Forever in Your Embrace (39 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just go!

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

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