, mainly to avoid some painful reminder of the condition of his back. Perhaps it was his own warrior’s spirit and years of combat training that prevented him from accepting defeat easily, for his fervor for the game intensified as his failure became more promising, and he flitted from room to room well ahead of the others in his quest to be the first to find Synnovea.

It was the tiny Sophia who beckoned to him from the kitchen door and surreptitiously pointed toward the pantry. There he swooped his young wife up into his arms with a triumphant cry, evoking laughter from her. He dashed ahead of his diabolical kin to deliver the firebird before the Tsarina Natasha, who smilingly crowned him with a flower-bedecked garland. It was this prize that Tyrone took back to the kitchen. Kneeling before the child, he placed the coronal upon her small head, winning a radiant smile and a quick, timid brush of her lips upon his cheek. When Tyrone returned to the portal where he had left Synnovea, he found a strange warmth glowing in the green-brown eyes.

“You seem to have a special way with children, Colonel Sir Tyrone Rycroft. Have you ever considered siring any?”

“Several times,” he responded, recalling the disappoint ment he had suffered each of the three times that Angelina had miscarried in the first two years of their marriage. Her fluxes hadn’t come with any regularity, and the physician who had treated her had given her a variety of herbs to strengthen her childbearing ability. Later, when Tyrone had knelt beside her grave, he had found it sadly ironic that she had found it necessary to endanger her own life in order to rid herself of another man’s child.

“Then you’re not averse to having children?” Synnovea queried forthrightly.

“That, madam, is not my difficulty at all,” Tyrone responded with equal candor. Taking her elbow, he escorted her away from the kitchen. “’Tis the deceit I can’t abide. How can I know the truth of your heart when you’ve proven yourself capable of chicanery?”

“How can I know your heart, sir, when you look at me with desire one moment and then seemingly disdain me the next?” she countered, disconcerted. “Are you fickle, Colonel? Your lips speak of diatribes, but when I look into your eyes, I see something smoldering there that awakens my senses to a heady degree.”

“Aye, madam, I’ve recently discovered a certain inconsistency within myself that tears me apart,” he readily admitted. “With your unparalleled beauty and coquettish smiles veiling your enticing subterfuge, you have the power to reach deep into the heart of a man and wring him inside out. Though he may stand valiant and resolute against the challenges of a thousand other entities, he’s helpless to protect himself against your wiles.” Halting, Tyrone faced her squarely as he hoarsely avowed, “I cannot deny that you’re able to tempt me beyond my ability to resist, Synnovea, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t try to build a fortress to shield my heart from the pain that I fear you’ll inflict upon it.”

Synnovea almost winced at the sting of his gentle reproach, knowing only too well that she deserved his distrust. “I pray you desist from your harsh judgment of me, Ty, because I intend you no hurt, not now nor in the weeks and months to come. I only seek some mutual ground upon which we can meld together and be content in this marriage of ours. I see you struggling to keep your distance from me when we both know you’re binding us both up in a tangle of knots by refusing to make love to me. Will you always be reluctant to nurture me with your attentions as well as with your child?”

A tawny brow jutted sharply upward in surprise at her blunt question. “Always, madam? Who knows what even the next moments will bring, but you should know well enough by now that making a child will require further involvement…”

“Is that what you’re objecting to, Ty?” Synnovea asked softly, her heart aching. “Further involvement?”

“I must confess that I fear indulging in the intimacy which would be required in making a child. “Tis much like a siren’s song that a man hears and then is forever held captive in its silken chains. Once fed, ’tis doubtful that I’ll be able to resist you, whatever your ploys.”

“I weave no siren’s song but a wifely plea that you’ll not leave me bereft of your attentions,” she insisted, her voice fraught with emotion. “If not for you, I’d have no knowledge of what is beyond the mere joining of our bodies. ’Tis you, sir. who has teased and now deny, and like a helpless sparrow, I must wait for the hawk to seize his prey before I can also be fed.”

Tyrone stared down at her in some amazement. He knew he had taken her to that lofty pinnacle of ecstasy which he had aspired to reach himself, but he was rather amazed that she could voice her own yearnings with such openness. He found her frankness no less than intriguing, inspiring him to make confessions of his own.

“Aye, madam, I’m most anxious to relieve this gnawing hunger that drives me like some rutting stag in the wilds. You’ve grown no less beautiful or desirable since you went with me to my quarters. You’d tempt any man, and I’m probably more susceptible than most.”

“’Twould only be a physical thing for you to make love to me. Men are like that, I’ve been told.” Synnovea felt frustrated by the lack of harmony between his words and his actions. If he were as vulnerable to her womanly wiles as he maintained, then how could he remain so aloof in her presence? “Why not me? You said yourself that you’ve been without feminine companionship for some time now, so I would assume any woman could serve your needs.”

“Not necessarily, madam.”

A lovely brow rose in wonder. “I’ve heard there are harlots aplenty who roam the German district. Have you never considered them in your quest for a companion?”

“Never,” he stated brusquely. “You’ll learn in time that I’m rather particular about the woman I bed.”

“Which really doesn’t include me anymore.” Synnovea’s voice broke slightly though she valiantly fought the tears that welled forth.

“I didn’t say that, Synnovea, so don’t put words into my mouth,” Tyrone retorted.

Keeping her face carefully averted to hide the wetness streaming down her cheeks, she questioned him. “Have you been so wronged that you are loath to make love to me and give me your child?”

Tyrone glanced away, reluctant to give any answer that would commit him to serving her desires, no matter how much he’d have welcomed both the sowing of the seed and the reaping of the harvest. Well aware of the unstable ground upon which he trod, he feigned an impatience to join their friends as he took her elbow. “Come, Synnovea, we’ll be missed by our guests.”

It was much later in the afternoon when General Vanderhout and his flaxen-haired wife came to the house. Although neither seemed particularly inclined to wish the newly wedded couple well, they were nevertheless obligated to extend a few superficial congratulations while so many other guests were present. Still, a few comments seemed laden with sarcasm.

“I never dreamt Colonel Rycroft vould cede to the pleas of a voman and actually marry her,” Aleta Vanderhout warbled to Synnovea in a coyly affected accent. “Especially a Russian boyarina . However did yu manage to ensnare him, my dear?”

Synnovea’s brow quirked in curiosity, and she shifted her gaze to Tyrone. Hitherto she had established no clear recollection of having suffered a jealous twinge in her life, but when the large brown eyes had devoured him with more than a token amount of lust, Synnovea experienced a sharp, nettling irritation that clearly set her at odds with the woman. She could not help but wonder what this pretty vixen meant to him, and if the two were secret lovers.

Much to her relief, Tyrone didn’t seem to have any difficulty meeting her perusal, allowing her to nurture a burgeoning hope that he had nothing to hide in this particular matter. Daring much, she slipped an arm through his and clasped it closely against her breast as she faced the flaxen-haired coquette. “It wasn’t hard at all, Madame Vanderhout. I merely stopped running and allowed him to catch me.”

“Much to my relief,” Tyrone replied, surprising his bride by smiling down at her and laying a hand in an affectionate manner upon the one she had settled upon his arm. Reluctantly he lent his attention to Aleta, a hot-blooded vamp who had tried countless times to break his continence. Though her husband of two-score-eight years was unaware of his young wife’s prurient bent, nearly every officer in his command had become well acquainted with the fact that Aleta had an insatiable appetite for handsome, virile lovers. She had made her way through a goodly number of officers, many of whom were more boastful than wise, considering the rank of her husband. For several months now, Tyrone had avoided her like the plague, not wishing to become embroiled in another scene wherein he’d be required to guard his privy parts with as much dedication as a reluctant virgin. It seemed the woman just couldn’t understand why he hadn’t wanted to follow in the wake of all her other lovers. “I was desperate enough to petition the tsar in my quest to stake my claim on Synnovea.”

Vincent Vanderhout loudly harrumphed as he bestowed a glowering stare upon his second-in-command. Making his excuses to the two women, he bade Tyrone to join him in the garden. There he turned on the younger man with fire in his eyes. “Must I remind you. Colonel Rycroft, that it’s the right of a commander to be informed well in advance of an officer’s intention to marry. I must verbally take you to task for your negligence in asking my permission to wed and for failing to show proper respect to a higher ranking officer. Obviously your clandestine affair with the countess has cost you your freedom and a bad report from me—”

“Your pardon, General,” Tyrone interrupted, growing annoyed with the pompous arrogance of the man. When he had made his decision to come to Russia, he had never committed himself to the idea of asking a foreigner for authorization to deal with matters concerning his personal life. It had been hard enough to accept the tsar’s recent interference, and though he was tempted to tell the general bluntly that his marriage was none of the man’s affair, he used the truth instead as an effective means by which to silence the elder. “It was the expressed wish of his majesty that I marry the Countess Synnovea.”

“ What in the hell have you done, Rycroft? Get the maid with child ere you spoke the vows? ” the Dutchman railed at the top of his lungs. “ Have you no regard for the fact that you’re on foreign soil? ”

The muscles tensed in Tyrone’s lean cheeks. His own explosive temper had been tested far too much in recent days for him to consider the wisdom of giving the man a placid rejoinder. Instead he came to abrupt attention and looked over the shorter man’s head as he snapped out a reply. “No, General, sir! I didn’t get her with child, sir—if it’s any of your damned business, sir! ”

General Vanderhout fixed the colonel with a piercing glare. “Be careful, Colonel, I can arrange for your swift dispatch to England.”

“I’d advise against it, General sir , unless you first take up the matter with the tsar! He has assigned me certain duties, sir , which I don’t think you have the ability to perform.”

The general’s mouth twisted sharply with ill-restrained fury. The very idea of an underling telling him that he was unsuited for any kind of duties! Why, such a statement bordered on insubordination. “Apparently, Colonel Rycroft, you’ve become quite taken with the attention you’ve been able to garner from the tsar, so much so that you’re not above disobeying orders and ignoring proper decorum in an effort to claim what you’ve been rutting after ever since you snatched the countess from that bastard prince, Ladislaus.”

Though Tyrone never lowered his gaze to the man, his blue eyes hardened with fermenting fury. “Perhaps I should return to my bride and our guests, General,” he suggested tersely. “I can see no profit in discussing my personal affairs with you any longer.”

Mentally Vincent Vanderhout searched for an intimidation that would be effective in reducing the colonel to the size of a squealing piglet. So far, rumors had it that Tyrone Rycroft didn’t back down to anyone, not even to his fiercest foes, and although the man had been whipped unmercifully, word had gotten back to their command that the colonel hadn’t relented even then. Perhaps it was the admiration that he had heard in the voices of the officers relating the story that had aroused a goading desire within Vanderhout to establish himself the exception. The only problem, he just didn’t know how to go about gaining that distinction.

With a loud, angry snort, the general gave up his futile attempt and, turning on a heel, stalked back into the house, leaving Tyrone to contend with his own rage. Everyone inside the house had most likely heard their shouts, and though he could take some comfort in the fact that his friends would show discretion and maintain a respectful silence, he wasn’t so sure about all the others.

Tyrone knew without a doubt that if he and Vanderhout came together in the same room again before his temper cooled, he wouldn’t be able to suffer through the other’s caustic comments beyond the breadth of another moment. It seemed prudent for him to seek some privacy in his bride’s chambers upstairs until the general left, or otherwise he’d be sorely tempted to resort to fisticuffs. Right now the way things stood, he was just in the mood to tear the old warthog apart. There was definitely something of a serious note to be said about the growing agitation of a husband who denied himself the pleasure of copulating with his bride and easing the tensions that bound him up in an angry knot.

Tyrone’s ascent of the stairs was swift and uneventful, his entrance into the upper chambers even less difficult. Closing the door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and considered insuring his privacy further by locking the portal, but he was afraid that if Synnovea came looking for him she’d take it much amiss.

A cold dousing promised to soothe the vexing tide of rage that churned within him. Entering the dressing chamber, he stripped away his shirt and poured water into the basin before he noticed a sweet scent wafting from the sarafan , which Synnovea had doffed after the band of skomorokhi had departed. It now hung on a nearby peg awaiting Ali’s attention after the hem had been snagged by the knoll she had been forced to straddle. If not for the wily wolf’s haste to claim his victim, the soft fabric might never have been torn.

Thoughtfully Tyrone reached out and drew the garment to him. Remembering how her nipples had puckered beneath the bodice, he stroked his hand over the cloth, feeling a strange sense of regret that, by his own stubborn tenacity, he hadn’t accepted her invitation and caressed those tempting orbs. Considering his lusting fervor, he might have wreaked more havoc on it than the wolf if he had been able to forget his bruised pride and yielded to her seduction.

Lifting the garment, he held it beneath his nose and closed his eyes as he savored the delectable scent. It was the same that had haunted him throughout the previous night, the fragrance of English violets on warm, inviting skin.

Enough of this! Tyrone mentally growled and, cursing himself for being a fool, returned the garment to the peg. Even after what she had done to him, he couldn’t thrust aside his collection of memories that seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. Even now in her absence he wanted to feel her soft, naked body yielding to his and her lithe thighs opening to receive his encroaching hips.

Downstairs in the great hall, Natasha drew Zelda and her husband, Vassili, with her as she approached a vividly blushing Synnovea. “That oaf Vanderhout needs to be horsewhipped!” the countess muttered as her eyes followed Aleta to the stairs. “If I weren’t afraid he’d resort to spiting your husband in a most vindictive way, I’d ask him to leave.”

Prince Vassili was not above voicing his own conjectures and did so, hoping to assuage the bride’s chagrin. “Pay the general and his remarks no serious mind, Synnovea. From what I’ve been able to ascertain from my brief association with the man, he’s definitely a hound for glory. The field marshal and I have both become cognizant of several instances wherein General Vanderhout has deliberately claimed your husband’s achievements and plans as his own. And if that isn’t enough to set our tempers on edge, he seems to begrudge the favor that His Majesty has shown to the colonel. No doubt he’d like nothing better than to undermine that good will any way he could, even if he must goad your husband into a fight over you.”

Zelda gently patted her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret yourself over the general’s boorish manners, Synnovea. He isn’t worth a smidgen of your concern.”

Natasha accepted a goblet of wine from a servant and passed it on to Synnovea, who accepted it tremblingly. “Drink this down, my dear, while I go and have a little chat with the general. He needs, to be instructed in some good Russian manners.”

“I think I should like to retire to my chambers for a few moments,” Synnovea said, offering a wan smile to her friends. “At least until the general leaves.”

Laying a towel over his wet head, Tyrone rubbed his hair vigorously as he paused in the entrance of the dressing room. He hadn’t heard the antechamber door open, and he suffered some surprise when he felt a small hand sliding purposefully down the front of his breeches. When he had extracted his pledge from the tsar, he had given no moment’s heed to the temptations he’d be confronting if Synnovea became resolved in breaking his restraints. Inanely he hadn’t considered her growing appreciation for the delights to be found in copulating; he had foolishly thought she’d be content with a staid, superficial marriage. Since the garden, however, he had become acutely aware of his mistake and seriously doubted that he could remain indifferent to her delicious attacks. At the moment the sheer excitement that jolted through his being was enough to snatch his breath as she clasped his rapidly hardening manhood in a tenacious grip. The pleasure was so intense, he couldn’t even imagine continuing his continence one moment longer.

His wavering sigh sounded closely akin to acquiescence even to him as he swept the towel down around his neck. Instantly he stepped back in shock. “Aleta!” If he had taken a plunge in an icy stream, his reaction would have been no different. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Yu naughty man, yu,” the woman chided as she rubbed her fingers over a male nipple. “Getting married vithout Vincent’s permission. Tsk, tsk! Vincent said yu vex the tsar’s good humor by getting his late ambassador’s daughter in trouble, and now yu’ve had to pay yur due. Aren’t yu sorry now yu didn’t let Aleta satisfy yur manly needs?”

He glared at the woman who stood before him, recognizing his frustration for what it was. She was not Synnovea! Testily brushing aside the woman’s hand, he stepped back into the dressing room where he fetched a fresh shirt and dragged it over his head. The more clothes he wore around this wanton, the safer he would feel! “Your pardon, Aleta, but I’m not interested in what you have to offer.”

“Veil, yu vere a moment ago!”

“I thought you were my wife,” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’m interested in her , not you.”

“I can make yu forget that little twit,” the woman boasted. Hurriedly wiggling up against his buttock, she swept her hand around in front of him as she cooed, “I’ll do anything to please yu, Tyrone. Anything!”

He grabbed her wrist before she could seize his private parts again and, turning, stalked out of the dressing room. “I’m not interested, Aleta. I never have been. How many times must I tell you?”

Brown eyes warm and limpid with desire, she sauntered toward him, caressing her own breasts to entice him. “Don’t yu vant to touch me, Tyrone?”

“As difficult as it seems for you to understand, Aleta, I don’t have any desire to touch you, to kiss you, or to make love to you! What I’d really like now is to be left alone.” Tyrone turned his back on her and promptly found her hand searching forward between his buttocks. He leapt away as if he had been stung. “Dammit, Aleta! Leave me be!” Somehow he managed to refrain from insulting her as he stalked through the antechamber and snatched open the outer door. “I think you’d better leave. I don’t think your husband would appreciate your being here, and I know my wife wouldn’t!”

“Come now, Tyrone, yu’ll never be satisfied vith that little ignoramus Russian yu married. Yu need a more experienced voman to take care of yur needs.” She strutted toward him with a sultry smile and pressed her body full-length against his before she began searching for the opening to his breeches. “I can make yu forget she even exists.”

Tyrone caught her hand and tossed it aside in anger. “Hell and damnation, Aleta! I’m not in the mood for this! Can’t you understand that?”

“I know better, Tyrone!” she argued, coming back just as quickly and rubbing against him eagerly. Seeking a firmer hold she slipped her hands behind him and clasped his buttocks. “Yu were all hot and ready for me just a moment ago!”

“It wasn’t you I was thinking of!” Tyrone snapped irately. “It was my wife!”

“Don’t be so damned noble! Yu have enough for us both. Besides, vhat she doesn’t know von’t hurt her.”

Tyrone seized the woman’s chin and forced her to meet his glower. “You appear to have trouble understanding me, Aleta, so I won’t mince words any longer. I’m not interested in anything you have ever offered me. I never have and I never will, so please—just go away and stay away! ”

“Yu’re afraid of my husband!” Aleta accused, clearly astonished at his rejection. No man had ever rebuffed her advances before, and she found it hard to accept that he didn’t want her.

“I don’t want any trouble from him, that’s true!” Tyrone agreed testily. “But I want nothing from you either. Make an effort to understand me! There’ll never be anything between us, so please , just leave me alone from now on.” He recognized the woman’s final acceptance of his statement when her lips twisted downward in a disdaining grimace. With a brief dip of his head, he smiled tersely. “I’m immensely relieved to see you’ve finally caught on.”

Straightening her clothes with a jerk, Aleta stalked out of the door in a vivid display of outrage. In the next moment she gasped in astonishment as she came face-to- face with the young woman who stood in mute shock only a short distance from the door.

“Oh! I didn’t know yu vere here,” Aleta nervously announced.

Tyrone glanced around in sharp surprise, fully expecting to find the general outside his door. It was Synnovea, and from the curious quirk elevating her brow, she was none too happy.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Her meager smile clearly indicated her lack of concern in that area.

“Synnovea…I….” Tyrone hoped he didn’t look half as guilty as he felt. “I…just came up here to get away…”

“No explanations needed,” she assured him with noticeable rigidity. “I heard you arguing with the general downstairs and found myself unable to endure the stares of our guests.” Her gaze returned to Aleta, and the chilling glare in those green-brown eyes seemed to momentarily freeze the blonde. “Had I known this wench would be here trying to get into your breeches, I might have come better prepared to interfere. Perhaps you need a chastity belt to keep you safe from her wiles.”

Though innocent of any wrongdoing, Tyrone found himself struggling for a way to placate his wife’s suspicions. “I came up here to find some privacy, not to cavort with her.”

“Were you escaping from someone in particular?”

“The general.”

Synnovea faced the shorter woman and smiled rigidly as she bade, “Would you mind leaving us alone, Aleta? I have matters to discuss with my husband.”

Aleta seemed eager to escape and did so, running down the hall. In her haste to descend she almost stumbled on the stairs, evidenced by the sharp intake of her breath and a fearful little squeal.

“Do you suppose she hurt herself?” Synnovea questioned musefully, closing the outer door of their chambers to secure their privacy. “Do you care?” Tyrone queried. He had never had the opportunity to view the peevishness of an outraged wife before, but at the moment was of the opinion that Synnovea closely resembled one.

“Not really,” Synnovea answered truthfully. Turning, she lent her husband her undivided attention. “Tell me, Colonel, is she the reason you’re not interested in me?”

“Don’t be absurd, Synnovea!” The very idea angered him. “That woman means nothing to me! She came in here while I was drying my hair. I thought at first it was you.”

Synnovea folded her arms petulantly as she responded with liberal sarcasm. “Well, Colonel Rycroft, if you mistook her for me, then I don’t suppose you became too amorous with her. Still, she seemed to enjoy handling you…as if she might have been encouraged.”

“All women are not paragons of virtue as you are, my dear,” Tyrone mocked, lifting a challenging brow. Staring into the dark depths of those beautiful eyes, he realized with some astonishment that he was very close to sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her to their bed, where he’d no doubt appease all of his lusting cravings. He approached a step closer, his heart pounding at the idea, and murmured in distraction, “Aleta doesn’t need encouragement.”

Taking exception to his comment, Synnovea snubbed him with a well-articulated toss of her veiled head and flounced from their rooms. Tyrone’s breath left him in a rush, and it came as something of a shock when he realized he had been holding it in something comparable to heightening arousal as visions of his naked wife dragging him back to their bed bombarded him. In roweling frustration he stepped into the hall to observe her flight. The angry twitch of her skirts evidenced her vexation with him, but her ire was no less than what he was presently feeling toward himself.

It was relatively early that evening when Tyrone begged compassion from their friends and shushed their protests with the excuse that the duties of the morrow required him to be fully alert. Laying an arm around Synnovea’s shoulders, he waved them off and then followed behind as she led the way to their chambers. Even so, he had difficulty dragging his gaze from her gently swaying hips.

Ali was waiting in the dressing room to help her mistress undress. While the two women carried out his wife’s toilet in private, Tyrone readied his equipment and uniform for the next day. When he went in search of his military trappings and weapons, he had his mind on what he had to fetch and gave no thought to what he’d find in the adjoining cubicle until he saw his wife standing with her arms outstretched in readiness to receive the nightgown Ali was holding. The maid faltered in some confusion, forgetting what she was about, leaving Synnovea sublimely naked.

All the conflicts Tyrone had been battling since their meeting in the bathhouse came back to assault him as he found himself confronting a nymph far too beautiful to be ignored for even an hour. Totally captivated by the stirring vision, he swept his gaze helplessly downward in a lengthy descent over pink-nippled breasts that were soft and round, a rib cage and waist that seemed incredibly narrow, and hips that were trim but utterly tempting. A creamy smooth belly led his eyes downward to a dark nest and long, sleek thighs that were more lithe and smooth than any he had ever viewed. Mumbling an inquiry about the location of his gear, he was too absorbed in the sights to notice where Ali pointed until his wife dragged the gown from the maid’s hands and slipped it over her own head, sadly hiding from view everything that held his attention imprisoned. He stepped beyond her and, in a calmer vein, located his gear. Upon his return, he found her watching him curiously, and though for pride’s sake he wanted to give a plausible reason for having ogled her undraped form, he deemed it far more noble to remain silent rather than spill a farfetched lie.

Tyrone eased his breath out in slow, shallow drafts as he stripped to his breeches in the bedchamber. It took a concerted effort for him to restore some semblance of what had once been an iron will and to turn his thoughts to something less frustrating than the delectable perfection that he had beheld in the adjoining room. In a valiant attempt to thrust from his mind all the heated conflicts he had endured throughout the day, he sat down on his bedside bench and busied himself with the task of organizing the accouterments of a soldier.

Soon after Ali’s departure, Synnovea strolled leisurely into the bedchamber. She was in a singular mood herself after discovering Aleta in their private chambers and was nigh famished for the display of passion that Tyrone had demonstrated so ardently as a lover on the night of his whipping. She was definitely unwilling to be ignored for another long night.

Tyrone almost groaned in misery when he saw her. For his pleasure, her dark hair had been left flowing in shimmering waves down her back, but it was her gown that gave him some inkling of his forthcoming defeat, for it molded itself with endearing delight to her shapely form and was translucent enough to be considered worthless for maintaining a woman’s modesty. It seemed to flaunt every curve and hollow, every hue and shadow until Tyrone felt as if he had no more fortitude than a bleating lamb.

“How early will you leave in the morning?” she asked in a tone so sweet and soft it caused goose bumps to rise on his flesh. Pausing close beside him, she observed him as he polished his sword, now in some distraction.

“Shortly after dawn,” he answered and hurried to find some way to avoid further temptations. “But I’m used to fending for myself, Synnovea, so there’s no need for you to get up. Besides, Ali said that Danika would have food ready in the kitchen and a basket packed for me to take when I come down. I won’t be back until late, so there again, you needn’t wait up for me.”

“I don’t mind,” Synnovea murmured softly.

Tyrone was diligently concentrating on his labors, trying to avoid looking at her any more than he had to. The way she consumed his attention even now, he’d likely forget he had work to do and men to train. “I’d just as soon you stay here.”

Though Synnovea sensed that he was trying to ignore her, she hadn’t forgotten how he had devoured her body in the dressing room. She wasn’t incapable of winning his regard when she wanted it, and she most certainly wanted it now. Feigning a casualness she did not necessarily feel, she slipped her slender fingers through the short hair at the base of his neck, bringing his head up with stunning abruptness. “Your hair is getting long, Ty,” she breathed in a caressing sigh. “Would you like me to clip it for you?”

“Not tonight,” Tyrone replied, only vaguely aware that he had even spoken as he found himself staring into her soft eyes.

“It wouldn’t take much time at all,” Synnovea coaxed, lifting the tawny strands. She reached across his shoulder to retrieve his comb from the bedside table, in the process managing to brush a thinly clad breast against his arm, causing him to close his eyes as he luxuriated in the tantalizing caress. Synnovea was fascinated by the way his hair curled against his neck and threaded her fingers through the strands growing there. “Only a snip here or there to neaten the edges.”

“It’s getting late, and I need my rest,” he managed, totally engrossed in the wealth of beauty revealed by the thin lawn of her gown. The candlelight glowed behind her, clearly defining her softly curving form. The gossamer cloth seemed like nothing more than a vaporish veil, bent on playing havoc with his senses.

Synnovea leaned toward him, allowing the voluminous garment to fall away from her body as she combed his hair across his brow. Tyrone found himself unable to resist her offering, and although he was well aware that such delectable sights would lead to his doom, his eyes greedily consumed everything she offered, ogling her delicately hued breasts and searching out the dark nest where her long, sleek limbs were enticingly joined.

A sudden pain shattered the interlude, drawing a surprised start from Tyrone and making him glance down in search of the cause. Blood welled forth from a long gash on his thumb, which in an instant he had sliced open with his well-honed blade.

“Hell and damnation!” he growled, angry at himself. It seemed that he was just as willing now to be led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar of their bed as he had been when he had taken her to his quarters, and, like before, she’d rend his heart with her tempting ways. “I can’t even polish my sword without suffering some damage when you’re near!” Tossing her a glare, he paid no heed to her look of wounded dismay as he commanded curtly, “Get into bed before I slice off something vital and serve Aleksei’s end.”

Tears gushed forth, and with a choked sob Synnovea hastily retired to her side of the bed, where she sat and through a blurring wetness launched glowers aplenty toward the ignoring back of her stubborn husband. Petulantly she braided her hair, sniffing and blowing her nose until she finally drove Tyrone to seek refuge in the dressing room. He knew if he stayed one moment longer, he’d give way to her tears and coddle her with much more than an apology.

Fearing defeat, he was in no hurry to join her in their bed and allowed at least a half hour to drift past as he bathed. He donned a robe for his return to their bedchamber and found that Synnovea had taken shelter beneath the covers, having tucked them up close beneath her chin. It was obvious from her stilted silence that she had sorely resented his boorish reproach.

Tyrone slipped into bed beside her, assured by her efforts to hug the edge of the bed that he wouldn’t have to worry about being unduly tempted by her flirtatious ploys for the rest of the night. She wanted nothing to do with him, and though he should have been relieved, he felt like cursing himself for getting caught in such a hellish trap.