Forever in Your Embrace (67 page)

“Behave, or you’ll regret it,” Synnovea warned, slapping his knuckles.

“You’re too beautiful for that possibility,” he muttered in a low, husky tone. Leaning forward, he brushed aside the garment and sought to take her nipple into his mouth.

“I said, behave!” Synnovea reached down and twisted a few hairs on his chest, eliciting a wince of pain from him. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to dissolve in bliss and let him see just how slavish she had become to his ardor.

Rubbing his stinging chest, Tyrone complained. “Woman, you have a way of wrenching the heart right out of a man.”

An elegant eyebrow rose challengingly as Synnovea clasped her robe together and once more knotted the tie. “And you, sir, have a way of wrenching the heart right out of me. I have no idea how I’m supposed to react to your overtures when our marriage could likely be dissolved at your bidding.”

“I’ve already offered you assurances. What more can I do?” Growing a little vexed at having to explain again, he set her from him and came to his feet. “Although you might not recall it, madam, you were actually there when I bade the tsar to forget the petition.”

“Sit down.” Synnovea pushed him back into the chair, dissatisfied with his assurances. She wanted to hear something more, something he was obviously reluctant to yield to her. “I’m not through cutting your hair.”

“Why don’t you just cut it off and be done with it!” Tyrone muttered sourly. This wasn’t going at all according to his aspirations.

She looked pointedly toward his lap where the towel had ridden up. Anger did seem to have a way of chilling his desires. “I don’t think you’d sit still for that.”

“Hell and damnation!” Tyrone retorted, clasping the cloth over his manhood. “Would you sever my cod, too?”

“Don’t curse at me,” Synnovea scolded, pouting. “I’m your wife, not one of the men in your regiment.”

“I don’t need to be told that, madam,” he retorted. “Not one of them is as fetching—or as reluctant to accept what I say as fact.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t dare! You’d scald their ears with your tirade if they didn’t heed every little command you uttered, which brings us back to the point that I was trying to make. I’m your wife, and I won’t be cursed at.”

“If this is the way we’re going to spend the day, I’m going back to camp,” Tyrone grumbled, rising to his feet again.

Synnovea laid a hand upon his chest and, pressing him back into the chair, moved in closer, giving him no room to stand. She didn’t want him to leave, especially when he was angry. Her fingers idly brushed at the hairs on his shoulder as she spoke in a husky murmur. “I said I wasn’t finished, Ty. Now please sit still until I am.”

Grinding his teeth in vexation, Tyrone forced himself to endure the clipping. His mood had turned cantankerous beneath her chiding and her refusal to listen to reason. Since he would be gone fairly soon, he had held some hope of their being able to pass the day on more congenial terms. Now that seemed unlikely.

Ignoring her husband’s lowering scowl, Synnovea worked the scissors around his ear, not caring how her dressing gown fell away from her bosom as she neatened the area. Gradually Tyrone’s irritation ebbed as his eyes began to feast on the sights so near at hand. She twisted slightly to judge the results of her work, giving him ample opportunity to view the ripe orbs beneath her robe. Dissatisfied with what she had done thus far, Synnovea straddled his leg and trimmed the hair near his temple. Then she moved behind his back to cut the hair around his nape, working her way around to the front again. Upon facing him again, she stepped astride his other thigh to clip his sideburns.

“There!” she said at last, tucking her robe between her legs and perching on a sturdy limb to consider the finished task. The fact that her bare knee rested lightly against his loins didn’t seem to affect her, yet Tyrone was now of a different bent.

Smoothing the shortened hair beneath her hand, Synnovea commended her own efforts. “It looks good!”

“Am I allowed to move now?” Tyrone queried, running a hand caressingly up her thigh.

As if awakening from a daze, Synnovea met his gaze directly and recognized the passion smoldering in those shining depths of deep blue. In quickening response, her own pulse leapt with fire. “If you wish.”

Tyrone leaned near and gently plied her lips with warming kisses as he tugged the ties of her robe loose and pulled it down from her shoulders. Then his hands moved in a slowly ascending voyage from her hips, skimming upward over her ribs until they clasped her soft breasts. His mouth lowered, and a warm, licking torch stroked across the pinnacle of a breast, snatching Synnovea’s breath and awakening her desires until she closed her eyes with the ecstasy of it, basking in the delights he aroused within her.

Beyond the framework of the windows on the eastern side, the sun hovered behind a thin layer of clouds, and in the muted light, her pale bosom gleamed with a soft, lustrous sheen, contrasting with the bronze visage that pressed into the velvety softness. Synnovea braced her hands upon his wide shoulders, arching her back as his mouth and tongue bestirred her senses, nearly devouring her. When finally he raised his head, she met his searching lips with a fierce passion that matched his own. Her hand swept downward between them, past the lean waist and the flat, hard belly, until she clasped the fullness of his manhood. For a moment Tyrone closed his eyes and yielded himself completely to her will. When he opened them again, his gaze probed hers as his hand moved down to stroke along her thigh. Synnovea made a valiant effort to turn away from the hypnotic power that held her transfixed, half afraid she would lose herself in those pools of blue, but when his open mouth came upon hers, his searing kiss went through her, compelling her to yield to him everything he wanted. She was lifted briefly and then resettled astride his naked loins. Small, scintillating shards of excitement washed through her at the warmth of his intrusion, and for a long moment they savored the coupling, embracing and kissing, touching and being touched, as only lovers in love are wont to do. Then her hips began to answer his, leisurely at first, and then with a strengthening rhythm as the liquid fire surged through them, sweeping them along on a towering wave of molten passion until the brilliance of their passion burst upon them with a stunning radiance.

It was midafternoon when the couple went downstairs to visit with Natasha in the great room. The older woman could hardly mistake their change of attitude. Each of them now seemed reluctant to be apart from the other for even a short distance or a brief space of time. They held hands like lovers entranced and were wont to exchange unswerving looks that warmly communicated things beyond the discernment of others, except that Natasha knew and understood, having once experienced a great love herself. Synnovea’s soft gazes clearly revealed her preoccupation with her husband, which reaffirmed Natasha’s belief that the girl’s devotion ran deeper than mere infatuation. As for Tyrone, he was clearly involved with his young wife. His eyes devoured her every movement, every smile, every questioning glance. He answered her, asked her opinions, listened to her with interest as he entwined his long, lean fingers with her slender ones or laid an arm around her shoulders to bring her close against his side. Neither of them appeared the least bit abashed by their ardent display of affection, but laughed when they found Natasha smiling in teary joy as she observed them together.

When they retired at an early hour that evening, Natasha was far from surprised. She cautioned Ali to stay away from their chambers until she was summoned, and it was not until midmorning of the next day that the servant was bidden to join her mistress downstairs in the bathing chamber. For the first time in her life, Synnovea felt strangely embarrassed by her own nakedness in front of the woman, but when Tyrone entered a few moments later, no protecting towel was called for. Instead, Ali was banished upstairs where she contented herself by laying out her mistress’s clothes for the day and humming gleefully.

Natasha declined Tyrone’s invitation to join them on an outing, having accepted Adolphe’s plea to spend the day with him and his daughter. Finding himself alone with his young wife, Tyrone was hardly disappointed. Still, he brooded over his growing reluctance to leave her. While Stenka took them on a tour of the city, they discussed a variety of matters, at times serious, other times sensually explicit and titillating as Synnovea probed his manly knowledge and experience. Then there were moments when he listened attentively to the story of her childhood or to her suggestions as to what gifts they should buy for Sophia, Ali, and Natasha, just in case he’d be gone for an extended period of time and be unable to share with them the joy of
Svyatki,
the Christmas season.

As the days had sped past, bringing his scheduled departure ever nearer, Tyrone’s thoughts had turned increasingly inward, and he found himself mulling over his affairs like a man whose days were severely numbered. In his military career he had always had to face the possibility that he might not come back from a campaign, but now he felt a desire to make Synnovea understand that if anything happened to him, she would be welcomed by his family if she should have a desire or a need to visit England. Now that there was a chance that he would leave an heir, he didn’t think it right that his parents or his grandmother only receive word of his death and never learn of his wife and the child they had made together. While privately ensconced with Synnovea in the coach, he took the opportunity to reassure her that his family would want to know about her should he be killed, but his statement filled her with dread, and for one brief moment she stared at him as if all her joy had been vanquished.

“I couldn’t bear your loss, Ty,” she croaked against the tears that welled up within her as he enfolded her against his chest. “You must come back to me.”

“I’ll do my best, madam,” Tyrone murmured against her brow. “Now that I have found you, I pray desperately that I may come back.”

“Oh, you must! You must!”

“Dry your tears, my love,” he coaxed gently. “We’ll be leaving the carriage soon, and people will wonder why you’ve been crying. They’ll think I’ve been mistreating you in some fashion.”

Synnovea laughed at the absurdity of such a notion and, sitting up, dabbed at her reddened eyes and blew her nose with a dainty handkerchief. Then she lifted her gaze to her husband’s softly querying smile. “Is that better?”

Suddenly struck by the full import of how miserable he would be away from her, Tyrone clasped her to him again and seized her lips in an ardent kiss. “I pray the time may go swiftly,” he muttered as his mouth lifted to hover over hers. “I cannot bear to think of leaving you and not being able to see you, touch you, love you.”

Clinging to him, Synnovea strove to be brave. “A month or two from now, the anguish will be over and I’ll be welcoming you back into my arms. We must take courage now and pray that no harm comes to you.”

Tyrone glanced around as Stenka halted the carriage in Red Square. Then he faced his young wife again with a desperate plea. “We’ve so little time together. Let us not waste it all here, where I cannot hold you or kiss you as I yearn to do. I’d like to return home as soon as possible.”

Synnovea slipped a trembling hand into his, blinking away a fresh start of tears. “We’ll hurry, my dearest.”

Arm in arm, the couple hastened off toward the markets of Kitaigorod, leaving Stenka and Jozef waiting with the coach. After making their selections, they returned with their gifts, a golden necklace for Natasha, a lace-trimmed nightgown and woolen shawl for Ali, a dress for Danika, and a doll and a brightly decorated wooden dollhouse for Sophia.

Tyrone lifted Synnovea into the conveyance and was about to climb in behind her when he noticed his second-in-command waving to him from afar, trying to gain his attention through the milling crowd. Pledging to return in a moment, Tyrone left his wife and hastened through the throng to where Grigori awaited him.

“You seem happier than I’ve seen you looking for some time, my friend,” Grigori remarked with a smile. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

Tyrone’s brows gathered in bemusement. He sensed that something dire was troubling the man, but he had no idea what it could be. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come over to the carriage to speak to me there?”

The captain’s face clouded. “I didn’t think your wife should hear the news I bear, of which you, my friend, need to be made aware. Aleta is pregnant, and General Vanderhout is boiling mad. He swears it’s not his.”

“How can he be so sure of that unless they haven’t been sleeping together?”

“Which seems to be the way of it. I heard it whispered that he’s suffering some infectious malady of late that prevents him from indulging his wife’s appetites.”

“Infectious malady?” Tyrone frowned in confusion. “You mean—”

Grigori held up a hand to halt the flood of questions that seemed to be on the very tip of the colonel’s tongue. “Again I’ve heard it whispered that he’s been forced to consider what wench gave it to him, for he hasn’t been exactly faithful to Aleta either.”