Vincent Vanderhout loudly harrumphed as he bestowed a glowering stare upon his second-in-command. Making his excuses to the two women, he bade Tyrone to join him in the garden. There he turned on the younger man with fire in his eyes. “Must I remind you, Colonel Rycroft, that it’s the right of a commander to be informed well in advance of an officer’s intention to marry. I must verbally take you to task for your negligence in asking my permission to wed and for failing to show proper respect to a higher ranking officer. Obviously your clandestine affair with the countess has cost you your freedom and a bad report from me—”
“Your pardon, General,” Tyrone interrupted, growing annoyed with the pompous arrogance of the man. When he had made his decision to come to Russia, he had never committed himself to the idea of asking a foreigner for authorization to deal with matters concerning his personal life. It had been hard enough to accept the tsar’s recent interference, and though he was tempted to tell the general bluntly that his marriage was none of the man’s affair, he used the truth instead as an effective means by which to silence the elder. “It was the expressed wish of his majesty that I marry the Countess Synnovea.”
“What in the hell have you done, Rycroft? Get the maid with child ere you spoke the vows?” the Dutchman railed at the top of his lungs. “Have you no regard for the fact that you’re on foreign soil?”
The muscles tensed in Tyrone’s lean cheeks. His own explosive temper had been tested far too much in recent days for him to consider the wisdom of giving the man a placid rejoinder. Instead he came to abrupt attention and looked over the shorter man’s head as he snapped out a reply. “No, General, sir! I didn’t get her with child, sir—if it’s any of your damned business, sir!”
General Vanderhout fixed the colonel with a piercing glare. “Be careful, Colonel, I can arrange for your swift dispatch to England.”
“I’d advise against it, General sir, unless you first take up the matter with the tsar! He has assigned me certain duties, sir, which I don’t think you have the ability to perform.”
The general’s mouth twisted sharply with ill-restrained fury. The very idea of an underling telling him that he was unsuited for any kind of duties! Why, such a statement bordered on insubordination. “Apparently, Colonel Rycroft, you’ve become quite taken with the attention you’ve been able to garner from the tsar, so much so that you’re not above disobeying orders and ignoring proper decorum in an effort to claim what you’ve been rutting after ever since you snatched the countess from that bastard prince, Ladislaus.”
Though Tyrone never lowered his gaze to the man, his blue eyes hardened with fermenting fury. “Perhaps I should return to my bride and our guests, General,” he suggested tersely. “I can see no profit in discussing my personal affairs with you any longer.”
Mentally Vincent Vanderhout searched for an intimidation that would be effective in reducing the colonel to the size of a squealing piglet. So far, rumors had it that Tyrone Rycroft didn’t back down to anyone, not even to his fiercest foes, and although the man had been whipped unmercifully, word had gotten back to their command that the colonel hadn’t relented even then. Perhaps it was the admiration that he had heard in the voices of the officers relating the story that had aroused a goading desire within Vanderhout to establish himself the exception. The only problem, he just didn’t know how to go about gaining that distinction.
With a loud, angry snort, the general gave up his futile attempt and, turning on a heel, stalked back into the house, leaving Tyrone to contend with his own rage. Everyone inside the house had most likely heard their shouts, and though he could take some comfort in the fact that his friends would show discretion and maintain a respectful silence, he wasn’t so sure about all the others.
Tyrone knew without a doubt that if he and Vanderhout came together in the same room again before his temper cooled, he wouldn’t be able to suffer through the other’s caustic comments beyond the breadth of another moment. It seemed prudent for him to seek some privacy in his bride’s chambers upstairs until the general left, or otherwise he’d be sorely tempted to resort to fisticuffs. Right now the way things stood, he was just in the mood to tear the old warthog apart. There was definitely something of a serious note to be said about the growing agitation of a husband who denied himself the pleasure of copulating with his bride and easing the tensions that bound him up in an angry knot.
Tyrone’s ascent of the stairs was swift and uneventful, his entrance into the upper chambers even less difficult. Closing the door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and considered insuring his privacy further by locking the portal, but he was afraid that if Synnovea came looking for him she’d take it much amiss.
A cold dousing promised to soothe the vexing tide of rage that churned within him. Entering the dressing chamber, he stripped away his shirt and poured water into the basin before he noticed a sweet scent wafting from the sarafan, which Synnovea had doffed after the band of skomorokhi had departed. It now hung on a nearby peg awaiting Ali’s attention after the hem had been snagged by the knoll she had been forced to straddle. If not for the wily wolf’s haste to claim his victim, the soft fabric might never have been torn.
Thoughtfully Tyrone reached out and drew the garment to him. Remembering how her nipples had puckered beneath the bodice, he stroked his hand over the cloth, feeling a strange sense of regret that, by his own stubborn tenacity, he hadn’t accepted her invitation and caressed those tempting orbs. Considering his lusting fervor, he might have wreaked more havoc on it than the wolf if he had been able to forget his bruised pride and yielded to her seduction.
Lifting the garment, he held it beneath his nose and closed his eyes as he savored the delectable scent. It was the same that had haunted him throughout the previous night, the fragrance of English violets on warm, inviting skin.
Enough of this! Tyrone mentally growled and, cursing himself for being a fool, returned the garment to the peg. Even after what she had done to him, he couldn’t thrust aside his collection of memories that seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. Even now in her absence he wanted to feel her soft, naked body yielding to his and her lithe thighs opening to receive his encroaching hips.
Downstairs in the great hall, Natasha drew Zelda and her husband, Vassili, with her as she approached a vividly blushing Synnovea. “That oaf Vanderhout needs to be horsewhipped!” the countess muttered as her eyes followed Aleta to the stairs. “If I weren’t afraid he’d resort to spiting your husband in a most vindictive way, I’d ask him to leave.”
Prince Vassili was not above voicing his own conjectures and did so, hoping to assuage the bride’s chagrin. “Pay the general and his remarks no serious mind, Synnovea. From what I’ve been able to ascertain from my brief association with the man, he’s definitely a hound for glory. The field marshal and I have both become cognizant of several instances wherein General Vanderhout has deliberately claimed your husband’s achievements and plans as his own. And if that isn’t enough to set our tempers on edge, he seems to begrudge the favor that His Majesty has shown to the colonel. No doubt he’d like nothing better than to undermine that good will any way he could, even if he must goad your husband into a fight over you.”
Zelda gently patted her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret yourself over the general’s boorish manners, Synnovea. He isn’t worth a smidgen of your concern.”
Natasha accepted a goblet of wine from a servant and passed it on to Synnovea, who accepted it tremblingly. “Drink this down, my dear, while I go and have a little chat with the general. He needs to be instructed in some good Russian manners.”
“I think I should like to retire to my chambers for a few moments,” Synnovea said, offering a wan smile to her friends. “At least until the general leaves.”
Laying a towel over his wet head, Tyrone rubbed his hair vigorously as he paused in the entrance of the dressing room. He hadn’t heard the antechamber door open, and he suffered some surprise when he felt a small hand sliding pur
posefully down the front of his breeches. When he had extracted his pledge from the tsar, he had given no moment’s heed to the temptations he’d be confronting if Synnovea became resolved in breaking his restraints. Inanely he hadn’t considered her growing appreciation for the delights to be found in copulating; he had foolishly thought she’d be content with a staid, superficial marriage. Since the garden, however, he had become acutely aware of his mistake and seriously doubted that he could remain indifferent to her delicious attacks. At the moment the sheer excitement that jolted through his being was enough to snatch his breath as she clasped his rapidly hardening manhood in a tenacious grip. The pleasure was so intense, he couldn’t even imagine continuing his continence one moment longer.
His wavering sigh sounded closely akin to acquiescence even to him as he swept the towel down around his neck. Instantly he stepped back in shock. “Aleta!” If he had taken a plunge in an icy stream, his reaction would have been no different. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Yu naughty man, yu,” the woman chided as she rubbed her fingers over a male nipple. “Getting married vithout Vincent’s permission. Tsk, tsk! Vincent said yu vex the tsar’s good humor by getting his late ambassador’s daughter in trouble, and now yu’ve had to pay yur due. Aren’t yu sorry now yu didn’t let Aleta satisfy yur manly needs?”
He glared at the woman who stood before him, recognizing his frustration for what it was. She was not Synnovea! Testily brushing aside the woman’s hand, he stepped back into the dressing room where he fetched a fresh shirt and dragged it over his head. The more clothes he woe around this wanton, the safer he would feel! “Your pardon, Aleta, but I’m not interested in what you have to offer.”
“Vell, yu vere a moment ago!”
“I thought you were my wife,” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’m interested in her, not you.”
“I can make yu forget that little twit,” the woman boasted. Hurriedly wiggling up against his buttock, she swept her hand around in front of him as she cooed, “I’ll do anything to please yu, Tyrone. Anything!”
He grabbed her wrist before she could seize his private parts again and, turning, stalked out of the dressing room. “I’m not interested, Aleta. I never have been. How many times must I tell you?”
Brown eyes warm and limpid with desire, she sauntered toward him, caressing her own breasts to entice him. “Don’t yu vant to touch me, Tyrone?”
“As difficult as it seems for you to understand, Aleta, I don’t have any desire to touch you, to kiss you, or to make love to you! What I’d really like now is to be left alone.” Tyrone turned his back on her and promptly found her hand searching forward between his buttocks. He leapt away as if he had been stung. “Dammit, Aleta! Leave me be!” Somehow he managed to refrain from insulting her as he stalked through the antechamber and snatched open the outer door. “I think you’d better leave. I don’t think your husband would appreciate your being here, and I know my wife wouldn’t!”
“Come now, Tyrone, yu’ll never be satisfied vith that little ignoramus Russian yu married. Yu need a more experienced voman to take care of yur needs.” She strutted toward him with a sultry smile and pressed her body full-length against his before she began searching for the opening to his breeches. “I can make yu forget she even exists.”
Tyrone caught her hand and tossed it aside in anger. “Hell and damnation, Aleta! I’m not in the mood for this! Can’t you understand that?”
“I know better, Tyrone!” she argued, coming back just as quickly and rubbing against him eagerly. Seeking a firmer hold she slipped her hands behind him and clasped his buttocks. “Yu were all hot and ready for me just a moment ago!”
“It wasn’t you I was thinking of!” Tyrone snapped irately. “It was my wife!”
“Don’t be so damned noble! Yu have enough for us both. Besides, vhat she doesn’t know von’t hurt her.”
Tyrone seized the woman’s chin and forced her to meet his glower. “You appear to have trouble understanding me, Aleta, so I won’t mince words any longer. I’m not interested in anything you have ever offered me. I never have and I never will, so please—just go away and stay away!”
“Yu’re afraid of my husband!” Aleta accused, clearly astonished at his rejection. No man had ever rebuffed her advances before, and she found it hard to accept that he didn’t want her.
“I don’t want any trouble from him, that’s true!” Tyrone agreed testily. “But I want nothing from you either. Make an effort to understand me! There’ll never be anything between us, so please, just leave me alone from now on.” He recognized the woman’s final acceptance of his statement when her lips twisted downward in a disdaining grimace. With a brief dip of his head, he smiled tersely. “I’m immensely relieved to see you’ve finally caught on.”
Straightening her clothes with a jerk, Aleta stalked out of the door in a vivid display of outrage. In the next moment she gasped in astonishment as she came face-to-face with the young woman who stood in mute shock only a short distance from the door.
“Oh! I didn’t know yu vere here,” Aleta nervously announced.
Tyrone glanced around in sharp surprise, fully expecting to find the general outside his door. It was Synnovea, and from the curious quirk elevating her brow, she was none too happy.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Her meager smile clearly indicated her lack of concern in that area.
“Synnovea…I….” Tyrone hoped he didn’t look half as guilty as he felt. “I…just came up here to get away…”
“No explanations needed,” she assured him with noticeable rigidity. “I heard you arguing with the general downstairs and found myself unable to endure the stares of our guests.” Her gaze returned to Aleta, and the chilling glare in those green-brown eyes seemed to momentarily freeze the blonde. “Had I known this wench would be here trying to get into your breeches, I might have come better prepared to interfere. Perhaps you need a chastity belt to keep you safe from her wiles.”
Though innocent of any wrongdoing, Tyrone found himself struggling for a way to placate his wife’s suspicions. “I came up here to find some privacy, not to cavort with her.”
“Were you escaping from someone in particular?”
“The general.”
Synnovea faced the shorter woman and smiled rigidly as she bade, “Would you mind leaving us alone, Aleta? I have matters to discuss with my husband.”
Aleta seemed eager to escape and did so, running down the hall. In her haste to descend she almost stumbled on the stairs, evidenced by the sharp intake of her breath and a fearful little squeal.
“Do you suppose she hurt herself?” Synnovea questioned musefully, closing the outer door of their chambers to secure their privacy.
“Do you care?” Tyrone queried. He had never had the opportunity to view the peevishness of an outraged wife before, but at the moment was of the opinion that Synnovea closely resembled one.
“Not really,” Synnovea answered truthfully. Turning, she lent her husband her undivided attention. “Tell me, Colonel, is she the reason you’re not interested in me?”
“Don’t be absurd, Synnovea!” The very idea angered him. “That woman means nothing to me! She came in here while I was drying my hair. I thought at first it was you.”
Synnovea folded her arms petulantly as she responded with liberal sarcasm. “Well, Colonel Rycroft, if you mistook her for me, then I don’t suppose you became too amorous with her. Still, she seemed to enjoy handling you…as if she might have been encouraged.”
“All women are not paragons of virtue as you are, my dear,” Tyrone mocked, lifting a challenging brow. Staring into the dark depths of those beautiful eyes, he realized with some astonishment that he was very close to sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her to their bed, where he’d no doubt appease all of his lusting cravings. He approached a step closer, his heart pounding at the idea, and murmured in distraction, “Aleta doesn’t need encouragement.”
; Taking exception to his comment, Synnovea snubbed him with a well-articulated toss of her veiled head and flounced from their rooms. Tyrone’s breath left him in a rush, and it came as something of a shock when he realized he had been holding it in something comparable to heightening arousal as visions of his naked wife dragging him back to their bed bombarded him. In roweling frustration he stepped into the hall to observe her flight. The angry twitch of her skirts evidenced her vexation with him, but her ire was no less than what he was presently feeling toward himself.
It was relatively early that evening when Tyrone begged compassion from their friends and shushed their protests with the excuse that the duties of the morrow required him to be fully alert. Laying an arm around Synnovea’s shoulders, he waved them off and then followed behind as she led the way to their chambers. Even so, he had difficulty dragging his gaze from her gently swaying hips.
Ali was waiting in the dressing room to help her mistress undress. While the two women carried out his wife’s toilet in private, Tyrone readied his equipment and uniform for the next day. When he went in search of his military trappings and weapons, he had his mind on what he had to fetch and gave no thought to what he’d find in the adjoining cubicle until he saw his wife standing with her arms outstretched in readiness to receive the nightgown Ali was holding. The maid faltered in some confusion, forgetting what she was about, leaving Synnovea sublimely naked.