It was toward the end of the fifth week when Tyrone made the mistake of trying to imagine the changes that would occur in his life should he hold to his word and return to England an unmarried man. He would then be free to court other women, and in an effort to create some enthusiasm for the bachelor status he’d have in that event, he sought to form a vision of the women he had courted before his marriage to Angelina. They weren’t nearly as comely in recall, not when he had a young wife whose beauty and charm could easily put them to shame. A few of those former light-o’-loves had even been prone to giggle over the most inane things or else talk incessantly about things that mattered not a whit to him. Not so Synnovea. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he found her subtle wit and softly spoken comments immensely pleasing.
It was while Tyrone was laboriously mulling through this course of thinking that an unexpected dawning came which served his hidebound honor a death blow. With sudden clarity he realized that if he sailed to England and left Synnovea behind in Russia, it would be equivalent to leaving his own heart behind.
One evening, after another week had come and gone, Tyrone was seated on his bedside stool cleaning his gear and military trappings when he became mindful of Synnovea sitting in a chair across the bed from him, diligently sewing tiny cloth frogs on several garments—to be exact, four tunics and a single kaftan, all of which were far too large for her. He was still laboring at his task when she rose, folded the clothes and left them on his side of the bed, along with four pairs of full-legged trousers such as Russian soldiers were wont to wear. Without offering word or explanation, she disappeared into the dressing room.
Quizzically Tyrone eyed what she had left. The long-sleeved tunics were similar to those worn by his men and were made of a soft, weighty material. The cloth frogs served as closures along the slanted openings that stretched from the banded collars downward to beneath the left sleeves of the shirts and the kaftan. In continuing reticence, his wife returned from the adjoining room and, stepping near, placed a pair of calf-length leather boots on the floor beside his bench.
“Are these for me?” Tyrone finally queried, unable to draw any other conclusion. At her nod, he inquired further. “Do you want me to try them on?”
“If you would, Ty,” Synnovea murmured, seeming rather apprehensive as she chewed at a bottom lip.
Tyrone wasn’t inclined to strip away his robe, not while she was there to spur a reaction. His pride had been daunted much too often of late for him to even think of leaving himself open to the humiliation that would follow. After gathering up the boots, a tunic, and a pair of trousers, he sought shelter in the dressing room, where he garbed himself in the clothes she had made. Among his wife’s many other talents, it seemed that she was also an accomplished seamstress, for he soon found himself marveling at the neat handiwork which had gone into making the garments.
Synnovea came to him with a smile as he emerged from the narrow room and, begging his permission, knotted a braided leather cord around his lean waist. When she stepped back to consider the clothes she had created as well as the man who now wore them, her eyes began to mist with tears. He looked so handsome that she could feel only remorse for having once squandered his affection.
Tyrone stepped before the silvered glass to consider his reflection and was prompted to cock a dubious brow at his altered appearance. “I look like a Russian.”
Synnovea surreptitiously brushed at the moisture blurring her vision and cleared her throat hastily before she spoke. “Aye, and a very handsome one at that.”
Mystified by the strange thickness in her tone, Tyrone peered at her over a shoulder, but Synnovea turned aside, refusing to let him ponder the emotion written on her face.
“Are you well, madam?”
She nodded jerkily and managed a strangled reply. “Of course.”
Unconvinced, Tyrone canted his head in an effort to draw her gaze, curious to know what was troubling her, but she hurriedly busied herself, straightening bric-a-brac on a nearby chest. Tyrone gave up his efforts, refusing to press her for an explanation. Angelina had often baffled him with her moody tears and melancholy, which had usually come with her fluxes and been just as unpredictable. He thought it prudent to return his attention to the trousers without inquiring into Synnovea’s monthly cycles. After all, they were hardly on intimate terms, considering his continuing abstinence. Despite recent revelations that had brought him face-to-face with his growing mental entanglement with her, there was still that part of him that hadn’t yielded to the idea that he couldn’t do without her.
Facing the mirror again, Tyrone gathered the loose folds in his hand and considered the roominess of the trousers. “No wonder they’re so comfortable. They’re large enough for two men.”
Covertly Synnovea eyed the torpid bulge molded by the tightly clasped pantaloons, and though she yearned to draw near and press him for a more ardent response than he had thus far been willing to offer her, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the congeniality they were presently sharing. A myriad of different things seemed to hinder it, and she was loath to see it shattered once again. Then, too, she hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of her entrance into the bathing chamber, when she had only wanted to offer him help with his bath. Nor could she forget his nakedness and the ruddy hue that had swept into his face when he had caught her eyeing the lusty flag that had hauled itself upright at her approach. The memory of his thunderous explosion even now made her tremble in trepidation, making her cautious of provoking similar outbursts.
“I’ve also made you a suitable cap and coat to wear with your clothes, if you’re of a mind to try them on, Ty,” she murmured, unwilling to meet his gaze in the mirror.
Tyrone glanced around the room in search of the articles of clothing. “Where are they?”
“I’ll fetch them,” Synnovea eagerly replied and returned to the dressing room. Hurriedly she fetched his new coat, the lining of which she had made from the same lamb’s wool as the handsome astrakhan. The cap was a necessary item of clothing in Russia, no less than the coat, and though she had searched through her husband’s clothing, she hadn’t found any outer gear warm enough for what he’d need.
“You made these?” Tyrone asked in amazement, after accepting the items from her and examining the detail of each.
Synnovea inclined her head in a single nod of affirmation. “Here in Russia you’ll be needing more protection from our winters than your English garments can provide. I’m not sure how you managed to survive the weather last year, but I’d be remiss in my duties as a wife if I didn’t see you properly outfitted for the colder months.”
“I’m grateful, madam.” Tyrone couldn’t have been more sincere. “I was greatly hampered last winter by the crispness of the icy winds until Grigori took pity on me and loaned me some of his clothing. I might not have fared well at all if he hadn’t.”
After shrugging into the coat, Tyrone settled the cap upon his head at a jaunty angle, but Synnovea giggled and, shaking her head in disapproval, reached up to rearrange the latter. Tyrone accommodated her shorter height by bending his knees, and for a moment their eyes melded in warm communications. Synnovea was feeling no less than giddy when she stepped back, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to curb a grin. It was amazing to her how quickly he could move her from tears to laughter without uttering a word, but then, perhaps it was all the roiling emotions to which she was now prey that caused such flighty behavior within her. Her whole world now seemed centered on him, and as yet, he hadn’t shown any indication that he’d ever forgive her.
Synnovea’s eyes glowed warmly in admiration as she perused her husband’s tall, broad-shouldered form outfitted in the simple garments. She thought him no less than magnificent.
“I’m delighted to find my wife so talented,” Tyrone said, perusing his reflection. “Your gifts are very fine indeed, madam. I’m both awed and pleasured by them.”
“I’m pleased to give them, sir,” Synn
ovea replied, her smile deepening. “How do the boots fit?”
“So well that I can almost believe that they were made for me.”
“Actually they were. I found an older pair of yours in your armoire and took them to the only bootmaker my father trusted. Are they comfortable?”
“Very,” he answered with enthusiasm.
“Would you like to try on the kaftan now?” she invited. “I thought you might enjoy having one to wear after your baths at night.”
“I would indeed,” Tyrone agreed and disappeared once again into the safety of the dressing room.
When he returned a few moments later wearing the blue robe, Synnovea stepped behind him and ran a hand admiringly across the full breadth of his wide shoulders as she peered past his arm at his image. “It suits you well, Ty.”
Her husband grinned at her in the mirror. “I think you’re trying to make a Russian of me, madam.”
Synnovea threaded her fingers through the short hair curling at his nape. “Your hair isn’t long enough for that.”
Even her most casual touch bestirred Tyrone’s senses, and though he strove to sound normal, he had lost the strength in his voice…and in his knees. “It needs cutting.”
“Would you like me to trim it tonight?” she asked near his shoulder.
Knowing the havoc which that simple service would create in him, Tyrone yawned and made the excuse “Not tonight, Synnovea. I’m really tired.”
“Then I’ll put away your new clothes,” she offered, gathering the garments she had made. As she faced him, she held out a hand expectantly for the kaftan, but her husband dawdled as he unfastened the frogs. When she remained near at hand, he finally turned aside before he dared sweep the garment over his head.
Even if her view was from a rearward angle, Synnovea was not above perusing all that she saw. She yearned to reach out and run a hand caressingly over the hard vales and ridges of his back and stroke his granite-hard buttocks, but she knew if she roused his ire again what she’d likely invite.
Feeling the weight of his wife’s gaze, Tyrone cast a glance askance and found a yearning in those soft orbs that almost snatched his breath away. He was sure it mirrored his own and could sense his doom drawing nigh.
Synnovea was still waiting in silence when he handed back the kaftan. She folded it over her arm, but her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his long, manly form as he lifted a knee upon the bed and leaned forward toward the pillow, where he braced himself on an elbow. What came into view would have made a meek maid blush and turn aside, but she had never considered herself as such.
Tyrone winced slightly and, slowly expelling a pent-up sigh, lifted himself to make a necessary adjustment to his privy parts. When he realized his wife was still observing him, he looked around and found her smiling in amusement.
“Something wrong, madam?” he asked, arching a curious brow.
“Oh, I was just wondering to what lengths a man will go to spite himself.”
“Are you referring to me?”
“Who else, sir?”
Tyrone didn’t rightly know how to answer. Mutely he watched the rather jaunty twitch of skirts as his wife went to the dressing room. Her amused giggles floated back from the dressing room, and he almost groaned, knowing full well what she found so humorous. He was spiting himself. He was hot, hard, and eager, and she was everything he yearned to have in all of his erotic dreams.
Synnovea returned to the bedchamber gowned in a filmy creation that left nothing to the imagination. Tyrone was certain she was bent on tormenting him, yet his eyes seemed to have a will of their own as they followed her around to the far side of the bed. She lifted the voluminous gown, allowing him an unhindered glimpse of a shapely thigh as she climbed onto the mattress. After crawling near, she sat back upon her heels, seeming completely at ease beneath his perusal, and began to massage his scarred back with a balm that kept his skin pliable. By dint of will, he turned his face aside and lowered his head to the pillow, at length allowing her gentle ministering to soothe his tensions. Never had he known such tender kindness…or unyielding torture.
Finally Synnovea put away the salve, wiped off the excess, and snuffed out the candles behind her. Tyrone pulled the feather comforter up over them before leaning across to his bedside table to do the same. Settling back upon the bed, he turned on his side away from her and lay in pensive silence, trying desperately to forget that she was even there.
“I’m cold,” Synnovea complained as she snuggled close against his back. Slipping an arm around him, she threaded her fingers through the hair covering his muscular chest and tucked her bare thighs beneath his buttocks. “And you’re always so warm.”
Her nearness burned holes through Tyrone’s restraints, yet for the life of him he couldn’t send her fleeing to the far side of the bed with another angry command. With only a thin veil of a nightgown separating them and every swelling curve remarkably designed for the purpose of tormenting him, he was completely deprived of every sane thought except one, and that was the realization that he had been utterly foolish to imagine that he could successfully ignore the treasure he had fervently craved for so long.
Synnovea was upstairs in their bedchambers the next afternoon when she happened to glance out the windows and espied Tyrone riding down the road toward the manse. He was much earlier than usual, and though a sudden surge of excitement washed through her, she was flustered by the lack of time she had to repair her appearance. Earlier that morning she had donned older peasant garments to help Natasha and her gardener harvest flowers that were to be dried for winter arrangements, but her clothes were hardly pretty enough to claim her husband’s attention. In frantic haste she stripped, washed, and perfumed herself before donning her prettiest peasant attire. She brushed her hair until it gleamed, leaving it tumbling free beneath a kerchief. Her cheeks were already rosy and required no further pinch to bring forth color when she paused to check her appearance. In her eagerness to be with her husband, she descended the stairs almost in time with her swiftly racing heart.
By the time she arrived at the door of the carriage house, Synnovea was nearly breathless with anticipation. Calming herself, she stepped within, very quietly closed the portal behind her, and laid a bar across the portal, preventing any threat of intrusion. Then she strolled forward leisurely, as if she were there with no real purpose in mind.
Tyrone was absorbed in his work and failed to notice Synnovea’s entrance until she came around the end of the grooming stall, where he was shampooing the chestnut’s tail. When he caught sight of her, his eyes slid over her in a lengthy caress, much as they were wont to do whenever she came near. Thoroughly distracted now, he continued squeezing suds through the horse’s tail beyond his usual penchant. It was a rare day indeed when his wife left the silky black tresses unbound outside the privacy of their chambers. Considering the male servants who normally moved about the grounds and house, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had earned such husbandly consideration.
His meticulous regard brought a deepening blush of pleasure to Synnovea’s cheeks, and though her smile wavered unsteadily beneath his close regard, it soon strengthened and seemed eager to stay.
“You’re home early,” she murmured, noticing that he had also changed his clothes since his arrival home, except that he had chosen to garb himself in just about the oldest and most threadbare in his possession. His knee-length breeches were so limp from use, they clung to him in a way that left no uncertainty they were the only thing covering his loins. The closures which had once fastened the breeches at the knees were gone, allowing the garment to hang loosely above his hardened calves. His shoes were equally worn, his shirt frayed and torn open down the front, leaving his lightly furred chest bare. Synnovea struggled against the temptation to reach out and feel the vibrant life beating beneath that broad, muscular expanse and to move her hand downward to other areas she knew would quicken beneath her slightest touch, but she knew she’d have to proceed carefully lest sh
e find her hopes dashed.
“My men and I will be performing in a parade for His Majesty on the morrow, and I had to get my horse and equipment ready,” Tyrone explained, drinking in her beauty. Now that he had come to the realization that he could leave her no better than he could stop breathing, he felt as if he had become her captive, which made him all the more leery of what she could do to him. Still, it was impossible for him to ignore her presence in his life. Only the night before, he had struggled against an overwhelming urge to awaken her from her slumber and make love to her. It seemed doubtful that he’d ever again be as successful at resisting the impulse. “His Majesty will be expecting you to attend the affair as my bride, but then, with foreign dignitaries there, he’ll probably be expecting you to enhance the view. If you’d like, you can bring Natasha and even Ali, since many of the officers’ wives will be bringing nannies and nursemaids to tend their children.”
Having already experienced the thrills associated with watching her husband and his troop practice, Synnovea was eager to view the actual event. She could now understand more keenly why the tsar was so intent upon having them perform. No doubt the excitement of the event would be enough to last a lifetime. “Perhaps you can help me choose a suitable sarafan to wear for the parade.”