11

S ynnovea paused just outside the veranda doors to collect herself. It would have been a mild assessment of her overwhelmed sensibilities to say that she felt much like a crippled frigate listing back into port. Her womanly weapons had been spiked and plundered. The sails of her self-assurance, which not so long ago had billowed wide with the winds of her fanciful ideas, now hung slack, deflated by the full import of her own naivete.

Still atremble from the lustful intensity of Tyrone’s advances, she did what she could to smooth her hair and repair her appearance, for the moment in which she would have to subject herself to the perusal of others was upon her. Confronted by the need to present a calm exterior, she struggled to subdue the turmoil roiling within her body and, upon her failure, wondered if anyone would be able to discern how deeply she had been affected by merely peering into her face.

If her entrance wasn’t challenging enough, having to face Natasha in her chambers upstairs would be tantamount to inviting defeat. It was crucial that she trade gowns with her friend, but she feared her breasts were still rosy from Tyrone’s caresses. If Natasha so much as suspected that his advances had progressed as far as they had, then Synnovea knew the game would likely be over before it even began. And where would she be but married to Vladimir?

Lifting her chin with a hard-won guise of serenity, Synnovea entered the house and cast a glance about in search of Natasha. She met the dark, radiant eyes across the width of the room and inclined her head in a slow nod before making her way to the hall. Her pace quickened on the stairs, and almost in a frantic rush, she burst into her chambers, her heart hammering from the stress of having to maintain such a farce.

Weakly Synnovea leaned against the closed door until, by slow degrees, her trembling eased to a more tolerable level. At long last she regained enough poise to approach the front windows and part the draperies. She stood before them with arms spread wide until Aleksei strode from the shadows. Then, at his mocking salute, she snatched the silken hangings closed again and indulged in a languid smile of victory.

By the time Natasha joined her, Synnovea had managed to doff her gown and clothe herself within the rich velvet folds of another creation, this one of a deep green hue which, by its simple elegance, complemented her beauty. Not being entirely of the same conviction as the older countess, she had modified the garment for the occasion, stripping away a demure inset of lined lace which once had modestly covered her bosom. The decolletage was now tempting enough to ensure that she would hold Tyrone’s attention completely ensnared until well after the two of them had reached his residence. If she had any regrets about her alterations, they were caused by a growing awareness that he needed no encouragement. In light of his unswerving ardor and her own declining reserve, a definite threat now existed that she’d no longer be a virgin by the time Aleksei arrived at the colonel’s quarters.

Having foreseen a need to preserve a reasonable facade of decorum in Natasha’s presence, Synnovea had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to hide from view any telltale blush that might have remained on her bosom. As prudently as she had guarded the secret of her first encounter with Tyrone, so she deemed it necessary to maintain her reticence about everything that had transpired between them in the garden. Otherwise the woman would refuse to help her.

Synnovea allowed Natasha to tighten the laces of her bodice and then she helped the woman out of her sarafan . As she did so, she recognized the soft tinkling of tiny bells that heralded the approach of her coach.

“That must be Stenka returning from the Taraslovs’. I’ve given him instructions to wait in front until he sees me come down.”

Natasha expressed her own apprehension in a worried question. “Do you actually think he can be fooled into believing that I am you?”

To blandly say that Natasha was nervous about this ruse would clearly have been an understatement, especially after she had heard from the colonel’s own lips that he had been involved in a deadly duel. He hadn’t explained how the woman he had fought over had died and that uncertainty clearly worried her for Synnovea’s sake, but Natasha knew the girl was dedicated to having this travesty accomplished. Indeed, it might do more harm than good to frighten her now with such revelations.

“There’s no reason for Stenka to suspect that you’ve come in my stead. Since we’re the same height, I rather doubt he’ll notice the difference. I’ve already told him that I wish to see the city by moonlight, so there’s no need for you to say anything. The game will certainly be lost if he recognizes your voice while Aleksei is at hand.”

“Adolphe has promised to serve as host in my absence,” Natasha informed her. “I gave him the excuse that you’re indisposed and need my attention, so he won’t be surprised by my delay in returning to the hall. As long as no one sees us depart, we should be reasonably safe. Where did you leave Tyrone?”

“He’s waiting for me in the garden. He hired a coach for this evening, so there’ll be no need for me to use yours.”

Natasha held up her arms expectantly as Synnovea lowered her own deep blue gown over the woman’s head. “Naturally he was terribly agreeable to all of this, taking you to his quarters and all the rest, I mean.”

“Reasonably so.” Synnovea refused to elaborate and began tightening the laces at the back of the woman’s bodice.

A moment later, Natasha perused her newly revised appearance in the tall looking glass. “From a distance, even Aleksei may not be able to tell us apart.” She swept her fingers across the sapphire necklace admiringly, but when her eyes lifted to her hair, she frowned testily as she plucked at a strand. “I fear this graying thatch will give me away. Have you a veil to cover my head?”

“This one will serve that purpose.” Having already considered the matter, Synnovea lifted a white lace mantle which she had worn in Aleksei’s presence and draped it loosely over her friend’s head to cover the silver-streaked tresses.

Turning with a smile, Natasha submitted herself to Synnovea’s inspection. “How do I look?”

“As beautiful as always,” Synnovea avowed with an eager nod. “Now stand in front of the window as if you’re searching for the coach and wait there until Aleksei makes himself known to you. Once you’re outside, don’t let him get close enough to recognize you. He may try, but as long as he thinks that I’m the one climbing into the coach, he’ll probably be curious enough about my destination to follow along behind with that rabble he has hired. By the time Stenka halts the coach, I should be at Tyrone’s quarters.”

“Does Aleksei know where the colonel lives?”

“If he doesn’t, I’m sure he’ll make a point of finding out ere long,” Synnovea replied ruefully.

Natasha heaved a pensive sigh and reached out to pat the younger’s cheek. “The way Tyrone doted on you this evening, he’ll not likely want to delay having his pleasure too long. You may have difficulty holding him off until Aleksei arrives.”

“If I can’t, then I’ll have no one to blame but myself,” Synnovea murmured, averting her face. She was rather amazed by her own dwindling resolve to hold herself aloof from the man. Somehow she’d have to renew her waning dedication or there’d be no hope of producing the results she had earlier aspired to attain.

“I must go.” Natasha sighed and tried to console herself as she mused on her lonely carriage ride. The corners of her mouth lifted puckishly as she proposed a more attractive arrangement than Synnovea had planned for her. “Perhaps I could trade places with you and go with Tyrone while you tour the city alone.”

Synnovea laughed at the impossible suggestion. “I doubt that such a change of plans would bring about the same results.”

Feigning a pout of disappointment, Natasha protested her solitary task. “But ’twill be so dreadfully boring riding alone, and the colonel is so handsome.”

No reprieve came, and with a dramatically heaved sigh of resignation, Natasha readjusted the mantle over her head. Bracing herself for carrying out the deception, she lifted her chin in an elegant manner and stepped in front of the window to look out. Synnovea pressed close against the wall, keeping well out of sight until the silken panels were again closed to the outside world. Natasha brushed a kiss upon Synnovea’s cheek, bade farewell while staring intently into the green-brown eyes. Then swept from the chambers with a desperate plea. “Be extremely careful, my dear.”

Synnovea waited in the silence of the room until she heard the carriage departing. Several moments passed before she considered it safe to peer through the draperies. Her heart leapt in a triumphant rush when she espied Aleksei and his hirelings leisurely following the coach down the thoroughfare.

“No doubt the lecher thinks to catch me unawares and unattended.” Synnovea vented the supposition smugly. “’Twill serve his pride well to be made the fool.”

Sweeping a black velvet cloak around her shoulders and lifting the hood carefully over her head, Synnovea readied herself for her own departure. She made her descent by way of the private stairs near Natasha’s rooms and, gaining the garden, flew into Tyrone’s welcoming arms.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to return,” he gasped in relief as he snatched her hard against him.

Synnovea tilted her head back to meet his searching lips and returned his kiss with matching zeal, clinging to him for support as her limbs weakened apace. Finally Tyrone drew back and, catching her hand, pulled her along with him to his waiting coach. He addressed the driver in Russian, having learned enough of the language to get him to and from his quarters. Then he handed his beautiful companion into the interior.

“You’re progressing very well, Colonel,” Synnovea commented with a smile. “It doesn’t take nearly as much imagination to understand you now.”

Tyrone chuckled before he addressed himself to the task of lowering the shades over the windows and lighting the tallow lantern afixed on the wall near the door. “Had I foreseen the likelihood of my coming here to this country, I would’ve started learning Russian three years ago. If I had, I might have been fluent in it now, but it’s not the easiest language I’ve ever tried to learn. I can speak French fairly well, but my attempts to understand the language here have failed for the most part.” Leaning back in the seat beside her, he searched the shining luster of her eyes. “But as long as you and the tsar can understand me, it really doesn’t matter how crude my efforts are. Discovering you here, fairest Synnovea, has been worth it all.”

“Oh, but didn’t Natasha tell you that I’d be at her home tonight?”

Tyrone realized she had mistaken his meaning. “Meeting you was worth my tour in Russia,” he corrected. “As for tonight, I was informed in advance that you’d be at Natasha’s soiree. I was most eager to attend and even considered mutiny when General Vanderhout tried to find duties elsewhere for Grigori and me. The general seemed quite taken aback when I refused his directive, but he didn’t dare order me out on maneuvers as punishment, fearing my influence with the tsar.” A grin flashed briefly across Tyrone’s lips. “Of course, I didn’t dare explain that I’m no more able to sway the tsar’s opinion than I can demand the moon to change course.”

“Why didn’t the general want you to come?”

“He seems to be suspicious of any underling who might seize a bit of fame and honor from his grasp. When he heard that we’d be associating with Russian nobility, he was sure we’d do just that. I could’ve eased his qualms by telling him that my only reason for attending was to pay court to a certain boyarina with whom I’ve become enamored. Had I done so, he might have felt more at ease letting me go, but by then, he had sorely tested my temper, and I refused to assuage his concerns.”

“Should I assume this general is your immediate superior?”

“Aye, a position he jealously guards.”

Curiously Synnovea searched his face. “Should I also assume that he has good cause to be wary of you?”

Tyrone canted his head thoughtfully. “I believe the man imagines me a serious threat to his ambitions, but as yet, I’ve done nothing to undermine his authority.”

“Perhaps he’s aware of his own shortcomings and is afraid that he’ll be found wanting if people begin to discern a difference between the two of you.”

Tyrone was hardly desirous of discussing General Vanderhout when he was cozily ensconced with such a beautiful companion. Sweeping an arm behind her shoulders, he drew her near. “I nearly despaired of your return to the garden,” he murmured huskily. “I even considered how successful I’d be if I went in search of you. I had no idea how long a century could be until I found myself waiting for you.”

Reaching up a hand, Synnovea swept a finger down the bridge of his lean, aquiline nose, following its noble descent before tracing the lines of laughter at the corners of his mouth and then brushing her fingers caressingly across his lips. “How goes the time now, sir?”

“Much too swiftly, I fear.”

Her thumb smoothed a tawny brow before the tips of her fingers stroked down a lean cheek once more. “What must we do to keep it still?”

“Stay with me forever.”

Her hand paused in flight as she searched the unrelenting blue eyes that watched her closely in return. “I have only a pair of hours to spend with you, Tyrone. I must return before midnight.”

“Then each moment that flies past is forever lost to me,” he breathed, turning his face into her palm and pressing an ardent kiss into it. He lifted his head and, leaning near, caressed the beautiful visage with the soft, gentle brush of his lips. “I must make haste to make you mine.”

“I pray you nay,” Synnovea said with a sigh as his mouth came to play upon hers. “Rather, I would urge you to relish the time we spend together and make of it a lasting memory that we can both treasure. Is it not better to savor love slowly to glean every measure of delight from its offering?”

Tyrone moved his mouth to where he could feel the pulse quickening in her temple. “Your wisdom astounds me, Synnovea. If not by experience, where do you attribute its source?”

“My mother,” she murmured, fingering the silken closures on his doublet.

“An intelligent woman. She must have loved your father dearly to have given up her homeland and all that she had ever known to come and live here with him.”

“’Twas no great sacrifice for her, considering what they had together. They were very much in love.” Another plaintive sigh slipped from Synnovea’s lips. “I wish I would’ve had them with me a while longer. Princess Anna was a poor replacement, and Prince Aleksei proved himself a ravenous rake. I tell you truly, any woman is better off fleeing from him ere they’re introduced. I lived in constant dread of him catching me unawares. Though I was hampered by his threats, I consider it something of a miracle that I have thus far escaped his prurient bent.”

Tyrone peered into her lovely visage. “Prurient bent?”

Beneath his searching gaze, Synnovea was unable to hold back a blush. “Prince Aleksei made it obvious that he wanted me in his bed and threatened me with dire consequences if I denied him.”

“Though I can’t blame him for wanting you, his methods are to be abhorred.”

“Truly, I’ve come to loathe the man.”

Tyrone’s open mouth hovered closely above her soft lips. “I’d rather have you come to me willingly, my sweet. If a man coerced you against your will, he’d lose the joy and pleasure of your willing participation.”

Synnovea’s lashes trembled downward as she yielded her lips to the fiery heat of his kiss. His mouth was warm and gentle, bestirring her eager response. A long moment passed before Tyrone straightened, leaving her sighing with bliss. In a shaky whisper she acknowledged, “Your kisses make me willing.”

“Do you find them satisfying?”

“Nay, not satisfying,” she complained, leaning toward him again with eagerly parting lips. “They only make me want more.”

He indulged her growing enthrallment with his kisses, allowing his mouth to slowly feed upon the sweet nectar of her response. Even while their lips played, his lean fingers searched out the ties of her cloak and plucked the silken cords free. Sweeping the deep hood from her head, he aided its descent as he slipped the enveloping velvet from her shoulders. The garment fell unheeded to the seat behind her, and for a moment he leaned back to relish her beauty with eyes that glinted with hotly smoldering desire. The swelling mounds of her bosom came nigh to overflowing the shallow bodice and, in the flickering candlelight, glowed with a luster of their own. He now considered the long wait in the garden well worth the results.

Evoking a riotous rhythm from her swiftly beating heart, Tyrone traced a lone finger downward from her shoulder and then along the edge of her bodice, sketching across the fullness of a breast before moving into the crevice and rising again to the far peak barely hidden by the cloth. Once again Synnovea was confronted with her own dwindling reserve as her nipple grew taut beneath the playful strokes of his thumb. Luxuriating in the delectable pleasure awakening within her, she sat in quiescent silliness until a sultry heat began to quicken in her loins, and she realized she was becoming much too involved in his game of seduction. In an earnest effort to halt his exploration of her bosom and to bestir some small fiber of her determination, she leaned toward him with lips eagerly seeking to ensnare his, but it was like fighting fire with kindling. His arm came around her like a band of steel, catching her close against the solid bulwark of his chest. His mouth slanted across hers as his tongue greedily plumbed the dewy sweetness, flicking awake her senses and arousing an ever-heightening hunger in the depths of her being.

Tyrone slipped a hand beneath her and lifted her effortlessly across his lap, but it wasn’t until Synnovea drew back for a trembling breath that she realized her skirts and petticoats no longer separated them. Her bare buttocks were resting atop his velvet-clad thighs, making her aware of a bulging hardness pressing snugly against her thigh.

Fully comprehending the precariousness of her situation, Synnovea sought to leave his lap, but Tyrone gently detained her within an encircling embrace. Nothing was quite as arousing to his senses as having her bare backside against him, except perhaps having his own equally naked beneath hers.

“I like the way you feel against me,” he breathed near her ear. “You’re soft and womanly. Even with all your clothes on, you’re as beautiful as you are in all of your naked glory.”

He kissed her again, holding nothing back as his open mouth ravished hers in frenzied greed, devouring her intoxicating sweetness while demanding that she answer him in kind. By slow degrees, Synnovea dismissed the danger of sitting on his lap and gave him what he sought, tentatively at first as she allowed her tongue to be drawn into his mouth and then with passion as she met his daring thrusts with quickening fervor.

When Tyrone lifted his head a century later, the flaming blue orbs burned into hers. Once more his hand moved across her bosom, roaming the hills and vales, but this time his thumb slipped beneath the seam that joined the top of the bodice to a sleeve and gently tugged it down, baring a shoulder. His eyes flicked downward, delving into the gown that now gapped away from her.

Synnovea had become passionately intrigued with his kisses and leaned forward to caress his softly yielding mouth with timid strokes of her tongue. Much to her dismay, however, he seemed to hold back, meeting her playful kisses with pondered care. Experiencing some confusion at his lack of zeal, she locked her fingers behind his neck and, resting her forearms upon his chest, peered up at him in the meager light.

“Are you bored with my novice kisses?” she questioned in a tiny whisper, confounded by his lagging participation.

Tyrone chuckled at such an absurd notion. Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze to the rich fare swelling above the shallow bodice. “I’m entranced by every part of you, Synnovea, though at the moment, I find your bosom especially captivating.”

His eyes smoldered like brightly burning coals as they rose to meet hers, and just as Synnovea had wanted, his open mouth came upon hers with the same urgency that only moments earlier had worn away the outer perimeters of her will. Tyrone was eager to progress far beyond impassioned kisses and, with a subtle tug, encouraged the descent of her second sleeve. Slipping a finger beneath the neckline, he lowered the shallow bodice and chemise beneath her bosom, allowing him to clasp the fullness of a creamy breast within his hand. Synnovea caught her breath at the thrill that catapulted through her as he gently fondled her. When he drew back to appease himself with a lingering perusal, she watched him with bated breath, her heart thudding a new, chaotic rhythm.

Tyrone was nigh famished for want of such soft, delectable sweets. Her breasts gleamed like satin in the faint light and were as enticing as a lavish feast after a lengthy famine. Since their meeting in the bathhouse, he had been unable to forget the perfection he had seen there. More than a few times he had been snatched from lusting dreams with his body tense and filmed with sweat, his breathing harsh and ragged as he suffered through recurring pangs of unrequited passion. Now his arm tightened around the small of her back, arching her spine until her bosom was thrust forward into the luminous glow of the lantern.

Synnovea struggled to draw breath as he lowered his head and devoured the soft mounds with rapacious greed. The fires pulsing within her loins were now flaming upward, growing ever hotter, drawing soft mewling sighs from her as his tongue licked across the soft pink pinnacles. With each flicking stroke, she was being swept closer to the steep precipice which would eventually lead to her doom…and yet, strangely, that singular fear had dimmed.

Caught up in the thrilling excitement elicited by his mouth and swirling tongue, Synnovea gave no notice to his hand leaving her breast and slipping beneath her skirts, until the shock of his intrusion wrenched a startled gasp from her. She caught his wrist and struggled to rise, only to find his mouth covering hers again. The fiery heat of his kiss bespoke of his lusting need, but when she was being shaken by jolts of fire that leapt upward with ever-increasing intensity through her being, she couldn’t think of anything beyond the need to stop his caresses before she melted in pure bliss. Tearing her mouth free, she begged in a trembling whisper, “Please! You mustn’t! Not here!”

The dewy softness was too delectable, too tempting for Tyrone to resist. Every manly instinct he was capable of feeling had coalesced into a lusting eagerness, urging him to press on until, hopefully, she would acquiesce and allow him to advance. Yet when she began to writhe and turn aside in an attempt to get away from his encroaching hand, he could only foresee the possibility of hurting her if he persisted. He was no fool to think he could force her and still give her pleasure. He’d have to bide his time, at least for a little while longer.

It took every fragment of restraint that Tyrone could ransom from his floundering will to retreat from her softness. The idea was paramount in his mind that with a little patience, Synnovea could become a mistress he could cherish as much as any wife. He yearned to bring her to such heights of rapture that she would find it hard to withhold herself from him, but as he now knew, she was a virgin and no doubt fearful of the bridge between pain and pleasure.

“Come, Synnovea,” he coaxed as she clutched an arm across her naked breasts to shield the rounded curves from his gaze. He lifted her cloak and spread it protectively around her shoulders, allowing her the covering she appar ently sought. “Calm yourself, love. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Synnovea still quaked from the shock of his invasion and was unwilling to yield to his pleas while he encouraged her to relax against him. Refusing to look at him, she pulled her bodice up over her breasts and shoulders, fearing he would glimpse a different kind of fear than what he might have expected. When his hand had made its claim on her, she had felt as if she had just been flung face-to-face with the stark reality of his single-minded goal to make her his. The proud hawk, whom she had chosen to carry her through her soaring quest, was becoming increasingly difficult to handle. Unless she could find a way to escape the sharp descent of his plunging flight, she’d be devoured for a succulent morsel ere the hour was out.

Tyrone freed a softly curling strand of hair that had become entrapped beneath her cloak and laid it within the velvet cowl. “The way I touched you, Synnovea, is no different than what every husband and lover does with the one he adores,” he murmured soothingly. “’Tis common in marriage.”

“We’re not married!” Synnovea groaned, suddenly haunted by an image of her mother’s deeply distraught visage.

“Would you feel any differently if we were?” he queried and, after a moment of silence, continued with disarming candor. “You seem to want this union as badly as I do, and yet you apparently have no idea what to expect. Dearest Synnovea, were you to return the caress in like fashion, it would be a delicious sweetmeat I’ve yearned to savor ever since we came together in the pool.”

Synnovea’s eyes chased upward, and she stared at him in astonishment, drawing a smile from Tyrone.

“Do you think me untouchable, Synnovea? Nay, love, I’m a man and I want you as much as any husband wants his wife. I want to touch you, love you, and do yearn that you do the same. The giving of pleasure is only natural during a time of intimacy.” He laughed as she relented and allowed him to pull her close against him. “I thought you knew what to expect.”

“I’ve never been with a man before,” she replied in a small voice.

“I know that with a certainty now,” he breathed. Though he had guessed as much from their first meeting, the past few hours had made him wonder if she was truly chaste. The fact that she was both pleased and excited him, for it was an honor he hadn’t been entirely expecting. “I was too hasty in my zeal to claim you. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“My mother told me what to anticipate in marriage, but her instructions were rather general and definitely lacking in detail,” Synnovea whispered. “But this is hardly the kind of situation she desired for me. An honorable marriage was what she assumed I’d have someday and no doubt thought my husband would fill in the particulars.”

“I’ll be as careful as any husband,” Tyrone promised with compelling warmth. “You needn’t be afraid that I’ll misuse you, Synnovea. ’Tis much more enjoyable for a man when a woman responds with matching ardor”

Tyrone leaned back in the seat, and tentatively she relaxed against him. In the stillness of the evening, the soft tinkling of silver bells accompanying the leisurely clip-clop of horses’ hooves helped to soothe the senses to some degree. He made no further effort to advance his cause in the carriage, though it was difficult for him to ignore the tantalizing softness within his arms and to thrust from memory the silkiness of her woman’s flesh. Still, his patience seemed to assuage her fears, for it was she who snuggled against his chest with a soft sigh. He smiled with pleasure, pressing his cheek against her brow, and was satisfied for the present moment to nurture her affection.

The coach swayed to a halt before the two-story, narrow-framed structure which Tyrone rented within the German district of Moscow. Had there not been such a shortage of available housing in the community at the time of his arrival, he would have secured smaller quarters for himself, thereby saving on rents and perhaps even a few of the coins that went toward cleaning the house. The rooms were sparsely furnished yet neat enough for his tastes, thanks to the efforts of a bovine widow who came on a regular basis to keep them so. Yet having to continually deal with the city’s segregation of foreigners had proven a tiresome inconvenience. It was a lengthy jaunt to where his Russian recruits were quartered and an even longer one to the mansion where Synnovea was ensconced.

Tyrone alighted from the conveyance and handed Synnovea down before he stepped around to pay the coachman. With her assistance in translation, he promised the driver a goodly sum for his time if he’d consent to wait at the end of the thoroughfare for the space of two hours. As the carriage rumbled off, Tyrone swept Synnovea within his arms and kissed her with all the passion he had been holding in check. Nuzzling her cheek, he staggered haphazardly toward the door, provoking her giggles.

“You make me drunk,” he crooned near her ear.

“Then I pray you sober quickly lest you stray too far from the path,” she urged, casting a glance over her shoulder to see what risks lay ahead. He tottered precariously along the edge of the walk, and with a disconcerted groan, she locked her arms around his neck, bracing herself for a fall.

Tyrone’s laughter rang out suddenly, and Synnovea gasped in surprise as he whirled her about, affirming the fact that he was in full command of his faculties and had only been teasing her. Even as he came to a halt, Synnovea’s only reality seemed to be his hotly flaming lips searing hers as the world careened crazily around her.

At the front door, Tyrone bent slightly aside to unlock the latch while he complained about its temperamental tendency to come apart if not carefully worked. Issuing a grateful sigh at his success, he disengaged the bar and then nudged the stout plank open with a shoulder. Spinning inward with a chuckle, he kicked the door closed behind him and swept Synnovea around into the dark room. His mood grew serious as he braced back against the front wall and withdrew his arm from beneath her knees. Her voluminous skirts were snared upon his velvet-clad thigh as her feet settled between his on the floor, but she hardly noticed as she searched the shadowy face above her own.

The uneasiness that had plagued Synnovea since she had launched her peculiar campaign came back to haunt her now that she was in the hawk’s nest. Though the threat of becoming his prey would have unsettled a prim and proper virgin, she was becoming increasingly wary of the pleasure she derived from his manly pursuits. Even as he lowered his lips to hers, she had to brace herself against the delicious assault of her senses. His kisses were truly succulent morsels that could lure her into his bed with unmeasured haste. His gently stroking tongue moved provocatively inward and around her mouth, creating a sensual lushness within her that no artist’s brush could have produced. With incredible care he applied a profusion of warm pigments to the canvas of sensual pleasure, lulling her until he could feel her leaning into him with growing eagerness.

Suddenly their bodies were straining together as their mouths melded in a crushing, devouring search. Vaguely Synnovea was aware of her intentions being turned topsyturvy as he dragged up her skirts and lifted her astraddle his loins. In truth, keeping her wits well aligned to her goals was becoming more difficult with each passing second, for she was growing increasingly conscious of a hungry void that yearned to be sated as her soft flesh rested vulnerably upon a steely hardness. If she had any hope of coming through this evening unscathed, she needed desperately to cool the hot blood flowing upward from that area or she’d find her objective completely cindered by her own passionate fervor.

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” she pleaded faintly, withdrawing from his lustful embrace. Her rumpled skirts fell into place, allowing her to reclaim some degree of composure. She patted his chest as if cajoling an impatient stallion to ignore a mare in season, but there was now no satisfying the ravenous throbbing at the root of her being. If anything, she wanted to do more than just feel that hard bulge nestling against her womanly softness.

By dent of will, Tyrone curbed his rutting instincts and, capturing her hand, bestowed a gentle token of his admiration in the form of a kiss upon her slender knuckles. Upon leaving her, he moved about the parlor, lighting several tapers and bringing into view a room that was rather stark and bare.

Synnovea’s eyes swept around the furnishings, seeing nothing more grand and comfortable than several straight chairs, a small table, a desk, and a pair of tall cabinets…as well as the man who had risked his life to save her from an unprincipled rogue.

Tyrone swept a hand about to indicate the interior. “These quarters are clean enough, but rather dreary for a woman’s taste.”

“It looks the way I imagined it would,” Synnovea replied softly, far more intrigued with the man than with his surroundings. The candle he carried accentuated the handsomeness of his noble profile as well as the beauty of his eyes as they reflected the dancing flame. It came to her with a suddenness that surprised her that she could recall no other man whose appearance pleased her more than the one who moved before her now. Nor had any ever caused such delectable sensations within her. She could not lightly dismiss the fact that her heart had skittered rather strangely while she had been caught up in his embrace only moments ago, and she had to wonder what power this Englishman held over her.

Turning her face aside, she sought to shrug away any significance she might be inclined to attach to these realizations. “You’re a soldier in His Majesty’s service, here for only a few years before you’re gone again. You keep the place amazingly well, despite that fact.”

“I pay a woman to clean and cook for me,” Tyrone said, setting aside the taper. He came back to her and, lifting the cloak from her shoulders, draped it over the back of a nearby chair. Bedazzled by the flawless beauty of her ivory skin, he reached out and swept his palm over her shoulder, marveling at the silkiness of her skin. His gaze dipped into her gown, yearning to peruse her bosom unhindered by clothing or covering of any kind, much as he had done weeks ago in the bathing chamber. “She comes for an hour or two every day, but leaves before I return. If not for the fact that she probably outweighs me by several stone, I’d be inclined to think she’s afraid of me.”

“Perhaps I, too, should be afraid of you,” Synnovea breathed, trembling beneath his soft caresses. Cognizant of the warming glow in his eyes, she struggled to set her own thoughts aright by reminding herself of what she might suffer nine months from now if she let him have his way with her. “I hardly know you, and yet here I am alone with you.”

Tyrone kissed her brow. “Were you afraid of me in the bathhouse?”

Synnovea shook her head. “No, just outraged because you had made no effort to inform me that you were there.”

Tyrone peered down at her with smiling skepticism. “Would you have allowed me to watch if I had made my presence known to you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then perhaps you can understand why I didn’t enlighten you. The temptation to watch you far exceeded my ability to resist. Even now, I’d like to see you as you appeared then and hold you as I did in the pool. Has anyone ever told you how absolutely beautiful you are when your skin is wet and glistening with droplets?”

Synnovea recognized the disquiet within her and turned aside cautiously. His kisses could render her pliable to his every whim, and she knew she had to barricade her wits against their potency. Yet denying herself the fulfillment that she now found herself craving was swiftly becoming a thing she didn’t want to do.

Stepping near, Tyrone pressed his long, muscular form close against her back and slipped his arms around her, close beneath her bosom, causing Synnovea’s knees to weaken apace with the thudding of her pulse. Her head fell back upon his shoulder as his lips traced upward along her throat, and her breath nigh halted in bliss at the sultriness of his kisses.

Afforded a liberal view, Tyrone slowly basked in the sight of her ripe breasts flowing into the shallow bodice. Though the pliant peaks remained hidden beneath the cloth, he could see past the deep crevice separating the swelling mounds. Her pale, lustrous skin glowed enticingly in the warm glow of the candles, whetting his manly lusts until it seemed as if molten lead flowed into the root of his manly being. Gazing down upon such lush fare, he spoke from present observation. “Your breasts are as sweet as dew upon the honeycomb and so soft and tempting, it staggers my wits to think of caressing them…and making love to you.”

Synnovea allowed her imagination the freedom to conjure such an occurrence. If the event itself was as heady as his amorous attentions had been thus far, she wondered how she’d be able to endure the exhilaration of their union without becoming a wanton. But then, she reminded herself once again, she wasn’t here to be ravenously consumed by his desires. She shivered in anticipation as his hands slid slowly around to the sides of her breasts, and she waited expectantly for them to make their claim upon her.

Detecting the slight tremor, Tyrone tilted his head aslant as he queried, “Are you afraid of me, Synnovea?”

“I didn’t think so until tonight.” Her breath stilled in wonder as those lean hands cupped her breasts and teased their peaks, and for a moment her eyelids drooped in sultry pleasure as she luxuriated in the delectable sensations he elicited within her, but when his thumbs slipped beneath her gown to tease her nipples, she seized tentative rein on her weakening resistance, knowing the folly of indulging beyond her ability to resist. With a shaky laugh, she moved away from him and tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Now I’m sure I am.”

“Perhaps a glass of wine will soothe your fears,” Tyrone suggested, plucking open his doublet as he went to search through a small cupboard. Upon doffing the garment, he hung it over the back of a chair and then casually loosened the front of his shirt to his waist as he examined several flagons. He selected a bottle, poured a small draught into a cup, and then, realizing that neither of them had eaten, set out a plate of yarpakh dolmasy , which the housekeeper had made for him. He was especially fond of the lamb- and rice-stuffed grape leaves, and if not for the fact that he was hungrier for Synnovea than he was for food, he’d have laid out a small supper for them.

When Tyrone returned with a small cup of wine, Synnovea realized it was not within her power to ignore his altered appearance. Unbidden, her gaze ventured into the opening of his shirt, finding his muscular chest just as she had remembered it. Bronzed and lightly swathed with crisply curling hair, it was a sight that had become increasingly familiar to her after the many fantasies in which she had indulged. No longer a dream, that view brought to mind an actual occurrence wherein she had clung to him and been distantly aware of the muscular hardness of his whole body. Now that memory seemed as clear and corrosive to her tranquility as the man himself.

In his every action and deed, no matter how great or insignificant the feat or movement, she was sure that Tyrone Rycroft exhibited an uncompromising masculinity that made other men seem somehow lacking in comparison. She had, with a maidenly curiosity, contemplated many of his gender throughout her adult years and travels—all respectfully clothed, of course. She was now of a mind to think that, from a physical sense, the colonel was several notches above those she had viewed. Aleksei would’ve come across as tired and a bit worn in the younger man’s presence, and certainly the white-haired Prince Vladimir would have fared badly in comparison. Since the announcement of her betrothal, she had become greatly appreciative of the memory of the Englishman’s unadorned form, especially when an image of the bandylegged elder garbed only in tight-fitting chausses interrupted her musings. To view the colonel now in reality was even more disturbing to her senses.

Tyrone poured the wine and came to her bearing a mug from which he invited her to sample an offering of Chereunikyna. “We’ll share,” he whispered close above her mouth. “The taste of you makes it sweeter for me.”

With trembling fingers, Synnovea raised the drinking vessel and, beneath his warm perusal, took a sip from its edge. When she returned the cup, Tyrone tipped the cup and then leaned forward and, with a somewhat wicked smile, slowly caressed her soft mouth with his own as he shared the brew with her, evoking her giggles. Staggering back amid his chuckling amusement, she wiped her chin to catch the escaping dribbles and promptly decided he wasn’t the only one who could play at such games. Cutting off part of a stuffed grape leaf with a fork, she deposited it in her mouth, chewed for a moment while he watched her with warmly glowing eyes, and then, pulling his head down to hers, shared the food with him. He proved eager to devour far more than the dolmasy and was soon probing the depth of her mouth in a totally titillating attack on her senses.

It was a very long moment later when he drew back and stared down into those limpid pools. Her lips still glistened from his kiss, drawing him back for more. A saner moment followed in which he inclined his head toward the narrow flight of stairs that led up a dark passageway. “I’ll go upstairs and light some candles for us.”

Synnovea lifted her gaze toward the blackened void above the steps. “What’s up there?”

“My bedchamber,” Tyrone answered and cocked a cu rious brow as he saw her tremble. “The room is far more comfortable than it is down here, Synnovea.” He swept a hand about to indicate the furnishings. “As you can plainly see for yourself.”

“Of course,” she said, accepting his statement. Now that the moment wherein he planned to rend her virginity upon his pallet swiftly approached, Synnovea was challenged by the fact that little time remained for her to make good her escape. And yet, here she remained. Even as she sought to quell the qualms that had suddenly begun to assail her, she felt as if another woman stood in her stead, doing everything she would’ve condemned a month or two ago. It was bold in her mind that in a scant few moments everything she had encouraged with her flirtations would likely end in a culmination of his desires, not her own. When faced with the truth of what she had instigated, she found it impossible to meet his gaze.

Tyrone was too sensitive to the mood of the woman with whom he had become enamored not to notice a subtle change. Though bewildered by her sudden shyness and cooling ardor, it soon dawned on him that Synnovea was not altogether committed to the idea of letting him make love to her. He now doubted that even his kisses could appease whatever fears she was battling, and it seemed prudent to allow the lady some time to herself to consider her choices.

Resigning himself to the bleak and disappointing possibility of being left without the sweet solace of her company as well as her body, Tyrone approached the stairs as he announced over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The sound of his footsteps lightly scraping against the bare wood planks seemed to resonate in diminishing waves throughout the house as Synnovea faced the last stronghold of opposition to her quest. With the game nearly at its end, her own conscience rallied in objection to her devious schemes and sought to beat them down with bludgeoning blows that seemed too painful to resist. Honesty! Honor! Integrity! Modesty! Scruples! Virtue! Kindness! Everything that her mother and father had both cherished and honored was being reduced to an ashen heap with her deceitful, scandalous behavior. She had brazenly strode the path upon which milder, more timid maids were disinclined to venture, all because she wanted a man whom she could love as a husband.

The course she had chosen was hardly moral, Synnovea reflected morosely. She had deliberately tempted a man who she knew desired her and, by allowing him to maul her, would be leading him into a trap that would deftly sunder the hopes of another who had aspired to have her as his wife. Why could she not endure the hardships thrust upon her for the sake of honor? Other women had. Long years ago Natasha had taken an older man as husband and had later reaped a love which she had greatly treasured. Why can’t I do the same? Synnovea’s mind screamed. What made her so obstinate that she had felt driven to flaunt the rules of society just to gain her own end? Had she no regard for the ones she would hurt or the shattered spirits she would leave in her wake?

Of a sudden, Synnovea saw herself from afar, and she realized with some chagrin that she didn’t necessarily like the image which came to mind, that of a spoiled, unscrupulous boyarina intent upon gaining her own end. What she was doing was callously using the affections of an eager suitor and leading him into a trap from which he might not escape unscathed, all because she had been reluctant to wed an ancient. The growing awareness of her own diabolical deceit rose up like bitter bile in her throat, and suddenly it was all she could do not to turn tail and run.

Synnovea mentally shook herself as if awakening from a trance. What in the world was she doing here? What had ever possessed her to forget the values of her parents and flaunt some imagined right to be wed to a man of her own choosing, to the extent that she could lightly entertain the possibility of becoming a harlot to gain her own end?

As the weight of her own condemnation came upon her, Synnovea almost cringed. She thought of Tyrone standing at the forefront of those injured by her deception and could no longer blandly dismiss his involvement as one of no consequence. He was a human being! He had feelings! He was susceptible to being wounded by her antics!

What was she to do? How could she escape from all that she had planned?

Just go!

Synnovea winced in pain as the guilt-driven command lashed across her mind, and she took several stumbling steps toward the door as unspent sobs solidified into a painful lump in her chest. Then she halted abruptly, sick at heart, knowing what her departure would cost her. There was that element within her that urged her to go, but there was another conflicting voice which bade her to hold fast lest she suffer the consequences.

A sense of panic began to build within Synnovea as she found herself caught in a vortex betwixt the two. Broodingly her eyes wandered back to the black velvet doublet dressing the chair, and inwardly she groaned, realizing that she couldn’t go through with her ploy. Colonel Rycroft was everything Natasha had said he was; he didn’t deserve to be entrapped by a conniving woman. She must fly before Aleksei arrived!

Choking back the sobs as she heard him coming down the stairs, Synnovea snatched up her cloak and fled to the door. In her panic, she seized the latch, ready to fly, but the handle broke off in her hand in her haste, frustrating her efforts to leave before she had to face her suitor.

“Synnovea…”

She whirled at the sound of her name and stared at him with tears blurring her vision. He stood on the bottom step with a hand braced on the low beam above his head, just watching her. She could see the pain in his face, feel it in her heart. She ached for him and for herself, but there was no help for it. She must flee!

“Don’t go,” he rasped. “Don’t leave me….”

Synnovea tried to find the strength of a denial within her, but her voice was gone. She could only open and close her mouth as she struggled in mute agony to deliver the words that would bring about her escape.

“Stay with me…please….”

His appeal tore through her, and her heart crumpled within her. The cloak slid from her fingers as she took several faltering steps toward him. “We must hurry! ’Tis urgent that I leave—”

Suddenly Synnovea found him standing before her, sweeping her up into his arms. It seemed in no more than a thrice of steps he was up the stairs, following the beacon of light that came from the open doorway at the far end of a dark, narrow hallway. Her eyes swept the bedchamber as they entered. A large, rough-hewn four-poster stood in the middle of the room, its bedding turned down to reveal sheets that were clean but rather coarse. Skimpy draperies, effective enough in providing privacy, had been drawn over a pair of windows on the far side of the bed. A rather stark armoire, a chair, and a shaving stand with a simple pitcher and basin completed the furnishings.

Synnovea’s feet had barely touched the floor beside the bed when Tyrone’s lips came crushing down upon hers in a fiercely possessive kiss that shattered any lingering notion that she might have had of absconding with her virtue intact. As their mouths and tongues merged in a wildly frantic search, his fingers tore the lacings loose at the back of her gown, and then he was tugging down the bodice, following its descent with hotly flaming kisses.

Synnovea’s breath hissed inward through her teeth as his tongue licked greedily over the mounds and valley of her bosom. A soft moan readily evidenced her heightening involvement, as she arched her back, willingly offering him the lush fruit. Tyrone eagerly devoured the fare, clasping the fullness of one ripe orb within his hand while drawing the other into the sultry heat of his mouth. A flicking flame torched a sensitive pinnacle, fanning the hotly glowing coals burning within her womanly loins. It was a scintillating attack on her senses, a sweet undermin ing of her goals, and a succulent plum she could no longer resist.

Tyrone left the blushing pinnacles throbbing for want of more as he freed her arms from her sleeves and, with ravenous kisses, followed the descent of her clothes. The gown and chemise caught on her hips, where they lay bunched in a confused tangle, and he went down on a knee, working feverishly to free the snag. By now Synnovea had caught the heat of his zeal and leaned over him to drag the shirt from his shoulders, bringing her lustrous bosom temptingly close to his face.

Yanking his arms free of the garment, Tyrone tossed it aside and, with a muted groan, seized the womanly fullness and plied the pale peaks with the greedy warmth of his tongue. The ecstasy that shot through Synnovea was like a blazing arrow, with vanes ignited, coursing through her senses, setting her whole being aflame with a heightening desire. There was no halting the flight of the invisible shaft now, for it soared swiftly to its mark, sinking deeply within her heart and awakening a hungering need to savor the delights to be found with a lover.

Of a sudden, Synnovea knew not where to put her hands, and in an anxious frenzy she rubbed them over the sinews rippling across Tyrone’s back and shoulders. She could feel the muscles knotting beneath her palms and swept a hand to the back of his corded neck, pressing his head forward until his face was resting within the cleavage between her breasts. With a subtle twisting of her shoulders and upper torso, the soft, ripe melons caressed the manly visage, drawing a muted moan of pleasure from Tyrone. Greedily he caught a nipple, nearly devouring the whole of it within his mouth as he suckled her. Synnovea felt as if she were being drawn inside out and could only stand transfixed at the delectable sensations that pulsed with quickening fervor through her womanly being.

His hand wandered past the small of her back and slid downward beneath her clothes to clasp a round buttock. Lifting her with him, he rose to his feet and began to drag the garments from her hips. He whisked her free of the restricting clothes, leaving them to fall in a puffy mound upon the floor. When he resettled her to her stockinged feet, he began ridding himself of his own garments as his eyes feasted upon the perfection that had held his mind solidly entrapped for some weeks now.

Synnovea perched timidly upon the edge of the bed, where she stripped off her stockings and surreptitiously witnessed his disrobing. The broad shoulders, tautly muscled ribs, and flat, hard belly were just as she had remembered them, but it was the proud fullness evidencing his manly desires that brought a heated blush to her cheeks.

Becoming aware of her flitting glances, Tyrone stepped near, forcing her to meet his smiling gaze. The flush of color imbuing her creamy skin was unmistakable. “No need to feel embarrassed, my sweet,” he whispered cajolingly. “I give you leave to look at me as much as you desire. In truth, it pleasures me to have you do so. You may even touch me if you’d like.”

Synnovea stared up at him in painful chagrin, unable to understand his cavalier attitude. She certainly couldn’t imagine herself accepting his invitation.

His hungering eyes swept over the length of her as he sought to put her at ease. “I’m not ashamed that I’m a man and that I want you, Synnovea. I yield you everything, my body, my mind, my regard….”

Even as he reached out and captured her fingers, she remained motionless. Holding both her gaze and her hand firmly entrapped, he slid her palm down the length of him, over the muscular bulges and taut ridges, past a furred chest and hardened ribs, along a line of hair traversing his flat belly, on downward to the bold, manly heat of him.

A shocked gasp escaped Synnovea as he closed her fingers around the steely shaft and held them in an unrelenting grasp. She could hardly draw breath for the heat infusing her, extending upward from the hot, fleshly hardness throbbing within her grasp. Though she averted her face, she could not banish the realization of what she held.

“Look at me,” he commanded gently.

“I can’t,” Synnovea whispered, unwilling to obey, yet every instinct she was capable of acknowledging rallied in curiosity.

Capturing her chin within the palm of his free hand, Tyrone lifted it until he could meet her gaze. “Do you hate touching me so much, my sweet?”

Synnovea bit her lip in discomfiture, but honesty prevailed as she shook her head. Never had she experienced anything that thrilled or embarrassed her more.

“If we’re to be lovers, my sweet, you must know how to please me,” he reasoned softly. “Will you not lend yourself to my instructions?”

Reluctantly Synnovea yielded a cautious peek and then squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet the impression of his maleness was now forever branded upon her memory; there was no banishing it to the four corners of the universe. If she lived a thousand years, she’d never forget his bold display.

It took a full moment before Synnovea calmed herself enough to open her eyes again. She stared fixedly at him, and gradually Tyrone loosened his tenacious hold, sensing her growing willingness to yield herself to his guidance. He began to move her fingers in a tutorial tour, halting his own breath more than once by the secret places he encouraged her to titillate.

“Enough of this,” he rasped hoarsely, aware of the hazards of submitting himself too long to such rousing stimulation.

His mouth descended, greedily devouring her breasts and snatching her breath with each voluptuous stroke of his tongue. The rapturous delights intensified rapidly until Synnovea forgot everything but the need to satisfy the fermenting hunger in the pit of her being. Seeking some relief for that indescribable void which now craved to be sated, she pressed close against him. Tyrone readily accommodated her, lifting her up against him until the moist inner haven of her womanly softness was snuggled against the warmth of him. The pulsing heat of his manhood inflamed the greedy fires burning within her, and she sought instinctively to quench them, moving against the forging iron in a quest as old as time itself. She was unprepared for the sizzling pleasure that began to surge upward through her, though she knew that there was more to come than just this teasing enticement, for they had not yet merged together.

“Hurry,” she begged in an urgent whisper, snatching Tyrone’s breath as her fingers closed around the hard shaft again. What propelled her now had nothing to do with a fear that Aleksei would discover them. It was a desire for appeasement, pure and simple.

“Have a care, Synnovea,” Tyrone cautioned, knowing he was being dragged too close to the brink of expulsion as she drew him back with her to the bed. “The pleasure is too sweet.”

Synnovea couldn’t think of anything but the bedlam that had been created within her loins. Relinquishing her claim on him, she sank back upon the bed and wriggled across the freshly scented sheet until she reached the pillows near the headboard. Tyrone followed and, bracing on a knee beside her, slipped an arm beneath her waist and lifted her across the feather ticking to the middle of the bed. Caressing her cheek and lips with wanton kisses, he lowered his loins between her eagerly parting thighs and reached down a hand to gently part the silken folds. Synnovea turned her face aside and bit her lip as the unyielding hardness intruded, gently testing the delicate shield. Her breath was snatched from her as the long saber surged forward, piercing her with a pain that made her pitch upward. Tyrone lost whatever ground he had gained, and though it took every speck of willpower he was capable of gathering to maintain a gentlemanly forbearance, he drew back, allowing Synnovea a moment to calm herself as he kissed and caressed her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered tearfully beneath his lingering kisses. “I didn’t think I was such a coward.”

“Shhh, love,” Tyrone soothed, stroking her womanly softness.

This time Synnovea surrendered herself completely to him, totally abashed that she had acted like a spineless chit when she had desired the consummation as feverishly as he. Her hand came up to rest tentatively upon his chest. “May I touch you again?”

“Not yet, love,” Tyrone answered, too shaken by the pain of his mounting desires to accept such sweet, excruciating enticements. “Let me pleasure you; then I’ll seek mine.”

It seemed only a passing of a moment before Synnovea found her embarrassment eclipsed by new, rapidly expanding sensations. Overwhelmed by the waves of effervescent bliss that began washing over her in crescendoing rapture, she began to twist and writhe beneath his persuasive fondling. Arching her hips upward against him in an invitation he could not resist, she was soon leading the stirring hardness to the tender breach.

Tyrone was shaking nearly as much as she as his hands clasped her buttocks for the final thrust. The hardened shaft plunged inward, drawing a sharp gasp from her as the membrane split. Just as quickly, Synnovea was searching out his mouth, seeking the sultry kisses that would sweep her beyond the pain. He indulged her with tantalizing exchanges of lips and tongues, yet he was now sheathed in her warmth, and a spiraling ecstasy began to goad him. His thrusts were long and sure, stirring her ardor until she began to rise up to meet him. Beneath his kisses, soft mewls were transformed into astonished gasps as she soared ever higher toward that delectable culmination of their union. Tyrone was not far behind. His breath rasped harshly in her ear when the first, thrilling fruits of ecstasy began to wash over him. Then suddenly a rapidly approaching sound intruded, wrenching his mind clear with a brutal abruptness.

“What is it?” Synnovea whispered as he lifted his head to listen. Her eyes widened when she heard the clattering hooves of many riders thundering toward the house.

“Someone’s coming!” Tyrone muttered.

Synnovea moaned in despair as he snatched away and rolled to the edge of the bed. Grabbing up his clothes, he thrust his feet through a pair of chausses and, jerking the close-fitting hosiery up over his narrow hips, hurriedly knotted them at his waist.

“Get your clothes on, Synnovea!” he bade anxiously as the hoofbeats came to a halt before his quarters. “Hurry!”

She just stared at him, frozen by the realization of what she had done. Despite her change of heart, everything was occurring just as she had planned. In another moment Aleksei would be ordering his men to break down the door, and Tyrone would be caught in the middle, exactly where she had contrived to place him.

Seeing her horrified stare, Tyrone seized her by the arms and gave her a shake. “Good Lord, woman, what ails you? Do you not ken? There are men outside the house, and in all likelihood they’ll be coming in here! I cannot defend the two of us with you stark naked! They’ll likely kill me to get to you.”

Sweeping her off the bed, he set her on her feet and then gathered up her clothes. He dumped them on the bed near at hand and shook out her chemise just as a heavy fist pounded on the front portal and a mumbled voice called through the barrier.

“Colonel Rycroft! I must speak with you.”

“Lift your arms!” Tyrone commanded in an anxious whisper, for the moment ignoring the summons. As Synnovea complied, he yanked the chemise down over her head and settled it into place around her slender waist.

“I can dress myself!” she declared, coming to her senses as she felt his lean fingers fastening the tiny buttons between her breasts. “You’d better get your own clothes on and get out of here!”

“What! And leave you here by yourself to confront those men alone?” Tyrone laughed harshly, denying the possibility. “If I leave at all, Synnovea, I’ll be taking you with me.”

From down below came the rattle of the broken latch accompanied by a garbled question. “Colonel Rycroft, are you there?”

It was obvious after another testing of the lock that the portal would not yield to the intruders’ attempts to open it. Heavy fists began to pound the planks, demanding entry.

“Colonel Rycroft, we know you’re in there!”

Tyrone stepped to the door of his bedchamber and yelled down the stairs. “I’ll be down in a moment. I’m getting dressed.”

“You must come now, Colonel!” came a reply. “I know the Countess Synnovea is with you. If you don’t open this door immediately, my men will break it down.”

“Aleksei!” Synnovea whispered. Meeting Tyrone’s questioning glance, she blushed and lifted her slender shoulders in a disconcerted shrug. “He hired men to watch Natasha’s house.”

“Good Lord, Synnovea! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could’ve gone elsewhere.” Tyrone gave her a gentle shove toward the bed. “Put your gown and shoes on. We’ve got to get out of here! And fast!”

His statement was promptly underscored by the sudden contact of several stout thuds against the front door. Another crashing blow soon followed, testing the sturdiness of the formidable barrier.

Seeing now a chance to escape the consequences of her ploy, Synnovea quickly obeyed as Tyrone yanked on a pair of hide breeches, boots, and a shirt. Belting on his sword, he seized her hand and led her in a brisk descent of the stairs. He paused briefly in the lower room to judge the strength of another assault against the front portal and roughly estimated the time they had remaining before the sturdy planks would give way. Scooping up her cloak from the floor, he wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled her along with him to the back door.

Tyrone drew forth his sword and laid a silencing finger across his lips before he motioned her to stay where she was. Receiving her nod of compliance, he slid the bolt back carefully, quietly from the lock and then pulled the door open. His cautious tread was just as noiseless as he slipped through the portal. Pausing just outside with his sword held ready, he scanned the shadows, slowly turning until he glanced up suddenly to his right, where a burly fellow squatted atop a wooden barrel residing in the corner of the house, only a couple of steps away from the back door. Like a flash of quicksilver in the night, Tyrone’s blade whipped upward to block the descent of the other’s ax. A shout from the man brought the sound of running feet around the end of the house as Tyrone parried the next blow, but any hope for his escape with Synnovea dwindled rapidly when a dozen more stalwarts came charging toward them with swords and weapons drawn. Tyrone swiftly retreated, slamming and bolting the door behind him.

“Get upstairs!” He jerked his head in the direction of his bedchamber as he faced Synnovea. “I’ll try to hold them off down here!”

“You must leave me and escape!” she cried frantically.

“Woman, do as I say!” Tyrone barked. “I’ll not leave you to your own defense!”

Frustrated by his commanding tone, Synnovea clenched her fists at her sides and tried again, this time in a louder tone so she could be heard above the jarring jolts that were now bombarding both doors. “Will you please listen to me, Tyrone Rycroft! I know what I’m saying!”

“What? And allow Aleksei a chance to rape you before he takes you to safety? Go, I said!”

Groaning in despair, Synnovea whirled toward the stairs just as the front portal crashed inward, sending several stout hearties stumbling in on top of it. Their entry hastened Synnovea’s flight even as she heard Aleksei bellow her name from a safe distance behind the first battery of men. Tyrone leapt to cover her retreat with the long blade boldly in evidence.

“Seize him!” Aleksei railed out the command, thrusting a long finger toward the colonel.

Tyrone chortled as he mocked the prince. “Have you no heart to do it yourself, my lord?”

A half-dozen men plowed forward to accomplish the prince’s bidding and promptly yelped and stumbled back, suffering the pain of newly inflicted wounds.

“A weighty purse to the one responsible for that rascal’s capture,” Aleksei promised, incensed by the colonel’s tenacity. “You wanted him! Now here he is! Do with him what he did to you and those who rode with you! Seize him!”

Tyrone had no chance to answer as a full dozen toughs raced toward him, forcing him to retreat up the stairs. Upon gaining the upper level, he dashed into the bedchamber and slammed the portal closed behind him. He tossed the sword onto the bed and then pulled the tall, weighty armoire in front of the door to bolster the strength of the heavy planks. Synnovea watched in helpless bewilderment while he grabbed a small chair and raced across the room to throw it through a window. He returned to the bed and, whipping the top sheet away, tied a knot in the end before he stepped back to the window. A small ledge, wide enough to comfortably accommodate a man’s boots, jutted out from beneath it. Then his gaze flicked outward and carefully searched the shadows enclosing the house.

Turning, Tyrone beckoned for Synnovea to draw near. “I’ll lower you to the ground with the sheet and then climb down behind you.” He glanced toward the door as the ponderous blows strengthened against it and was forced to speak over the din. “If I don’t make it, run to the carriage and have the driver take you back to Natasha’s! Do you understand?”

“Clearly, Tyrone, but I plead with you. Flee before you’re taken.”

Sweeping her into his arms, Tyrone thrust her through the window and clasped her hand tightly as she balanced on the ledge. Loud, booming laughter came from below, prompting Tyrone to lean out through the opening. A huge fellow with a long, shaggy mustache and a lock of hair sprouting from a bald pate strode forward with arms widely outstretched.

“Oh-ho! Colonel Rycroft! We meet again, eh? So good of you, my friend, to toss the wench down to me.” The huge man chortled in uproarious mirth as he held out his arms expectantly. “The little pigeon is tasty sweetmeat, eh? Now I taste for myself what you have feasted upon.”

“Petrov!” Synnovea gasped in shock and glanced back at Tyrone. “That means Ladislaus is here!”

Tyrone cursed beneath his breath, then muttered derisively, “I must question the sort of friends Prince Aleksei consorts with!” He helped Synnovea back through the window and swept her to her feet. “I fear the prince has made the place secure against our escape if he’s hired those thieving miscreants to seek me out. You can be certain they’re hungry for revenge, a fact which I’m sure Aleksei was cognizant of ere he went searching for them.”

“How would he have known where to find them?” Synnovea asked in confusion.

“That is a question I’d like to ask Aleksei if I’m given the opportunity.”

“You’ll have a greater chance of escaping without me,” she replied, laying a hand upon his furred chest. “Will you not try? I promise you, Aleksei won’t let these men take me, not when there’s a chance the tsar will find out.”

Tyrone scoffed at the idea. “Aleksei may not even have a choice with Ladislaus and his men breathing down his neck. That brigand wanted you before. This time he may not stop until he takes you.”

“Please listen, Tyrone,” she pleaded desperately. “I’ve no liking for Aleksei or Ladislaus, but if you leave me and seek your freedom, then you may be able to arrange an assault on those brigands and take me back. You all but snatched me out of Ladislaus’s hands before. Can you not do so again?”

Tyrone musingly lifted a brow as he considered her suggestion. If they were both captured, he’d be confronting an overwhelming force anxious to kill him. The thieves would probably keep him shackled or so busy trying to protect the two of them that he wouldn’t be able to carry out her rescue. “I might be able to arrange such an event within the hour,” he replied thoughtfully. “I have friends living nearby. English officers. If I can get through Ladislaus’s men, I know they’ll help me.”

Beneath the ramming bombardment of the door, the wood facing around the bolt began to splinter away, motivating Tyrone to take up his sword again. As he sheathed the weapon, the splotches of red marring the whiteness of the bottom sheet caught his attention. He paused briefly to consider the stains and then, facing Synnovea, pressed a hurried kiss upon her lips.

“I’ll finish what I started ere long,” he promised in a warm whisper. “Save yourself for me.”

Fighting back a rush of tears, Synnovea braved a smile. “Just be careful!”

“Tell Aleksei and Ladislaus that I’ll kill them if they harm you in any way,” Tyrone said before he strode to the window. With a casual salute, he ducked through the opening, bringing her forward on flying feet.

Synnovea watched, fear throbbing in her throat, as Tyrone climbed out onto the ledge. There he braced his feet wide to balance himself and, tucking two fingers into his mouth, whistled loudly, drawing an astonished gasp from her. At the shrill summons, Petrov came racing back to serve as the colonel’s audience of one. The brawny giant leaned his head far back and gaped upward with jaw aslack as Tyrone swept him a jaunty bow.

“So good of you to come when I call, Petrov. Now catch me if you can,” he taunted with a chuckle and, springing lightly from the ledge, somersaulted once through the air and then dove directly toward the burly one, who staggered backward in rapidly expanding amazement. Synnovea clapped a hand over her mouth to squelch a frightened scream, but any sound that might have es caped was quickly overshadowed by the loud, wavering warble that issued forth from Petrov’s thick throat. His scream strengthened to a deafening roar until it was abruptly squelched beneath the falling weight of the colonel.

As Tyrone had hoped, his daring dive had been sufficiently broken by the thief’s bulk, and, no worse for wear, he drew back a clenched fist and delivered a powerful blow to the stout jaw of the dazed man, knocking that one completely senseless. The large head lolled limply as Tyrone tested the brigand’s lack of response. Satisfied, he jumped to his feet and dusted off his clothes as if on a casual errand. Turning with a lopsided grin, he swept into another debonair bow, this time for his lady love, who still stood at the window with her hands clasped tightly over her mouth. It was a full second before the shock faded, and Synnovea clapped her palms to her cheeks, laughing in relief.

Briefly she acknowledged his daring feat with applause and blew him a kiss before he whirled and raced toward a nearby house. She observed his flight, peering after him intently as far as she could see until the darkness consumed his tall form, leaving her strangely disquieted yet relieved by his escape.

The cabinet began to slide inward, and a brief moment later, Synnovea whirled to face the men who burst through. Ladislaus led the brigands with a drawn sword. He halted just inside the door as his pale eyes scanned the length and breadth of the bedchamber for the Englishman. Dragging the furry cap from his flaxen head, he strode across the room, but paused briefly beside the bed to consider the bloodied sheet. His ice-blue eyes chased to her and then swept beyond her, narrowing to angry slits when he noticed the curtains fluttering at the window. Racing forward to the opening, he leaned out and scanned the area, finding his hulking companion sprawled limply upon the ground.

Synnovea lifted her chin, giving Ladislaus her best at tempt at a haughty demeanor as he came back to her. “You’re too late,” she announced. “The Englishman has gone.”

“I can see that for myself, Countess. I’m also aware of the pretty bauble he left behind.” His eyes raked her cloaked form before he reached out a hand and thoughtfully rubbed a soft, dark curl between his fingers. “You’ve allowed my enemy to feed upon your rich treasures, my beauty. I’ll forgive you for that, for there’s clearly enough for me to savor, but I would know where he has gone.”

“Do you think I would tell you?” she scoffed in amazement. “You must be as addlepated as your unconscious friend.”

Aleksei pushed his way through the door, safely behind an escort of four stout-chested men. “Don’t waste time trying to get any answers from her,” he snapped, glowering at her. “She’ll never tell you where her lover has fled. You’ll have to find him yourself.” Turning imperiously, he snapped his fingers at the bandits, sending them running out again. “Remember!” he shouted after them. “A weighty purse to the one who captures him!”

Aleksei listened to their thudding footfalls on the stairs before he turned a challenging sneer upon Ladislaus, who had made no effort to follow. “Well? Are you going to help your men scour the area for that English rogue, or do you intend to hunt him down yourself?” He arched a taunting brow at the hulking man. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.”

Ladislaus jeered at the man’s gibe. “There’s only one coward here, and I’m looking at him.”

The insult ignited Aleksei’s dark eyes, leaving them flaring with fiery rage. “From what I hear of your attack on the countess’s entourage, you ran when the Englishman appeared on the scene.”

“Be careful,” the giant warned him ominously. “One less boyar in this city won’t be noticed, I assure you.”

Synnovea glanced between the two men, her hopes rising. Though in league with each other, they apparently shared a mutual dislike. If prodded into a violent quarrel, they might even forget about searching for the Englishman long enough to ensure his escape. “Your hired henchman doesn’t seem to appreciate your elevated status, Aleksei. But then, I must remember, he’s also a prince, albeit of questionable descent. Has he been in your employ very long?”

The lord-of-thieves snorted loudly. “No man employs Ladislaus,” he rumbled. “Your precious boyar came to search me out in Kitaigorod when I let it be known that I was seeking the whereabouts of a certain Englishman. Otherwise, Countess, you wouldn’t be seeing us together.”

Warily Synnovea queried, “Is it your intent to kill Colonel Rycroft?”

“I’ll allow the prince to have his due ere I take mine,” Ladislaus replied and smiled at her mockingly. “In any case, my lady, there’ll be little left for you to enjoy after we’re finished with your precious colonel.”

“ If you manage to take him,” Aleksei interjected with rancor. “I’m sure this delay will cost you his capture.”

Ladislaus smirked at the other man. “I promised you that we’d take him, and so we shall.”

With that, the lordling thief strode across the room and took his leave. Several moments later, his booming voice was heard outside the bedroom window as he bade Petrov to rouse from his stupor.

Contemptuously Aleksei glanced around the room, disdaining the plain, barren look of it. Then his eyes blazed with sudden fury when he espied the dark splotches that marred the whiteness of the bed linen. With a savage curse he whirled upon Synnovea and lashed out with swiftly spiraling vengeance, laying the back of his hand viciously across her cheek and sending her reeling in a daze across the room. She slammed into the far wall, emitting a muffled groan as her head hit the barrier. Then she staggered back in a stunned stupor and gingerly touched the growing knot on her forehead.

“So, you bitch!” Aleksei snarled in seething rage. “You’ve done what you threatened! You’ve given yourself to that filthy blackguard!”

Synnovea blinked in an earnest attempt to focus her gaze upon her adversary. Considering that the whole side of her head felt as if it had just been slammed against a stone wall, she didn’t think it unusual that her vision and senses were beclouded. Lamely she jeered at the prince, conveying her contempt as she wiped a trickle of blood from a corner of her bruised mouth. “Not long ago I would’ve given myself to Tyrone Rycroft for no other purpose than to thwart your plans, Aleksei, but henceforth, I shall seek his favor with eager diligence, for without a doubt he’s more of a man than you’ll ever hope to be.”

“You will watch him pay!” Aleksei railed, incensed by her disparagement. His much-inflated pride was sorely pricked by the realization that she had taken a foreigner to her breast after steadfastly denying him that same privilege the whole of her stay in his mansion. As if that insult wasn’t enough to rile his temper, he had to endure the added indignity of being told that she’d now willingly share her company with the other man. “Because of you, Synnovea, the Englishman will suffer well beyond his feeble endurance.”

A sudden, niggling apprehension encompassed Synnovea’s heart. She didn’t doubt in the least that Aleksei would resort to torture to have his revenge upon his rival. Yet, when she remembered Tyrone’s skill at fighting, it seemed unlikely that any common man could best him. Confidence in his abilities eased her qualms significantly, allowing her to boast, “You’ll have to catch him first, Aleksei, and I really don’t think you or your hired lackeys are skilled enough for that task.”

Aleksei smirked. “I’m of a different opinion, my dear, for you see, Ladislaus and his men have grown to hate the Englishman almost as much as I do. Twill be only a matter of time before the colonel falls into their hands. They’ll lie in wait until he appears, and then pounce on him as they would a ravenous dog that has been freed from his cage.” Bending toward her, he sneered into her face. “Once I have your lover within my grasp, my dear, I’ll make sure he remembers this night forever. Before I’m done with him, I’ll see the hide stripped from his back and then assure myself that he’ll never bed you or another woman as long as he lives.”

Some distance from the house, the dense darkness was held secure within a cluster of trees growing near the narrow dirt lane. It was here that Tyrone tarried to canvass the open, rutted stretch. After peering carefully up and down the thoroughfare, he scanned the area bordering it. No dark specter moved beyond the copse, not even the coachman who snoozed atop his conveyance a short distance away. Tyrone silently unsheathed his sword and crept to the outer edge of the trees, warily pausing there for a long moment as he again surveyed the terrain. He was unable to put aside the feeling of uneasiness that had settled down upon him after his entry into the grove. He sensed that all was not as it should be despite the openness of the place beyond where he stood. Still, he was unable to detect any movement or even a shadow which might have alerted him to another’s presence. He was, however, a man who had learned to take heed when his instincts warned him of danger. For the sake of caution, he eased back a step and was about to turn in stealthful retreat when a sudden pain exploded against his head. He sagged to his knees as a billion piercing lights burst in a sea of radiant colors before his eyes and then slowly dimmed to a dull shade of gray. Through the tenebrous gloom, he became vaguely aware of a dark shape stepping close and an arm lifting high above him. His hampered faculties were sluggish and slow to react as a stout club came crashing down upon his skull once again, darkening the murky shadows into the deepest shade of night until all that remained of his world was total oblivion.