Forever in Your Embrace (14 page)

Anna had to accept the excuse or confront Synnovea openly and accuse her of falsehood. Though tempted to march up to her new charge’s chambers and express her suspicions, upon further consideration Anna decided to bide her time to see what the girl’s manner would be on the morrow. It would indeed be a miracle if the girl managed to tolerate her chambers the whole day long.

Ensconced upstairs, Synnovea remained oblivious to just how narrowly she had escaped Anna’s interrogation. By midafternoon, however, she had started questioning her own wisdom in avoiding Ivan’s lectures. She couldn’t be entirely certain if someone with a vicious bent had deliberately planned her torture or if the location of her rooms had never been considered, but Synnovea soon became convinced that there wasn’t another chamber in the whole manse as unbearable as her own. Situated on the west side of the house, the rooms became a sweltering oven soon after the daystar reached its zenith.

In determining her alternatives, Synnovea realized there was none she cared to exercise. She couldn’t escape from her chambers without drawing some inquiry or challenging remark from Anna, and she refused to give the woman that satisfaction. Thus, in an effort to cope with the heat, she lounged about in a thin shift that soon became a transparent film over her perspiring skin.

Ali closed the heavy draperies on the west side to shade the chambers and pushed the windows wide on the front of the house, allowing the sultry breezes to flow through the room. Still, the cruel flaming tongues of the summer sun proved unrelenting, and Synnovea sweltered in the heat. Seeking a way to combat her mistress’s distress, the maid went down to the kitchen and asked Elisaveta’s permission to fetch ice from the supply stored in the cellar. She brought back a large chunk to the upper rooms and, after breaking it into smaller pieces, wrapped them in a linen towel.

Synnovea heaved a grateful sigh as she rubbed the cooling towel over her bare skin, leaving refreshing wet trails in its wake, but as the afternoon wore on, she found herself unable to bear the stuffiness of her compartment and went to perch cross-legged on a windowsill shaded and protected from the street by a large tree growing at the front of the house. There she lazily stroked the ice-filled cloth along her arms as she observed the comings and goings of passersby who seemed urgently intent upon completing their errands and finding shade. Too disturbed by their own discomfort to concern themselves with another’s obscure presence, those who ventured forth quickly retreated from sight, leaving the broiling thoroughfare virtually empty.

Synnovea draped the ice-laden towel around her neck and leaned her head back against the window frame. Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to roam homeward. Her musings helped to assuage her loneliness and seemed so real at times she could almost smell the breezes that wafted from the rivers near Nizhni Novgorod. She recalled the numerous times her father had ridden up the lane to their home, and even fancied that she could hear the slow clip-clop of his horse’s hooves and the familiar creak of a leather saddle which, during the summer months, had always accompanied his dismounting at the front of their house. Although her recollections were stirringly detailed, they were flawed to some extent. It was the custom of Russian gentlemen to bedeck their mounts with silver bells, necklets, and wealthy trappings, which allowed their approach to be heard from some distance away. Yet in spite of her desire to vividly recall her memories, Synnovea couldn’t quite convince herself that she could hear the soft tinkling of tiny bells.

The muted click of booted heels on a stone walk caused Synnovea some perplexity as she continued to reminisce. It was clearly not the stride she had come to recognize as her father’s. Opening her eyes and tilting her head aslant, she scanned both ends of the thoroughfare. The street was devoid of travelers, but when she shifted her gaze nearer the Taraslov manse, she saw a tall man striding up the path toward the front portal. His footfalls were unmistakably the ones that had confounded her.

The visitor’s wide-brimmed hat prevented a clear view of the stranger’s face, but she immediately recognized the proud bearing and crisp, purposeful stride of a military officer. This particular fellow was outfitted in the mode of a foreign cavalryman, though that fact puzzled her, for she couldn’t feature Anna allowing a European to visit her domain unless by royal decree. Neither could Synnovea imagine Captain Nekrasov or anyone of similar reserve wearing anything but Russian garb. A sword had been strapped over the visitor’s trunk hose of deepest brown. Beneath them he wore lighter-hued canions, over which long boots had been pulled up to his thighs. Compared to the skirted kaftans boyars wore and the long tunics and wide-legged pantaloons of Russian soldiers, such close-fitting hosiery and breeches seemed almost shameless. Yet the man had the length of leg and narrowness of hip to complement the garments as perhaps few could. His shirt gleamed dazzling white beneath the sun. A wide collar lay open over his leather doublet, and was trimmed with lace as were the turn-backed cuffs. In all, the man’s manner of dress was more reminiscent of an English cavalier….

Synnovea smothered a gasp of dismay as it came to her just who the man might be. Cautiously she leaned outward to peer through the lower branches of the tree and almost gasped when her worst suspicions were confirmed. There, tethered to a hitching post near the entrance to the drive, was an animal that had been forever forged in her memory. Her wild ride through the forest on the back of the headstrong stallion had left such a lasting impression that she had no doubt that she’d be fearful of approaching another steed for some time to come. Once the pride of Ladislaus, the black horse now glistened from the care and attention of his present owner.

Worrisome doubts cast the darkest veil of mistrust upon Colonel Rycroft’s reasons for paying a visit to the Taraslovs. In rising panic Synnovea could imagine him deliberating seeking revenge because she had left him without granting him permission to court her. If he meant to cause her shame, then he’d surely tell all to Anna, who would then hasten to her cousin with the complaint. No predicting what would follow.

Or was she being too skeptical of Colonel Rycroft’s motives and not giving him a chance to prove himself a gentleman? After all, he had been in a position to take her by force and had held himself in restraint. It seemed rather silly to fly into a state of hysteria or to burrow down into a hole like a fearful mole just because the Englishman had been bold enough to come to the manse.

Her pummeling fears eased to a more tolerable level as Synnovea made an earnest effort to subdue them. Deliberately turning aside her doubts, she had to admit, if only to herself, that when she had been all but wallowing in the tedium and despair of her predicament, the officer’s presence offered a more promising diversion from the boredom of her confinement than she had hitherto hoped to find.

Though proper decorum demanded that a young maid squelch any show of pleasure over a strange man’s visit and to regard such a one with stilted aloofness, Synnovea leaned back with a smile, luxuriating in her freedom to enjoy a few delights in the secrecy of her mind. She found it especially stimulating to peruse the colonel at her leisure. Having admired the memory of him in the altogether, she now let her gaze glide over him with meticulous care, unaware that her eyes gradually took on a warming glow. It truly seemed a waste of his extraordinary physique that the man wasn’t more handsome. His long, muscular thighs accepted the sleek, glovelike fit of the boots with ease, but then, having gained firsthand knowledge of the perfection of their length, she was hardly surprised. The short trunk hose were narrow enough to be suggestive and no less arresting to an innocent maid. An abashed giggle escaped Synnovea as she became aware of the source of her curiosity, but she quickly squelched her amusement when she realized that Ali might be near. With a dismayed grimace, she cast a wary glance askance to see if the maid had been there to witness her response. Much to her relief, she found that the chambers were empty save for herself.

The front door was pulled open, and Synnovea leaned outward as much as she safely dared, anxious to learn what matter had brought the Englishman to the Taraslov manse. She dearly hoped he wouldn’t disappoint her by proving himself a cad.

“
Dohbriy dyehn,
” he greeted, tucking his hat beneath his arm. “
Pazhahlusta.
” After the polite plea, he carefully pronounced the syllables “Goh-voh-reet-yeh lee vwee poh-ahn-GLEE-skee?”

Synnovea cringed at his effort to question the steward’s ability to understand English. As was to be expected, there followed a long pause. Boris, who spoke no English, had no doubt gone to fetch his mistress, who could.

“May I be of assistance to you, sir?” Anna inquired upon her arrival at the front portal.

Colonel Rycroft swept his hat off in a gracious bow. “Princess Taraslovna, I presume?”

“I am she. What is it that you want?”

“A favor, if you would be so kind,” the colonel answered and then, with a soft chuckle, offered an apology. “I haven’t been in your country very long, and my Russian is poor and laborious to the point that I fear I confused your butler. Forgive my intrusion, but I am Colonel Rycroft, Commander of the Third Regiment of His Majesty’s Imperial Hussars. I was fortunate enough to be of service to the Countess Zenkovna on her way to Moscow, and I was wondering if I might be permitted to speak with her for a few moments.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible, Colonel,” Anna replied stiffly. “You see, the Countess Zenkovna isn’t feeling well enough to receive visitors today. She has retired to her chambers, and only her maid has been allowed to see her.”

“Then perhaps I might be granted permission to return on the morrow.”

“Have you a reason to bother her?” Anna’s tone was definitely stale and unenthusiastic.

“One of my men found a brooch that we believe belongs to the countess. I’d like to question her about it, if I may.”

“If you’d care to give me the brooch, Colonel, I shall see that it’s taken up to her straightaway.” Anna stretched forth a slender hand expectantly to receive the mentioned item.

Tyrone handed over the piece, and then, as the princess made to close the door, he stepped nearer, placing a booted toe upon the threshold to prevent her from shutting the barrier. Anna gaped down at the formidable wedge before she glanced up at the man in surprise, wondering if she should scream. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Tyrone smiled pleasantly as he clarified his position. “If you don’t mind, Princess. I shall await an answer. You see, if the brooch doesn’t belong to the Countess Zenkovna, then by all means it must be returned to the man who found it.”

“If you insist,” Anna replied icily.

“I must,” he answered simply.

“Then wait here,” she snapped. “I shall fetch her maid for you. I’m sure the woman will be able to recognize the piece if it truly belongs to her mistress.” Anna lowered her gaze pointedly to his foot and then raised a meaningful brow as she looked with steely coldness into the man’s eyes. “Boris will attend the door while I’m gone.”

With a casual nod to the woman, Tyrone retreated several paces. As he waited, he clamped his hat on his head again and, strolling away from the door, leisurely moved into the shade of the tree, the very same that hid the upper windows of the countess’s bedchamber.

Smothering a gasp, Synnovea pressed back against the window frame and held her breath as the colonel paused in the outer boundaries of the shade. She chanced no movement lest he discover her, but her heart seemed wont to race frantically as she imagined the deep chagrin she’d suffer if he should glance up. Her chemise was far from adequate as a covering, and though she dared not look downward for fear of attracting his attention, she could feel the delicate batiste clinging cloyingly to her wet skin.

Even as Synnovea stared at the man in roweling apprehension of detection, it seemed as if some sharp instinct warned Tyrone that he was being watched. Abruptly he raised his head, and Synnovea gasped sharply when she found herself caught. Frozen by the shock of her discovery, she could only gape back at him, while he, in so brief a moment, drank in every detail of her beauty, the mass of dark hair piled casually high upon her head, the soft tendrils curling wetly against her throat, the bare arms and the gossamer cloth that clung like a hazy film over her delicately hued breasts. The slow grin that came to his lopsided lips evidenced his deep appreciation of her beauty. Her appearance gratified his sharply honed curiosity and completely appeased his reason for coming. In truth, this vision of incomparable beauty assured Colonel Tyrone Rycroft once and for all that he hadn’t conjured the Countess Synnovea in some wanton dream.

Synnovea leapt from her perch with a muffled groan of despair and flung herself far from the window to stand panting for breath in the middle of the room. Her cheeks flamed more from the scorching heat of his perusal than from the sultry confines of her prison. Now her heart kept time with her racing mind. What must he think of her? What tales would he spread of her brazen exhibition? Had she not given him enough to stare at in the bathhouse without embarrassing herself a second time? Oh, if he’d just go away! Back to England where he belonged! Without humiliating her further!

The front door creaked as it was pulled open, and Tyrone snatched his mind free of its entanglement and, sweeping off his hat, concentrated on presenting a cool-headed aplomb as he turned his gaze from the window. Whatever else came of the day, his brief glimpse of the countess had been well worth the long, blistering ride from his quarters.