Forever in Your Embrace (19 page)

Synnovea tried once again to make him aware of what he chanced. “Whether you intend mayhem or not, Colonel, you’ll likely ruin my good name if you’re found here in my room. I must insist that you leave. You’re taking liberties which will likely have serious repercussions. At the very least, the Taraslovs will see you imprisoned for trying to accost me and will send me to a monastery.”

The smiling blue eyes delved into hers as he cajoled in a hushed tone, “I’ll leave if you truly insist, my lady, but I’d go more readily if you’d give me a token to remember you by.”

Synnovea was immediately suspicious and managed a faint question. “Such as?”

Tyrone’s eyes wandered leisurely over her, taking in as much detail as the meager light afforded him. A single braid fell over one shoulder, leading his eyes downward to where the robe softly molded her round breasts. The memory of their unconfined perfection and her lithe, shapely form lingered in his mind, haunting him through the days and making his nights a blissful torment. After a man had glimpsed such a rare, perfect vision, how could he find ease for his body and rest for his mind until he had made such a goddess his own?

Synnovea could hardly ignore where his gaze wandered, and though her breasts tingled beneath the languid caress of his gaze, she thought it prudent to warn him. “Your eyes give away the direction of your thoughts, Colonel, so I’d advise you to leave here ere I start screaming, because I don’t intend to keep still while you force yourself upon me.”

“ ’Twould be a dreadful shame if any man ever took you against your will, my lady,” Tyrone murmured, imagining the passion that would be sacrificed by such brutishness. “I ask nothing more from you than a scented handkerchief or a lock of your hair,” he murmured huskily. “If you’re in a mood to be generous, a painted miniature would serve as a sweet reminder of your beauty. A kiss would even send me away in rapture.”

His suggestion sent a strange thrill coursing through her veins and a brighter hue flooding into her cheeks, but Synnovea hastened to act the outraged maid, no matter how inappropriate it had been for her to let him into her bedroom. “You’re impertinent to suggest such a thing, sir. Why, I don’t even know you.”

Tyrone lifted his wide shoulders, casually rejecting such logic. “How can you say that, my lady, when we’ve shared pleasures few others would dare indulge in outside the bonds of marriage?”

“
You
may have indulged in them, Colonel, but I certainly did not,” Synnovea declared, trying to subdue the blushing heat that nearly stifled her. No matter how many times she had allowed herself to bask in the giddy detail of their bathhouse meeting, she now sought to issue quick death to the notion that she had relished such an occasion. “Believe me, sir, I cringe every time I think of you lurking in the pool like some wily sea serpent waiting to consume his victim.”

Though Tyrone had in recent hours indulged his imagination by devouring her in a variety of lascivious ways, it was definitely a fantasy too lewd to confess to an untried maid. With a soft chuckle, he folded his arms across his chest and assumed an air of unyielding tenacity. “If you won’t give me a kiss, then I shall sit here until I gain a more permanent reminder. A lock of hair, a handkerchief…a tiny portrait…”

Synnovea had no doubt that the contumacious colonel would carry through with his threat and enjoy every moment of his stay in her room. He had already proven his dedication to visiting her in spite of Anna’s attempts to dissuade him. If she didn’t give him the gift he sought, she’d never get any peace…or sleep.

Synnovea approached him cautiously as she searched his features in the shifting light. “If I give you something of that nature, Colonel Rycroft, will you promise to leave posthaste? I fear someone will overhear us if you stay much longer.”

Recognizing the plaintive appeal in her soft tone, Tyrone smiled into those darkly translucent orbs. “A portrait would almost be as nice as a kiss.”

“You…you wouldn’t boast to others if I were to give you one, would you?”

“I would keep it close against my breast to hasten the beat of my heart,” he promised warmly. “No one would see it but me, that much I swear as a knight and an officer.”

Synnovea dipped her head, accepting his word. “Then I shall grant your request, but only because you saved me from Ladislaus.”

Tyrone’s eyes caressed her softly lit face. He was no less amazed now by the regal beauty of her delicate features than he had been that night in the tenebrous gloom of the bathhouse. No maid had ever ensnared his mind as firmly as she had, and though he sought to pass his infatuation off as simply a fleeting fancy awakened by his lengthy celibacy, she was the only one with whom he yearned to appease himself in the months and years to come. “I’d treasure the gift far better if you’d give it with some tender sentiment, Synnovea.”

“I dare not encourage you,” she demurred. “You’ve evinced your gall by entering my bedroom in the dead of night without concern for the danger you might be in.”

“The few moments I spend with you are worth whatever dangers I invite,” he breathed warmly.

“You mustn’t come back like this again,” she insisted. “Your persistence in visiting me will see your life forfeited ere you’re aware of the jeopardy. If you have no care for the danger you’re in, then I must discourage you in taking similar chances by assuring you that in the future I will ignore your clandestine summons though you throw large rocks through my windows. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Good!” Heaving a sigh of relief, Synnovea set the candle on a nearby table and went to rummage through the upper compartment of her largest trunk. Upon finding the miniature that had once belonged to her father, she clutched it near her heart, remembering that her parent had always taken it with him wherever he had gone away. In a way, it seemed a betrayal of his affection to give it to a man who was hardly more than a stranger, yet when the Englishman had saved her honor and possibly her life by risking his own, was he not deserving of such a gift?

Synnovea could feel the blue eyes feeding upon her every movement as she returned to the window. Those shining orbs gave her cause to wonder if the man could see through her dressing gown, for they appeared to dwell overlong on her soft curves. Handing him the portrait, she watched for a long moment as he admired the image.

Finally he raised his head and smiled at her. “I shall treasure it always, my lady.”

“Please be careful that you don’t awaken anyone making your departure,” she urged cautiously. “Most boyars are suspicious of foreigners, and with your English garb, they’ll likely shoot you for the sheer pleasure of it.”

Slipping her gift inside his doublet, Tyrone tucked it into the pocket resting over his heart. “I’m encouraged by your concern for me, Synnovea,” he replied in a husky whisper. “It gives me hope that you like me well enough to at least consider my courtship once I’ve gained proper approval. Perhaps you’ll even come willingly into my arms one day.”

“Princess Anna will never allow it,” Synnovea stated emphatically. “She hates foreigners, and your audacity has only intensified her dislike for you.”

“My heart bleeds with remorse.” Tyrone heaved a sigh of regret, but his lopsided grin completely nullified his claim.

A smile stretched across Synnovea’s lips. “Aye, I can see that you’re terribly grieved by her lack of veneration for you, so much so that you seem to be having trouble controlling your mirth.”

His eyebrows flicked upward briefly. “In truth, I care not a whit what she thinks about me and would be much heartened if she’d take a long voyage across the ocean so I can court you without her interference.”

Synnovea dared not tell him that a similar occurrence might well be in the offing. If he had ignored Anna’s efforts to get rid of him before, then Synnovea could imagine how bold he’d become once the path was clear. “No more of that now,” she admonished and, with an outward flick of her fingers, urged him to take his leave. “Hold to your promise and go before I lose patience with you.”

“Only a moment more of your time,” he murmured, settling his hands lightly on her narrow waist and drawing her between the spread of his legs. He felt her stiffen in sudden apprehension, but with another whispered promise that he wouldn’t harm her, he leaned forward and pressed his softly parted mouth upon hers. Synnovea was too astonished to even think of resisting and endured his kiss with growing awe, hardly aware that her lips slackened beneath his, allowing his tongue to flick briefly inward.

Long after Tyrone had made his departure, Synnovea wondered at the gift that he had given her as she stood with trembling fingers pressed to her smiling mouth. For some reason the night seemed sweeter, the moon brighter, the air cooler…and her heart warmer.

A
n early-morning breeze wafted over the city as Tsar Mikhail Fyodorovich Romanov strolled leisurely along the walk stretching atop the Kremlin’s high wall. His dark eyes closely followed the mounted regiment that practiced its riding skills down below in the vast, open area of Red Square. The horsemanship of the commander of the elite cavalry unit easily claimed his attention. Except for perhaps the Cossacks, who could mesmerize the casual observer with their daring equestrian skills, Mikhail had seen few riders that equaled the talent of this Englishman, but then, it was not the first time the colonel had been brought to his attention.

In speaking to several Russian generals, General Vanderhout had boasted of his own successful accomplishments in devising the tactics that had supposedly directed a detachment from his foreign-led division in a foray against a large band of thieves a day’s distance from the city, but Mikhail had been much enlightened when he had asked the newly promoted Major Nekrasov to report on Countess Zenkovna’s journey to Moscow. He had heard a tale of highwaymen, led by a bastard of Polish and Cossack descent, attacking the young
boyarina’s
entourage and then, without prior design, being put to flight by a certain English colonel and the Russian Hussars he had trained, part of the same regiment which, unbeknownst to them, performed for the tsar now.

The crisp performance and pulsing cadence of the mounted horsemen struck Mikhail’s heart with fervor as he watched from his elevated position. The helmeted heads turned in unison at the sharp count of their commander, and beneath the gilded rays of the morning sun, their swords flashed in dazzling brilliance as the men lifted those weapons high for a moment and then snapped them blunt-side against their shoulders. It was a presentation Mikhail had not previously witnessed, but an exercise he was just beginning to realize he greatly enjoyed. He’d have to make a point of meeting this Englishman in the near future, he decided. Obviously the officer had a flair for organizing flamboyant exhibitions in an open field as well as effectively proving his military prowess in actual combat.

Mikhail cocked his head thoughtfully and peered askance at his officer of the guard, who stood just beyond the field marshal. “Major Nekrasov?”

At the summons, the officer approached forthwith and, with a briskly executed salute, paid a soldier’s obeisance to his sovereign. “Yours to command, Great Tsar of all the Russias.”

Mikhail clasped his hands behind him as his eyes lightly skimmed the neatly uniformed officer. “Major Nekrasov, do you speak English?”

Nikolai was somewhat taken aback by the question, but answered without hesitation. “Yes, Your Exalted Worship.”

“Good! Then you may kindly inform the commander of the regiment which we’re now viewing that I would like an opportunity to address him within the next several days. Tell him to make a request for an audience in the petitioner’s box. He’ll be informed some days hence of my reply. Do you have any questions?”

“None, Your Excellency.”

“The man is a foreigner,” Mikhail stated thoughtfully. “Instruct him on the diplomacy of the court so he may not embarrass himself or cause me to see him unduly punished because another has been offended.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“That is all.”

Nikolai abruptly clasped an arm across his breast and went down on a knee before the tsar, who, with a casual gesture, granted him dismissal. The major took his leave with great dispatch and descended to the ground level through the closest tower. Hastening across the field toward the tightly maneuvering riders, he hailed the commander of the Hussars.

“Colonel Rycroft!” he called and, after failing to gain a response a second time, advanced another lengthy space before trying once more to be heard above the clattering hooves and sharply barked commands. “Colonel Rycroft!”

Finally the summons penetrated the din, and Tyrone reined his mount around to face the one who approached. Recognizing the major, he gave a nod to Captain Tverskoy, temporarily yielding the drilling of the cavalry unit to his second-in-command. As he awaited the rapidly approaching officer, Tyrone pushed back the leather helm and wiped a knuckle across his sweat-dappled brow.

“Colonel Rycroft!” Nikolai cried again with great excitement as he halted beside the Englishman’s steed. “His Majesty, the tsar, would like to see you!” He raised an arm and, half turning, pointed toward the high wall, directing the colonel’s gaze upward to the men who stood there. “He has been watching you for some time now!”

Tyrone raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted up at the small cluster of high-ranking officers who had gathered there. “What do you suppose he wants with me?”