Anxious for such an opportunity to present itself, Nikolai closely observed the couple for the rest of the afternoon, but as the hours passed and evening came upon them, his disposition grew decidedly morose. The pair acted as if they were totally taken with each other as they mingled with their guests. Hand in hand, they stood together and decorously bade farewell to Vladimir and his sons.
Later that evening, when the bride and groom were called to another lavish banquet, they shared a place at the head of the table to which Natasha had directed them. The cushioned bench wasn’t overly wide, but their hostess maintained that it had become a traditional place of honor for newlyweds in her household. As narrow as it proved to be, there was much hilarity evoked from the onlookers as the couple strove to wedge themselves in. Once they were ensconced, they might as well have been joined at the hip, for Tyrone was forced to wrap his right arm around Synnovea’s ribcage and to lean back enough to allow her shoulder to overlap his. Being for the most part right-handed, that left him ruefully considering how he was going to fare feeding himself with his left.
It nearly broke Nikolai’s composure to watch the couple from the far end of the table. Beneath his grim stare, the colonel seemed to delight in handling his Synnovea, as if the man had any right to touch her after the pledge he had gained from the tsar. The long fingers stroked along her ribs, sometimes pausing near a ripe breast or possessively resting upon her hip. What made it even worse was the fact that she seemed to relish not only her bridegroom’s touch but lending wifely assistance in feeding him. They seemed to make a game of it, kissing often and even going so far as to steal food from the other’s mouth. Finally, when the bench became a hindrance to their comfort, mainly for Synnovea, who suffered the most against her husband’s steely flank, she sought to rise, but Tyrone deftly clamped an arm about her slender waist, lifted her, and then resettled her upon his thigh, much to the hearty approval of his men.
Nikolai realized the worst of his worries was yet to come as the time approached for the couple to retire to their bridal chamber. Because he had been visually confronted by the Englishman’s inclination to liberally kiss and handle Synnovea, he refused to trust the man with her. And though he wanted to warn Synnovea of what her husband intended in hopes of preventing their union, he was repeatedly frustrated as the evening wore on, for he found no chance to catch her alone. When she finally left the hall, escorted by Natasha and the handful of women who had been invited to attend her, his hazel eyes sadly followed.
In the moments following Synnovea’s departure, some of the men had begun to chide Tyrone for stealing the most beautiful maid from beneath their noses. Questions concerning the haste of their marriage also were presented, but he refused to elaborate and brushed the inquiries off with a grin. “You’ve all heard rumors of my impatience to court the countess.” Hoping the fruit-flavored vodka would deaden his senses sufficiently before he arrived upstairs, he took another sip as he braced a shoulder against the molding of a door. “The tsar took pity on my pain and cast down all other plans for her betrothal by arranging the ceremony himself. That’s all there is to it.”
Natasha returned to the great room and announced that the bride was awaiting her groom. The men chortled in glee and crowded close around Tyrone, who drained his cup in what appeared to be eager anticipation. Only he was cognizant of his ongoing attempt to deaden more than the wounds in his back, for the idea of being privately ensconced with Synnovea had already stirred memories that sorely threatened his efforts to remain distantly detached from the tempting beauty.
As his friends crowded near, Tyrone immediately retreated, fearing they would forget and pound him upon the back. “Have a care or you’ll make me useless to my bride. The condition of my back has a way of dismissing everything else from mind. So I beg you, proceed with care in your attempt to cheer me on.”
“Lift him on your shoulders, lads!” an English officer named Edward Walsworth encouraged. “He should save his strength for better things. Besides, he’s quaffed so much vodka, he may be unable to find his way upstairs to savor other pleasures.”
Amid their guffawing laughter, Tyrone was hoisted onto their shoulders and then carted upstairs, their booming, outrageously ribald chants accompanying their ascent. In the anteroom of Synnovea’s apartments, they lowered Tyrone to his feet before the entrance of the adjoining bedchamber and jostled behind him to get a glimpse of the bride outfitted for her husband’s pleasure.
Tyrone would never have denied the fact that he had liberally indulged in strong spirits throughout the celebration. Even so, when his eyes beheld a sight that he had both feared and yearned to see, there was no way that he could blame his swiftly thudding heart on his heavy imbibing. For some time now, he had been aware of Synnovea’s unrivaled beauty, but when faced with the fact that she was his by right of wedlock and that he could freely exercise the many prerogatives which that particular union allowed him, he felt a sharp pang of regret that he, in the heat of outraged pride, had foolishly allowed himself to set such extreme limits on his manly lusts. It seemed that Mikhail had been far wiser than he to acknowledge that a change of heart might be in the offing, and for that, Tyrone had to give the monarch immense credit for being able to understand how well the shroud of rage could blind a man. With the subtly demoralizing and relaxing effects of the fruited vodka he had consumed, Tyrone wasn’t at all sure his staunch objectives could withstand one night with Synnovea, much less three years. If he maintained his abstinence, he was certain it would mean a far greater torment for him than even the whip had reaped.
Standing within the circle of her attendants, Synnovea looked as enticing as any bride had a right to look. Her dark hair had been separated into a pair of braids to signify her newly married state and then interwoven with gleaming gold ribbons. An exquisite robe of shimmering, translucent gold flowed loosely to the floor from her shoulders, and though the meager glow of the candles didn’t allow access through the lustrous silk at the moment, Tyrone was keenly aware that beneath that particular garment and the gown she wore underneath, his bride was just as soft and beautiful as she had always been. Whether in his memories, his dreams, or reality, the sight of her never failed to set his body to battling with his brain.
The manly guests loudly hooted their approval of the bride’s comeliness, and as Synnovea glanced their way, she graced them with a timid smile. Princess Zelda eyed the groom for a moment before leaning near the bride’s ear to whisper. Synnovea nodded eagerly as her gaze swept toward Tyrone, but a blush immediately stained her cheeks when she became cognizant of the fact that they had aroused his curiosity with their hushed comments on his anatomy. With that realization, the two women giggled in secret delight.
Tyrone lifted an arm and braced it against the framework of the arched doorway, well aware that he had become the topic of their discussion. From the way their flitting perusals swept over him, he could believe their dialogue had something to do with his physical attributes. On that subject Synnovea possessed firsthand knowledge, yet as he continued to stare, she refrained from giving further comment, deterring the princess from offering other suppositions. It hardly kept his bride from meeting his gaze with more candor than she had hitherto displayed, at least since their marriage vows had been spoken.
Tyrone’s entry into the chamber had brought back a memory of a similar event a thrice or so years ago, when he had glimpsed his first wife, Angelina, bedecked in her bridal finery. His mood had been different then, buoyant and cheerful, as was common among bridegrooms who anticipated the taking of virginal fruit. It could be like that again, he told himself, if only he’d relent…
Or it might be even better, the thought intruded as he pondered the difference in his courtship of his two wives. In comparing his sudden attraction to Synnovea to his final capitulation to Angelina’s pleas, he was forced to admit that the difference was like night and day. Angelina had been the offspring of his parents’ neighbors, yet he had all but ignored her during
her younger years. She had finally attracted his attention only a pair of years before their wedding. In truth, their marriage had come about mainly by the wearing down of his manly resistance by a sweet young thing.
Other courtships had waned for different reasons, some because of the brevity of time allowed by his profession, many because of his own dwindling interest or a realization that a deeper union with a particular woman wasn’t in his best interest. He could hardly commend his cool-headed logic this time. Indeed, considering his zeal to have Synnovea, it seemed incredibly farfetched to suppose that he could successfully ignore her presence in the same room, much less in the same bed.
He had asked Natasha, with all the discretion he had been capable of mustering, to provide him with separate quarters no matter how tiny or cramped. The woman had smiled graciously and given the excuse that she usually had so many guests, it seemed unlikely that she’d be able to grant his request without restricting her gregarious penchant for hospitality. That was precisely the time he decided he was cursed by his own manly lusts.
Glancing back over his shoulder at his cavorting and frolicking guests, Tyrone shushed their loud bantering until the murmuring comments of the women could be heard above the din. He ambled forward to the circle of ladies, his eyes gleaming brightly as he carefully regarded the radiance of his bride. While her attendants observed every glance, every movement the newly married couple made, Synnovea gave him a diffident smile as she watched him warily. A stiff bow to the ladies sent them scurrying and sniggering from the chambers, allowing Tyrone to step before his bride.
“Again, madam, for the benefit of my escort,” he whispered, justifying his close attention. Lifting her small chin, he indulged himself in her delicately refined beauty for a passage of a long moment before lowering parting lips to hers. He made no effort to convince himself that he kissed her merely for the sake of his companions; he knew better than to believe that lie.
Synnovea yielded herself completely to his inquiring kiss, daring to meet his tongue when it slipped inward to search the depths of her mouth. He was her husband, after all, and though no one knew of her longing, she now realized that she desired him more than she had ever thought possible. The taste of vodka pervaded her senses as he devoured her offering with leisured deliberation. When he drew back, he left her silently groaning in disappointment.
Slowly wending his way back to the anteroom, Tyrone cooled his blood and brain forthwith by thinking of Aleksei going freely about his business. If he had been able to obtain the tsar’s permission, he’d have chased that boyar down as he fully intended to do with Ladislaus. Nothing short of facing that toad in a deadly contest would satisfy him.
Tyrone drank a last toast with the men to the forthcoming night, as if highly anticipating the torment he would soon suffer. He wasn’t so much into his cups that he wasn’t aware of Nikolai covertly eyeing Synnovea through the doorway. After encountering so many suitors, Tyrone wasn’t in the mood to share even a glimpse of his bride’s unconfined beauty with another man, especially one who had followed so closely on his heels to plead his cause with His Majesty, as if the major had striven one-tenth as hard as he to gain the tsar’s attention just for the privilege of courting the lady.
Deliberately Tyrone reached back a hand and pushed the door closed behind him before lifting a challenging stare to the Russian major. By the coldness in his eyes, he let it be known that Synnovea was his, and he’d fight any worthy who had intentions of intruding. He stared until Nikolai, flushing a dark angry red, turned crisply on a heel and made his exit.
14
The guests finally took their leave of the bridal chambers, and the stout, wooden outer portal was closed, allowing the groom to secure the bolt against the possibility of any prankish deed befalling them. When a few of his fellow officers had lingered to advise him on the schooling of a virgin, Tyrone had nodded with museful care, and though he had appeared to listen to every word, his thoughts had wandered. His judgment was not so sluggish that he couldn’t discount most of his companions’ suggestions as irrelevant. If he held true to his resolve, then surely their counsel was for naught even if he were of a bent to use it, which was hardly the case. It wasn’t that he considered his skills with women significantly better than those of his cohorts; indeed, some were touted to be daring roues and masterful lovers of several or more women at any given month or year, whereas he, as pragmatic about his personal life as he was with his career, had limited himself to one serious liaison at a time. He simply preferred his own way of doing things, at least when it came to nurturing a woman’s pleasurable participation in the intimate rites of love. If Angelina’s dying confessions could be counted as trustworthy, then by her own vow she had fallen more in love with him after their marriage. It had only been during that long interval of time, when he had been away in service to his country, that she had grown lonely enough to be otherwise beguiled. Or so she had sworn to him on her deathbed, where she had, with her last breath, begged him to forgive her.
As for the temptress he had just married, Synnovea had proven herself excitingly responsive to his lovemaking, if indeed he could believe her fervor genuine rather than part of her ploy. His musings even now strayed, as if beguiled, to alluring recollections of her sliding naked across his bed in her eagerness to make room for him. Even after he had consumed enough vodka to dull the lacerated rawness of his back, he was still unable to cast that memory as well as other similarly haunting visions from his mind.
With careful diligence Tyrone approached the huge bed wherein his second wife awaited him. She had doffed the golden robe, and at present her womanly form was discreetly covered by a sheet which she had dragged up over her bosom. As he loosened his doublet, his smoldering gaze raked over the hills and valleys that formed a provocative terrain beneath the shroud.
“Tsar Mikhail was right,” he remarked with languor, and then cursed his tongue for having lost its subtle eloquence. Even with his faculties somewhat encumbered from the effects of the intoxicant, he couldn’t dismiss the turmoil he was about to suffer by withholding himself from her. “You’re very beautiful, madam, perhaps beyond the degree of any woman I’ve ever known.”
All signs of Synnovea’s feigned gaiety had fled shortly after their guests’ departure. Now she eyed her husband guardedly, wondering what to expect from him in his present mood and condition. If he intended to vent his wrath upon her and insult her for having tricked him, she would have no recourse but to accept it. It was the very least she deserved. “We’ve had no moment alone in which we could talk, Tyrone.”
“So you wish to talk.” Tyrone painstakingly executed a bow and then stumbled back a step before he caught himself and straightened. He grinned, somewhat amused at himself. “You must pardon my present plight, madam. I’ve progressed out of character tonight. You see, I’ve liberally partaken of the fruit of the vine…or rather, that deadly libation you Russians quaff so copiously. Wicked stuff, that vodka, but it eases my pain….” He laid a hand over his heart as if mutely declaring the area where serious injury had been inflicted. “What matter did you wish to discuss, wife of mine? My aversion to being used?” He rubbed his chest as if sorely chafed by the idea. “Aye, that has caused me severe wounding by your lovely hand. None other could have cut me so deftly to the quick. While I pledged you all I could offer, paltry though it be, you played me for a fool. Now this poor buffoon is caught, bound by chains of wedlock, and he spies such delectable confection upon his bed that his mind is befuddled by the lusts that goad him. Alas, there’s no escape for the poor fool.” Clasping a bedpost with one hand, Tyrone leered at her and twirled his free hand through the air, as if urging an audience to respond. “What think you of my folly, madam? And of yours, pray tell? In ridding yourself of one proposed husband, you’ve caught yourself quite another entirely. Are you satisfied with what your mischief has heaped?”
Holding the sheet clasped over her bosom, Synnovea lifted herself cautiously from the pillows and
sat upright. “I wasn’t willing to marry Prince Vladimir….”
“You made that abundantly clear ere now, madam.” The accusation was launched in sharp retort as he doffed his velvet doublet and flung it onto a nearby chair. What vexed him more than anything was the fact that he couldn’t ignore the ravishing vision he was presented. A half-dozen slender tapers burned in the pair of candelabra sitting atop the tables nestled against each side of the bed. The tiny flames flickering behind his bride eagerly cast their radiance through the filmy tissue of her pale yellow nightgown, temptingly detailing her shoulders, arms, and enough of her bosom to whet his desire to peruse everything else the covering held from view.
If a man could feel harried by the beauty of his bride on their wedding night, then Tyrone was definitely subject to that particular plight. As he leisurely assessed the sights, it dawned on him that he wanted Synnovea even more now than he ever had, even before their aborted union. No woman had ever held his mind so completely ensnared as she did now. From the first moment of their meeting, his life had been disrupted by his fervor to have her. Now, having won her, he could believe that he was destined to be punished even more.
“What I’m asking, madam, is whether or not you’re pleased with what you’ve accomplished with your game.”