“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!
Choking back the sobs as she heard him coming down the stairs, Synnovea snatched up her cloak and fled to the door. In her panic, she seized the latch, ready to fly, but the handle broke off in her hand in her haste, frustrating her efforts to leave before she had to face her suitor.
“Synnovea…”
She whirled at the sound of her name and stared at him with tears blurring her vision. He stood on the bottom step with a hand braced on the low beam above his head, just watching her. She could see the pain in his face, feel it in her heart. She ached for him and for herself, but there was no help for it. She must flee!
“Don’t go,” he rasped. “Don’t leave me….”
Synnovea tried to find the strength of a denial within her, but her voice was gone. She could only open and close her mouth as she struggled in mute agony to deliver the words that would bring about her escape.
“Stay with me…please….”
His appeal tore through her, and her heart crumpled within her. The cloak slid from her fingers as she took several faltering steps toward him. “We must hurry! ’Tis urgent that I leave—”
Suddenly Synnovea found him standing before her, sweeping her up into his arms. It seemed in no more than a thrice of steps he was up the stairs, following the beacon of light that came from the open doorway at the far end of a dark, narrow hallway. Her eyes swept the bedchamber as they entered. A large, rough-hewn four-poster stood in the middle of the room, its bedding turned down to reveal sheets that were clean but rather coarse. Skimpy draperies, effective enough in providing privacy, had been drawn over a pair of windows on the far side of the bed. A rather stark armoire, a chair, and a shaving stand with a simple pitcher and basin completed the furnishings.
Synnovea’s feet had barely touched the floor beside the bed when Tyrone’s lips came crushing down upon hers in a fiercely possessive kiss that shattered any lingering notion that she might have had of absconding with her virtue intact. As their mouths and tongues merged in a wildly frantic search, his fingers tore the lacings loose at the back of her gown, and then he was tugging down the bodice, following its descent with hotly flaming kisses.
Synnovea’s breath hissed inward through her teeth as his tongue licked greedily over the mounds and valley of her bosom. A soft moan readily evidenced her heightening involvement, as she arched her back, willingly offering him the lush fruit. Tyrone eagerly devoured the fare, clasping the fullness of one ripe orb within his hand while drawing the other into the sultry heat of his mouth. A flicking flame torched a sensitive pinnacle, fanning the hotly glowing coals burning within her womanly loins. It was a scintillating attack on her senses, a sweet undermining of her goals, and a succulent plum she could no longer resist.
Tyrone left the blushing pinnacles throbbing for want of more as he freed her arms from her sleeves and, with ravenous kisses, followed the descent of her clothes. The gown and chemise caught on her hips, where they lay bunched in a confused tangle, and he went down on a knee, working feverishly to free the snag. By now Synnovea had caught the heat of his zeal and leaned over him to drag the shirt from his shoulders, bringing her lustrous bosom temptingly close to his face.
Yanking his arms free of the garment, Tyrone tossed it aside and, with a muted groan, seized the womanly fullness and plied the pale peaks with the greedy warmth of his tongue. The ecstasy that shot through Synnovea was like a blazing arrow, with vanes ignited, coursing through her senses, setting her whole being aflame with a heightening desire. There was no halting the flight of the invisible shaft now, for it soared swiftly to its mark, sinking deeply within her heart and awakening a hungering need to savor the delights to be found with a lover.
Of a sudden, Synnovea knew not where to put her hands, and in an anxious frenzy she rubbed them over the sinews rippling across Tyrone’s back and shoulders. She could feel the muscles knotting beneath her palms and swept a hand to the back of his corded neck, pressing his head forward until his face was resting within the cleavage between her breasts. With a subtle twisting of her shoulders and upper torso, the soft, ripe melons caressed the manly visage, drawing a muted moan of pleasure from Tyrone. Greedily he caught a nipple, nearly devouring the whole of it within his mouth as he suckled her. Synnovea felt as if she were being drawn inside out and could only stand transfixed at the delectable sensations that pulsed with quickening fervor through her womanly being.
His hand wandered past the small of her back and slid downward beneath her clothes to clasp a round buttock. Lifting her with him, he rose to his feet and began to drag the garments from her hips. He whisked her free of the restricting clothes, leaving them to fall in a puffy mound upon the floor. When he resettled her to her stockinged feet, he began ridding himself of his own garments as his eyes feasted upon the perfection that had held his mind solidly entrapped for some weeks now.
Synnovea perched timidly upon the edge of the bed, where she stripped off her stockings and surreptitiously witnessed his disrobing. The broad shoulders, tautly muscled ribs, and flat, hard belly were just as she had remembered them, but it was the proud fullness evidencing his manly desires that brought a heated blush to her cheeks.
Becoming aware of her flitting glances, Tyrone stepped near, forcing her to meet his smiling gaze. The flush of color imbuing her creamy skin was unmistakable. “No need to feel embarrassed, my sweet,” he whispered cajolingly. “I give you leave to look at me as much as you desire. In truth, it pleasures me to have you do so. You may even touch me if you’d like.”
Synnovea stared up at him in painful chagrin, unable to understand his cavalier attitude. She certainly couldn’t imagine herself accepting his invitation.
His hungering eyes swept over the length of her as he sought to put her at ease. “I’m not ashamed that I’m a man and that I want you, Synnovea. I yield you everything, my body, my mind, my regard….”
Even as he reached out and captured her fingers, she remained motionless. Holding both her gaze and her hand firmly entrapped, he slid her palm down the length of him, over the muscular bulges and taut ridges, past a furred chest and hardened ribs, along a line of hair traversing his flat belly, on downward to the bold, manly heat of him.
A shocked gasp escaped Synnovea as he closed her fingers around the steely shaft and held them in an unrelenting grasp. She could hardly draw breath for the heat infusing her, extending upward from the hot, fleshly hardness throbbing within her grasp. Though she averted her face, she could not banish the realization of what she held.
“Look at me,” he commanded gently.
“I can’t,” Synnovea whispered, unwilling to obey, yet every instinct she was capable of acknowledging rallied in curiosity.
Capturing her chin within the palm of his free hand, Tyrone lifted it until he could meet her gaze. “Do you hate touching me so much, my sweet?”
Synnovea bit her lip in discomfiture, but honesty prevailed as she shook her head. Never had she experienced anything that thrilled or embarrassed her more.
“If we’re to be lovers, my sweet, you must know how to please me,” he reasoned softly. “Will you not lend yourself to my instructions?”
Reluctantly Synnovea yielded a cautious peek and then squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet the impression of his maleness was now forever branded upon her memory; there was no banishing it to the four corners of the universe. If she lived a thousand years, she’d never forget his bold display.
It took a full moment before Synnovea calmed herself enough to open her eyes agai
n. She stared fixedly at him, and gradually Tyrone loosened his tenacious hold, sensing her growing willingness to yield herself to his guidance. He began to move her fingers in a tutorial tour, halting his own breath more than once by the secret places he encouraged her to titillate.
“Enough of this,” he rasped hoarsely, aware of the hazards of submitting himself too long to such rousing stimulation.
His mouth descended, greedily devouring her breasts and snatching her breath with each voluptuous stroke of his tongue. The rapturous delights intensified rapidly until Synnovea forgot everything but the need to satisfy the fermenting hunger in the pit of her being. Seeking some relief for that indescribable void which now craved to be sated, she pressed close against him. Tyrone readily accommodated her, lifting her up against him until the moist inner haven of her womanly softness was snuggled against the warmth of him. The pulsing heat of his manhood inflamed the greedy fires burning within her, and she sought instinctively to quench them, moving against the forging iron in a quest as old as time itself. She was unprepared for the sizzling pleasure that began to surge upward through her, though she knew that there was more to come than just this teasing enticement, for they had not yet merged together.