13

S ynnovea arrived at the Palace of Facets much earlier than the time designated for her appointment with His Majesty Mikhail Romanov, the Tsar of all the Russias. It was exactly twoscore hours after His Royal Highness had first bidden the countess to come and see him, and though her apprehensions hadn’t been alleviated by even the slightest degree, she was nevertheless the very essence of serene beauty as she waited outside his private offices. Not only did she appear composed and sweetly demure in a mauve sarafan and beribboned kokoshniki , but she gave every indication that she was content with her summons. But then, she had little choice after making a decision to set the record straight about what she had done.

It was here that Synnovea became a compassionate witness to the carefully executed entrance of Colonel Rycroft. His movements were slow and painfully stiff, but only the slightest grimace could be noted by the one who watched him move away from the doorway. The antechamber was narrow enough that he couldn’t miss seeing her. At first, his only indication at having done so was a brief upward flick of a tawny brow. Then his scowl deepened and his jaw lightened beneath tensely flexing muscles. Disinclined to take a chair, he stood ramrod-straight while he stared stoically toward the entrance to the tsar’s chambers. Synnovea had never seen such a tenacious stance, but the message he conveyed was clear. He was loath to even acknowledge her proximity.

Some moments later, Major Nekrasov came out to escort the colonel into the tsar’s presence, and in the stark solitude following Tyrone’s passage, Synnovea was reminded of the contempt she had heard in his voice shortly before the first stroke of the whip. He had thrust her away in distaste and given his hearty approval for Ladislaus to take her for his own, confirming Natasha’s warnings that he would come to hate her for her coyly contrived entrapment. The knowledge of his vehement rejection now evoked within her a gloomy regret for which she could find no assuagement. So bleak were her hopes to reconcile herself to him that it wouldn’t have surprised Synnovea at all to hear the objections which the Englishman was presently voicing in response to the tsar’s suggestions.

“I plead your pardon, Your Majesty, but I must respectfully decline.” Tyrone tried to check his darkly brooding vexation, but it was impossible for him to even consider such a proposal. “I could never take the Countess Zenkovna as my wife after she used me for her own end. If, in the months and years to come, my life’s blood is required upon a field of battle, then I hope it will be spilled honorably as a soldier in your service, but your recommendation is too much to ask of me.”

“I fear you’ve mistaken my words, Colonel Rycroft.” Mikhail smiled benignly. “I don’t request your compliance with my proposition. While you’re here in this country, you’ll obey my every directive. It’s my express wish that you take Synnovea to wife with all possible haste. I promised her father before his death that I would see to the welfare of his daughter. I would be lax in the performance of that pledge if I allowed you to escape your personal participation in this affair without seeking some remuneration for what has been done.”

“Was not the scarring of my back enough punishment for my involvement?” Tyrone asked bluntly.

“The whipping was indeed dreadful, but it hardly corrects the problem. Synnovea has confessed her guilt in deliberately seeking you out to be her champion of sorts.” Mikhail glanced up briefly as a faintly audible snort came from the colonel. After musing briefly on the disdain visible in the man’s visage, he continued with unswerving dedication to his proposal. “Nevertheless, you were the one who accomplished her deflowering and are the only one who can properly amend the situation. After all, you’re no young whelp who can plead innocence. You’re old enough to accept the consequences of your actions and, may I presume, far more knowledgeable about this matter than the maid. ’Tis obvious she had good reason to believe you were willing to bed her or she would never have considered her defilement by you a viable option…which causes me to think that surreptitiously you had already begun courting the maid. Is that not true?”

Tyrone’s face darkened to a ruddy hue. “I saw her several times, but for the most part, Princess Anna denied my requests.”

“Did you take it upon yourself to see the girl in private?”

Most reluctantly, the colonel admitted that fact. “I did, Your Majesty.”

“And were you successful?”

“Aye.”

“Where did this tryst take place?”

“In her bedchamber at the Taraslovs’.”

“And did Synnovea invite you in?”

“No, Your Majesty. I climbed through a window after I had awakened her.”

Mikhail was aghast at the man’s audacity. “And if you had been caught and been forced to pay penance, would you have claimed that the girl had deliberately enticed you into her chambers?”

“No, Your Majesty. She had cautioned me to leave.”

“Well, there you have it!” Mikhail threw up a hand, indicating the matter settled.

Tyrone was not so willing to accept defeat. “Your Majesty, will you not kindly ponder my position?”

Mikhail was losing patience with the persistence of the man. “Was Synnovea not a virgin ere you took her into your bed?”

Tyrone’s lean cheeks flexed tensely with the effort of keeping his temper under tight rein. “She was a virgin, but—”

“Then there is no more to be said! I wouldn’t have another man mend your wrongs because you were duped by a young chit! Would you roar deception on a field of battle if you were tricked by a general whose face still bore the fuzz of his youth?”

“No, of course not, but—”

Mikhail slammed his open palm down upon the arm of his chair. “Either you’ll marry Synnovea or, by heaven, I’ll see you discharged without honor from your service here!”

In the face of such a threat, Tyrone could only yield to the monarch’s authority. He abruptly clicked his heels as he gave the tsar a crisp salute. “As you so deign, Your Majesty.”

Mikhail reached up and jerked on a silken cord, bringing Major Nekrasov quickly back into the chamber. “You may escort the Countess Zenkovna into my presence now.”

Tyrone dared to interrupt, bringing the major to a halt as he made another plea. “I beg a moment more of your time, Your Majesty.”

Mikhail was immediately skeptical of what the colonel would request. “Yes? What is it?”

“I shall abide by your order as long as I am here, Your Majesty, but once I leave, I’ll no longer be under your authority.” Tyrone paused as the tsar inclined his head in cautious agreement and then continued in a respectful tone. “If you should determine at that time that I have pleased you in the performance of my duties and have held myself away from Synnovea, which may be confirmed by her inability to produce an heir of mine, will you grant me an annulment from this marriage ere I return to England?”

Major Nekrasov’s head snapped around, and he glanced between the two men, feeling horrendously distraught by the fact that Synnovea would be marrying another. Knowing he would have gladly endangered his own life in his quest to have her as his wife, he couldn’t even begin to understand the colonel’s request.

Mikhail was abruptly taken aback by the Englishman’s petition, but he could find no viable way to refuse. If the dissolution wasn’t granted here within the boundaries of Russia, the colonel would likely seek it in England. Mikhail would not tolerate a Russian countess being subjected to that kind of humiliation in a foreign land. “If all will be as you say near the time of your departure, and you still wish such a separation, then I shall grant your petition. But I must remind you that you still have three years to serve under my authority.”

“Three years, three months, and two days, sire.”

“That is an extremely long time to withhold yourself from so enchanting a woman, Colonel. Can you even consider being successful in that endeavor?”

Tyrone faced the question frankly in his own mind. He had no firm assurance that he’d be able to ignore Synnovea as his wife during the full extent of that time or even that he’d be able to curb his desires for her once the pain of her deceit subsided to a more tolerable level, but he had to leave open an option wherein their marriage could be dissolved should he find no further reason to continue with her. At the moment, with so much anger roiling within him, he was hell-bent to go his own way without her, but there was always the possibility that his mood in time would soften toward her. As the tsar had unerringly pointed out, Synnovea was as enchanting as she was beautiful, and when it had obviously been his foolish desire to trust her, he couldn’t promise with unswerving finality that he’d never fall victim to her siren’s song again. Then, too, his heart might never recover from the wounds she had inflicted upon him.

“My failure or success will be revealed prior to my departure, Your Majesty. You may take full account of the condition of our marriage at such a time. Until then, I’ll make no guarantees, for I cannot in truth deny my zeal to have her before she played me for a fool.”

“I will hope by that time that your heart will be softened by forgiveness, Colonel.” Mikhail sighed. “I cannot imagine such a beautiful woman being ignored by her husband. I once considered taking Synnovea for a bride myself, but I didn’t think she’d be able to abide the stricture of a terem . I’d be appalled to see her hurt by your rejection of her.”

“You may save her both the pain and the humiliation of our annulment by allowing us to go our separate ways now,” Tyrone suggested, peering at the tsar from beneath his brows.

“Never!” Mikhail flung himself from his chair in a fitful rage. “By heaven, Colonel, you’ll not maneuver your way out of this marriage! Indeed, I’ll see you wed before the week is out!”

Tyrone was wise enough to know when he had been defeated and immediate obeisance was advisable. Clasping a hand to his chest, he bowed stiffly before the Russian tsar though the agony of his movement nearly splintered his control. “As you deem fit, sire.”

Mikhail gave a crisp nod to Major Nekrasov, who made an about-face to carry out his order. As Nikolai entered the antechamber, he managed a wan smile as he approached the woman he both admired and cherished.

“Tsar Mikhail will see you now, Lady Synnovea.”

A hesitant smile touched her lips as she rose to her feet. “I thought I heard shouting. Is His Majesty very angry?”

“Surely not with you, dearest Synnovea,” Nikolai assured her.

“Did he say why he wanted to see me?” she asked uneasily.

“I wasn’t permitted to stay in the room while he spoke with Colonel Rycraft. You’ll have to ask His Majesty.”

“I never thought I’d anger so many people by what I did…” Her words trailed off when she realized that Nikolai was regarding her quizzically.

“And what may that have been, my lady?”

Synnovea lowered her eyes hurriedly to avoid meeting his gaze any longer than she had to. “’Twas nothing. I’m proud of, Nikolai, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather not speak, of the matter, for the memory of my deeds pains me sorely.” Recalling that she had not thanked him for what he had accomplished by coming to the colonel’s rescue, she laid a trembling hand upon his and looked up at him. “I shall be eternally grateful for your help in rescuing Colonel Rycroft, Nikolai. I never dreamt that you’d actually bring Tsar Mikhail with you. However did you manage such a feat?”

“I did nothing more than tell His Majesty that the colonel was in danger. After that, he took matters into his own hands. The Englishman had already won the tsar’s favor and respect by his own merits. Quite clearly, ’twas that fact alone which prompted his Highness to fly to his side.” Nikolai glanced askance toward the chamber wherein the tsar held unofficial court and hastened to advise, “We mustn’t delay any longer, my lady. Tsar Mikhail is waiting to speak with you.”

Synnovea took a deep breath, hoping to settle her restive nerves, and entered upon the major’s arm. Her gaze flitted about the large room until she found Tyrone standing at attention just to the left of the tsar’s chair. He made no attempt to glance around in her direction but maintained his stoic reticence as Mikhail beckoned her forward. Drawing near, she sank into a deep curtsy and waited in trembling silence while Major Nekrasov took his leave.

“Synnovea, I have made several decisions concerning your future,” His Majesty announced. “I hope you’ll not find them too burdensome.”

“Your will is my command. Your Majesty,” Synnovea answered, her voice declining in strength until her last words were barely audible. She had no idea what lay in More for her, but she was resolved to find no fault with what was commanded of her. At the very least she expected to be sent to a monastery.

“I have decreed that you and the colonel shall wed….”

Astounded by his revelation, Synnovea jerked her head up to stare at him. Then, just as quickly, she looked around to see Tyrone’s response. He stood ramrod-straight and stubbornly refused to meet her shocked gaze, though the muscles in his sun-bronzed cheeks tensed and flexed in his attempt to check any outward show of abhorrence.

“…Before the week is out,” Mikhail continued, allowing her hardly enough time to catch her breath. “You’ll be married in my presence day after the morrow. That should give you both time to decide several matters concerning your quarters. ’Tis unthinkable that a Russian boyarina should live in the German district. Therefore, Synnovea, you may ask the Countess Andreyevna if she will accommodate your new marital status as a personal favor to me. Assuming that she’ll agree, I’ll deem the matter already settled. Once the ceremony has been concluded, you and Colonel Rycroft may celebrate as you see fit. I’m sure Natasha would enjoy making much of the occasion, and though the colonel is still indisposed with his back, I would urge you both to participate in such a way as to make it seem a festive occasion to alleviate the possibility of damaging rumors being circulated among my boyars. It isn’t often that the Tsar of all the Russias personally initiates the union of two of his favored subjects. You may consider my attention in this affair as a personal compliment to you both. To celebrate, I shall order a midday banquet to be held here in the palace soon after the nuptials are performed. Now, are there any concerns you wish to voice?” He waited as each made a negative reply, and then smiled as he bade, “Then you may go.”

Together they paid homage, Synnovea with a sweeping curtsy and the colonel by a painfully executed bow. Tyrone shifted his gaze in her direction, briefly assessing the beauty of his intended, but without word or other form of acknowledgment, he turned crisply to make his exit from the room.

“Colonel Rycroft.” Mikhail’s voice brought that one to an abrupt halt. “I hope you’ll consider how fortunate you are to be gaining such a winsome bride and treat her accordingly. Is it not proper for a gentleman of your country to graciously escort his betrothed upon his arm and make a show of cherishing her, especially while there is an audience in attendance? If there is no such requirement in your country, then I shall deem that circumstances warrant such care here in this land. Do I make myself clear, Colonel?”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Tyrone replied succinctly and, stepping beside the countess, stiltedly presented his arm as he faced the door.

Synnovea could sense his roiling displeasure at having to extend any show of chivalry toward her and found it terribly ironic that he had come to loathe her, while she, during either her contrived seduction or her initiation into sensual pleasures, had fallen under the colonel’s bewitchment and was now thoroughly infatuated with the very one she had singled out to be her victim.

“Is your coach still outside?” Tyrone inquired as they entered the antechamber.

“Yes,” she answered softly, “but you needn’t escort me out if you find the task too burdensome.”

“I’ve been ordered by Tsar Mikhail to show you favor,” Tyrone jeered icily, “at least while we have an audience. Until we find ourselves alone, I’ll try to comply with the directive he has given. ’Twould seem I’ve little choice if I want to leave here in good graces with His Majesty.”

Tyrone came to abrupt attention as the field marshal strolled through the front door. With a crisply executed salute, the colonel greeted the Russian, who passed them with a casual wave. No movement came from Tyrone as the man departed, and Synnovea glanced up to find her escort standing in rigid silence. The color had drained from his face, and the muscles in his lean cheeks had tightened to an intensity that clearly conveyed the fact that he was silently enduring a moment of intense pain.

“Are you all right?” she whispered in concern.

He nodded rigidly and, with a slight twitch of his shoulders, reclaimed tenacious control of his bearing. But now he moved at a much more deliberate pace as they passed through the front portal.

Managing the steps with only a wince or two, Tyrone handed her into the waiting coach and, closing the door, stepped back with an abbreviated gesture to Stenka. As the conveyance rumbled away from the palace, Synnovea leaned back against the seat, biting a quavering lip and squeezing her eyelids tightly shut against the tears that flooded upward within her. Despite her effort to stem the tide, they trickled down her cheeks in widening channels. One could say she had made her bed and now would have to lie in it, but it gave her no pleasure to think that there was so much resentment bound up in the man who was about to become her husband.

When the carriage arrived at the Andreyevna mansion a short time later, Natasha was at the front portal, anxiously awaiting her return. Synnovea choked out a lame excuse and, with an unchecked torrent of tears, rushed past the woman. Once she gained the safety of her chambers, she found herself confronted by Ali and a barrage of dismayed questions.

“Oh, me lamb! Me lamb! What has broken yer heart so?”

Bidding the maid to leave her, Synnovea fell across the bed and sobbed in bleak misery until she felt totally drained of emotion. The delicate eyelids grew swollen and seemed to scratch her eyes as she sought sleep as an escape from her anguish, but such a respite was not within reach. Thus, for a time she stared listlessly toward the window, dismally taking distant note of the brightly colored leaves fluttering to earth beyond the panes of glass. Sometime later, a light rap came upon the door of the anteroom, and in solemn dejection Synnovea went to let Natasha into the chambers.

“I couldn’t wait a moment longer.” The woman searched the reddened eyes with grave concern as she begged excusal for the interruption. “Dear child, what has happened to bring you to this end? Have you been banished from court?” A lame shake of the beautiful dark head gave tacit answer. “Denounced by the tsar?” A slash of a slender hand negated such an idea. “Sentenced to a nunnery?”

“Not anything so trivial,” Synnovea whispered miserably.

Natasha lost her aplomb. Catching the girl by the shoulders, she shook her as she demanded in desperation, “Good heavens, child! What has His Majesty decreed your sentence to be?”

Synnovea gulped back another torrent of tears and carefully pronounced each word as she gathered them together in a strained reply. “His Majesty, Tsar Mikhail, has ordained that Colonel Rycroft should marry me ere the week is out.”

“What?” Natasha almost shrieked the word out in sudden jubilation. “Oh, great sainted mother! How could he have been so clever?”

Synnovea frowned at her friend through a new wealth of tears. “You don’t understand, Natasha. Colonel Rycroft hates me, just as you said he would. He wants nothing to do with me, and he’s especially loath to take me to wife.”

“Oh, my dear child, lay aside your grief and dismay.” the older woman cajoled. “Don’t you see the way of it? The colonel’s anger will surely soften in time. A man can hardly ignore a woman who is his wife.”

“He detests me! He loathes me!” Synnovea declared glumly as she returned to her bedchamber. “He didn’t even want to escort me from the palace! ’Twas only by the tsar’s mandate that he did so.”

“He will change,” Natasha reassured her enthusiastically, following in her wake. “When are the nuptials?”

“Day after tomorrow. His Majesty also asked if you’d consent to let us both stay here with you.”

Natasha chortled as she stroked a finger thoughtfully across her chin. “Never let it be said that Tsar Mikhail isn’t shrewd and wise enough to handle Russia’s affairs on his own. Why, just by this edict alone he has shown his ability to manage matters wisely.” She smiled into Synnovea’s teary eyes and tried to encourage her. “For a time your rage and aversion to each other will punish you both, but when your anger has been spent…” She lifted her shoulders in a lighthearted shrug. “Only God can foresee the end of all things, my dear. We can only bide our time and hope for the best.”

Natasha returned to the anteroom and opened the outer door, where Ali was still anxiously fretting. The elder’s sad eyes and deeply wrinkled countenance evidenced the distress she was presently suffering. Natasha smiled down at the servant and, taking the frail hand into hers, drew Ali into the bedchamber, where her mistress sat staring dejectedly out the window.

“You’ll never guess, Ali,” Natasha said in a cheery tone. “Colonel Rycroft has been commanded by the tsar to take your mistress to wife.”

The wispy brows jutted upward in surprise as Ali glanced toward Synnovea. “Ye don’t say!”

“Ah, but I do,” Natasha reassured her. “In fact, they’re to be wed day after the morrow.”

“So soon?” Ali squinted up at her in surprise. “Are ye sure?”

“Your mistress has said as much herself.”

“Then why is me lamb so put out?” Ali was genuinely perplexed, for she couldn’t understand why any woman would grieve about her forthcoming marriage to such a fine specimen of a man.

“A mystery, to be sure, but her lamentations are bound to turn to joy, do you not agree, Ali?” Natasha paused briefly to receive the tiny woman’s eager nod. “’Twill only be a matter of time. But we must plan a celebration to mark the event! The colonel must encourage his friends to come, while we shall invite our own.” Natasha laughed with the sheer excitement of it and clapped her hands together in glee. “I’m almost tempted to ask Aleksei to the nuptials just to see him suffer, but I fear his presence would only provoke the colonel, and we cannot have that.” Natasha leaned near the widely grinning servant as she continued to voice an avalanche of conjectures. “Of course, you know Princess Anna will probably be utterly devastated when she returns to find the couple already wed. When last I saw her, she was absolutely in a snit over Colonel Rycroft petitioning the tsar for Synnovea’s hand. If not for her, the couple might have already been wed.”

“Go away, the two of you!” Synnovea groaned in wretched misery. “You’re both making light of all of this, but I’m so distraught I shan’t able to sleep for a whole year!”

“Then we’ll leave you to mourn in solitude,” Natasha replied, completely bereft of sympathy. “Ali and I will be happy to do all the planning while you’re indisposed.” She paused in the anteroom to glance back at the younger woman. “Where are the vows to be spoken? Did you think about that?”

“His Majesty made the decision for us. They’re to be said in his presence at the palace.”

Natasha again clapped her hands together in glee, like a small child anticipating a confection. “Then we’ll have to find you a rich gown to wear in honor of the occasion. You must look your best for both the tsar and the colonel.”

“I don’t think either of them will care what I look like, especially the colonel,” Synnovea retorted morosely.

“Nevertheless, you must be outfitted in a grand manner if you’re to arouse a warm response from your groom.”

Ali was eager to report, “Me mistress had settled on a sarafan for her wedding to Prince Dimitrievich. ’Tis prettier than anything she can have made or perhaps find in so short a time. ’Twill do her justice, a pink one nearly as comely as she.”

“The day will be fair,” Natasha proclaimed, heaving a contented sigh, “and the bride shall be absolutely breathtaking….”

Absolutely breathtaking! Major Nekrasov mused after witnessing Synnovea’s entrance into the palace’s antechamber. She had entered with the two older women fussing attentively over her costume as they followed closely behind. Her sarafan of heavy, pale pink satin was beautiful beyond compare. The long, slightly flaring sleeves and lower skirt were embellished with elaborate scrolls of gold-silk stitchery and masses of tiny pearls. Lending immeasurable elegance to her appearance was the elaborate kokoshniki which was encrusted with the same lustrous jewels interspersed with tiny loops of delicately corded pink satin. Strings of delicate seed pearls hung in a generous fringe over her forehead to a length that all but brushed the sweeping eyebrows. The dainty tassels swayed gently with her movements, and though no further ornament was needed to emphasize the stirring splendor of her face, pearl teardrops hung from delicate diamond clusters that adorned her earlobes. She was so radiant that Nikolai was wont to believe that the tiny flames dancing atop the tapers bowed in humble awe. Indeed, her beauty was such that even a reluctant bridegroom would be bedazzled, for no man could turn a cold shoulder to such perfection. As for himself, Nikolai knew he’d always be smitten, though his heart pined in remorse at the realization that another man would soon be claiming her for his own.

At the bride’s entrance, a sudden hush fell over the guests as they stared in awe of her beauty. Just as quickly, there arose a low drone of murmuring comments attesting to their admiration. Tyrone had been conversing with Grigori and had his back to the door, but even he could not resist a surreptitious perusal over his shoulder. After all the ire he had been contending with since his whipping, he hadn’t expected his heart to lurch within his chest or the slow, sinking feeling in the pit of his belly as his eyes fed upon her beauty. Truly, if men had the ability to sense defeat prior to its occurrence, then Tyrone Rycroft had his first inkling of it as he stared at his bride-to-be. He didn’t know the day or the hour that it would come upon him, but he’d face it fairly soon, definitely well before the time he was due to leave Russia.

Both Grigori and Nikolai became immediately mindful of Tyrone’s close inspection, which was far more exacting than the colonel’s mood of angry reticence seemed to support. Their reactions, however, contrasted. Though a smile traced across Grigori’s lips, a sharp frown creased the major’s brows.

Natasha had bade Synnovea to halt soon after her entrance, and at the time of her bridegroom’s inspection, she was standing obediently still as the older countess and Ali straightened her gown and smoothed down the hem, which had been turned up by her departure from the coach. When the women stepped back to search for other flaws. Synnovea found a chance to glance around the room and readily smiled at friends and acquaintances who beckoned to her, but her heart began to thump with a swifter rhythm when her gaze paused on the one whose attention seemed riveted on her. The blue orbs were moving with slow, meticulous deliberation over the length of her, but the flaming heat, which had briefly warmed them, vanished abruptly when their gazes finally met. Of a sudden, Synnovea found herself staring into cool shards of blue. With no more than a brief nod, Tyrone turned aside as if to deny his close perusal. His readily assumed guise of coldly forbidding detachment was enough to drain the rosy hue from Synnovea’s cheeks, and though she stood helplessly admiring his handsome profile, she was left with the realization that his anger had abated no tiny degree.

“Your bride is beautiful beyond words, my friend,” Grigori observed, feeling a strong sense of loyalty and compassion for his commander but also some empathy for the girl, who had been caught between two men who desired her. He had seen the colonel’s lacerated back for himself and knew more than most what the man had suffered at the command of Prince Aleksei, who, Tyrone had grudgingly admitted, had ordered the punishment done because of his own jealous rage. “After your diligent pleas to the tsar, are you not happy to win the countess for yourself?”

“She is indeed beautiful,” Tyrone acknowledged distantly, refusing to comment on his emotions. It was true that his pride had been stung by the fiery nettles of her deceit, but when she hadn’t felt enough regard for him to care what he might have suffered because of her gambit, then he had forseen no hope of her ever yielding him anything that remotely resembled love.

“’Tis obvious poor Nikolai is lamenting the tsar’s decision,” Grigori prodded gently. “You could have been standing in his stead right now if His Majesty had favored his own countryman’s request above yours.”

Tyrone cast a glance askance toward the major. The Russian stared at Synnovea longingly, his distress clearly evident, his pain acute. But then, it was no less than his own, Tyrone concluded. “Aye, and if not for me, he could have been suffering in my stead.”

Grigori looked at his superior sharply. “Do you speak of your wounds. Colonel?”

Tyrone’s eyebrows twitched upward briefly in mute response. Even as close a friend as Grigori wouldn’t understand his plight if he voiced his complaints about being forced to marry such a beautiful woman.

Princess Zelda Pavlovna made her way hurriedly through the cluster of people and, with a buoyant smile, embraced Synnovea before stepping back and clasping the girl’s slender hands within her own. “Oh, I’m so happy for you, my dear. I never dreamed Colonel Rycroft would be successful in winning you for his bride.”

“I’m relieved to see you here, Zelda,” Synnovea assured her friend, avoiding any comment on the victory which the colonel could supposedly claim. “I was afraid with the suddenness of the affair, that you and your husband wouldn’t be able to attend.”

“Vassili will join us later, my dear, and begs your forgiveness for not being able to attend the wedding. He had to meet with the field marshal again, but if I may be so bold as to repeat his comments on His Majesty’s haste to see you and the colonel wed, Vassili said no other foreigner has endeared himself to the tsar as much as your groom. Tsar Mikhail has definitely bestowed a great honor upon the colonel by giving you to him.”

“Vassili is most kind,” Synnovea replied graciously, though she seriously doubted that Tyrone would view their marriage as anything but a harsh reprimand for having foolishly become her dupe. She just hoped the Pavlovs wouldn’t be too shocked or repulsed by her actions if they ever learned the truth.

As Zelda moved away to talk with other friends, a directive came for the wedding party and its guests to join Tsar Mikhail and the priest in the chapel. In compliance with the summons, Tyrone approached his bride and stiltedly presented his arm.

The weight on Synnovea’s heart seemed to drag her spirits down into a darker gloom as she considered her bridegroom’s aloofness. Her delay in accepting his offer caused him to lift a challenging brow as he peered at her askance.

“Afraid, Countess?”

“Of you, yes,” she admitted in a wavering whisper.

His smile was terse at best. “You needn’t be, my dear. At least you can be assured that I intend no similar punishment for what I’ve had to endure because of you.”

His statement was hardly encouraging, and in undiminished dismay Synnovea laid a trembling hand upon the sleeve of his dark blue doublet and moved along beside him as their guests fell in behind them.

Synnovea felt strangely detached from the ceremony, as if she wandered aimlessly through a shadowy fog somewhere beyond the room into which she had been led. She was distantly aware of her groom sometimes standing or at other times kneeling beside her, of his brown hand taking her thin fingers within his grasp and sliding a large signet ring upon her first, of his lips lowering dutifully upon her own as a token of his affection. Feeling rather overwhelmed by his tall, manly presence and then, just as certainly, by his abrupt withdrawal, Synnovea closed her mouth, realizing that it had opened shakily beneath his. Her cheeks flamed at what seemed a blunt rejection of her unconscious response, and as Tyrone stepped back, she cast her eyes away, afraid that she’d see some evidence of ridicule or repugnance in his gaze.

Mikhail came forward with a smile and bestowed his good wishes upon the couple before he looked pointedly at the colonel. “Your bride’s beauty is beyond the measure of most women. Colonel Rycroft. You should be grateful for such a one. Your offspring will naturally be handsome. They cannot help but be. I hope you give careful consideration to that possibility before you commit yourself to the folly of your proposal. In light of your anger, I shan’t hold you to anything, except to say that my promise has been solemnly vowed, and I will not retract it. In other words, Colonel, you have my leave to enjoy yourself completely if you so choose. You need no further audience with me to be assured of that.”

Tyrone’s face took on a ruddy hue, the only hint of the carefully masked emotions roiling within him. He was aware that his bride had become genuinely perplexed by the tsar’s comments, but he had no wish to relieve her confusion. He could only utter a muted answer to the monarch. “You are as gracious as always, Your Majesty.”

Mikhail turned to face his guests. “Please join us as we toast the joining of this couple with wine and food.”

The tsar took the honored seat at the head of the table and, as he bade the bride and groom to take their places, swept his hand to indicate the chairs on either side of him. After their marriage and several tributes to the pair were sanctioned by the lifting of goblets and a hearty chorus of agreements, servants began to offer lavish platters of meats and accompanying dishes to their sovereign lord and his guests. Synnovea found her own appetite sorely lacking and picked at her food while Mikhail questioned Tyrone about his intentions to go after Ladislaus once his back had properly healed. Giving the excuse that the foray was still in the planning stage, the colonel refrained from laying out definite details about his intended raid, but assured his host that whenever he set himself to the mission, he’d bring the thief back or die trying.

It was some time before Mikhail glanced around and noticed the absence of Tyrone’s immediate superior. Turning back to the officer with a curious smile, he queried, “But where is General Vanderhout and his wife?”

Tyrone’s gaze lowered to his plate as if he contemplated what succulent morsel to sample next. “It didn’t seem suitable to invite them, Your Majesty, considering the fact that I am but a lowly colonel and he a general.”

“A lowly colonel?” For a moment Mikhail chortled and seemed highly amused by the lame excuse the Englishman had offered him. Then he grew progressively suspicious, until he was motivated to ask, “Is that what General Vanderhout called you?”

“If you don’t mind, Your Majesty, I’d rather not say,” Tyrone answered with careful diplomacy.

The tsar wouldn’t let him off so easily. “When did the general call you that?”

Tyrone was growing immensely sorry he had repeated the derogatory slur. “I’m afraid it was when I refused to accept the duties that General Vanderhout tried to assign to me.”

“But why did you refuse?”

Tyrone chafed uncomfortably. “Because I wanted to attend Countess Andreyevna’s soiree.”

“And that soiree was where you visited Synnovea before your confrontation with Prince Taraslov?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tyrone rejoined, casting a glance across the table at his bride, who had stopped eating altogether. Her cheeks flamed beneath his brief regard, but the color in his own came close to matching hers when the tsar offered a supposition.

“Considering your years as a dedicated soldier, you must have been anxious to see Synnovea if you refused a direct order from your superior.”

The colonel was aware of the monarch’s close scrutiny, and though he felt compelled to answer, he did so in a hushed tone. “I was, Your Majesty.”

“Adamant to meet Synnovea, you mean?” Mikhail prodded.

“Yes,” Tyrone reluctantly acknowledged.

The tsar smiled in pleasure. “You have good taste, Colonel, and in the weeks and years to come, I hope you don’t lose sight of what you were willing to sacrifice just to be with Synnovea.”

The gentle chiding brought Tyrone the curious regard of his bride, but as yet, he could offer nothing more than a brief glance in response. Meeting those wide green-brown eyes had suddenly become a labor he wished to avoid.

Finally the couple were being escorted to her coach, and with stilted decorum Tyrone handed his bride into the interior and took his place beside her. Natasha had instructed Stenka to take the long way around so the guests could arrive before the bride and groom, and it proved a lengthy ordeal indeed for the two ensconced in the coach. The groom sat on the far side of the seat from his bride, as if she were something tainted he wished to avoid. His eyes were partially masked by heavy lids as he braced his chin on a lean knuckle and glowered out the window. After the need for proper decorum had been dispensed with, his brows gathered and his crisply chiseled jaw flexed with angry tension. Synnovea’s tentative glances lent no hope that her husband’s mood would improve once they reached their destination. Indeed, his angry reticence allowed her no small glimmer of optimism for their life together.

Carriages were still being unloaded in front of the house when Stenka pulled the team to a halt near the approach to the drive and waited for a chance to deliver his mistress and her new husband directly before the stoop. After a pelting rain during the night and the passage of so many conveyances, the lane had become a veritable avenue of endless muck. It didn’t take long for the rear wheels of the coach to become firmly mired in the stiff sludge. Despite Stenka’s best attempts to rally the horses to such a strenuous feat, the conveyance refused to budge.

Tyrone was hardly in a mood to wait until another team could be brought around to lend their strength to the four-in-hand. Stepping down into the well-churned road, he gestured for Synnovea to move near the door and, when she cautiously complied, lifted her within his arms. Considering the aversion he was wont to display toward her, she was painfully flustered by his assistance and had no idea where to put her arms. A brief moment later she felt his booted feet slip in the sludge, and with a sudden gasp of alarm, she flung them about his neck, fearing he’d drop her into the filth just to vent his rage upon her.

Tyrone read her trepidation only too well and deigned to meet her worried gaze with a sardonic quirk slanting his brow. “Truly tempting, my dear, but hardly chivalrous of a groom, do you not agree?”

“Just put me down,” she urged testily, well aware of the distance between herself and safety. “I can make my own way to the house.”

“What? In the mud?” he scoffed with a humorless laugh. “Now that would be something for our guests to see, truly a fine demonstration of the groom’s affection.”

“What do you care about them?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to maintain a festive mood,” he retorted. “Otherwise I’d dump you here and be done with you.”

Synnovea struggled briefly in his arms, but he tightened his grip until she was forced to relent. When his long, steely fingers continued to dig into her ribs, causing her to squirm uncomfortably beneath the pressure, she was forced to complain. “You’re hurting me.”

“Am I?” Tyrone smiled blandly and loosened his grasp. “You must excuse me, madam. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

“I think it was deliberate,” she accused. “Perhaps part of the retribution you said you wouldn’t seek.”

His harsh smile clearly conveyed the fact that he didn’t give a damn what she thought. “To a tiny degree, perhaps, but certainly nothing to equal what I’m really feeling toward you.”

“Why don’t you just have me flogged and be done with it!” Synnovea challenged acidly. “Perhaps that would assuage your anger some small whit.”

“I’d never tarnish a form as fair and alluring as yours, madam. As your husband, ’twould be the same as spiting myself.”

Natasha was awaiting them near the front portal, and as she escorted Synnovea into the great room to join their guests, Tyrone doffed his muddy boots and made his way in stocking feet to the kitchen, where a manservant took the boots away to clean them. While Tyrone waited for their return, a young girl of no more than three peeked at him from behind the cook’s apron, gaining his attention. Her wide, beautiful green eyes and softly curling dark hair were very much like Synnovea’s, but it was her faltering timidity that clearly reminded him of what he had recently perceived in his bride’s manner. In the past few hours he had seen little evidence of that haughty maid whom he had confronted in the bathhouse, and he could believe that Synnovea was now as much afraid of him as this tiny elfin creature who presently shied away.

Tyrone went down on a knee near a spot where wooden blocks had been left scattered over a small area of the floor. The child watched him with growing interest as he began to construct a tiny edifice. Degree by small, cautious degree, she approached to admire his handiwork and, in sudden glee, chortled with him when a more difficult addition collapsed his creation into a disorganized heap.

The cook, Danika, observed the making of their friendship with a warm smile, but when the man began to speak to her daughter in a foreign language, she, too, was completely lost in confusion and unable to ease the girl’s perplexed frown. When he sought to translate, Danika’s confusion only deepened and she shrugged and spread her hands, conveying the fact that she didn’t understand.

Synnovea was sent to fetch her bridegroom for the wedding guests, who were awaiting his presence in the great room. Having been informed of his whereabouts, she approached the open door of the kitchen, but when she espied him chatting with the child, she paused outside the portal, not wishing to intrude. Though the child was unable to catch the drift of his words, she seemed captivated nonetheless, as evidenced by the slowly widening grin that curved her small, angelic mouth. Synnovea found her own heart strangely warmed by his gentle manner with the girl. She could not help but think of those moments when he had carefully nurtured her passion even at the sacrifice of his own pleasure. Were it not for his animosity toward her now, she’d have been content to have such a man as her husband. There was no doubt in her mind that he was far and away more honorable and handsome than either Aleksei or Vladimir.

The manservant brought Tyrone’s boots back and presented them not only clean but neatly polished. After slipping them on, Tyrone rose and took the girl’s small hand in his. “I must go now,” he informed her, “but I’ll be living here, and I’d be delighted to visit you here in the kitchen before I go to work each morning. Will that be all right with you?”

The little one looked up at him, bewildered by his questioning tone, but her small face brightened suddenly when Synnovea entered the kitchen. Having grown immensely fond of the boyarina in the short span of time they had lived in the same house, she ran to take her hand. Tyrone straightened and, in stilted reticence, watched his bride as she spoke to the girl in Russian. Of a sudden, the child’s face grew radiant, and turning to the colonel, she dipped into a curtsy, eagerly babbling an answer.

Synnovea reluctantly lifted her gaze and timidly translated the child’s answer as she met the blue eyes that rested upon her. “Sophia would like you to know that she’d be pleased to have you visit her as often as you’d like.”

Tyrone noticed his bride’s heightened blush and, when she hurriedly dropped her gaze, realized that she had misread his close attention as some fierce displeasure. He didn’t feel generously disposed toward explaining that in spite of his hostility toward her, he was nevertheless taken with her soft, beguiling manner.

“I was reluctant to interfere in your discussion with the girl,” Synnovea apologized, laying a gentle hand upon Sophia’s shoulder as the child, in some awe, lightly fingered the pearls that adorned the sarafan . “But I thought you needed a translator.”

Tyrone conveyed a cool reserve as he suggested, “Now that we’ll be living under the same roof, I suppose you should teach me the language. We’ll have to find something to pass the time together since we have so little in common.”

Synnovea almost cringed at his blatant derision, but at the sound of footfalls hurrying down the hall, she forced back a start of tears and faced Natasha as that one swept into the kitchen in an anxious dither.

“Synnovea!” the woman gasped breathlessly, clutching a hand to her heaving bosom. “Prince Vladimir and his sons are here! I’m sure they’ve come to look Tyrone over, and from the mood they’re in, he’ll likely be needing reinforcements.”

Tyrone met his bride’s worried glance with smiling mockery. “Your rejected betrothed, I presume?”

Synnovea wrung her hands in dismay, unconsciously voicing a frantic whisper. “What are we to do?”

“Calm yourself, madam,” her groom advised. “It won’t be the first time I’ve met one of your suitors. I just hope this particular prince doesn’t prove as irascible as the last.”

“You’d better be warned,” Natasha cautioned him. “Prince Vladimir’s sons have a penchant for brawling. They like nothing better than settling arguments with their fists. In other words, Colonel, they might make Aleksei seem like a blessed saint by comparison.”

“Then the next moments may well see the end of our celebration,” Tyrone predicted ruefully. Raising a brow, he offered his arm to his bride. “Shall we face them together, my dear? After all, it isn’t every day that a rejected swain meets the husband of his betrothed.”

Synnovea felt the sting of his sarcasm and lifted her chin loftily. “You’ve no ken what the brood is capable of when riled, and right now, you’re in no condition to make light of the matter.”

“Perhaps not, my dear, but the introductions should prove interesting, don’t you agree?”

“ If you survive them!” Synnovea quipped, reluctantly accepting his arm as Natasha hastened away.

Tyrone glanced down at his bride with a sardonic smile curving his handsome lips as he led her into the hallway. “I suppose I should brace myself to face not only these but a whole legion of discarded suitors who’ve been left in your wake. It might prove more challenging than fighting the enemies of the tsar. Had I been more astute, I might’ve taken a warning when I espied you with Ladislaus.”

Synnovea dared to express what his words seemed to insinuate. “Perhaps you might have reconsidered my rescue.”

“Definitely a possibility, madam,” Tyrone replied, feeling in no mood to reassure her. Still, when Synnovea tried to withdraw her arm in sudden exasperation, he clamped his own arm against his side, forbidding her escape. “Tut-tut, my dear. We must obey His Majesty and keep up appearances for our guests.”

Synnovea bestowed a heated glower upon him, but made no further effort to pull away, sensing that it would be futile to even try. Thus, Tyrone escorted his bride into the great hall in an overtly chivalrous manner, just as one might expect of a newly wedded groom.

Applause and burbling compliments from the guests greeted the couple’s entry into the crowded room, but Vladimir wasn’t in the mood to be gracious. As Natasha had already ascertained, he was feeling as surly as an old, wounded bear. He swung around with a loud snort of derision when his eldest son advised him that Synnovea was approaching on the arm of her groom. While several of his offspring followed the newly wedded pair, affirming their eagerness to fight, his faded blue eyes pierced the tall man at her side.

Synnovea glanced about in growing dismay, espying familiar faces closing in around them. It unsettled her unduly to think that Tyrone would again be called upon to pay the penalty for her outrageous scheme.

A short distance behind the bellicose clan, several English officers lowered their goblets and cautiously observed the proceedings, sensing the intent of the princes to entrap the groom in a brawl. Considering the colonel’s avid quest to have the girl, they hadn’t been at all surprised when they had heard that he had gotten into a fray with her guardian, who had hired men to punish him for his audacity. Nor were they astonished by the repercussions they were presently witnessing, no doubt brought about by the tsar’s quickly executed directive to negate further intervention. It was no secret that trouble followed one who coveted a forbidden treasure. And it was obvious by the bride’s beauty that she was a prize some men would kill for.

Grigori joined the Englishmen and spoke to them in a hushed tone, warning them to be prepared if his commander was attacked. “If they want to brawl about this matter, we’ll invite them outside. Understood?”

Eager smiles lit the faces of the colonel’s friends, but for the time being, Grigori cautioned them to merely watch until it became evident that Tyrone couldn’t defend himself. They had seen their comrade in action before and were confident of his ability to handle most situations, but if a confrontation was in the offing, they were ready to even out the score, since he was definitely outnumbered and not in a condition to fight his way through on his own.

“So! You’re the rascally devil who stole the maid from me,” Vladimir rumbled caustically. “What are you Englishmen, anyway? Savages that you must steal our brides from beneath our noses and make off with them to do your evil deeds? You intruding rake, you should be horsewhipped!”

The threat seemed imminent as his sons muttered irately and pressed close around the couple. Tyrone cocked a challenging brow at the while-haired boyar when the elder’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword. The intimidation was too obvious to ignore.

Synnovea stepped toward Vladimir, hoping to placate him with a softly cajoling plea, but she was prevented from accomplishing her objective when Tyrone caught her elbow in an unrelenting vise. He was no more inclined to hide behind her skirts now than he had been when he had hung from the wooden beams in the carriage house.

“Stay out of this, Synnovea,” he growled low. “I’m quite capable of handling this matter on my own without your interference.”

“But Vladimir may listen to me,” Synnovea implored in a whisper, briefly glancing toward the towering ancient. Daring much, she laid a trembling hand in plaintive appeal upon her husband’s chest. “Please let me try, Tyrone. You’ve been through enough on my account, and I’d rather not see you harmed more than you have been.”

Vladimir loudly harrumphed at the girl’s marked concern for the foreigner. Goaded by jealousy, he stepped forward and, clasping the colonel’s arm, pulled him around to face him. “Would you take counsel from a woman?”

“Aye! If there is wisdom in it!” Tyrone retorted, jerking free of the man’s grasp. “No man tells me to whom I should give heed!”

With an angry growl, the old man voiced his contempt for the stranger. “The tsar may have asked you and other young whelps like you to come here and give our soldiers instruction, but most boyars are offended by the presence of foreigners in this country. You not only intrude into our ways of doing warfare, English knave, but you tamper with our women as well!”

“Who bleats about intrusion?” Tyrone barked. “I gained audience before His Majesty’s throne and begged him for petition to court the maid long before you ever knew she existed. You came well after and secretly connived with the Taraslovs to write a betrothal contract without consideration for the tsar’s wishes. Now the nuptials have been performed, and you’re still seeking to challenge my right to the girl. Do you argue with a royal decree when the vows were spoken in the presence of Tsar Mikhail?”

A low snarl tore free of Vladimir’s throat. “I served a gentleman’s proper due and followed the formal rite of behavior in asking Prince Aleksei for the Countess Synnovea’s hand in marriage. Where were you when the contracts were being signed and sealed?”

Tyrone sneered at the ancient’s feeble declaration. “I was forbidden to even see the maid by the very ones who sealed the documents with you. By deed and favor, I had more claim to her than you. If not for me, she’d never have reached Moscow. She’d have been forced to appease the lusting appetites of some bastard thief who thought to seize her for his own!”

“You think because you saved her once from a band of rogues that you own her now?” Vladimir bellowed incredulously.

“Nay!” Tyrone flung back. “Synnovea is mine because we spoke the vows together as witnessed by the tsar! So vex me no longer with your trifling arguments, old man, for I’m not in the least compassionate toward your failed endeavors.”

Tyrone stepped back slightly, eyeing the sons, who had begun to move forward in an overt show of aggression. Drawing Synnovea with him, he retreated another step, but only to ensure that none would be at his back if they launched an assault.

He glanced at the ancient and managed a casual shrug without being unfavorably reminded of the discomfort he still suffered in his back. “If you and your sons would care to join us for the festivities, Prince Vladimir, you’re welcome to remain. Willy-nilly, go or stay, you can do as you wish, but know this: if it’s a fight you want, you’ll have to come back another day.”

“So good of you, English Colonel, to invite us to share in your celebration!” Sergei derided, making the mistake of clapping Tyrone on the back. That one sucked his breath in sharply, and at very close range, Synnovea saw her husband’s wide shoulders tense with the agony of the other’s touch. The blue eyes blazed in sudden fury, and in less than a heartbeat he swung around to face the youth, his breath slashing through tightly clenched teeth.

Seizing Sergei by the front of his kaftan, Tyrone yanked him forward until the younger man saw firsthand the seething rage that fairly flamed in the bright eyes. His feigned friendship was completely fragmented beneath the awe-inspiring dimensions of the colonel’s rage. It frightened Sergei mightily, and he reacted instinctively, winning his freedom with a frantic jerk. In the next instant he was snatched again by the scruff of his neck as he tried to scramble away. His left arm was caught and twisted painfully behind his back. At his loud yelp, his brothers leapt forward to intervene, but another agonizing wrench brought a desperate appeal from the young prince that they should hold fast to their places.

“Have a care where you touch me, whelp,” Tyrone gritted close behind the youth’s ear. “Or I swear you’ll leave here with only one arm. Do I make myself clear?”

Vladimir and his sons had full command of the English language and each clearly understood the warning. It was the father who stepped forward and, with a booming voice, demanded Sergei’s release. “Let my son go or I’ll set the dogs to your foul carcass ere this night is over!”

Tyrone scoffed at the huge man, not even remotely intimidated by the threat. “Then call off your baying hounds or you’ll have good reason to hunt me down.”

Vladimir raised his bushy white brows in sharp surprise. It was a rare man indeed who stood up to him and his collection of sons. Lifting a wrinkled hand, he gestured lamely for his family to retreat. In response, Tyrone sent Sergei sprawling forward into his brothers.

Claiming their attention with a rather terse chuckle, Tyrone laid a hand to his breast and dipped his head in an abbreviated bow of apology. “I must beg forgiveness for my ill temper, my lords. I was involved in a confrontation with a band of ruffians several nights past, and they did their best to lay open my back. ’Tis tender yet, so as long as you keep your hands to yourselves, perhaps I can respond to your visit with as much grace as a favorable host might extend.”

Sullenly Sergei glared at him as he rubbed his bruised wrist. “You rile easily, Englishman.”

“Aye, ’tis a fault I suffer when pain is inflicted upon me.”

Tyrone glanced around at the family, noticing their gazes were now centered on Synnovea. As a whole, their yearning expressions evidenced deep measures of regret, as if each of them had become enamored not only with her beauty but with the winsome charm of the maid. The elder, in particular, seemed pained as he gazed upon her with undiminished longing.

Tyrone was not above wresting a bit of revenge for their attempts to bully him. Drawing his bride forward, he laid an arm around her slender waist and held her close against his side, clearly establishing his claim upon her for the benefit of the sons and their sire. “Would you now congratulate me on my good fortune in taking so fair a bride?” His invitation was admittedly farfetched, considering their resentment, but after accepting a goblet from a servant’s tray, he held it aloft. “My lords, may I propose a toast to the Lady Synnovea Rycroft, wife of my be-knighted self and good woman of my future house?” He sipped the wine and, leaning near his bride’s ear, murmured encouragement as he handed the goblet to her. “Drink up, my sweet. Remember, we’re to make merry for our guests.”

Synnovea had no heart for concurring to the travesty he proposed, but by order of the tsar she had to make the best of the moment. After taking a tiny sip, she gave the goblet back with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“Smile,” Tyrone urged, drawing her away from the guests.

She stiffly complied as she gritted through grimacing lips, “Is that better?”

“You’re vexed with me,” he chided with exaggerated concern as he escorted her into the entrance hall.

“Does it matter?” She lifted a querying brow, awaiting his answer.

Tyrone glanced away in a museful vein and happened to espy Nikolai, who had just entered the foyer. Perhaps he had no cause to be jealous of the younger officer, but he was clearly in a mood to vent his own frustration with the situation in which he found himself. With a forced smile, he faced his bride as he halted and locked his arms about her. Though she stiffened, he leaned over her ear to whisper, “Appearances, madam. They must be maintained even when you think no one is watching.”

Duly warned, Synnovea submitted to his kiss, but she was hardly prepared for the thoroughness with which it was executed. His open mouth slanted across hers with almost brutal intensity, devouring hers with an unchecked hunger as he drew her small tongue into the cavity of his mouth and caressed it with his own. Unconsciously she rose up against him, freely offering everything she had as a sacrifice to the flaming heat of his lips. Though she slipped her arms around him, she suddenly remembered the condition of his back and found no place for her hands to rest above his waist. Finally she let them fall to her sides again as she leaned into him.

Boisterous applause and loud whistles came from the English soldiers, who had entered the hall behind them. The men gathered close around the couple, prompting Synnovea to draw back in acute embarrassment. Tyrone allowed her to escape to a circle of women while he accepted the good wishes of his friends, who drew him back to the great hall.

Nikolai was certainly none too pleased about what he had just witnessed. In light of the guarantee that had been coerced from the tsar, the lustful kiss seemed an affront to the girl. Even if Nikolai hadn’t been at odds with the colonel before, he was swiftly approaching that frame of mind. Indeed, he promised himself that if he found a chance, he’d warn Synnovea of her husband’s duplicity. Above all, he wanted to beg her to hold herself aloof from her husband until he sailed back to England.

Anxious for such an opportunity to present itself, Nikolai closely observed the couple for the rest of the afternoon, but as the hours passed and evening came upon them, his disposition grew decidedly morose. The pair acted as if they were totally taken with each other as they mingled with their guests. Hand in hand, they stood together and decorously bade farewell to Vladimir and his sons.

Later that evening, when the bride and groom were called to another lavish banquet, they shared a place at the head of the table to which Natasha had directed them. The cushioned bench wasn’t overly wide, but their hostess maintained that it had become a traditional place of honor for newlyweds in her household. As narrow as it proved to be, there was much hilarity evoked from the onlookers as the couple strove to wedge themselves in. Once they were ensconced, they might as well have been joined at the hip, for Tyrone was forced to wrap his right arm around Synnovea’s ribcage and to lean back enough to allow her shoulder to overlap his. Being for the most part right-handed, that left him ruefully considering how he was going to fare feeding himself with his left.

It nearly broke Nikolai’s composure to watch the couple from the far end of the table. Beneath his grim stare, the colonel seemed to delight in handling his Synnovea, as if the man had any right to touch her after the pledge he had gained from the tsar. The long fingers stroked along her ribs, sometimes pausing near a ripe breast or possessively resting upon her hip. What made it even worse was the fact that she seemed to relish not only her bridegroom’s touch but lending wifely assistance in feeding him. They seemed to make a game of it, kissing often and even going so far as to steal food from the other’s mouth. Finally, when the bench became a hindrance to their comfort, mainly for Synnovea, who suffered the most against her husband’s steely flank, she sought to rise, but Tyrone deftly clamped an arm about her slender waist, lifted her, and then resettled her upon his thigh, much to the hearty approval of his men.

Nikolai realized the worst of his worries was yet to come as the time approached for the couple to retire to their bridal chamber. Because he had been visually confronted by the Englishman’s inclination to liberally kiss and handle Synnovea, he refused to trust the man with her. And though he wanted to warn Synnovea of what her husband intended in hopes of preventing their union, he was repeatedly frustrated as the evening wore on, for he found no chance to catch her alone. When she finally left the hall, escorted by Natasha and the handful of women who had been invited to attend her, his hazel eyes sadly followed.

In the moments following Synnovea’s departure, some of the men had begun to chide Tyrone for stealing the most beautiful maid from beneath their noses. Questions concerning the haste of their marriage also were presented, but he refused to elaborate and brushed the inquiries off with a grin. “You’ve all heard rumors of my impatience to court the countess.” Hoping the fruit-flavored vodka would deaden his senses sufficiently before he arrived upstairs, he took another sip as he braced a shoulder against the molding of a door. “The tsar took pity on my pain and cast down all other plans for her betrothal by arranging the ceremony himself. That’s all there is to it.”

Natasha returned to the great room and announced that the bride was awaiting her groom. The men chortled in glee and crowded close around Tyrone, who drained his cup in what appeared to be eager anticipation. Only he was cognizant of his ongoing attempt to deaden more than the wounds in his back, for the idea of being privately ensconced with Synnovea had already stirred memories that sorely threatened his efforts to remain distantly detached from the tempting beauty.

As his friends crowded near, Tyrone immediately retreated, fearing they would forget and pound him upon the back. “Have a care or you’ll make me useless to my bride. The condition of my back has a way of dismissing everything else from mind. So I beg you, proceed with care in your attempt to cheer me on.”

“Lift him on your shoulders, lads!” an English officer named Edward Walsworth encouraged. “He should save his strength for better things. Besides, he’s quaffed so much vodka, he may be unable to find his way upstairs to savor other pleasures.”

Amid their guffawing laughter, Tyrone was hoisted onto their shoulders and then carted upstairs, their booming, outrageously ribald chants accompanying their ascent. In the anteroom of Synnovea’s apartments, they lowered Tyrone to his feet before the entrance of the adjoining bedchamber and jostled behind him to get a glimpse of the bride outfitted for her husband’s pleasure.

Tyrone would never have denied the fact that he had liberally indulged in strong spirits throughout the celebration. Even so, when his eyes beheld a sight that he had both feared and yearned to see, there was no way that he could blame his swiftly thudding heart on his heavy imbibing. For some time now, he had been aware of Synnovea’s unrivaled beauty, but when faced with the fact that she was his by right of wedlock and that he could freely exercise the many prerogatives which that particular union allowed him, he felt a sharp pang of regret that he, in the heat of outraged pride, had foolishly allowed himself to set such extreme limits on his manly lusts. It seemed that Mikhail had been far wiser than he to acknowledge that a change of heart might be in the offing, and for that, Tyrone had to give the monarch immense credit for being able to understand how well the shroud of rage could blind a man. With the subtly demoralizing and relaxing effects of the fruited vodka he had consumed, Tyrone wasn’t at all sure his staunch objectives could withstand one night with Synnovea, much less three years. If he maintained his abstinence, he was certain it would mean a far greater torment for him than even the whip had reaped.

Standing within the circle of her attendants, Synnovea looked as enticing as any bride had a right to look. Her dark hair had been separated into a pair of braids to signify her newly married state and then interwoven with gleaming gold ribbons. An exquisite robe of shimmering, translucent gold flowed loosely to the floor from her shoulders, and though the meager glow of the candles didn’t allow access through the lustrous silk at the moment, Tyrone was keenly aware that beneath that particular garment and the gown she wore underneath, his bride was just as soft and beautiful as she had always been. Whether in his memories, his dreams, or reality, the sight of her never failed to set his body to battling with his brain.

The manly guests loudly hooted their approval of the bride’s comeliness, and as Synnovea glanced their way, she graced them with a timid smile. Princess Zelda eyed the groom for a moment before leaning near the bride’s ear to whisper. Synnovea nodded eagerly as her gaze swept toward Tyrone, but a blush immediately stained her cheeks when she became cognizant of the fact that they had aroused his curiosity with their hushed comments on his anatomy. With that realization, the two women giggled in secret delight.

Tyrone lifted an arm and braced it against the framework of the arched doorway, well aware that he had become the topic of their discussion. From the way their flitting perusals swept over him, he could believe their dialogue had something to do with his physical attributes. On that subject Synnovea possessed firsthand knowledge, yet as he continued to stare, she refrained from giving further comment, deterring the princess from offering other suppositions. It hardly kept his bride from meeting his gaze with more candor than she had hitherto displayed, at least since their marriage vows had been spoken.

Tyrone’s entry into the chamber had brought back a memory of a similar event a thrice or so years ago, when he had glimpsed his first wife, Angelina, bedecked in her bridal finery. His mood had been different then, buoyant and cheerful, as was common among bridegrooms who anticipated the taking of virginal fruit. It could be like that again, he told himself, if only he’d relent…

Or it might be even better, the thought intruded as he pondered the difference in his courtship of his two wives. In comparing his sudden attraction to Synnovea to his final capitulation to Angelina’s pleas, he was forced to admit that the difference was like night and day. Angelina had been the offspring of his parents’ neighbors, yet he had all but ignored her during her younger years. She had finally attracted his attention only a pair of years before their wedding. In truth, their marriage had come about mainly by the wearing down of his manly resistance by a sweet young thing.

Other courtships had waned for different reasons, some because of the brevity of time allowed by his profession, many because of his own dwindling interest or a realization that a deeper union with a particular woman wasn’t in his best interest. He could hardly commend his cool-headed logic this time. Indeed, considering his zeal to have Synnovea, it seemed incredibly farfetched to suppose that he could successfully ignore her presence in the same room, much less in the same bed.

He had asked Natasha, with all the discretion he had been capable of mustering, to provide him with separate quarters no matter how tiny or cramped. The woman had smiled graciously and given the excuse that she usually had so many guests, it seemed unlikely that she’d be able to grant his request without restricting her gregarious penchant for hospitality. That was precisely the time he decided he was cursed by his own manly lusts.

Glancing back over his shoulder at his cavorting and frolicking guests, Tyrone shushed their loud bantering until the murmuring comments of the women could be heard above the din. He ambled forward to the circle of ladies, his eyes gleaming brightly as he carefully regarded the radiance of his bride. While her attendants observed every glance, every movement the newly married couple made, Synnovea gave him a diffident smile as she watched him warily. A stiff bow to the ladies sent them scurrying and sniggering from the chambers, allowing Tyrone to step before his bride.

“Again, madam, for the benefit of my escort,” he whispered, justifying his close attention. Lifting her small chin, he indulged himself in her delicately refined beauty for a passage of a long moment before lowering parting lips to hers. He made no effort to convince himself that he kissed her merely for the sake of his companions; he knew better than to believe that lie.

Synnovea yielded herself completely to his inquiring kiss, daring to meet his tongue when it slipped inward to search the depths of her mouth. He was her husband, after all, and though no one knew of her longing, she now realized that she desired him more than she had ever thought possible. The taste of vodka pervaded her senses as he devoured her offering with leisured deliberation. When he drew back, he left her silently groaning in disappointment.

Slowly wending his way back to the anteroom, Tyrone cooled his blood and brain forthwith by thinking of Aleksei going freely about his business. If he had been able to obtain the tsar’s permission, he’d have chased that boyar down as he fully intended to do with Ladislaus. Nothing short of facing that toad in a deadly contest would satisfy him.

Tyrone drank a last toast with the men to the forthcoming night, as if highly anticipating the torment he would soon suffer. He wasn’t so much into his cups that he wasn’t aware of Nikolai covertly eyeing Synnovea through the doorway. After encountering so many suitors, Tyrone wasn’t in the mood to share even a glimpse of his bride’s unconfined beauty with another man, especially one who had followed so closely on his heels to plead his cause with His Majesty, as if the major had striven one-tenth as hard as he to gain the tsar’s attention just for the privilege of courting the lady.

Deliberately Tyrone reached back a hand and pushed the door closed behind him before lifting a challenging stare to the Russian major. By the coldness in his eyes, he let it be known that Synnovea was his, and he’d fight any worthy who had intentions of intruding. He stared until Nikolai, flushing a dark angry red, turned crisply on a heel and made his exit.