Forever in Your Embrace (62 page)

Though the insult was only vaguely subtle, it took Aleta a full moment before she recognized the slight against her own spouse. For a lengthy moment she stared agog at Synnovea, unable to find an adequate retort. Then her eyes hardened, and her mouth tightened, at least until she glanced beyond them. Then she brightened and hurriedly excused herself before bustling off toward the stairs and taking her leave of the pavilion.

Natasha leaned near her companion. “I sense by your chilly retorts that Aleta has given you ample cause to dislike her.”

Synnovea glowered after the departing woman. “That shameless little trollop had the nerve to accost
my
husband right in
our
chambers! That’s where she was when you went searching for her.”

“The unmitigated gall of that hussy!” Natasha’s lips curved with amusement as she glimpsed an honest display of wifely jealousy on the part of her young friend. “If I may ask, how did Tyrone handle that brazen trollop’s overture?”

Synnovea’s eyes began to dance with delight as she returned her attention to her friend. “T
hank
fully, he answered in a manner that any wife can approve of, and since neither was aware of my presence, the rebuff seemed genuine.”

“I’m glad Tyrone didn’t disappoint you, my dear, but I never thought he would. He’s quite enamored with you, you know.”

Synnovea sighed wistfully. “The same can be said of me.”

Natasha laughed in pleasure and patted her friend’s arm. “I’m glad you’ve finally arrived at that realization, my dear. It took you long enough.”

The younger suffered a twinge of surprise. “How long have you known?”

Natasha smiled contentedly. “Since he carried you to my carriage.”

The sweeping brows lifted in amazement. “That long ago?”

“Aye,” the elder assured her, “but, of course, I wasn’t with you before that day, so I really have no real ken how long you’ve actually been in love with him.”

“In love with him?” Synnovea repeated with deepening astonishment. “How can that be? Not so long ago I thought I abhorred him.”

Natasha laughed and lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “Sometimes love can hide behind different faces, my dear.”

Synnovea was still mulling over the wonder of it when she happened to glance toward the direction in which Aleta had gone. It seemed the woman’s goal had been to reach a Russian boyar whose head was being turned this way and that by every young and winsome lady who passed in front of him, but when Aleta laid a hand upon the man’s sleeve, he turned promptly to face her.

“Aleksei!” Synnovea clutched a trembling hand to her throat as a sudden vision of Tyrone hanging by his wrists loomed before her eyes.

Noticing her sudden pallor, Natasha grew immediately concerned. “Dear child, what has taken hold of you? You look as if you’ve just walked over your own grave.”

Synnovea could no more subdue her violent trembling than she could halt the memories that assailed her. “Aleksei nearly killed Tyrone for what I did, Natasha,” she stated in a voice fraught with emotion. “In my selfish quest to gain my freedom from Vladimir and choose my own husband, I nearly saw Tyrone’s life forfeited.”

“Hush, dear,” Natasha gently soothed, slipping a consoling arm around the girl’s shoulders. “That’s all in the past now. Things have turned out well in spite of everything. ’Twas Aleksei’s selfish desires that nearly saw you both undone.”

“Aye, but I see no reason for him to be here today except to cause trouble for my husband,” Synnovea replied worriedly.

“How can he, my dear? Tsar Mikhail is here to see whatever that crow might try to do. Even Aleksei wouldn’t be foolish enough to start something in front of so many important witnesses.”

“That may be true, but I still don’t trust the man,” Synnovea declared emphatically. “He’s as wily as a serpent.”

“I agree, my dear, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let that viper steal my joy.” Natasha affectionately slid an arm around the younger woman and squeezed the slender waist. “Now, let me see the radiant greeting you’ll bestow upon your husband when he rides out.”

Synnovea forced a smile and grew amused at the comical look of exasperation the elder bestowed upon her in return. Her qualms swiftly vanished. It wasn’t difficult at all to accept Natasha’s reasoning. Aleksei was too shrewd and too much of a coward to start trouble in a place where he’d likely suffer defeat. Hadn’t he proven himself recreant on the night of Tyrone’s flogging, letting Ladislaus or his men confront whatever danger lurked in wait for them before he dared to venture forth?

“You’ve always been as wise as my own dear mother, Natasha,” Synnovea assured her friend. “It’s comforting to hear such sage advice.”

“Considering the fact that your mother and I were the dearest of friends, I’ll accept that as an enormous compliment, my dear,” the countess replied with a radiant smile.

“Me lamb, look!” Ali cried from nearby. Nearly jumping up and down in her excitement, the tiny maid pointed toward the mounted troop advancing across the field. At the vanguard rode Tyrone, resplendently bedecked in a short red doublet embellished with braid and looped cords of shining gold and trimmed with midnight green around the cuffs and the banded collar. Matching green breeches were tucked into sleek black boots polished to a glossy sheen. The narrow brim of his silver helmet was worn low over his brow, and a red plume adorned the headgear, signifying him as the commander of the regiment, the smaller unit of which rode behind him now. The feather was readily visible as it dipped and fluttered in the buffeting breezes, allowing Synnovea to locate him easily as he and his men rode across the grounds to pay homage to the tsar. They saluted His Majesty, who acknowledged their presence with a wave of his hand, and in response, the cavalry unit returned to the center of the field and took up their positions.

Synnovea’s heart began to beat with swiftly expanding exhilaration as the trumpets sounded a fanfare. In the next moment the horns fell silent, and a low rumble of drums began. The volume grew by ever-strengthening degrees until the drumbeats became pulsing vibrations that matched the smoothly sweeping advance of the mounted Hussars. The men rode as if they were of one body and in complete harmony with their steeds, seeming firmly attached to their saddles, contributing to the graceful smoothness of their ride as they performed a maze of maneuvers that held Synnovea spellbound. In rapt attention she watched the cavalrymen approach. Upon nearing His Majesty’s pavilion, they split in twain and circled the grounds in opposite directions. As they did, the two lines separated into smaller units, becoming echelons of riders who crisscrossed the paths of others from the opposing string before merging again in a dazzling, intertwining exhibition of horsemanship. A moment later, they divided once more, this time in squared-off columns. After another circling sweep around the field, they melded like cards being shuffled together. On and on they rode in intricately performed equitation, fascinating the spectators, whose gasps of pleasure and frequent applause attested to their enthusiasm.

The thrills intensified for Synnovea soon after the troop began to execute its maneuvers in front of the pavilion where the wives had gathered. Ali skittered about like an excited hen, pointing at the colonel and boasting to other servants that he was her master. Even a warning twitch or two on her skirts by her mistress wasn’t enough to remind the maid to pay attention to proper decorum.

“Magnificent!” Natasha exclaimed.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he,” Synnovea murmured, completely absorbed in watching her handsome husband. With sudden certainty, she knew that none of the other regiments would be able to thrill the tsar as much as Tyrone’s troop now did. If her own reaction was any indication, then His Majesty’s heart would be nigh thumping out of his chest.

The corners of Natasha’s lips lifted in a sublime smile as she cast a glance askance at her companion. “I was talking about the performance in general, my dear, but of course I agree with you. Your husband has always been quite impressive, even before you realized that fact.”

Synnovea’s cheeks pinkened lightly as she glanced in some embarrassment at her friend, but Natasha’s laughter was warm and inviting, completely infectious. Synnovea’s own amusement rallied, and together the two yielded to their bubbling mirth.

Zelda left her own husband to tend to his duties in the tsar’s pavilion shortly after Tyrone’s unit had ridden off the field, and hurried over to join her friends. “What did I tell you, Synnovea?” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “Isn’t your husband magnificent?”

Natasha and Synnovea relented to their merriment again, completely bewildering Zelda until Synnovea laughingly explained that they had just been elaborating on that very fact. Zelda joined them in their amusement, nodding in agreement.

The princess was nearly bubbling with excitement. “Vassili said there are many
boyarinas
and daughters and wives of foreign officers who are of the same mind,” she eagerly confided as another troop rode onto the parade grounds. “You’ll likely be seeing a fair sampling of the colonel’s ardent following when this affair is over, my dear. The women simply adore him and will probably rush upon him to offer their congratulations, so be warned.”

Synnovea smiled at the animated ebullience of the princess. “What do you suggest that I do to stake my claim upon him?”

“Didn’t your husband tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Why, my dear, it has become a private tradition among the wives and fiancees to present their colors to their men.” Zelda was surprised that her friend hadn’t yet been informed, but then, she could understand a man not wanting his loved one to think that he was demanding such an honor. “By doing so, you’ll be able to frustrate the hopes and aspirations of all the women who desire to have your husband as their own. I’m sure there are many who’ve become cognizant of the fact that in the past, Colonel Rycroft has finished these affairs without a special lady in attendance. Just as many have no ken of his recent marriage and will no doubt try to offer their colors as consolation.”

Synnovea’s eyes clouded with sudden concern. “But Tyrone didn’t tell me. What must I do when I have no colors to give him?”

Thoughtfully Zelda scanned Synnovea’s apparel and took note of the scarf that was casually draped over her shoulders. “Your shawl will certainly suffice. It must go around his waist, you know, so it should be about the right size.” Glancing toward the older countess, she asked, “Would you deem it suitable, Natasha?”

“Absolutely,” that one agreed cheerily. “ ’Twill be the most gorgeous of the colors received here today.”

The last group of Hussars concluded their performance and vacated the field. Then the commanders led their troops in order of appearance in a final review before the tsar’s stand. If the applause was an indication of the one which the spectators thought offered the finest performance, then it was thunderous enough to evoke cringes of pain when Tyrone’s unit passed in review.

At the conclusion of the event, the officers dismissed their men and rode back to the pavilion where their families awaited them. As Tyrone swung down from his mount, nearly a score of young women hastened forward in an eager quest to be at the vanguard of those who met him. Vying for attention, they fawned over him, stroking their hands caressingly along his sleeves, patting his back, and complimenting him profusely on his horsemanship. As Zelda had predicted, many clasped scarves in their hands and were desirous of having the distinction of being the one to wrap her color around his lean waist.

Tyrone politely demurred their offers, evoking disappointed sighs, and upon leaving them, briskly mounted the pavilion steps. As he strode toward his wife, his eyes melded in warm communication with hers, and though nothing more than a grin came from his lips, he revealed his pleasure with her appearance in a slowly exacting perusal that swept the length of her. When he halted before her, he leaned down to brush a kiss upon her cheek, daring much by his display of affection. He gathered her slender fingers into his, squeezing them fondly. “This is the first time my heart has soared with so much pride after one of these events,” he said in a husky murmur. “I never fully realized until now what I was missing. I wish I could kiss you as I yearn to do.”

Her soft lips curved in a radiant smile as her eyes plumbed the depths of those sparkling orbs. “I suppose we shouldn’t be so forward while we have such a vast audience of onlookers. You seem to be the darling of the parade, sir. Even so, it would be nice to claim you with a kiss. In lieu of that, I must resort to other methods.” Synnovea drew forth the shawl, which she had folded and draped over her arm. “I’ve been told that it’s customary for wives and sweethearts to present their men with tokens of their regard. Would you honor me by accepting my colors, sir?”

“With great delight, madam,” Tyrone breathed warmly. Retreating a step, he spread his arms and waited as she wrapped and knotted the scarf around his waist. When she lifted her head and offered him a loving smile, he could resist no longer. Ignoring proper decorum, he placed a soft kiss upon her mouth, which rapidly slackened in surprise. Astonished gasps were wrenched from older matrons, while giggling twitters were elicited from the younger women who had followed him into the pavilion and then had watched from a discreet distance. Tyrone paid neither group heed as he lost himself in the warmly glowing green-brown orbs. “That will have to suffice until we get back to our bedchamber, my sweet.”