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2

T he golden moon nestled like a newborn babe within the cradling arms of towering pines, firs, and larches. Gradually the orb weaned itself from its earthly breast and began to climb upward in a wide arc across the night sky. Humbling a myriad of stars with its brilliance, the lustrous sphere condescendingly cast its light upon the earth, setting aglow the rustling leaves of the oaks and birches that lined the road through the village, creating scintillating flashes of light as soft breezes bestirred their branches.

Grayed wooden cottages, adorned with painted carvings and fretworked gables, were nestled close behind the trees. Small sheds, gathered like ragged skirts behind the humble dwellings, were joined together with board fences, providing a windbreak against the fierce winds which could savage the land in winter months.

The stately carriage, with its complement of unkempt guards, rumbled past the houses, drawing young and old alike to the windows. The grandeur of the coach and the frazzled appearance of its escort were noticeable even in the gloom. The small company of soldiers, some of whom were bruised and bloody, aroused speculations as to the likely cause, but no one was more aware of their shabby condition than Captain Nekrasov. At his command, the detachment rode through the town with a practiced cadence that lent some semblance of dignity otherwise lacking in the procession. The entourage passed a single-domed wooden church in stoic silence, yet when Stenka halted the conveyance in front of a sizable inn and a bathhouse was espied nearby, deep sighs of relief were heard from the grime-coated guards as they swung down from their mounts.

Captain Nekrasov entered the inn to make the necessary arrangements for his charge. His bandaged arm and bloody tunic drew curious stares, yet one did not casually delay an officer of the tsar single-mindedly intent upon his duties. Synnovea awaited the captain’s return in the privacy of her coach, unwilling to extend the innkeeper’s bemusement by the presence of two bruised and badly disheveled women.

Ivan Voronsky hastened off to beg for more appropriate garb from those in the church. As he skittered along the thoroughfare, he kept to the shadows and shielded his face against recognition, however remote the possibility of that occurrence.

The innkeeper was proud of his new bathhouse and boasted of its clever features as he directed his male guests around the facilities. The guided tour allowed Synnovea the privacy she needed to help Ali upstairs to their room. By now, the servant’s head was throbbing so painfully that even the slightest movement made her queasy. She had taken on a pallor that was sharply accentuated by the purplish swelling on her pointed chin. Synnovea gratefully accepted the tray of food that the innkeeper’s wife brought up to them, but Ali could endure only a few morsels. Solicitously Synnovea filled a basin for the tiny maid, helped her bathe and don a fresh nightgown. Finally, with an agonized groan, Ali sank onto the bed and drifted off to sleep, thoroughly spent.

Synnovea desired more than a mere token washing for herself and settled her mind on having nothing less than a thorough cleansing and a soothing soak for her own sorely bruised body. It became evident, however, that the soldiers had much the same notion in mind after depositing their gear upstairs. In passing her door they made as much noise as a stampeding herd of young colts, jostling and elbowing each other aside in a light-hearted endeavor to be among the first to reach the bathhouse. Listening to their cavorting descent, Synnovea had to wonder how they had managed to find so much energy after such a grueling day.

The delay was hardly objectionable to Synnovea. Eventually it would allow her as much leisured time in the facility as she desired, a privilege reserved expressly for the last in line. As she waited for the soldiers’ return, she collected toiletries and nightclothes in a small satchel. Painstakingly she brushed out the debris that had become entangled in her long hair and left the black, silky length unbound as she stripped away her torn clothes. After treating the scratches on her arms, she gathered a voluminous robe around her slender body in preparation of her descent.

The officer who had rushed to her defense came to mind, and she began to pace restlessly about, stricken by her conscience. His face was nothing more than a dark void in her memory, yet she recalled her own blended feelings of awe when, at every turn of the hand, he had seemed to hover behind them like a relentless bird of prey watching for an opportunity to bring down his quarry. She hoped fervently that he was alive and that news of his safety would soon reach her. Only then could she for give herself.

The soldiers began to drift back to their rooms in varying numbers. Much subdued by their baths, they meandered slowly past her door with only an occasional murmur exchanged between them. Their muted, cheerless voices now clearly bespoke of their weariness.

Synnovea was anxious for them to retire, yet in her growing impatience, it seemed that three times as many came back than those who had left. Her frustration deepened when Ivan sharply commanded a way to be made for him as he passed the soldiers in his descent of the stairs. Answering their exaggerated revulsion to his foul-smelling clothing, he snidely announced that he intended to wash away any residue of filth that remained from their putrid offerings.

Synnovea was inclined to think that this new delay was caused by nothing more than Ivan’s unwillingness to associate with men of low rank, especially common soldiers. Obviously he considered them far removed from his self-exalted personage, for in her presence he had openly disdained them as crude, ignorant men. Had he been able to dictate the priority of events, he might have insisted on being allowed to finish his bath before they were permitted on the premises. Of course, if he had tried such a thing, the soldiers would have laughed him to scorn.

The inn grew still and hushed after Ivan’s return to the small, private cubicle that he had elected to take, allowing Synnovea to finally consider it safe to go down. Outside the inn, a cool breeze rustled through the tall firs that formed a protective fortress beyond the bathhouse, bringing to her nostrils the fresh, pungent fragrance of their swaying boughs. The burbling of a swiftly flowing stream melded with other soothing night sounds, while high above the treetops, the brilliant moon shone down from its lofty realm, holding back the darkness with a wondrous glow that clearly defined the path to the low-roofed structure.

The door creaked in the hushed stillness as Synnovea pushed it slowly open and stepped within. At the far end of the room, a fire flickered in a large hearth, illumining the shadowed interior with a shifting amber glow. A dim lantern offered a wan light from the rafter where it hung suspended by a pulley rope. Its glow lent eerie life to the swirling mists rolling upward from the stygian surface of the pool. The vapors twined aimlessly through the massive beams buttressing the ceiling as if probing for a way of escape and, in their failure, merged into a thickening, swelling haze that shrouded the interior.

Water, shunted through tin flumes from the stream outside, flowed into a huge cauldron, which hunkered like some enormous beast on squat legs over a hearth of its own. A steady fire licked upward around its swollen belly, lending a blush to the curling vapors and the tenebrous gloom. Steaming water trickled cheerily over its funnelled lip into the main bathing pool, on the opposite side of which the overflow dribbled into a shaft that returned the water to the rivulet.

Synnovea paused at the portal and carefully scanned the interior lest she find herself in error about being alone. The shifting flames cast dancing shadows into the mists. Beyond that, nothing stirred. The only sounds came from the crackling fire and the trickling water. In the spacious hearth, smaller kettles of water hung over a fire, and upon a nearby table, pitchers and basins of water were readily available for an initial scrubbing with soap. Wooden tubs had also been provided for a more leisurely soak in a warm bath.

On a bench near the pool, a man’s robe had been left, and Synnovea made a mental note to inform Captain Nekrasov on the morningtide that the garment was there, on the chance that he or one of his men had left it behind. Since Ivan’s garments had been stolen by the thieves, it seemed highly unlikely that it belonged to him.

Synnovea dropped the satchel onto a nearby stool, too tired and bruised to think of anything beyond a bath and a refreshing dip in the pool. She prepared the former herself until a wooden tub brimmed with steaming liquid. From a small vial she had brought, she sprinkled droplets of scented oils over the surface and laid out a bar of fragrant soap and a large towel. She ran slender fingers through her hair to remove any lingering snarls, coiled the length into a heavy rope, and wound it on top of her head, where she secured the bulk with ornate combs. The topknot loosened a bit, allowing softly curling tendrils to plummet downward onto her brow and neck, but for the most part, the dark mass was held ensnared.

Freeing the ties at her waist, she sent the robe slithering downward with a shrug of her shoulders until she caught it with a swirling motion of her arm and flung it aside. As the garment settled in a billowing cloud on a nearby bench, she paused in sudden incertitude and tilted her head aslant, wondering at the soft, breathless sighing sound the silk had made, much like the slow expelling of a deep breath.

Nothing more was heard beyond the melding murmurs of a crackling fire and trickling water, allowing Synnovea to banish her doubts. Her nerves had been tested far beyond acceptable limits for her to give credence this evening to her own lurid imagination.

Lifting a foot upon the rim of the wooden tub, Synnovea inspected the dark bruises above her knee where Ladislaus had cruelly clasped her thigh. Another bluish mark at her waist caught her eye, and she cupped a breast within her palm, pressing the fullness upward to examine the dark bruise more carefully. During their frantic flight through the woods, she had suffered much pain and trauma, for the rogue’s arm had clutched her so tightly she had feared her ribs would crack.

She dearly hoped the officer had delivered a suitable recompense for the brigand’s crimes, especially after Ladislaus had boasted that none of the tsar’s soldiers could best him. She was exceedingly glad he had been proven wrong. Indeed, it suited her mood to envision that crude highwayman trussed up like a goose, but an intruding worry soon furrowed her brow, motivating her to repeat a silent petition for the safety of the officer.

A long, pleasurable sigh wafted from Synnovea’s lips as she lowered herself into the scented bath. A delightful interlude passed in which she allowed the steaming water to relax and soothe her aching muscles. After a time she began to wash and lathered soap over her shoulders and bosom before progressing to her limbs. Lifting first one and then the other, she worked the suds up along their sleek lengths until she was nigh covered with a whitish foam. Dallying at the task allowed her tensions to fade to near oblivion.

Once her hair was washed, Synnovea leaned her head over the edge of the tub and arched her back as she rinsed away the soap with fresh water from a bucket. When she relaxed again in the tub, she leisurely dribbled the contents of a dripping sponge over her shoulders. The dispersing runnels cascaded in eager channels through the white frosting until the rounded orbs glistened wetly in the rosy firelight.

Synnovea indulged herself in the luxury of the bath until she realized the hour was growing late. But she refused to leave until she had sampled the relaxing pleasure to be found in the pool. Bracing her hands on the rim of the tub, she pushed herself to her feet with an energetic heave, momentarily setting her breasts a-bounce. An odd sound, much like a watery gulp, came from the direction of the pool, and in deepening trepidation Synnovea carefully probed the swirling vapors hovering above the water. A movement near the steps caught her eye, and she jerked her head around with a startled gasp, only to laugh in relief as she espied a frog that squatted there.

“You intrude, my little friend,” she laughingly scolded and tossed the contents of a bucket his way, sending him leaping away.

Reassured that her privacy was secure, she finished rinsing herself, pouring warm water over her body and sending the lather flowing back into the tub. By now, the heat of the room was enough to have drawn a fine mist of sweat from her pores, and she left the tub, eargerly anticipating the cooler water of the pool.

Descending the stone steps at its edge, Synnovea nearly crooned with pleasure, feeling immediately refreshed by the cool liquid into which she sank. She deemed the innkeeper especially clever to incorporate a pool of such depth inside a bathhouse, when it was most often the practice of bathers, after steaming up in heavy humidity, to scamper outside and cool themselves in a nearby stream or banks of snow, whatever the weather and location permitted. In the coldest months some would even dare the chill for such an experience. Her English mother, however, had instilled within her father the need for a private bath in their home, and throughout the years Synnovea had clung to the modesty of that custom. Whenever the occasion had warranted her making use of a public facility, Ali had always made the necessary arrangements and paid out coins to secure her solitude, while Jozef and Stenka had stood guard outside. Under the circumstances, Synnovea had been reluctant to disturb her servants, nor had she felt a need to do so, for Captain Nekrasov kept himself and his men well in line.

Leisurely Synnovea stroked through the water, letting the thickening haze envelop her as she swam toward the far side. Her long hair flowed behind her on the surface, much like an opening fan of ebony hue, the ends becoming lost in the shadows behind her.

Of a sudden, Synnovea gasped and recoiled in astonishment and dread as her hand made contact with something human and very manly. A wide, furry chest, to be exact! She sank abruptly in surprise until her thigh brushed against the fellow’s loins and then, in rising panic, she struggled to propel herself away from the offending nakedness. Lurching backward with as much grace as a floundering cow, she plunged below the surface and promptly came up choking and coughing. Strong hands reached out to lift her up by the arms, but she fought them off, certain she was in impending danger of being ravished.

Having successfully escaped the helping hands, Synnovea began to sink again, this time against the man. She hardly noticed the muscular torso as her head went under the surface again, for in sudden alarm she realized she was taking in more water than even a competent fish should. This time when the man clamped an arm around her waist and drew her up, she flung both of her own about his neck and gasped for air between strangling, wrenching coughs. So great was her dismay that she gave no heed to the fact that her breasts were pressed tightly against the stalwart chest of the man or that her thighs rested intimately against his maleness. The fleshly heat he displayed failed to impact her consciousness, for she was far too anxious about drawing a normal breath.

Her anxiety ebbed to some degree when she managed to clear the water from her nose and throat. Carefully she inhaled, sucking in deep drafts to fill her lungs. Finally it dawned on her that the man was watching her with an amused yet dubious frown. Highly indignant that he should find some humor in her predicament, she leaned back to consider him with a haughty stare, disregarding the fact that she was completely naked in his encompassing arms. Water dribbled from her hair and trickled downward across her brow into the wetly spiked lashes, leaving her vision somewhat impaired. The thick vapors lent a strange bewitchment to the moment, yet she was sure the distortion she saw in the man’s face hadn’t been conjured through her own faulty perception or hindered sight. A seer would have been needed to accurately determine if the man was even human.

Lacking such perception, Synnovea briefly perused his badly lacerated visage. A large bump grossly elaborated the curve of his brow where the skin had been split open. The swelling extended downward into his eye, nearly closing it. His upper lip was also distended, and above this protrusion another ugly bruise darkened his cheek. Providing some evidence that his face wasn’t totally misshapen, his jaw appeared carefully hewn of granite, while his nose was shaped with a noble, aquiline leanness. Short, wetly spiked strands of hair shaded eyes that seemed of a steel-gray hue rimmed with a deeper blue. Even in the shadowed room, softer lights twinkled within the shining depths as a lopsided grin lifted the smaller corner of his lips.

“Forgive me, Countess, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he murmured. “Nor was it my intent to cause you embarrassment. Indeed, my lady, I never in my wildest yearnings ever imagined that my bath would be interrupted by such flawless beauty. I was no less than bedazzled by the sight and reluctant to see it come to an end.”

Synnovea scarcely noted that he had spoken to her in English, but in a heated rush, she replied in kind. “You spied upon me without making me aware of your presence,” she accused. “Simple truth, sir! Why are you here? Should I assume that your intentions are to accost me for your own evil purposes?”

“Banish the thought, my lady. I merely came here when my duties permitted it. Several of my men needed attention. By the time I had dressed their wounds, most of the soldiers had left the bathhouse, and after the departure of the cleric, I was certain I’d be alone and was much amazed when you joined me. I fear I was momentarily confounded and struck dumb by your entrance. Then it became clear to me. Though I could see you, you were unable to see me.” He lifted wide, sleekly bulging shoulders in a casual shrug. “I fear the sight of you proved too much of a temptation for an officer in need of feminine companionship.”

“Indeed, sir!” Synnovea fairly flung the words at him. “I can understand why you’re in want! Have you no ken that a gentleman would have informed a lady of his presence ere her disrobing?”

His bruised lips twitched with amusement as his eyes glimmered back at her through the shadowed gloom. “Alas, Countess, I do not claim to be a saint. I greatly enjoyed the interlude and the perfection you displayed and, for the life of me, couldn’t bring myself to interrupt. Were I any less a gentleman, I’d surely take advantage of this most provocative embrace….” He settled her a bit closer as she, in some irritation, tried to push herself free again. Her thighs brushed hard against him, snatching the man’s breath and flicking a fiery brand across the fibers of his senses until he dared not move lest he lose control of his hard-won poise. With some difficulty, he drew rein on his hotly flaming passions and continued in a warm, mellow voice, stilling her struggles as his words struck home. “Since I’ve already saved you from one ravishment this evening, ’twould seem I’m honor-bound to carry you to safety again.”

“Saved me?” Synnovea’s lips pursed in a silent Oh! as it came to her just who the man was. “You mean…”

“You left ere we could be properly introduced, my lady,” he reproved, distracted by the slick, wet feel of her soft breasts against his chest. He doubted that there had ever been such a moment in his life when he had been assaulted by such exquisite torture or when the need to maintain a ruse of imperturbable calm was absolutely crucial to his aspirations. He was certain she’d have flown his embrace posthaste had he foolishly revealed the full extent of his admiration. But then, she had to be an innocent not to be aware of his awakened passion. If not, then she was a woman well-versed in the art of tempting men and was merely being coy. “And though you are a delicious sight to behold and even more delectable to enfold, I must admonish you for your bad manners.”

“Sir, this is hardly the time to discuss bad manners, either mine or yours! Now let me go!” Synnovea struggled briefly in the circle of his arms and was surprised when he spread his arms wide. The imminent threat of going under once again made her throw her arms about his neck and tighten her grasp. She reddened profusely beneath his deepening grin, and with a stifled groan, she dove away from him. Swimming back to the edge of the pool, she tossed a glance over her shoulder to find him stroking leisurely through the water behind her. In urgent haste, she leapt up the steps and made a flying dash across the room to fetch her robe. Shaking it out, she quickly sought its protective covering.

Thus armored, Synnovea faced the officer as he climbed those same stone stairs. Wondering what the next moments would bring, she watched him cautiously lest she be taken by surprise. Though obviously far from handsome, the man was exceptionally well-formed. He was as tall as Ladislaus but not nearly as thick or bulky. Even so, he had a hard-muscled look about him. Recalling the agility and easy strength he had displayed battling the outlaws, she could only guess at the discipline he practiced to maintain a good fighting form. His ribs were tautly fleshed, his chest firmly muscled beneath a matting of crisp hair, his waist lean and hips narrow—

A gasp escaped Synnovea as his loins came fully into view, and she whirled with burning cheeks, shocked to the depths of her virginal innocence. Though well traveled, she had been carefully sheltered throughout the span of her life. Even with a score of years behind her, this was her first glimpse of a completely naked man. Yet he didn’t seem the least bit abashed by the boldness that he exhibited in her presence.

Synnovea heard his soft, chuckling laughter coming near and faced him in sudden apprehension, fearing that she’d have to fight him off. But he only fetched the robe which had been left on the bench. Careful to keep her glance brief and well-elevated, she gave him a seething glower before she jerked around again. For several moments she stood in mute silence, fuming over the fact that he hadn’t made his presence known before she had disrobed.

“You can turn around now,” he informed her, mirth liberally imbuing his voice.

“Then I shall make haste to leave!” she declared irately, incensed by his obvious enjoyment of a situation that, for her, had been a horrendously embarrassing experience. Tossing him another glare to convey her outrage, she began to gather up her possessions. “The very idea! Spying upon me like some sneak thief! You’re the most despicable knave I’ve met in some time!”

“Not since this afternoon, at least,” he responded with a lopsided grin. An indolent shrug lifted his wide shoulders as he queried, “Or did you appreciate that thief’s company more than mine?”

“Ha! I’d venture to say, sir, that Ladislaus has much to learn from you about boorish manners!” Her curiosity got the better of her, and Synnovea paused to peer up at him with narrowed eyes. “What happened to the blackguard anyway?”

The officer emphasized his supreme displeasure with an angry snort. “The cowardly wretch fled when you raced off. And he took my horse! A most worthy steed it is, too. Believe me, I haven’t a ken which vexes me more, letting that rogue escape or losing my horse! Had I not tried to help you when his stallion reared, I might’ve been able to capture the brigand. But were you grateful? No, indeed! You gave no slightest thought to my welfare and obviously made no effort to send out any of your escort in search of me. If not for my men beating the woods for me, I’d still be out there! Believe me, Countess, I’m here with no special thanks to you!”

Synnovea raised a dainty chin, pricked by his admonishing tone and her own condemning conscience. “You seem dreadfully rankled by your loss.”

“And well I should be! I’ll not likely find another steed half as gifted in the field as that one!”

“On the morrow I shall instruct Captain Nekrasov to leave you Ladislaus’s stallion,” she stated loftily. “Perhaps that will mollify you.”

The man scoffed sharply. “Hardly! It cost me a goodly sum to have my own stallions shipped here from England….”

“From England?” she repeated in surprise, and then realized she had overlooked the obvious. His subtly clipped speech clearly betrayed his place of origin. “You’re an Englishman?”

“I thought it might have been apparent to one who also speaks the language!” he quipped with rampant sarcasm.

“But you led a Russian troop…” Synnovea began, clearly bemused. Then she recalled Ladislaus’s comment about foreign cavaliers being hired to teach their fighting skills to the tsar’s troops. “You’re an English officer in His Majesty’s service?”

Though he wore nothing more dashing than a long robe, the man gave her a debonair bow, a gesture which might have been accompanied by the clicking of heels had he worn something more substantial. “Colonel Sir Tyrone Bosworth Rycroft at your service, Countess. Knighted in England and now Commander of the Third Regiment of the Tsar’s Imperial Hussars. And you are…”

“This is hardly the place for introductions, Colonel,” Synnovea replied hurriedly, reluctant to provide him with a name. She could imagine him spreading lurid tales of their watery meeting among his troops and friends, leaving her reputation hopelessly besmirched.

A grin slanted across his swollen lips. “And you are the Countess Synnovea Altynai Zenkovna,” he continued smoothly, “en route to Moscow, where you’ll be under the tutelage of Princess Taraslovna, the tsar’s cousin.”

Synnovea felt her chin sagging in surprise and made haste to close her mouth. Breathlessly she whispered, “You know a great deal about me, sir.”

“I wanted to know,” Tyrone replied with an air of confidence that shattered her own. “When we arrived here this evening and I found that you had also taken shelter in the inn, I made inquiries among your escort. Captain Nekrasov refused to accommodate me, but his sergeant proved far more generous with the facts. I was relieved to hear that you’re unmarried, especially to that pompous little upstart who serves as your companion and who had the audacity to ask me to leave the bathhouse to him! He obliged me by his own departure. From his obvious contempt, I gathered he thinks much of himself or his station in life. Or perhaps he sees some hope of elevating himself through his association with you.” The colonel arched an unmarred brow as he looked at her pointedly, awaiting some declaration as to her relationship to the man.

Though desirous of denying any attachment to Ivan Voronsky, Synnovea refused to appease the officer’s curiosity. It seemed prudent to keep the man from gaining further knowledge of her lest he prove bothersome or an embarrassment in the future.

Gathering her satchel, Synnovea moved toward the door but found her progress promptly thwarted by the colonel, who stepped in front of her. His uneven lips eased into a gentle smile. “Will you allow me to see you again, Countess?”

“That’s impossible, Colonel,” she declined coolly. “I shall be traveling on to Moscow on the morrow.”

“But so will I,” Tyrone assured her softly. “I’m here in this area only because I led my men on an exercise in the field. We’re scheduled to return by the morrow’s evening.”

Synnovea refused to give way to his arguments. “Princess Anna would hardly approve.”

“You’re not…betrothed?” Tyrone held his breath in anticipation of her answer. He couldn’t understand why he should suddenly forget the ache of his shattered life and once again allow a woman to strike sparks in his mind, yet he could keenly perceive the depth of his disappointment if he had to give her up to some other swain.

“Nay, Colonel Rycroft, of course not.”

“Then, with your permission, Countess, I’d consider it an honor to pay court to you.” Tyrone was crushingly aware of his own impatience to settle the matter. In spite of his own impatience to settle the matter. In spite of his score, ten and two years of life, he had been caught in a rutting heat over this beauty and was comporting himself like some eager young whelp. True, it had been some time since he had made love to a woman, yet he couldn’t remember another, even that fair and comely Angelina, who had looked as ravishing either clothed or completely devoid of raiment.

“Your proposal overwhelms me, Colonel.” Synnovea was more than a little astounded by his petition, yet she was grateful for the shadows that masked the heat flooding into her cheeks as she recalled how his warm, well-defined body had pressed against her own in the pool. His entreaty was out of the question for a variety of reasons, perhaps the most pronounced being her guardian’s sharp aversion to foreigners, yet for the sake of caution, Synnovea deemed it fitting to soften her rejection. “I shall have to consider your request, Colonel Rycroft. And then, of course, I must seek Princess Anna’s permission.”

“Then I shall await your pleasure, my lady. Until then, I bid you adieu.” Tyrone swept her another courtly bow and slowly straightened as she moved past him and hurried across the room. Her silken robe was now quite damp and clung to her gently swaying hips divinely, reminding him of that moment in the pool when his hand had brushed her buttocks and she had clung to him in an anxious frenzy. His long-starved passions had not yet cooled from that delicious encounter. Indeed, he could easily foresee having to endure a long, restless night tormented by his desires and a relentless onslaught of lustful imaginings.

The portal opened with the same soft creak that had announced the lady’s entrance into the bathhouse and closed again to leave him staring musefully at its oaken planks. As he listened to her hastening footsteps, another vision came to mind, one that was dark and dismally devoid of warmth. It was a painful memory of the graveside where he had muttered his last ragged, bitter farewell to his dead wife.

Colonel Sir Tyrone Rycroft turned with a muttered curse. What fool’s folly had set him on this path toward his own destruction? How could he dare entertain any hope that he could trust another woman when he hadn’t yet gathered the tattered shreds of his emotions and resumed a life unhampered by haunting recollections? The scars he had banished to the dark recesses of his mind burst forth in renewed agony, and with a low growl, he too left the bathhouse.

The dawning sun had not yet touched the land with its torturous glow when Synnovea roused the commander of her escort and bade him to make haste to depart. At Captain Nekrasov’s bemused inquiries, she laid the cause of her dispatch to a desire to have the journey behind her. She dared not reveal the fact that she was afraid that she had attracted the attention of an unwanted suitor and that it was expedient for her to leave ere the Englishman arose and sought her out again.

“Leave the stallion for Colonel Rycroft,” she told the captain as he escorted her to her waiting coach. “’Tis the least I can do to repay him for saving me from Ladislaus.”

Ali was still sensitive to movement and had to be carried to the conveyance by Stenka. At the gentle urgings of her mistress, the maidservant leaned back against the pillows that had been solicitously tucked into a corner of the seat and once again allowed sleep to overtake her.

Synnovea braced herself at the opposite end of the seat and closed her eyes, refusing to be drawn into conversation with Ivan. She had bade her driver to waste no moment on this, their final day of travel, and if it so pleased him, to take an unfrequented path that, although somewhat more challenging, would get them to Moscow sooner.

Once they were on the road again, Synnovea breathed a sigh of relief, confident that she had seen the last of that English rake. Although he had already failed the standard by which a lady measures a proper gentleman, she fervently hoped he’d prove his merit as an officer of the tsar and refrain from spilling gossip to every person who lent an attentive ear. It was disconcerting enough that her own memory was wont to dwell on the happenings in the bathhouse without having such tales spread abroad throughout all of Moscow.

It was half an hour later when the Commander of the 3rd Regiment of the Tsar’s Imperial Hussars rose from his cot and wincingly stretched his aching muscles. He staggered naked across the tiny cubicle that had sufficed as a room for the night and nudged the foot of his second-in- command in passing. Muttering an order, he left that one yawning as he searched out a candle to light.

Another half-turn of the hour saw the first hint of dawn lightening the sky to a dull blue. Colonel Rycroft tucked the battered helm beneath his arm and descended the stairs to make an inspection of his men, who were already awaiting him outside. As he left the open door, his eyes flitted to the right of the porch where he had last seen the lady’s coach. Alas, there was nothing there but Ladislaus’s black stallion tethered to a post. A muttered curse escaped his lips as he turned to scan the road, already aware that he’d find no evidence of the countess’s entourage.

She’s flown! The realization sorely tested Tyrone’s mood, and he ground out another expletive beneath his breath. He should’ve known he’d frighten her off with his confounded hot blooded fervor! He had moved on her like a hound sniffing a bitch in heat. In truth, he couldn’t blame her much for having flitted off in an anxious quest to put some distance between them.

Letting his breath out in long, slow drafts, Tyrone sought to curb his annoyance with himself and the lady. His men awaited him, and after he had driven them with an iron will the whole week long, they deserved better from him today, especially since they had put the outlaw band to rout. What did the girl matter anyway? He could buy the services of a wench easily enough. Indeed, he found himself ever pressed to reject the advances of those brazen trollops who followed the soldiers’ camps or traversed that area in Moscow reserved for foreigners. Still, the idea of accepting the leavings of nearly every male in the tsar’s army left him totally uninspired. He was after something more than a sordid, feverish fondling of a passing harlot. Despite the fact that he was reluctant to be ensnared by marriage again, he yearned to ease his passion with an exceptional kind of woman with whom he could exchange a mutual affinity and perhaps even come to cherish. What he truly desired was a mistress who’d be content to stay with him and not be inclined to test the strength of her persuasiveness on some other swain.

“Countess Zenkovna left you a horse, Colonel,” Captain Grigori Tverskoy announced, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the steed. “Will it not serve you as well as your own?”

“I fear Ladislaus has benefited from the trade,” Tyrone replied. “But he hasn’t seen the last of me yet.”

“Will you go after him again?”

“When it’s convenient for me to do so,” Tyrone assured his second-in-command. “But I have more pressing affairs to attend in Moscow before I can lend Ladislaus my full attention.”

“Is it not gratifying to be able to report what none other has thus far been able to claim in the division, Colonel? We’ve slain ten and three of Ladislaus’s followers with no losses in our ranks. As much as I would like to carry the details of our fight directly to the tsar, I suppose it’s too much for me to expect when General Vanderhout is so dedicated about meeting us upon our return from each and every maneuver.” A laconic smile traced the captain’s lips. “The general delights himself in your many conquests, Colonel, but I’ve noticed that it is his reputation that grows apace.”

“The Dutchman is concerned about his future here,” Tyrone mused aloud, squinting off toward the horizon. “’Tis the best pay Vanderhout has yet received, and he doesn’t want to lose it ere his contract runs out. Thus he must make his efforts look good.”

“At your expense, Colonel,” Grigori reminded him.

Tyrone reached out a hand to clasp the younger officer’s shoulder consolingly. “A general is always responsible for whatever happens in his division, whether good or bad, Grigori. General Vanderhout realizes his command of foreign officers is under the close attention of the tsar and that our exploits reflect on him.” Tyrone shrugged and then immediately winced as his swollen lip cracked open from his attempt to smile. “’Tis the way of it! For us to protest his practice of claiming fame where he hasn’t earned it would make us seem small and petty. Ergo, tovarish , we must take the general’s conduct in stride, for we’ve no other choice.”

Grigori heaved a laborious sigh. “The general’s ineptitude wears on me, Colonel. In making a comparison, I believe you have much more to offer. General Vanderhout takes the ideas you freely supply and incorporates them as his own, and from what I’ve been able to ascertain, it seems you deliberately advise the man in subtle ways just to keep him from making costly mistakes.”

Tyrone held a thoughtful silence for a long moment before he offered a reply. “I’ve had more experience in the field, my friend, but I’m certain General Vanderhout would not be where he is today without some ability of his own.”

Having gained a different impression of the general, Grigori grunted in derision. “I wonder.”

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