“I’d prefer it,” he murmured simply and, with a gracious nod of apology to Zelda, returned the veil to her. The princess accepted the filmy cloth with a demure smile and hurried to attach it. In turning, Tyrone found himself meeting the broad grin of his second-in-command, who approached with a chilled glass of watered wine.
“Perhaps Lady Synnovea would enjoy teaching you the customs of our country,” Grigori suggested. “I’m sure both of you would glean great benefit from the lessons.”
“I see no need for your matchmaking talents, my friend,” Tyrone commented with skeptical humor. “As you well know, we’re already married.”
The captain’s grin widened. “A good svakhi wouldn’t rest until she is confident that both the bride and the groom are content with each other. And if you’re unhappy, Colonel, how will I ever get my promotion?”
“What fickle friendship you portray!” Tyrone admonished drolly. “And here I was certain you were entirely sincere, but I see now that you only seek to advance yourself!”
Grigori shrugged good-naturedly. “I have to do it somehow.”
Smiling radiantly, Natasha swept into the chambers and invited their guests to come downstairs and partake of the feast that Danika had laid out for them in the dining room. She bade Tyrone to lead the procession with his bride upon his arm and encouraged the other men to choose their spouses or unwed maidens to whom they could lend the same consideration. Natasha accepted Grigori’s gallant invitation and bestowed a smile upon the young Russians as she queried, “What do you think of your commander’s choice for a bride?”
“I believe it to be an excellent match, my lady. I admire your taste in friends.”
“And I yours,” she replied with a gracious nod. “But tell me, what does the colonel have to say about it all?”
“I’m sure nothing but good will come from this union, Countess,” the captain offered magnanimously. “In time, the two will be very happy.”
Sensing the officer’s clear understanding of the situation, Natasha nodded in smiling contentment, quite willing to accept his prediction, which of course was exactly what she had wanted to hear.
The revelry was launched with a great deal of feasting and tippling as the couple sat together at the morning feast. Exhorted by the guests to follow the customs of the land, the newlyweds kissed to sweeten the meal after each crescendoing cry of “Gorko! Gorko! Bitter! Bitter!”
A short time later, a small band of hired skomorokhi arrived to entertain them and perform colorful mimes. Many of the guests bedecked themselves in outlandish costumes and eagerly participated in the games and dances. Even Tyrone found his mood lifting to some degree as the wine eased the pain of his lacerated back. As bidden by the tsar, he made a show of enjoying the festivities and cavorted with his bride about the house and grounds, sometimes chasing others or being chased, hiding and then seeking.
The jester played his part with enthusiasm, sniffing and snarling, growling and howling as he prowled around with the pelt of a gray wolf draped across his shoulders, searching for any damsel whom he could catch to be the firebird of the tale. He was still roaming far afield when Tyrone caught Synnovea’s hand and whisked her out into the garden.
Deliberately matched together in the pairing off of couples, they had been bound together by a ribbon tied about their wrists. Where one went, the other surely had to follow. Tyrone espied an obscure crevice between two stout trees that had merged at the base some years before and, after slipping into it, lifted Synnovea into the niche between his splayed legs. What made the spot fairly secure as a hiding place was a large shrub that encompassed the sturdy trunks on three sides, but Tyrone hadn’t reckoned on the nook becoming a place of torture. The trees grew at the same slanting angles, compelling Synnovea to lean into him as he, in turn, braced his buttocks against the sloping trunk. His care in keeping his mangled back away from the rough, irritating bark forced him to subject himself even more to her alluring proximity and the susceptibility of his own manly cravings, for he had to clamp an arm behind her waist to keep her from losing her balance. The space narrowed progressively as he became aware of nearly every rounded curve and sleek limb hidden beneath his wife’s softly textured sarafan. But that was not all, by any means. The knoll between her slippered feet caused her to twist and shift her weight fairly often as she sought a more comfortable position. The hard brush of her thighs against his loins lit fires that he had wished to avoid, and he soon found himself battling a far different game than merely playing hide-and-seek with a “wolf.”
It wasn’t long before Synnovea became cognizant of the heavy thudding of her husband’s heart and the noticeable protrusion beneath his breeches. Her surprise was all too apparent when her eyes dropped to his lap and then flew up to peruse his stoic demeanor. Tyrone gazed down his noble nose at her as if to distance himself from the tumult she had awakened within him, yet as much as his overt display chafed against his pride, there was no denying the obvious.
Tyrone remained unyielding in his reticence, yet Synnovea was nevertheless heartened by the fact that he hadn’t yet set her from him. A memory of that moment in his quarters when he had lifted her astride his velvet-clad loins came winging back to her, awakening a heightening hunger within her to feel again that succulent pressure against her womanly softness. She had no hope that he’d relent of his hide-bound taciturnity, but she wasn’t above offering him the opportunity. Threading slender fingers through the short locks curling at his nape, she rose up against him, pressing every curve and hollow of her body to his manly torso. She heard his breath catch while her own nigh halted with the bliss elicited by her boldness as she snuggled her loins around his tumescence. Lifting eyes that had grown dark and sultry, she rubbed a hand caressingly over his shirt, admiring the muscular firmness she felt beneath it.
“Can we not appease our desires while we’re in this private place?” she whispered softly.
Though Tyrone made no effort to respond, his attitude of acquiescent stillness encouraged his wife to continue her seduction. Her softly parted mouth and caressing tongue played languidly upon his lips. The soft nipples peaked beneath her bodice and teased his manly ardor as she rubbed her breasts tantalizingly against his chest, yet he resisted her offerings, making no effort to either claim or reject them.
Synnovea could take heart only in the fact that her husband was a man and not a stone statue as he gave every evidence of being at the moment, but now her own cravings had intensified and she yearned for appeasement. There was only one thing that would snatch him from his affected indolence, and though she dared much by her impertinence, she slipped a hand down between them and clasped the hard shaft through his breeches.
Tyrone tried in vain to curb the pulsing excitement that robbed him of every sane thought but one, and that was the realization that he was no less susceptible now to his wife’s wiles than he had been a few nights ago. Except that she had become emboldened by the sensuality he had awakened within her. Her parted lips were temptingly moist and softly yielding, and he knew that beneath her clothes he’d find a place just as alluring, just as easy to reach. He had only to lift her skirts and pull her thighs astride him to take his ease—
“Someone’s coming!” Synnovea’s whisper was a mixture of panic and disappointment as she pushed herself away from him, at least as much as she was able.
The gray wolf pounced forward in an exaggerated stance, startling a gasp from the bride. Howling in victorious glee, the jester quickly snipped the ribbon that bound the couple together and, seizing her wrist, dragged her off toward the manse while casting a backward glance at the groom, who scowled after him in rampant annoyance. It was no more than what the jester expected from a newly-wed, and blithely he continued on his way, giving the husband no reprieve. Once inside the manse, he took special delight in hiding the bride in a place not easily accessible to discovery.
Tyrone’s blood cooled forthwith, and by dent of will he managed to adjust his mien to a facade of
good humor. Still, visions of Aleksei garbed in wolf pelt and chortling in vindictive glee sorely nettled his mood as he stalked after the culprit. At his entry into the manse, the gray wolf skipped around him and, in strident tones, tauntingly bade him to find the captured firebird in the gilded cage ere the evil brothers were able to kill him and claim her as their prize. The laughter-laden foray found Tyrone dodging the mock ploys and attacks of his friends, mainly to avoid some painful reminder of the condition of his back. Perhaps it was his own warrior’s spirit and years of combat training that prevented him from accepting defeat easily, for his fervor for the game intensified as his failure became more promising, and he flitted from room to room well ahead of the others in his quest to be the first to find Synnovea.
It was the tiny Sophia who beckoned to him from the kitchen door and surreptitiously pointed toward the pantry. There he swooped his young wife up into his arms with a triumphant cry, evoking laughter from her. He dashed ahead of his diabolical kin to deliver the firebird before the Tsarina Natasha, who smilingly crowned him with a flower-bedecked garland. It was this prize that Tyrone took back to the kitchen. Kneeling before the child, he placed the coronal upon her small head, winning a radiant smile and a quick, timid brush of her lips upon his cheek. When Tyrone returned to the portal where he had left Synnovea, he found a strange warmth glowing in the green-brown eyes.
“You seem to have a special way with children, Colonel Sir Tyrone Rycroft. Have you ever considered siring any?”
“Several times,” he responded, recalling the disappointment he had suffered each of the three times that Angelina had miscarried in the first two years of their marriage. Her fluxes hadn’t come with any regularity, and the physician who had treated her had given her a variety of herbs to strengthen her childbearing ability. Later, when Tyrone had knelt beside her grave, he had found it sadly ironic that she had found it necessary to endanger her own life in order to rid herself of another man’s child.
“Then you’re not averse to having children?” Synnovea queried forthrightly.
“That, madam, is not my difficulty at all,” Tyrone responded with equal candor. Taking her elbow, he escorted her away from the kitchen. “ ’Tis the deceit I can’t abide. How can I know the truth of your heart when you’ve proven yourself capable of chicanery?”
“How can I know your heart, sir, when you look at me with desire one moment and then seemingly disdain me the next?” she countered, disconcerted. “Are you fickle, Colonel? Your lips speak of diatribes, but when I look into your eyes, I see something smoldering there that awakens my senses to a heady degree.”
“Aye, madam, I’ve recently discovered a certain inconsistency within myself that tears me apart,” he readily admitted. “With your unparalleled beauty and coquettish smiles veiling your enticing subterfuge, you have the power to reach deep into the heart of a man and wring him inside out. Though he may stand valiant and resolute against the challenges of a thousand other entities, he’s helpless to protect himself against your wiles.” Halting, Tyrone faced her squarely as he hoarsely avowed, “I cannot deny that you’re able to tempt me beyond my ability to resist, Synnovea, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t try to build a fortress to shield my heart from the pain that I fear you’ll inflict upon it.”
Synnovea almost winced at the sting of his gentle reproach, knowing only too well that she deserved his distrust. “I pray you desist from your harsh judgment of me, Ty, because I intend you no hurt, not now nor in the weeks and months to come. I only seek some mutual ground upon which we can meld together and be content in this marriage of ours. I see you struggling to keep your distance from me when we both know you’re binding us both up in a tangle of knots by refusing to make love to me. Will you always be reluctant to nurture me with your attentions as well as with your child?”
A tawny brow jutted sharply upward in surprise at her blunt question. “Always, madam? Who knows what even the next moments will bring, but you should know well enough by now that making a child will require further involvement…”
“Is that what you’re objecting to, Ty?” Synnovea asked softly, her heart aching. “Further involvement?”
“I must confess that I fear indulging in the intimacy which would be required in making a child. ’Tis much like a siren’s song that a man hears and then is forever held captive in its silken chains. Once fed, ’tis doubtful that I’ll be able to resist you, whatever your ploys.”
“I weave no siren’s song but a wifely plea that you’ll not leave me bereft of your attentions,” she insisted, her voice fraught with emotion. “If not for you, I’d have no knowledge of what is beyond the mere joining of our bodies. ’Tis you, sir, who has teased and now deny, and like a helpless sparrow, I must wait for the hawk to seize his prey before I can also be fed.”
Tyrone stared down at her in some amazement. He knew he had taken her to that lofty pinnacle of ecstasy which he had aspired to reach himself, but he was rather amazed that she could voice her own yearnings with such openness. He found her frankness no less than intriguing, inspiring him to make confessions of his own.
“Aye, madam, I’m most anxious to relieve this gnawing hunger that drives me like some rutting stag in the wilds. You’ve grown no less beautiful or desirable since you went with me to my quarters. You’d tempt any man, and I’m probably more susceptible than most.”
“ ’Twould only be a physical thing for you to make love to me. Men are like that, I’ve been told.” Synnovea felt frustrated by the lack of harmony between his words and his actions. If he were as vulnerable to her womanly wiles as he maintained, then how could he remain so aloof in her presence? “Why not me? You said yourself that you’ve been without feminine companionship for some time now, so I would assume any woman could serve your needs.”
“Not necessarily, madam.”
A lovely brow rose in wonder. “I’ve heard there are harlots aplenty who roam the German district. Have you never considered them in your quest for a companion?”
“Never,” he stated brusquely. “You’ll learn in time that I’m rather particular about the woman I bed.”
“Which really doesn’t include me anymore.” Synnovea’s voice broke slightly though she valiantly fought the tears that welled forth.
“I didn’t say that, Synnovea, so don’t put words into my mouth,” Tyrone retorted.
Keeping her face carefully averted to hide the wetness streaming down her cheeks, she questioned him. “Have you been so wronged that you are loath to make love to me and give me your child?”
Tyrone glanced away, reluctant to give any answer that would commit him to serving her desires, no matter how much he’d have welcomed both the sowing of the seed and the reaping of the harvest. Well aware of the unstable ground upon which he trod, he feigned an impatience to join their friends as he took her elbow. “Come, Synnovea, we’ll be missed by our guests.”
It was much later in the afternoon when General Vanderhout and his flaxen-haired wife came to the house. Although neither seemed particularly inclined to wish the newly wedded couple well, they were nevertheless obligated to extend a few superficial congratulations while so many other guests were present. Still, a few comments seemed laden with sarcasm.
“I never dreamt Colonel Rycroft vould cede to the pleas of a voman and actually marry her,” Aleta Vanderhout warbled to Synnovea in a coyly affected accent. “Especially a Russian boyarina. However did yu manage to ensnare him, my dear?”
Synnovea’s brow quirked in curiosity, and she shifted her gaze to Tyrone. Hitherto she had established no clear recollection of having suffered a jealous twinge in her life, but when the large brown eyes had devoured him with more than a token amount of lust, Synnovea experienced a sharp, nettling irritation that clearly set her at odds with the woman. She could not help but wonder what this pretty vixen meant to him, and if the two were secret lovers.
Much to her relief, Tyrone didn’t seem to have any difficulty meeting her perusal, allowing her t
o nurture a burgeoning hope that he had nothing to hide in this particular matter. Daring much, she slipped an arm through his and clasped it closely against her breast as she faced the flaxen-haired coquette. “It wasn’t hard at all, Madame Vanderhout. I merely stopped running and allowed him to catch me.”
“Much to my relief,” Tyrone replied, surprising his bride by smiling down at her and laying a hand in an affectionate manner upon the one she had settled upon his arm. Reluctantly he lent his attention to Aleta, a hot-blooded vamp who had tried countless times to break his continence. Though her husband of two-score-eight years was unaware of his young wife’s prurient bent, nearly every officer in his command had become well acquainted with the fact that Aleta had an insatiable appetite for handsome, virile lovers. She had made her way through a goodly number of officers, many of whom were more boastful than wise, considering the rank of her husband. For several months now, Tyrone had avoided her like the plague, not wishing to become embroiled in another scene wherein he’d be required to guard his privy parts with as much dedication as a reluctant virgin. It seemed the woman just couldn’t understand why he hadn’t wanted to follow in the wake of all her other lovers. “I was desperate enough to petition the tsar in my quest to stake my claim on Synnovea.”