Whatever reasons Anna had for letting her go, Synnovea was relieved to have finally been granted some freedom. Even the woman’s dire warnings to return before dusk couldn’t diminish her enthusiasm. She even went out early to wait for Stenka to pull the coach around into the drive and wasn’t at all unnerved by the fact that Aleksei came to stand near the windows of his upper-story bedroom. He couldn’t do much harm to her today.
For the outing, Synnovea had outfitted herself in a sarafan of ice-blue satin liberally adorned with seed pearls and delicate appliques of white lace. A similarly embellished kokoshniki had been settled upon her head, and a blue ribbon, sewn with the same dainty pearls, had been woven through the single dark braid. A matching cloak accompanied her, but after reaching her destination, Synnovea decided to leave the garment behind as she prepared to alight from the coach. The temperature was still warm and the sun had begun to peek intermittently through the clouds, lending her some assurance that the weather would remain clear throughout the day.
Stenka halted the conveyance a short distance from a church on Red Square, close to where the Countess Natasha Andreyevna had paused outside her own carriage. As Jozef swung open the door for his mistress, the older woman hurried across to greet her friend. Catching sight of her, Synnovea descended the steps in a lighthearted rush as Natasha laughed in glee and spread her arms wide. In a thrice of steps, the younger was enfolded within the elder’s embrace.
“I should scold you for not coming to see me,” Natasha fussed and drew back amid a profusion of tears. “Or have you forgotten that I’m not welcome at the Taraslovs?”
“Oh, Natasha, you know I haven’t,” Synnovea replied as her own gaze blurred. “But until today, Anna hasn’t allowed me to venture beyond the limits of their estate.”
Natasha searched the teary green-brown eyes. “It must be difficult for you to live under such strictures when you’ve been able to enjoy the same freedom granted to women all over England and France. Your mother laid a good foundation for you by instructing Aleksandr in the genteel deportment of an English gentleman. For a Russian, your father was surprisingly receptive to her persuasions. But then, Eleanora had a most endearing way about her.”
“A change may be coming fairly soon.”
“How so, my dear?”
Synnovea lifted a hand to caution the elder. “Mind you, there’s been no indication as yet that Anna will actually go see her ailing father. Nor should I dare suggest that she’ll grant me permission to visit you, but I rather suspect that she won’t feel too confident leaving me alone in the house with Aleksei.”
“I can hardly blame her there. The man is a rake of the first merit.” Natasha raised her brows briefly to lend emphasis to her insinuations and gently patted her young friend’s hand as she urged, “Take warning, my child.”
Synnovea’s own brows flicked upward in agreement. “Oh, I’ve learned by experience what a horrible lecher he is. I’m afraid to leave my bedchamber while that greedy crow waits to pick my bones. Once his nose is mended, he’ll likely seek revenge.”
Natasha’s elegant brows gathered in bemusement. “What happened to his nose?”
“I broke it when he accosted me.”
For a moment the older countess stared at the younger, completely flabbergasted. Then, as the humor of it settled in, she began to laugh in rampant delight. “Poor Aleksei, he’s never been abused by a woman before. ’Tis a rare one who doesn’t adore him. Hopefully, you’ve thwarted his attempts sufficiently, and he’ll be careful about approaching you in the future.”
“I really don’t think he’ll let my affront slip past without demanding some sort of restitution. The uncertainty of how and when it will come leaves me positively skittish.”
Natasha heaved a sigh, extending her sympathy toward the girl. “ ’Twould ease your situation if you could leave their house fairly soon. Do you have any idea when Anna might depart?”
“If she goes at all, it certainly won’t be until after Saturday next. That’s when she intends to honor Ivan Voronsky with a grand celebration.”
“Ivan Voronsky?” Natasha repeated the name incredulously and looked at the younger woman with growing sympathy. “Oh, my dear Synnovea, I do pity your plight. I only wish His Majesty had seen fit to send you into my care, but I’m sure he had no idea we were close friends, especially if Anna told him that I was only interested in your father. There’s no question that Tsar Mikhail thought he was doing you a favor by sending you to Anna. After all, she is his kin, and under normal circumstances it would be deemed an honor to be the ward of the tsar’s cousin. He greatly admired your father, and now that Aleksandr has been taken from us, I know His Majesty would like to be assured of your welfare, so please, try not to judge him too harshly, my dear.”
“I shan’t, of course. He proved the depth of his concern by sending Major Nekrasov to escort me to Moscow. But tell me, Natasha, if Anna does go to visit her father, will you allow me to stay with you during her absence?”
“Oh, my child, need you ask?” Natasha laughed gaily. “Of course you may! Indeed! I won’t tolerate the idea of your staying with anyone else!”
The bells in the belfry began to clang, and as the last grew silent, a lilting hymn drifted from the church. The two women turned their attention to the sweet, melodious voices that beckoned and walked arm in arm into the magnificently embellished interior. A rosy aura, softly cast from the mica windows, seemed to infuse the very air around them as they stood together in a section reserved for women and children. There, they murmured prayers, sang songs, and listened to the oration of the priest and the angelic hymns of young boys dressed in white vestments. It was a peaceful time, like so many others they had shared in the same church, except that now there would be only the two of them after the services. The memory of Aleksandr Zenkov remained sweet to each, and with tears misting their eyes, they clasped hands, silently mourning his passing.
Three hours later, the two women emerged from the church to find dark clouds looming over the city. Lightly splattering raindrops brought sweet respite and stirred forth a refreshing essence, but Synnovea was averse to seeing another gown ruined and stood in the shelter of the portico, worriedly viewing the seemingly endless breach that lay between the church and her coach. Conveyances had already become ensnared in a tangled maze created by drivers intent upon picking up their passengers without delay. Whatever open spaces remained were quickly filling with people hurrying from other churches located in the same area.
“I never expected this,” Synnovea said forlornly. It seemed like a century had passed since she had felt such freedom, and after so many weeks without rain, she couldn’t believe that it had started this very moment.
“Stenka is nearer,” Natasha declared. “We won’t have to wait as long for him to get through.”
Synnovea cast a dubious glance upward at the dark clouds. “Yes, but it may be another hour before the path clears enough for him to get through. But then, the way the sky looks, we’ll get soaked in any case.”
“I guess our only option is to run for it.” Natasha lifted her cloak and spread it wide as a shelter for them. “We’d better leave now, before we’re caught in a downpour.”
Synnovea huddled beside Natasha under the costly tent as they left the protection of the portico. They had barely ventured forth when a heavy torrent was unleashed upon them, dispersing the crowd ahead of them. Synnovea caught sight of Jozef scampering down from the footman’s seat in his eagerness to be at the door when they arrived. Presently Stenka was leaning down from his lofty bench, talking with another man, who had halted beside the coach. As the driver lifted an arm to point, the one to whom he spoke twisted about to search the crowd for her. Though garbed in an enveloping cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, the man was unmistakable. It took no more than a glimpse of that male visage to bring Synnovea to a sudden, disconcerted halt. The dauntless Colonel Rycroft had ventured forth in search of her again.
Synnovea had no opportuni
ty to retreat as he came at a run toward her, nor even a chance to react. Without warning, a force from behind struck her solidly against her back and sent her sprawling forward onto her hands and knees. The culprit, a huge, simple-minded lummox who had panicked after finding himself separated from those who led him, glanced down briefly as he plowed past her. In spite of the blinding torrent that washed down upon them, a group of strapping youths raced for their mounts, all but treading on the heels of the oaf. By the time they saw Synnovea, it was too late for an orderly evasion. They leapt over, around, and finally upon as one fell short of his goal and came down on her foot, startling a cry of pain from her lips.
Frantically Natasha pushed against those who came dangerously near, but her strength was far too flimsy against such stalwart forms. “Begone with you!” she railed from beneath her cloak. “Can’t you see where you’re going?”
In the next moment, a dark shape loomed over Synnovea, abruptly discouraging the progress of the youths, at the same time causing Natasha to stumble back in some awe. The cloaked form momentarily provided a protective screen around the girl before the man bent and gently lifted her to her feet.
Synnovea was keenly aware of Colonel Rycroft’s arm slipping around her waist and of his hard body pressing near, lending her both shelter and support as she took a limping step forward. A piercing pain shot through her ankle, causing her to wobble and smother a cry. In the next instant, she was being whisked off her feet by arms that were iron-thewed and completely capable, the very essence of a fantasy a maid might create for herself. Her pulse leapt rather strangely as he clasped her to him, and she slipped her arms around his stalwart neck with the same intensity that she had once employed when faced with the threat of drowning. His hat offered some protection from the pelting bombardment of rain, and she pressed her brow against his cheek, giving no regard for the impropriety of her actions. Tyrone lifted a shoulder to cradle her more securely against him and ran with long, sprinting strides toward her carriage, bearing her as easily as he would a child.
Utterly amazed by the boldness of the chivalrous man and, in no smaller degree, by Synnovea’s willingness to accept his aid, Natasha Andreyevna gaped after them for one short, astounded moment before she, too, scurried toward the coach, albeit at a much slower pace than that of the one who had spirited away her friend. Her cloak and slippers were now completely soaked, proving more of a hindrance than a benefit, thwarting her efforts to be on hand when the two reached the conveyance.
Jozef swung open the door, allowing the colonel to mount the step unrestricted by anything more than his winsome burden. After springing onto the step, Tyrone leaned inward to deposit Synnovea safely upon the seat. For the briefest time, his lips caressed her dampened cheek before wandering around to taste the soft mouth that parted in surprise. A quick intake of breath evidenced the lady’s astonishment as his tongue passed over her lips in a gently provocative manner and flicked ever so briefly into the moist cavern. For barely an instant, Synnovea bent toward him, yielding him access as she savored the taste of his mouth, but she remembered herself abruptly and pushed back against the cushion. Excruciatingly aware of the unseemliness of her actions, she turned her burning face aside.
“You shouldn’t kiss me in public!” she scolded in a whisper. “What if someone were to see us?” Though the downpour served as a protective shield around her coach, it was still daylight, and there was no accounting for what Jozef could see through the gaps between the window frames and the shades that had been lowered to keep out the rain.
“If you won’t let me visit you in private, my sweet, how else can I kiss you?” Tyrone reasoned with a teasing grin, drawing her furtive gaze. The dripping brim of his hat shaded his eyes and part of his face, but she could hardly ignore the fact that his gaze was riveted upon her mouth. Tyrone leaned toward her again, wanting more. “What man, after tasting your lips, can easily turn aside from such intoxicating nectar?”
With a gasp Synnovea pressed a hand to his chest to halt his advance. She didn’t need to be told what he intended; she could see it in his eyes. The inexplicable tumult he evoked within her was reason enough to be cautious. For the sake of her own emotions and the situation in which she had been cast, she’d be far better off avoiding the man, for she seemed wont to dismiss every rational thought and traditionally accepted behavior in his presence, as if she had no will of her own. “Nevertheless, Colonel, I must insist that you control your ardor ere you see me disgraced.”
“Halting the sun in the sky might prove an easier task, my lady,” he murmured warmly as his fingers stroked along the inside of her arm, quickening the rhythm of her heart as his lean knuckles brushed the sodden cloth adhering to her breast.
Synnovea was amazed at her own breathlessness and struggled to convey an indignation appropriate for an offended boyarina. “You’re too familiar in the way you handle me, sir, and if you do not desist, I shall be forced to scream.”
“Before you alert others to your cause, my lady, feel how swiftly my heart races.” He captured her hand and pressed it to his breast. “Is this the heartbeat of a frivolous suitor?”
Touching him was like being near a lightning bolt when it plunged into the ground. Synnovea could feel the force sizzling through her and every nerve standing at attention. Thoroughly unsettled by what she was experiencing, she sought to disentangle her trembling fingers from his warm grasp. “Please unhand me, Colonel,” she whispered. “You’ll have my coachmen wondering what we’re doing.”
Sensing her rising panic, Tyrone complied, yet he watched her yearningly until she had to turn her face aside from the heat his eyes conveyed. She made every effort to slide across the velvet seat, but her sodden clothes hindered her, and as she braced cautiously upon the edge of the cushion and tried to rise, he saw her wince. In growing curiosity he lifted the muddied hem, revealing an ankle that was now swollen and darkly bruised. “Why, you’ve been hurt.”
“Truly, Colonel, it’s nothing!” Synnovea insisted, blushing at his forwardness. When he sought to take her ankle within his grasp, she quickly dragged her foot away and once again saw a need to advance her escape to the far corner of the seat. “ ’Tis but a small bruise, nothing more. ’Twill heal quickly enough.”
Tyrone was thoroughly perplexed. After seeing and holding far more of her than just a shapely ankle, he couldn’t understand why she should be so abashed by his inspection. But Jozef still stood near the door, and it seemed advisable not to question the lady lest the man hear them over the deluge beating down upon the roof.
“A cold compress may help reduce the swelling,” Tyrone suggested, having dressed a variety of wounds in his years as an officer, including many of his own. “You should stay off the foot for at least a day or two, just to give it time to heal.”
“ ’Twould seem I’m indebted to you once again, Colonel.” Synnovea blinked the raindrops from her lashes and reluctantly met his unwavering regard. She could feel water trickling into the crevice between her breasts and yearned to pluck the clinging sarafan from her bosom, but that would hardly be seemly. She waited wide-eyed as his gaze delved into hers, having no idea what he searched for.
“Is something the matter?” Self-consciously she dragged her headdress off and wiped the dribbling moisture from her brow. “I know I must look a sight.”
“Aye, that you do, my lady,” he breathed huskily, admiring everything his eyes touched. “A sight I’ve rarely seen.”
“Do I look as horrible as that?” Synnovea asked in some chagrin, mistaking his words.
Tyrone chuckled softly. “As beautiful as that, you should ask, my lady.”
“You tease me, sir,” she chided, unable to subdue the subtle curving of her lips.
His grin was warmly cajoling. “The beating of my heart would surely affirm the truth of my words if you’d but give me your hand again.”
“I think not,” she whispered, finding little strength in her voice.
“Then accept my devoti
on for what it is.”
Synnovea felt a suffusing warmth eroding the barrier that she was striving hard to erect. Shoring it up proved far more difficult than she might have supposed, and she hurriedly changed the subject lest she find herself consenting to his courtship. “May we take you somewhere, Colonel?”
“There’s no need,” Tyrone declined, distracted by her beauty. “My horse is nearby.” Yet he made no effort to leave as he continued to stare at her. He was curious to know how many more aspects of her character were waiting to be glimpsed and treasured, like a collection of precious pearls on a strand. He had first seen the outraged countess clutched in the arms of her captor, then the wanton seductress taking a bath and, later, perched upon her windowsill. He had admired the winsome sprite in peasant garb, the gossamer-garbed maid in her bedchamber, and now the vulnerable young girl in need of a champion to defend her.
Though she seemed abashed by this most recent occurrence, he was crushingly aware of the strongly protective instincts that had surged within him when he had seen her in danger of being trodden upon. His reaction had been far more complex than he could rationally explain even to himself. Not so long ago he had been absolutely certain that all those softer, more vulnerable emotions a man could feel for a woman had been utterly destroyed by betrayal and deceit, and though he greatly desired to claim Synnovea as his mistress, he was not at all sure he wanted his heart entangled in a relationship that he had hitherto considered merely a rutting fever.