15

I f Tyrone Rycroft had once imagined that he was expending every ounce of energy and skill he possessed in his quest to impress the tsar, he soon realized that ignoring his stirringly beautiful wife and keeping his mind strictly on his goals and duties even while he was away from her demanded much more fortitude and discipline over his thoughts than his first objective had ever required of him. If his preoccupation with Synnovea had seemed intense before his whipping, then it was rapidly becoming an obsession now that they were ensconced not only in the same chamber but in the same bed as well. He was constantly besieged by sights that would have heartened the most indifferent husband, which he definitely was not. Whether fully clothed or scantily garbed, Synnovea was far too fetching for any normal man to resist, and though he still chafed under the spiny barbs of resentment, he felt much akin to an untried youth who drooled in blighted infatuation over an alabaster goddess. Such a lad might have hoped to discover a warm, tender heart beneath those creamy breasts, but Tyrone feared there was nothing there but cold, hard stone.

Not only was his reserve undermined by what he saw in their bedchamber, but he had never been so baffled by a woman in all of his life. Since his encounter with Aleksei, Tyrone had imagined Synnovea an unscrupulous vixen bereft of a conscience. He was certain she had deliberately entrapped him with a thoroughly ruthless disregard for what he’d have to suffer because of her deception, yet the more he was around her, the deeper his perplexity became. As hard as he searched, he could detect no tiniest hint of the sly coquette in that sublime mien. To his utter amazement, Synnovea seemed the paragon of what every man aspired to have for a wife. She was soft-spoken, sweetly attentive, and mindful of him in ways that at times put to rout the image of a conniving, selfish, spoiled boyarina . He might as well have been a king the way she anticipated and fulfilled his every need well before he even thought of it. Though he feared he’d again be caught unawares by her subterfuge, there were times when he could actually feel his bruised heart softening to her winsome smiles and the gentle touch of her hand. His breath nigh halted with the bliss of her slender fingers threading through his hair, massaging the tension from his neck or tracing around an ear. Yet he couldn’t shake the suspicion that those knee-weakening caresses were merely part of another ploy. If she had spoken some witch’s incantation to make him her slave, he couldn’t have been more entranced…or more apprehensive about his fate. Much too often of late, he seemed unable to subdue familiar flutterings in the pit of his hard belly, momentarily delectable to be sure, yet savagely brutal when left unappeased. No fiendish torment could have vexed him quite as severely.

Tyrone couldn’t remember a time in his adult years when he had been in such a rutting heat over a woman. In spite of his efforts to remain coolly detached in his wife’s presence, his rebellious body was ever wont to leave him open to the curious stares of those widely innocent green-brown eyes. Angelina had never stirred such erotic cravings within him, at least not to the degree that he was now experiencing with Synnovea, but then, he only had to lift a brow and Angelina would have come wiggling into his lap. He had no doubt that Synnovea would have done the same, but her motives weren’t to be trusted.

The pain of abstinence was becoming so horrendous that there were moments when Tyrone actually feared his lust for his raven-haired wife would rend him permanently useless to any woman. Many nights while Synnovea slumbered peacefully in their bed, he’d pace the floor like a caged leopard, prowling the ebony shadows until finally exhaustion would numb him to everything but a yearning to rest. The emotional upheaval he was being subjected to on a nightly basis made him give serious consideration to the idea of moving back to his old quarters, but as much as he needed the separation, he knew if he returned to his quarters, it would be tantamount to publicly distancing himself from Synnovea. Albeit silently, he’d be casting aspersions against her, a deed that would certainly elicit the tsar’s ire.

Had his back been properly healed and his fighting agility restored to the degree that he’d have felt confident of his prowess in deadly combat, he’d have ridden out in search of Ladislaus just to avoid the defeat that lurked in wait for him in his bedchamber. He was no fool to think that he could lie in bed next to an incredibly tempting woman night after night and still deny her existence. Had he been hewn of granite, there might have been some hope for him, but he was very much a man, subject to all the weaknesses and propensities of his gender, and Synnovea was the visual epitome of everything he had ever desired in a woman. At times, frustration, resentment, outright anger, and hostility vied in direct opposition to the softer feelings of compassion, gentleness, and ardor, as well as a strengthening desire to nurture and protect her as any adoring husband might. He was ever mindful of the fact that she was his and that all the aspirations he had once sought to bring into fruition could now be his for the simple taking… if only he’d relent.

It certainly took no mean mental feat for Tyrone to recognize his own heightening agitation. His temper had never been so quick to flare or his patience so thin. For the sake of his men, he knew he’d soon have to repent of his foolish vow. Yet, in an effort to hold his ground no matter how asinine his own obstinacy was beginning to seem even to him, he pushed himself and his regiment relentlessly day after day through long hours of difficult training, crawling on his belly with his face in the dirt or mud, climbing ropes attached to brick walls, and wrestling his way through men equally motivated to keep him and the rest of the troop from reaching their goal. Only by depleting his strength and draining himself of the ability to function normally at night could Tyrone hold out any hope of resisting the tantalizing seduction that awaited him in his bed and perhaps delay the ever-threatening reckoning.

Tyrone’s morning rote began before dawn, when he’d rise, shave, and dress. Shortly thereafter, he’d go downstairs to breakfast with Natasha. He was relieved that Synnovea complied with his wishes to stay abed and refrained from joining them. To face defeat so early in the day would’ve sorely gone against his grain. Mainly his conversation with the older woman centered around his wife, a subject from which he had difficulty straying of late. He’d then leave and be gone until well past supper, at which time he usually came dragging back, thoroughly spent. Before entering the manse, he’d feed and groom the tall black that Ladislaus had left behind and the fine, liver-chestnut steed which he reserved primarily for parades and demonstrating the quality of horsemanship he hoped to encourage in his men.

Upon concluding his tasks in the carriage house, he’d then enter the kitchen, too starved to think of waiting until after he had bathed away the sweat and grime of his day’s labors. If Tyrone might have once supposed that his grubby state would repulse his wife, then in that, too, he found himself mistaken. While the cook worked at other tasks, Synnovea served him his meal and, in doing so, touched him often, which now seemed her wont. Without a doubt, he’d have paid less heed to the server and more consideration to the fare if Danika had been the one laying out his meal. Even bone tired, he couldn’t ignore the delicious sight, womanly feel, and intoxicating fragrance of his wife as she bent over him or brushed against him in passing.

After supper, Tyrone soaked his aching body in a steaming bath which primarily served to ease his strained muscles. Synnovea’s initial attempt to assist him in his bath had provoked him to such a stormy outburst that she had fled in teary haste. It hadn’t taken a great deal of mental prowess for him to recognize the difficulty he’d have to face trying to tether his rampant lusts while she washed his naked body. Thereafter he had been attended by a male servant, who spoke not a word of English, but that suited the quiet serenity Tyrone sought there. It was his only reprieve.

Tyrone was grateful for those nights when, after joining Synnovea in their chambers, he could collapse into bed, too tired to even talk. His one concession to her wifely bent was to allow her to rub a soothing balm over his back for the purpose of keeping the scabs and skin pliable and the scarring to a minimum. For this he’d doff his robe and recline face-down upon the bed. Her gentle massaging relaxed him, and even while she continued kneading his work-strained muscles, his breathing would gradually deepen until he was lulled into sleep.

During these times Synnovea found it difficult to decipher her own emotions, but they seemed pleasantly associated with being a wife. No harsh words disturbed their quiet harmony while she served her husband’s needs, and even if Tyrone still refused to make love to her, at least by yielding himself into her care he was granting her privileges and familiarities reserved for a spouse.

She was no longer hindered by Anna’s strictures or the threat of Aleksei and could now venture out as often as she liked. While her husband was at work, she took several opportunities to visit friends and old acquaintances of her father. One day a week she could be found assisting Father Philip in his efforts to help the poor. At other times she shopped at Kitaigorod, sometimes for necessities, but mostly in search of clothing, gifts, or wines for her handsome husband. More often than not, she was joined on these excursions by either Zelda or Natasha or both women. After making purchases at the marketplace, they would deposit their bundles in the coach, and though Stenka would follow along behind at a leisurely pace with the conveyance, the three women were often motivated to stroll over to Red Square, where most every morning Tyrone could be found drilling his Hussars for a parade. Synnovea never failed to experience the thrill associated with watching the horsemanship of the men and their sharply executed drills, but their commander was the one who primarily claimed her attention.

Occasionally Tyrone would join the boyarinas during a well-deserved break from his rigorous training. As much as he resented the fact that he and his wife were closely observed at odd and sundry times by General Vanderhout, the tsar, his own company of men, Aleta in some instances, and a whole host of strangers, Tyrone realized he was becoming increasingly dedicated to the idea that Synnovea was his wife and therefore deserving of some genuine husbandly respect in public. In staking his claim, he often laid a hand upon her back or offered his arm as they strolled with the other two women to either the coach or a more select spot where they’d sometimes share victuals that Danika had packed for them. The difficulty Tyrone found in openly touching his wife or sitting beside her was what he usually had to contend with: the delectation stirred forth by even their most casual contact.

It was toward the end of the fifth week when Tyrone made the mistake of trying to imagine the changes that would occur in his life should he hold to his word and return to England an unmarried man. He would then be free to court other women, and in an effort to create some enthusiasm for the bachelor status he’d have in that event, he sought to form a vision of the women he had courted before his marriage to Angelina. They weren’t nearly as comely in recall, not when he had a young wife whose beauty and charm could easily put them to shame. A few of those former light-o’-loves had even been prone to giggle over the most inane things or else talk incessantly about things that mattered not a whit to him. Not so Synnovea. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he found her subtle wit and softly spoken comments immensely pleasing.

It was while Tyrone was laboriously mulling through this course of thinking that an unexpected dawning came which served his hidebound honor a death blow. With sudden clarity he realized that if he sailed to England and left Synnovea behind in Russia, it would be equivalent to leaving his own heart behind.

One evening, after another week had come and gone, Tyrone was seated on his bedside stool cleaning his gear and military trappings when he became mindful of Synnovea sitting in a chair across the bed from him, diligently sewing tiny cloth frogs on several garments—to be exact, four tunics and a single kaftan, all of which were far too large for her. He was still laboring at his task when she rose, folded the clothes and left them on his side of the bed. along with four pairs of full-legged trousers such as Russian soldiers were wont to wear. Without offering word or explanation, she disappeared into the dressing room.

Quizzically Tyrone eyed what she had left. The long-sleeved tunics were similar to those worn by his men and were made of a soft, weighty material. The cloth frogs served as closures along the slanted openings that stretched from the banded collars downward to beneath the left sleeves of the shirts and the kaftan. In continuing reticence, his wife returned from the adjoining room and, stepping near, placed a pair of calf-length leather boots on the floor beside his bench.

“Are these for me?” Tyrone finally queried, unable to draw any other conclusion. At her nod, he inquired further. “Do you want me to try them on?”

“If you would, Ty,” Synnovea murmured, seeming rather apprehensive as she chewed at a bottom lip.

Tyrone wasn’t inclined to strip away his robe, not while she was there to spur a reaction. His pride had been daunted much too often of late for him to even think of leaving himself open to the humiliation that would follow. After gathering up the boots, a tunic, and a pair of trousers, he sought shelter in the dressing room, where he garbed himself in the clothes she had made. Among his wife’s many other talents, it seemed that she was also an accomplished seamstress, for he soon found himself marveling at the neat handiwork which had gone into making the garments.

Synnovea came to him with a smile as he emerged from the narrow room and, begging his permission, knotted a braided leather cord around his lean waist. When she stepped back to consider the clothes she had created as well as the man who now wore them, her eyes began to mist with tears. He looked so handsome that she could feel only remorse for having once squandered his affection.

Tyrone stepped before the silvered glass to consider his reflection and was prompted to cock a dubious brow at his altered appearance. “I look like a Russian.”

Synnovea surreptitiously brushed at the moisture blurring her vision and cleared her throat hastily before she spoke. “Aye, and a very handsome one at that.”

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

“Are you well, madam?”

She nodded jerkily and managed a strangled reply. “Of course.”

Unconvinced, Tyrone canted his head in an effort to draw her gaze, curious to know what was troubling her, but she hurriedly busied herself, straightening bric-a-brac on a nearby chest. Tyrone gave up his efforts, refusing to press her for an explanation. Angelina had often baffled him with her moody tears and melancholy, which had usually come with her fluxes and been just as unpredictable. He thought it prudent to return his attention to the trousers without inquiring into Synnovea’s monthly cycles. After all, they were hardly on intimate terms, considering his continuing abstinence. Despite recent revelations that had brought him face-to-face with his growing mental entanglement with her, there was still that part of him that hadn’t yielded to the idea that he couldn’t do without her.

Facing the mirror again, Tyrone gathered the loose folds in his hand and considered the roominess of the trousers. “No wonder they’re so comfortable. They’re large enough for two men.”

Covertly Synnovea eyed the torpid bulge molded by the tightly clasped pantaloons, and though she yearned to draw near and press him for a more ardent response than he had thus far been willing to offer her, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the congeniality they were presently sharing. A myriad of different things seemed to hinder it, and she was loath to see it shattered once again. Then, too, she hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of her entrance into the bathing chamber, when she had only wanted to offer him help with his bath. Nor could she forget his nakedness and the ruddy hue that had swept into his face when he had caught her eyeing the lusty flag that had hauled itself upright at her approach. The memory of his thunderous explosion even now made her tremble in trepidation, making her cautious of provoking similar outbursts.

“I’ve also made you a suitable cap and coat to wear with your clothes, if you’re of a mind to try them on, Ty,” she murmured, unwilling to meet his gaze in the mirror.

Tyrone glanced around the room in search of the articles of clothing. “Where are they?”

“I’ll fetch them,” Synnovea eagerly replied and returned to the dressing room. Hurriedly she fetched his new coat, the lining of which she had made from the same lamb’s wool as the handsome astrakhan. The cap was a necessary item of clothing in Russia, no less than the coat, and though she had searched through her husband’s clothing, she hadn’t found any outer gear warm enough for what he’d need.

“You made these?” Tyrone asked in amazement, after accepting the items from her and examining the detail of each.

Synnovea inclined her head in a single nod of affirmation. “Here in Russia you’ll be needing more protection from our winters than your English garments can provide. I’m not sure how you managed to survive the weather last year, but I’d be remiss in my duties as a wife if I didn’t see you properly outfitted for the colder months.”

“I’m grateful, madam.” Tyrone couldn’t have been more sincere. “I was greatly hampered last winter by the crispness of the icy winds until Grigori took pity on me and loaned me some of his clothing. I might not have fared well at all if he hadn’t.”

After shrugging into the coat, Tyrone settled the cap upon his head at a jaunty angle, but Synnovea giggled and, shaking her head in disapproval, reached up to rearrange the latter. Tyrone accommodated her shorter height by bending his knees, and for a moment their eyes melded in warm communications. Synnovea was feeling no less than giddy when she stepped back, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to curb a grin. It was amazing to her how quickly he could move her from tears to laughter without uttering a word, but then, perhaps it was all the roiling emotions to which she was now prey that caused such flighty behavior within her. Her whole world now seemed centered on him, and as yet. he hadn’t shown any indication that he’d ever forgive her.

Synnovea’s eyes glowed warmly in admiration as she perused her husband’s tall, broad-shouldered form outfitted in the simple garments. She thought him no less than magnificent.

“I’m delighted to find my wife so talented,” Tyrone said, perusing his reflection. “Your gifts are very fine indeed, madam. I’m both awed and pleasured by them.”

“I’m pleased to give them, sir,” Synnovea replied, her smile deepening. “How do the boots fit?”

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

“Actually they were. I found an older pair of yours in your armoire and took them to the only bootmaker my father trusted. Are they comfortable?”

“Very,” he answered with enthusiasm.

“Would you like to try on the kaftan now?” she invited. “I thought you might enjoy having one to wear after your baths at night.”

“I would indeed,” Tyrone agreed and disappeared once again into the safety of the dressing room.

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

Her husband grinned at her in the mirror. “I think you’re trying to make a Russian of me, madam.”

Synnovea threaded her fingers through the short hair curling at his nape. “Your hair isn’t long enough for that.”

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

“Would you like me to trim it tonight?” she asked near his shoulder.

Knowing the havoc which that simple service would create in him, Tyrone yawned and made the excuse “Not tonight, Synnovea. I’m really tired.”

“Then I’ll put away your new clothes,” she offered, gathering the garments she had made. As she faced him, she held out a hand expectantly for the kaftan, but her husband dawdled as he unfastened the frogs. When she remained near at hand, he finally turned aside before he dared sweep the garment over his head.

Even if her view was from a rearward angle, Synnovea was not above perusing all that she saw. She yearned to reach out and run a hand caressingly over the hard vales and ridges of his back and stroke his granite-hard buttocks, but she knew if she roused his ire again what she’d likely invite.

Feeling the weight of his wife’s gaze, Tyrone cast a glance askance and found a yearning in those soft orbs that almost snatched his breath away. He was sure it mirrored his own and could sense his doom drawing nigh.

Synnovea was still waiting in silence when he handed back the kaftan. She folded it over her arm, but her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his long, manly form as he lifted a knee upon the bed and leaned forward toward the pillow, where he braced himself on an elbow. What came into view would have made a meek maid blush and turn aside, but she had never considered herself as such.

Tyrone winced slightly and, slowly expelling a pent-up sigh, lifted himself to make a necessary adjustment to his privy parts. When he realized his wife was still observing him, he looked around and found her smiling in amusement.

“Something wrong, madam?” he asked, arching a curious brow.

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

“Are you referring to me?”

“Who else, sir?”

Tyrone didn’t rightly know how to answer. Mutely he watched the rather jaunty twitch of skirts as his wife went to the dressing room. Her amused giggles floated back from the dressing room, and he almost groaned, knowing full well what she found so humorous. He was spiting himself. He was hot, hard, and eager, and she was everything he yearned to have in all of his erotic dreams.

Synnovea returned to the bedchamber gowned in a filmy creation that left nothing to the imagination. Tyrone was certain she was bent on tormenting him, yet his eyes seemed to have a will of their own as they followed her around to the far side of the bed. She lifted the voluminous gown, allowing him an unhindered glimpse of a shapely thigh as she climbed onto the mattress. After crawling near, she sat back upon her heels, seeming completely at ease beneath his perusal, and began to massage his scarred back with a balm that kept his skin pliable. By dint of will, he turned his face aside and lowered his head to the pillow, at length allowing her gentle ministering to soothe his tensions. Never had he known such tender kindness…or unyielding torture.

Finally Synnovea put away the salve, wiped off the excess, and snuffed out the candles behind her. Tyrone pulled the feather comforter up over them before leaning across to his bedside table to do the same. Settling back upon the bed, he turned on his side away from her and lay in pensive silence, trying desperately to forget that she was even there.

“I’m cold,” Synnovea complained as she snuggled close against his back. Slipping an arm around him, she threaded her fingers through the hair covering his muscular chest and tucked her bare thighs beneath his buttocks. “And you’re always so warm.”

Her nearness burned holes through Tyrone’s restraints, yet for the life of him he couldn’t send her fleeing to the far side of the bed with another angry command. With only a thin veil of a nightgown separating them and every swelling curve remarkably designed for the purpose of tormenting him, he was completely deprived of every sane thought except one, and that was the realization that he had been utterly foolish to imagine that he could successfully ignore the treasure he had fervently craved for so long.

Synnovea was upstairs in their bedchambers the next afternoon when she happened to glance out the windows and espied Tyrone riding down the road toward the manse. He was much earlier than usual, and though a sudden surge of excitement washed through her, she was flustered by the lack of time she had to repair her appearance. Earlier that morning she had donned older peasant garments to help Natasha and her gardener harvest flowers that were to be dried for winter arrangements, but her clothes were hardly pretty enough to claim her husband’s attention. In frantic haste she stripped, washed, and perfumed herself before donning her prettiest peasant attire. She brushed her hair until it gleamed, leaving it tumbling free beneath a kerchief. Her cheeks were already rosy and required no further pinch to bring forth color when she paused to check her appearance. In her eagerness to be with her husband, she descended the stairs almost in time with her swiftly racing heart.

By the time she arrived at the door of the carriage house, Synnovea was nearly breathless with anticipation. Calming herself, she stepped within, very quietly closed the portal behind her, and laid a bar across the portal, preventing any threat of intrusion. Then she strolled forward leisurely, as if she were there with no real purpose in mind.

Tyrone was absorbed in his work and failed to notice Synnovea’s entrance until she came around the end of the grooming stall, where he was shampooing the chestnut’s tail. When he caught sight of her, his eyes slid over her in a lengthy caress, much as they were wont to do whenever she came near. Thoroughly distracted now, he continued squeezing suds through the horse’s tail beyond his usual penchant. It was a rare day indeed when his wife left the silky black tresses unbound outside the privacy of their chambers. Considering the male servants who normally moved about the grounds and house, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had earned such husbandly consideration.

His meticulous regard brought a deepening blush of pleasure to Synnovea’s cheeks, and though her smile wavered unsteadily beneath his close regard, it soon strengthened and seemed eager to stay.

“You’re home early,” she murmured, noticing that he had also changed his clothes since his arrival home, except that he had chosen to garb himself in just about the oldest and most threadbare in his possession. His knee-length breeches were so limp from use, they clung to him in a way that left no uncertainty they were the only thing covering his loins. The closures which had once fastened the breeches at the knees were gone, allowing the garment to hang loosely above his hardened calves. His shoes were equally worn, his shirt frayed and torn open down the front, leaving his lightly furred chest bare. Synnovea struggled against the temptation to reach out and feel the vibrant life beating beneath that broad, muscular expanse and to move her hand downward to other areas she knew would quicken beneath her slightest touch, but she knew she’d have to proceed carefully lest she find her hopes dashed.

“My men and I will be performing in a parade for His Majesty on the morrow, and I had to get my horse and equipment ready,” Tyrone explained, drinking in her beauty. Now that he had come to the realization that he could leave her no better than he could stop breathing, he felt as if he had become her captive, which made him all the more leery of what she could do to him. Still, it was impossible for him to ignore her presence in his life. Only the night before, he had struggled against an overwhelming urge to awaken her from her slumber and make love to her. It seemed doubtful that he’d ever again be as successful at resisting the impulse. “His Majesty will be expecting you to attend the affair as my bride, but then, with foreign dignitaries there, he’ll probably be expecting you to enhance the view. If you’d like, you can bring Natasha and even Ali, since many of the officers’ wives will be bringing nannies and nursemaids to lend their children.”

Having already experienced the thrills associated with watching her husband and his troop practice, Synnovea was eager to view the actual event. She could now understand more keenly why the tsar was so intent upon having them perform. No doubt the excitement of the event would be enough to last a lifetime. “Perhaps you can help me choose a suitable sarafan to wear for the parade.”

Tyrone chuckled softly. “I’m sure you know better than I what is proper for a woman to wear to functions of that nature, madam. Besides, I haven’t yet seen you garbed in anything that hasn’t taken my breath away.”

Synnovea was both surprised and pleased by his compliment. “Your exhibitions on horseback take mine away.”

Her husband grinned and cocked his head curiously aslant as his eyes delved into hers, but he was promptly reminded of his tasks when the horse nickered. He had definitely lost the desire to complete his chores alone now that he had a companion who looked so fetching. “Would you do me a favor?”

Synnovea would have eagerly complied with almost anything he had in mind at that moment. “Certainly.”

Tyrone inclined his head toward the end of the stall where he had left a wooden bucket he had earlier filled with water. “Can you bring that pail over here and dribble the contents over the horse’s tail while 1 rinse it? It’s rather unhandy doing all of this by myself.”

Synnovea lifted the ponderous pail and tugged at a bottom lip as she carried it forward. Near the horse’s rump, she braced her feet apart and lifted the bucket to comply with her husband’s directive. Affected by the nearness of the man and the curious little bubbles of pleasure coursing through her being, she gave no heed to the puddle that was steadily growing beneath her feet.

“Synnovea, look what you’re doing. You’re getting your slippers wet,” Tyrone gently admonished. Reaching out, he took the pail from her. “You’d better go in and get another pair before you catch your death.”

“No … please …” She shook her head, reluctant to leave. The moment was rare indeed when her husband was in a tractable mood, and she didn’t want to miss the occasion, no matter how frigid the water seeping into her slippers. “I’ll just take these off.” Retreating to the far end of the stall, she kicked them off and lifted her skirts and petticoats to doff her stockings.

Tyrone was hardly aware of the puddle he was creating beneath his own shoes as he became enthralled with the sights. Her bare limbs were so lithe and shapely, one glimpse demanded his full attention.

Synnovea pulled the back of her gown and petticoats forward between her thighs and tucked the hems into her waistband before she tiptoed shivering through the icy water. Returning once more to the horse’s rump, she reached out to take the bucket from her husband and promptly laughed when she noticed the pool he had created. “You’re no handier than I am, sir.”

“Aye,” Tyrone agreed with a lopsided grin. “But if you come down sick, Natasha will blame me.”

The green-brown eyes glowed with a hint of mischief. “Don’t tell me a big, stalwart man like you is afraid of a little woman.”

His grin broadened as he briefly lifted wide shoulders. “Not afraid, only reluctant to bestir Natasha’s displeasure.”

Synnovea was surprised at the sudden twinge of jealousy that tweaked her good humor. Since Tyrone had returned to work, she had been reluctant to join him at the morning meal for fear of angering him, yet from what Danika had said in all innocence, those sunrise tete-a-tetes which he shared with Natasha seemed quite jovial. The fact that the cook couldn’t understand English had allowed Synnovea to hope that the two were merely talking as friends. Yet at times she was wont to fret. Natasha was quite beautiful and still very, very appealing to men, and not so long ago she had lauded Tyrone’s praises as if genuinely attracted to him. “You must admire Natasha very much. Even in so short a time, it has become obvious to all the servants that you enjoy her company more than mine.”

Tyrone stared at his wife in amazement, thoroughly taken aback by her premise. Then the humor of her accusation struck him, and he began to laugh in hearty amusement. “Good heavens, Synnovea, all we ever talk about is you. Between Natasha and Ali, I’ve learned more about you than either one of them.”

Synnovea lifted her dainty chin in some annoyance. “By now you must understand me quite well, then.”

Her husband scoffed at such a farfetched notion. “The workings of your mind, madam, are far too complicated for a mere man to comprehend. But then, perhaps I’m not the only one you’re able to confuse. At times I think you completely baffle your closest friends and, if I may be allowed to venture a guess, yourself as well.”

His wife was a bit astounded by his conjecture, but then, she had to admit there was some truth in what he had said. She hadn’t always been able to clearly discern her own emotions. Not so terribly long ago, she had been certain that she wanted nothing to do with Tyrone Rycroft. His audacity had totally repulsed her, or so she had thought, yet she had been unable to cast him from her mind. Now here she was, yearning for him to be just as bold as he had been in the bathhouse.

The sight of his hardened chest drew her forward as if she had no will of her own. Though wary of provoking his ire again, she lifted a hand and stroked it admiringly over the muscular expanse. She could feel his heart thudding beneath her palm and wondered if she had the ability to spur it to a swifter rhythm. Searching the luminous orbs above her own, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders and dragged it down his arms. She had elicited his wrath much too often for her to feel at ease with her seduction, but this time she found no hint of a frown and was encouraged by his quiescent stillness. She traced her fingers admiringly over his lightly furred chest and followed the ridge of hair that trailed downward to the top of his breeches, making him catch his breath. Lifting smoldering eyes to his, she silently beseeched him as she slipped her hand beneath the breeches and took hold of the rapidly thickening flesh.

Tyrone’s heart leapt as if jolted by a lightning bolt. His awakened senses were completely alert to every detail of the feminine form that leaned into him. With some difficulty he released a halting breath as he met her inquiring gaze.

“Is something wrong?” Synnovea queried, feigning a smile. She was on pins and needles, awaiting his reaction.

Tyrone was reluctant to consider the gut-wrenching agony that would be inflicted upon him if he rejected her overtures. Fires had been lit that could be assuaged only by making love to her. Yet he worried at the control she’d have over him if he submitted to her seduction. In a halfhearted attempt to break the spell which bound him, he murmured huskily, “I think I’d better finish rinsing the horse’s tail.”

Synnovea’s heart nearly crumpled with disappointment, but her pride had been vanquished weeks ago, and she was not above beseeching him. The warm flesh in her grasp encouraged her to be bold. “Please, Ty, don’t deny me the pleasure of touching you,” she breathed in plaintive appeal. “I couldn’t bear it if you did. Am I not your wife? Do I not have the right to make a claim on you? You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to do this. I’m beset by cravings you have awakened within me. I yearn for your touch … for your husbandly affection. How long must I wait? When will you let me touch you without fear of being chided? Or are you intent upon punishing me for the whole of our marriage?”

“Punish you?” Tyrone rasped. His whole body was shaking from the intensity of his needs, and he gave up his futile efforts to keep his resolve. Sweeping an arm around her, he snatched her close in sudden ardor. “Nay, I’m the one who has been punished.”

His mouth swooped down upon hers in frenzied greed, snatching her breath with the sweet, brutal intensity of his passion. His face slanted across hers as his tongue plundered the warm, sweet cavity of her mouth. It was a wild, rapacious search, unrivaled by anything that Synnovea had ever experienced before, yet she felt driven to answer him with her own craving hunger. With a softly muted moan, she looped her arms tightly around his neck and molded her womanly form against his steely body, hoping to drive him beyond the point of resistance. She had no need to worry. His fingers were already slipping the ties of her blouse free, and soon he was baring her breasts and pressing her backward over an encompassing arm. His open mouth claimed a pliant peak and nearly devoured her bosom with ravenous hunger, halting her breath at the sheer ecstasy of his stroking tongue and suckling caresses. In the depths of her body there bloomed a heightening craving that yearned to be sated as sparks sizzled upward from her loins in quickly flaring bursts of ecstasy.

Tyrone raised his head, his features sharply chiseled with his lusting need. His gaze plunged into hers, searching out her true intent. If this was another game, he would know it now rather than later. “Is this what you really want?”

“Oh, yes … yes,” Synnovea whispered, fearing he would leave her bereft of his manly attention. She didn’t want to give him time to mull over the matter and remember what she had done to him. Eagerly plucking open his breeches, she clasped the hot flesh once again and began to pleasure him in a more daring manner than she had tentatively done weeks ago.

“What are you doing to me?” he rasped huskily.

“Only what you once instructed me to do,” she breathed, drawing him backward toward a darkened corner of the stable and the large mound of fresh hay that she knew was there.

“We’ll be discovered,” Tyrone cautioned, finding no will to resist. It seemed a recurring dream he was having. She had him by the gutstrings of his being, and he was following much as he had done before, like a bleating lamb to slaughter.

“Natasha is off visiting Prince Adolphe and his daughter and won’t be back until late,” Synnovea whispered warmly. “Stenka and Jozef have taken Ali to the marketplace to fetch some things for Danika. The door is locked, and we’re quite alone, my darling.”

The desperate catch in her voice conveyed desires that were no different from his own, Tyrone realized. Upon reaching the haystack, she sank back upon the sweetly scented grass and smiled up at him as she released the tail of her skirt from her waistband and let it fall away from her thighs. As he watched in mounting enthrallment, she doffed her clothes and spread them beneath her before lying back in all of her naked glory. Her smile was inviting as she wrapped her arms beneath her breasts, thrusting their delicately hued peaks upward in an invitation for him to taste and fondle. The lustrous orbs glowed in the dim light, like lush melons just waiting to be devoured. It was an enticement that Tyrone no longer wished to ignore. She was his, and she was offering him what he had been lusting for ever since their first naked embrace.

Slipping off his shoes, he dropped his breeches and kicked them aside. A brief glint of awe flickered in Synnovea’s eyes as she eyed the stalwart blade. It seemed immensely bold and threatening, yet this and oh-so-much-more were what she had been yearning for since their wedding day. In welcoming invitation, she smiled and lifted her arms.

Tyrone felt the hot blood coursing through him, and in mounting eagerness, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward between her eagerly parting thighs to hungrily mouth her soft, round breasts, caressing the sensitive peaks and evoking ecstatic gasps from his wife. She arched her back, thrusting the delectable fullness upward to meet the sultry heat of the torch that branded her as his mouth stroked across the pale peaks. His hand moved over her thigh in a sweeping caress, moving along her flank and then inward and upward over her sleek limb. Synnovea caught her breath as he intruded into the dewy freshness, making her writhe at the bliss he created within her womanly softness. She breathed an anxious plea for him to join himself to her. He readily complied, pressing the hardened shaft into the velvety sheath, drawing a muted gasp of awe from her.

“Oh, Ty, it seems so long ago since we came together like this,” she whispered near his ear, clutching him to her. “I was afraid you’d deny me forever.”

His hands clasped her buttocks, fitting her snugly against the vibrant hardness that filled her as he lifted her up to him. He moved his hips with slow, purposeful strokes eliciting blissful sighs from her lips until she was nigh giddy with the ecstasy washing through her. In rapidly advancing degrees the manly thrusts quickened and became more dedicated until the billowing spasms began to wash over them. Joy filled Synnovea’s heart when she heard her husband mutter her name in the throes of his passion, and then, just as quickly, astonished gasps were wrenched from her as she joined him in that lofty climb. Together they soared to heights far beyond the silky white clouds that seemed to shimmer all around them. It was rapture in its most sensual form, the sweetness of marital union, a blissful haven for each to savor and the coming together of two beings beautifully formed for one another.

When at last they grew still within each other’s arms, Synnovea crooned near her husband’s ear, “That was much nicer than it was before, very, very pleasurable, in fact.”

“Aye, madam, we were interrupted before we were able to finish.” Tyrone kissed her again, feeling as if a weighty burden had just been lifted from him. “I should have done this sooner.”

Synnovea smiled beneath his caressing lips. “I’ve been wanting you to.”

“I never expected it to happen like this,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Not with such a sumptuous chamber at our disposal.”

She laughed, thoroughly content now. “You were so wary of our chambers, I didn’t seem able to approach you with an invitation.” Her eyes glimmered brightly in the shadows. “I was beginning to think you hated me.”

“I was afraid of the pain your nearness would inflict upon me,” he rejoined with candor. “I was too susceptible to even think of trusting myself around you.”

“Are you sorry now that you made love to me?” she queried diffidently.

“Nay, only relieved that my foolishness has finally been put to an end.”

“We could have dinner sent up to our chambers,” Synnovea suggested coyly. “No one but servants wilt be in the house.”

“After we bathe, madam,” he assured her. “You caught me when I’m smelly and dirty. Hardly what a bride appreciates when her husband wants to mount her.”

“You smell nice and very manly, and you’re not dirty,” she argued, “but even if you were, I wouldn’t be able to deny you after I’ve waited so long for you to make love to me.”

“We’d better finish what we were doing so we can get on with more important things.” Tyrone grinned as he pushed himself away and sat back on his heels. “I’ve been beset long enough by fantasies of making love to you in a bathing pool, and I’m most eager for that event to take place.”

Synnovea rolled away and came to her knees, but when her husband clasped the back of her thigh, she looked back at him in curious wonder. Her eyes fairly flamed as he clamped his arm around her waist and lifted her back into his lap. Willingly she nestled against him and leaned her head aside as his lips nibbled at her creamy throat.

“Perhaps we could delay a few moments more,” he suggested, cupping a pale breast within his hand. The fact that he was already aroused again didn’t surprise him in the least, considering his lengthy abstinence.

“I was rather anticipating making love in the pool,” she murmured with a flirtatious smile, moving her buttocks teasingly against him. The delectable delight awakened by her soft flesh stroking across the flinty hard shaft made her shiver with renewed desire. “But what you’re doing now is very nice. Shall we dally in the hay some more?”

“The pool awaits, madam.”

Slipping a hand beneath her buttock again, he boosted her to her feet and then followed, springing upward with a swift, effortless movement that clearly evidenced his strength and manly grace. After scooping up her kerchief, he dipped it into the watering trough and, beneath her fascinated gaze, began to wash himself. A moment later, he nearly took her breath away by performing the same service for her, being incredibly gentle and deliciously thorough in his bathing techniques.

“We’ll never make it to the bathing chamber if you continue,” she breathed shakily. “I like what you’re doing too much to even think of waiting until we reach the bathing chamber.”

Tyrone had become caught up in the stimulating task as well and extended his ministrations far beyond what was required. “Another taste of such blissful fare wouldn’t take that long,” he rasped softly, making her catch her breath in delight at his bold intrusion. His free hand came around to cup a breast, and as she leaned against him, his thumb stroked across a soft peak. “And right now, I’ve no heart for tending the stallion. To be sure, my lengthy wait has made me greedy.”

“The door is locked, and we have all the time in the world,” she crooned invitingly with a sensual smile as her eyes caressed his handsome face.

Half turning, Tyrone tossed the kerchief into the pail and then swept his wife up into his arms. With a playful growl, he made a pretense of devouring her breast, evoking a dreamy mewl as his licking tongue plied its crest. Whirling her about, he drew her breath out in an excited little laugh before he sprawled back upon the mound of hay and pulled her down astride him. A small, ecstatic shiver went through her as he lingered over the delectable merging, pressing the vibrant hardness upward, seemingly into the core of her being. Synnovea’s breath quickened as his throbbing heat filled her, and with eyes that had grown dark and sultry, she held his gaze imprisoned as she swept her hands over her own body, encouraging his to follow wherever she led, over the swelling mounds, along her narrow waist, and into the moist crevice. Nearly shuddering with her rapidly intensifying excitement, she slipped her arms beneath the ebon tresses, sweeping them off her neck as she arched her back and stroked against her husband’s loins. Her rhythm intensified with her increasing fervor, drawing his breath out in harsh gasps. Though Synnovea hadn’t thought it possible for her to transcend the heights to which she had recently climbed, he seemed intent upon eliciting every degree of delight she was capable of experiencing, making her writhe and shudder with the sensations he created within her until she felt as if she were dissolving in a warm, blissful flood.

In the moments following their soaring flight, only the stallion found reason to fret, evoking his owner’s sigh. “Alas, the poor steed still awaits our attention.”

“I liked what you did when you bathed me,” she whispered, cuddling against her husband’s chest. Coyly she stroked her bosom against the muscular hardness of his chest, enjoying the thrills which were readily derived from the caress. “Will you do that again?”

“In the bathing chamber, madam,” Tyrone promised huskily, nibbling at her ear. “Else we may never leave the carriage house”

“Would you let me wash you, too?” Synnovea asked, unwilling to move on to a different subject.

“As much as you would like, madam…but in the bathing chamber.”

She pouted prettily. “’Twas your idea to delay our departure.”

“Aye, I know. I’m very susceptible to the sights. Your derriere is too fetching for me to ignore.”

“Do you suffer a particular fetish with my backside, sir?” Synnovea teased coquettishly, continuing to massage his male breasts with her tautening nipples.

“I like all of you, from your dainty toes to the top of your head, but there are places in between that I’m especially partial to, such as this area here,” he said, catching a hand around her breast and forcing the crest outward to meet his stroking tongue. “These pale orbs are beyond description. Their sweet nectar leaves me fairly besotted.” Though his mouth moved upward to caress her throat, his hand slipped down between them and clasped the dark nest. “But nothing is quite as delectable as the ecstasy I find here in this warm, velvet sheathe.”

“I have a feeling we’re not going to make it to the bathing chamber tonight,” she sighed shakily. “I’m quite besotted from what your caresses have awakened within me.”

“We could spend the night out here,” he suggested with a grin.

“You’ll have to keep me warm.”

“I do that now, madam, every night in our bed, but I’d really enjoy holding you again in a bathing pool.”

“Then shouldn’t we hurry and finish our chores?” Synnovea urged. “Otherwise, we’ll never get there with all the delays we’re wont to indulge in here.”

Tyrone was just as anxious to get there, but he was also wont to linger and enjoy the different views he was presented as he collected his clothing. He was most attentive to his wife’s efforts to shake the hay out of her clothes. The rounded orbs now bore a rosy blush after his light bearding, but it was the way they bounced every time she snapped her blouse and skirts in the air that fascinated him. “Do you think you’re accomplishing anything, my sweet. The hay seems quite tenacious.”

Synnovea paused and smiled back at him. “That’s very nice what you called me.”

“My sweet?”

“I was afraid you wanted to call me worse things.”

Tyrone indicated the horse’s tail. “We’d better get to our chores, madam, or we’ll never get to the pool.”

Synnovea pouted prettily as she sauntered toward him in all of her unadorned glory. His breath hissed outward in a pleasurable gasp as she pressed close against him and fondled him in a way that left his knees weak. She seemed eager to continue, but the stallion whinnied, growing weary of being ignored.

“Later, my sweet,” Tyrone promised thickly, cupping a round breast in his hand before leaning down and taking the peak into the heat of his mouth. Then, because he found such sights totally distracting, he drew her chemise and petticoats over her head and then lowered the skirt and blouse into place before turning her and thrusting her gently away from him. Giggling, Synnovea stumbled backward and rubbed her derriere against him, causing a quick response. Since she seemed to enjoy dawdling at length over her playful temptations, Tyrone reached down and clamped a hand between her buttocks, evoking a startled gasp from his young wife as he prodded her forward.

Tyrone chuckled as he took note of the darker hue now imbuing his wife’s cheeks. “Do you find that offensive, madam?”

“’Tis a bit shocking,” she replied candidly, twitching a bit as she plucked her petticoat free of the cleavage.

He grinned while he donned his breeches and shoes. “Then you’d best be warned, my sweet. Now that you’re my wife, every part of you is fair game. Indeed, you may well rue the day you invited my attentions.” He jerked his head toward the stallion. “Now let’s get back to work.”

Obediently Synnovea bent to the task of spreading the horse’s tail as Tyrone supplied a fresh flow of water. After rinsing it, he squeezed the liquid from the strands and began to gently comb through the length as Synnovea picked out the snarls. Finally he snuffed the last lantern that hung near the horses’ stalls and turned in time to see his wife casting a repugnant glance toward the strawstrewn path that led to the door; it had been enriched with several droppings of manure prior to her entry into the barn. Tyrone took pity on her plight and bade her to tuck her stockings and shoes in her apron pocket and to climb on a low stool, from whence he lifted her onto his back.

“I haven’t ridden like this since I was a child,” Synnovea informed him happily as her lips hovered near his ear.

Tyrone slanted a grin at her over his shoulder. “I’ll have to teach you better ways to ride.”

“What other ways are there?” she asked coyly, folding her arms around his neck.

“I’ll show you several before the evening is out.”

“In the bathing chamber?”

“That will do for starters, but I’ll demonstrate others in our bed.” He turned his face in profile as she leaned close over his shoulder. “I’ve been quite hungry for you, madam, and I don’t think I’ll be sated until the last of my energy wanes, so you’ll have to tell me if you get too tender from my attention.”

“I will.” She sighed blissfully, stroking his breast with wifely familiarity. She sang a child’s song in Russian, cooing softly in his ear as she strummed her fingers across a male nipple. Then she paused in the melody to ask, “Is it as much fun for a man to ride a horse astride as I had when I rode you?”

“Nothing equals a good ride between a man and a woman, my sweet,” Tyrone assured her, casting a roguish smile back at her.

“Did you enjoy it, too?”

“Immensely.”

“I like your body,” she whispered, tracing her tongue over his ear. In all honesty she added, “I would have mourned over my loss if I’d been forced to marry Vladi mir. You’re so much more handsome and exciting to look at. I regret that you were whipped, Ty, but I’m not sorry you were forced to wed me. I enjoy having you as my husband, and I especially relish the moments when you’re aroused. You make me tremble with excitement just looking at you.”

Not knowing what to answer, Tyrone pinched her buttock, drawing a squeal from the little sprite who rode his back.

“You bruised me,” she complained, rubbing her soft breasts against his back. “You’ll have to massage me there later.”

“I’ll massage you, all right, but not in the way you think.”

“In what way do you mean, then?” she queried teasingly.

“You’ll see soon enough, madam. Never fear. And then your greedy little hands can show me just how much you appreciate my body.”

“Promise?”

“You have my pledge on it, my dear.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Tyrone carried her to their chambers by way of the private stairs, and then, after donning kaftans, they descended to the lower depths of the mansion, where he dismissed the male servant shortly after a bath was prepared in one of the larger tubs. Once the door was securely barred behind the man, Tyrone approached his wife, who was just shrugging out of her robe. His own had been quickly tossed aside, and he grinned as her admiring gaze swept downward. Taking her hand, he led her to the tub, stepped into the warm bath, and then, bidding her to sit facing him within the spread of his thighs, pulled her legs over his and settled her feet behind his buttocks. Leering at her, he began to soap her body while she, in turn, lathered his. They seemed especially wont to linger over the sensually sensitive areas and grew thoroughly stimulated beneath each other’s lingering caresses. They rinsed with as much care and then, stepping from the tub, descended the steps of the pool. Gazing down into her warm gaze, Tyrone pulled her close and gave her a long, thoroughly provocative kiss before sweeping her into a very passionate reenactment of several of his fantasies.