Tyrone mentally detached himself from his musings and chuckled as he glanced down at his own wet garb. “Neither of us is in any condition to offer comfort to the other, my lady, at least not in a way that would be proper.” If he hadn’t been thoroughly convinced that she’d turn him down flat, he would have invited her to his quarters, but he knew the foolishness of rushing her. It was far better to cool his heels and his hot blood until he could be assured of her willingness to yield him everything he desired.
Lightly touching the brim of his hat, Tyrone met the troubled eyes that watched him so intently. “Another time…Synnovea.”
Whirling, he stepped down from the footrest and immediately had to dance aside to avoid colliding with Natasha, who, beneath the shelter of her cloak, had been forging head-downward through the driving rain. His encroaching form caused her head to snap up in surprise. Just as swiftly, her jaw plummeted. Once again Natasha found herself confronting a looming height and shoulders that looked no less than immense beneath sodden rain gear. Taken aback with a fair amount of awe, she gaped up into lean features and shadowed eyes, unable to voice an intelligible greeting.
A stiff twitch of a smile accompanied Tyrone’s muttered apology. Then, tugging his hat down lower over his brow, he hunched his shoulders against the pummeling droplets and swung up onto the back of his steed. After a brief backward glance toward the coach, he rode away.
Synnovea felt as if the glow had just been taken from the day. The memory of her name being breathed in a soft caressing sigh from Tyrone’s lips filled her with a secret pleasure that made her smile, but she promptly squelched it as Jozef handed her companion into the interior.
Natasha felt definitely akin to a drowned rat as she dragged her rain-soaked skirts through the door and fell back into the seat beside her young friend. Considering her difficulty in reaching the shelter, she might have paused at least to catch her breath, but she was much more interested in learning the identity of the stranger who had rushed to the assistance of her beautiful companion. “My goodness, dear, you certainly attracted the attention of a most capable protector. He seemed quite willing to move heaven and earth to keep you from harm.”
The woman paused, noting Synnovea’s sudden and decidedly nervous preoccupation with her ankle. It wasn’t at all difficult to imagine the girl’s reluctance to discuss the incident, and Natasha deftly turned the conversation to another matter. “I’ll be most upset with you, Synnovea, if you haven’t made plans to come home with me today for a visit. You left some clothes there the last time you visited with your father, and since you don’t have to be back until later, I’d be immensely pleased if you’d stay and chat with me for as long as you dare.”
Synnovea laughed, feeling her discomfiture easing. “I’d be delighted to stay for the rest of the afternoon if you’d have me,” she assured the woman. “I loathe the idea of returning to the Taraslovs, especially while Aleksei lurks in wait for me there. Spending time with you will serve as a healing balm, for which I’m in dire need. Still, I mustn’t be late or Anna will find some way to discipline me.”
Natasha’s heart went out to the young woman. It seemed a visit would do them both good, of that she had no doubt. Directing her attention to the soggy footman, she gave him a smiling nod. “Your mistress will be joining me at my home, Jozef, so we can be off now if you’re inclined to leave this deluge.”
“That I am, my lady,” he replied with a chuckle and closed the door. The coach swayed slightly as he climbed to his rear seat, and a brief moment later, Stenka set the horses into motion.
Synnovea dragged off the sodden headdress and heaved a wistful sigh in distraction. “He always catches me at my worst.”
In spite of the pelting rain, the softly whispered complaint reached Natasha’s ears, kindling her curiosity to a roaring flame. “Who, dear?”
Realizing she had been caught thinking aloud, Synnovea tossed Natasha a glance askance and lifted her shoulders in an evasive shrug. “No one, Natasha. No one at all.”
“Oh,” the elder muttered glumly, slumping back against the seat in disappointment. She knew the girl would never tell when it was a matter she held dear, and evidently the topic of the stranger was a subject Synnovea preferred keeping to herself. If the maid’s reaction served as an indication, then Natasha was inclined to believe that whoever the tall man was, he had already made quite an impression on her young friend. Natasha sighed forlornly. “I suppose I must remain ignorant of the identity of the gallant gentleman who carried you to the coach, for it’s clear you have no intention of confiding in me.”
In restive unease, Synnovea dismissed the matter. “ ’Twas no one of any import, Natasha. Really.”
The elder countess responded with a sublime smile. “Nevertheless, I can see that you’ve been thoroughly unsettled by the man.”
A deep blush stained Synnovea’s cheeks, and in an attempt to turn aside the other woman’s curiosity, she feigned distress over her sodden gown. “Ruined! Absolutely ruined! And it was one of my favorite gowns!”
“You did look exquisite in it,” Natasha reflected aloud. “But then, my dear, you look exquisite in anything you wear. I’m sure that’s why you attracted your friend in the first place. He seems quite taken with you.”
“He’s not my friend,” Synnovea insisted.
Natasha smiled smugly. “Well, my dear, from what I could see of the two of you through the rain, he certainly wasn’t your enemy. Tell me, what does Anna think about him?”
“He’s an Englishman. Need I say more?”
Some understanding dawned as Natasha considered the other’s flushed cheeks. “Then Anna has forbidden him to visit you.”
Synnovea nodded mutely and desperately scoured her thoughts in search of another subject upon which they could comfortably converse. She almost relaxed as she recalled the reason she had wanted to see her friend in the first place. “Dear Natasha, please forgive me for being so bold, but Anna’s cook has a sister who, though ailing now, will be needing work when she improves. Do you have some kind of position she can fill?”
Natasha wasted no moment in asking, “Can she cook?”
A vague shrug accompanied Synnovea’s reply. “I fear I know very little about Danika’s capabilities, other than the fact that she’s in need, but I can certainly ask Elisaveta what her experiences have been.”
“If she can cook, send her around when she’s well,” Natasha suggested. “My old cook died since you last visited me, and I need to find a replacement ere I lose my wits trying to teach the scullery maid how to boil water. You know, with all the guests I have, the meals can be something of a disaster without a proper cook on hand.”
“The woman has a child at her side,” Synnovea cautioned her friend. “A daughter of three.”
Natasha smiled at the idea. “ ’Twould be delightful to hear the laughter of a young child around the house. Sometimes I get so lonesome in that huge place, in spite of all the company I have. The house needs a little sparkle to brighten its dark mood. And if you’re kept from my side, dear Synnovea, then I must find another little girl to cherish.” Her lengthy sigh hinted of a nostalgic mood. “I wish I could’ve had children of my own. As you know, I outlived three husbands, but none of them could get me with a child, as much as I wanted one. I’ve long despaired of my barren state.”
Synnovea reached out a hand to rest it with genuine affection upon the elder’s. “I shall always think of you as a woman I’ve loved nearly as dearly as my own mother, Natasha.”
Bright tears blurred the woman’s dark eyes as she looked upon the other with great fondness. “And you, my dear, beautiful Synnovea, are the daughter I never had, but desperately wanted so very much.”
Several days elapsed after Synnovea’s initial meeting with Natasha before she was again allowed to venture beyond the boundaries of the Taraslov manse. Having heeded the colonel’s advice for her ankle, she had suffered no longer than a pair of days. At present, the house was in the process
of being prepared for Ivan’s reception, and it was in this endeavor that Anna sent her out to purchase food in the marketplace of Kitaigorod. She had given Synnovea strict orders on what to get, where to buy it, and how much to pay. Anything above that cost would have to come from her own pocket. The princess seemed to stress that fact and advised Synnovea to be prudent. In addition, she warned Synnovea not to dawdle or there would be penalties.
Stenka halted the coach in Red Square near the markets of Kitaigorod, and Synnovea walked with Ali and Jozef the rest of the way to search out the requested items. For the outing, Synnovea wore her peasant attire, not wishing to lend the impression that she had wealth. If her affluence was doubted, the merchants would be more inclined to settle for less.
Synnovea marked the time when she began, taking Anna’s threat seriously. She shopped efficiently, accepting the suggestions and wisdom that both Ali and Jozef offered. Each time their baskets were filled, the footman rushed back to the carriage to unload them while the two women continued browsing through the ryady, searching for the best vegetables and fowl.
At last the purchases were concluded, and Synnovea and Ali were returning to the coach amid the squawking and honking of the outraged hens and geese, which Jozef had confined in a pair of crates. Upon rounding a corner, they came in sight of a company of mounted soldiers, dressed out in resplendent regalia, who were approaching from the opposite end of the thoroughfare. Synnovea’s heart began thumping nigh out of her chest as she espied Colonel Rycroft at the fore of the troop. The stallion he rode was a dark liver chestnut, more beautiful than any she had previously seen. She distinctly recalled that he had said he had paid for his mounts to be shipped from England, and could only assume that this steed had accompanied his arrival in Russia. The sight of the man spiffed and polished in a handsome uniform was so stirring that she felt inclined to pause and stare in admiration, except that Ali, intent upon catching his eye, did a sprightly scamper around an approaching coach and began to wave her arm and shout his name in an eager quest to gain his attention.
“Colonel Rycroft! Yoo-hoo! Colonel Rycroft!”
“Ali! Stop that!” Synnovea gasped, abashed at the undignified conduct of her servant.
Ali promptly obeyed, but realized to her great delight that she had already gained the officer’s attention. An amused grin twitched at the corners of Tyrone’s lips as he honored the servant with a casual salute. Then he lifted his head and swept his gaze over the crowd beyond her, searching for the one whose face and form now filled many of his waking moments and all of his lusting dreams. Though shaded by a polished helm, his blue eyes glinted with a light of their own as he located amid several crates the profusely blushing and thoroughly mortified countess.
Synnovea desperately yearned for a large crevice to open up in the earth beneath her feet and swallow her up. The hole failed to appear, and she was forced to stand and submit to the colonel’s sweeping inspection as he rode near. Stiltedly she responded in kind when he gave her a nod of greeting. It was absolutely impossible for her to ignore the fact that the wayward grin was decidedly more pronounced and that people all around her had turned to stare. Heads came together like melons rolling into a steeply sloped ravine, and had it not been for the loud honking and cackling of fowl, she might have heard a kindred noise from a cluster of women who stood nearby.
Unbeknownst to Synnovea, the serenely smiling Natasha Andreyevna stood at the outer perimeter of the commotion, digesting the event and the comments of her princely companion with great relish. Her escort just happened to be an administrator in the tsar’s courts and was keenly knowledgeable about the current happenings within the palace. The fact that the Englishman was at the heart of the rumors circulating throughout the Kremlin certainly intrigued her, and she was not above suggesting that Prince Zherkof introduce her to the one who had so completely captured the tsar’s attention.
“Ali McCabe!” Synnovea moaned in misery when she realized they had attracted the curiosity of a vast number of shoppers in the marketplace. “You have made me rue the day my mother hired you!”
Stenka and Jozef choked back their laughter and deliberately devoted themselves to loading the purchases into the coach as the Irish woman wiped away a giggle behind the back of a scrawny hand. Feigning the innocence of a saint, Ali met the accusing stare of her mistress and shrugged her thin shoulders in confusion. “But what did I do?”
“Everything worthy of damnation!” Synnovea groaned and lifted a hand in plaintive appeal to the sky. “Oh, for a plain, simple maidservant who knows when to keep her silence!” Lowering a sinister glare upon the woman, she addressed Ali with a chiding finger once more in evidence. “You have caused me tremendous distress this day, Ali! Do you not ken how imperative it is that I avoid the attentions of Colonel Rycroft? But what do you do but hail him from afar at the top of your lungs like some tavern wench! And to the glee of every long-winded gossip within range of hearing! Do you understand what you’ve done to me? This is sure to get back to Anna’s ears ere we even arrive home. Believe me, I’ll never hear the last of it!”
“Hmph!” Ali folded her thin arms petulantly. “As if me own dear self ne’er swaddled yer backside from the day ye were born an’ I’ve no wits in me poor noggin ta know what ye be needin’! Ye carp ’bout me manners when it’s yerself ye should be lookin’ ta! Tyrone is a right fine gentleman, e’en if I say so meself! An’ if ye had eyes in yer fine head, me pretty darlin’, ye’d be a-thinkin’ so, too!”
“Tyrone, is it? And, pray tell, who lent ye permission ta be usin’ his Christian name?” Synnovea mimicked sassily. “Are ye so in league wit’ the man that ye’re now his copemate? Tyrone, indeed!”
“ ’Tis a right fine Irish name, it is!” Ali argued. “A proud name, ta be sure!”
“Colonel Rycroft is an Englishman!” Synnovea stated obstinately. “Knighted on English soil! He is not an Irishman!”
“Oh, ’tis the good Sir Tyrone, is it? Well, I’ll wager me skirts his ma were a proper colleen ta win a man’s heart.”
Synnovea threw up her hands in disgust. “I’ve neither the patience nor the time to argue with a woman of your temerity, Ali McCabe. We must return to the Taraslovs before their servants are sent out to bring us back.”
“Aren’t ye a wee bit curious ’bout where the colonel might be takin’ his men bedecked in all o’ their finery?” Ali asked, hoping to incite some interest. “Couldn’t we follow a ways just ta see?”
“Never!” Synnovea served quick death to the notion. She wasn’t about to allow the colonel the privilege of thinking she was chasing after him. Why, the very idea of lending him encouragement made her quake. He had proven himself quite tenacious as it was. She could only wonder how assertive he’d become with a little encouragement.
8
Prince Vladimir Dimitrievitch was a barrel-chested, white-haired, mustached boyar with a total of seventy-plus years to his claim. He had been married and widowered twice and, in those unions, had sired a total of seven sons. It was well known that he was keeping a discerning eye out for a third possibility upon whom he could spawn a new crop, and though many a father was willing to present his daughter as a potential bride in hopes of somehow gaining access to the prince’s wealth, the old man was as cautious and discriminating as an ancient dowager afraid of losing her titles and assets to some unscrupulous rake. Despite his white hair, Vladimir was as virile as many men half his age and decidedly more adamant about proving himself capable of exercising his manly functions. He was evidently proud of his unfaltering prowess and, when met with encouragement, waxed gleeful and openly suggestive on the subject of his abilities, especially when a young, winsome maid caught his eye and he gave himself over to his boastful tendencies.
Vladimir’s offspring were all strapping young men with a penchant for excessive carousing and heavy brawling. Their tempers were short even with one another. From the simplest source, they could usually glean some excuse for competing against other rowdi
es. In contests of brawn, they derived no greater pleasure than to defeat a whole army of foes, friends, and family alike. To say that they were an unruly rabble might have been putting it mildly. Still, they were a likable lot in many ways. It only took a person of sharp perception to figure out what those particular qualities were.
Anna Taraslovna knew she was tempting fate by requesting the presence of Prince Vladimir and his sons at her reception honoring Ivan Voronsky. If provoked, the contrary family was aggressive enough to reduce the whole affair to shambles, but she could think of no viable way to separate kith from kin, or, more pertinently, father from offspring. Indeed, it would be an enormous miracle if the pugnacious family managed to get through the entire evening without resorting to fisticuffs, which in the main comprised her greatest worry. The only reason she considered inviting them at all was out of regard for Ivan and his desire to replace the priest whom Vladimir had hired for his private chapel and then dismissed a pair of months later. Ivan had shrewdly lent a sympathetic ear to the old man’s complaints about the narrow-mindedness of the monk, who had had the gall to chide Vladimir for his intemperate propensities, not the least of which was his fondness for vodka. In light of the ancient’s vast wealth, Ivan was totally dedicated to the idea of Anna inviting the whole family lest their sire be offended by the exclusion of his sons.