“Then I shall await your pleasure, my lady. Until then, I bid you adieu.” Tyrone swept her another courtly bow and slowly straightened as she moved past him and hurried across the room. Her silken robe was now quite damp and clung to her gently swaying hips divinely, reminding him of that moment in the pool when his hand had brushed her buttocks and she had clung to him in an anxious frenzy. His long-starved passions had not yet cooled from that delicious encounter. Indeed, he could easily foresee having to endure a long, restless night tormented by his desires and a relentless onslaught of lustful imaginings.
The portal opened with the same soft creak that had announced the lady’s entrance into the bathhouse and closed again to leave him staring musefully at its oaken planks. As he listened to her hastening footsteps, another vision came to mind, one that was dark and dismally devoid of warmth. It was a painful memory of the graveside where he had muttered his last ragged, bitter farewell to his dead wife.
Colonel Sir Tyrone Rycroft turned with a muttered curse. What fool’s folly had set him on this path toward his own destruction? How could he dare entertain any hope that he could trust another woman when he hadn’t yet gathered the tattered shreds of his emotions and resumed a life unhampered by haunting recollections? The scars he had banished to the dark recesses of his mind burst forth in renewed agony, and with a low growl, he too left the bathhouse.
The dawning sun had not yet touched the land with its torturous glow when Synnovea roused the commander of her escort and bade him to make haste to depart. At Captain Nekrasov’s bemused inquiries, she laid the cause of her dispatch to a desire to have the journey behind her. She dared not reveal the fact that she was afraid that she had attracted the attention of an unwanted suitor and that it was expedient for her to leave ere the Englishman arose and sought her out again.
“Leave the stallion for Colonel Rycroft,” she told the captain as he escorted her to her waiting coach. “ ’Tis the least I can do to repay him for saving me from Ladislaus.”
Ali was still sensitive to movement and had to be carried to the conveyance by Stenka. At the gentle urgings of her mistress, the maidservant leaned back against the pillows that had been solicitously tucked into a corner of the seat and once again allowed sleep to overtake her.
Synnovea braced herself at the opposite end of the seat and closed her eyes, refusing to be drawn into conversation with Ivan. She had bade her driver to waste no moment on this, their final day of travel, and if it so pleased him, to take an unfrequented path that, although somewhat more challenging, would get them to Moscow sooner.
Once they were on the road again, Synnovea breathed a sigh of relief, confident that she had seen the last of that English rake. Although he had already failed the standard by which a lady measures a proper gentleman, she fervently hoped he’d prove his merit as an officer of the tsar and refrain from spilling gossip to every person who lent an attentive ear. It was disconcerting enough that her own memory was wont to dwell on the happenings in the bathhouse without having such tales spread abroad throughout all of Moscow.
It was half an hour later when the Commander of the 3rd Regiment of the Tsar’s Imperial Hussars rose from his cot and wincingly stretched his aching muscles. He staggered naked across the tiny cubicle that had sufficed as a room for the night and nudged the foot of his second-in-command in passing. Muttering an order, he left that one yawning as he searched out a candle to light.
Another half-turn of the hour saw the first hint of dawn lightening the sky to a dull blue. Colonel Rycroft tucked the battered helm beneath his arm and descended the stairs to make an inspection of his men, who were already awaiting him outside. As he left the open door, his eyes flitted to the right of the porch where he had last seen the lady’s coach. Alas, there was nothing there but Ladislaus’s black stallion tethered to a post. A muttered curse escaped his lips as he turned to scan the road, already aware that he’d find no evidence of the countess’s entourage.
She’s flown! The realization sorely tested Tyrone’s mood, and he ground out another expletive beneath his breath. He should’ve known he’d frighten her off with his confounded hot blooded fervor! He had moved on her like a hound sniffing a bitch in heat. In truth, he couldn’t blame her much for having flitted off in an anxious quest to put some distance between them.
Letting his breath out in long, slow drafts, Tyrone sought to curb his annoyance with himself and the lady. His men awaited him, and after he had driven them with an iron will the whole week long, they deserved better from him today, especially since they had put the outlaw band to rout. What did the girl matter anyway? He could buy the services of a wench easily enough. Indeed, he found himself ever pressed to reject the advances of those brazen trollops who followed the soldiers’ camps or traversed that area in Moscow reserved for foreigners. Still, the idea of accepting the leavings of nearly every male in the tsar’s army left him totally uninspired. He was after something more than a sordid, feverish fondling of a passing harlot. Despite the fact that he was reluctant to be ensnared by marriage again, he yearned to ease his passion with an exceptional kind of woman with whom he could exchange a mutual affinity and perhaps even come to cherish. What he truly desired was a mistress who’d be content to stay with him and not be inclined to test the strength of her persuasiveness on some other swain.
“Countess Zenkovna left you a horse, Colonel,” Captain Grigori Tverskoy announced, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the steed. “Will it not serve you as well as your own?”
“I fear Ladislaus has benefited from the trade,” Tyrone replied. “But he hasn’t seen the last of me yet.”
“Will you go after him again?”
“When it’s convenient for me to do so,” Tyrone assured his second-in-command. “But I have more pressing affairs to attend in Moscow before I can lend Ladislaus my full attention.”
“Is it not gratifying to be able to report what none other has thus far been able to claim in the division, Colonel? We’ve slain ten and three of Ladislaus’s followers with no losses in our ranks. As much as I would like to carry the details of our fight directly to the tsar, I suppose it’s too much for me to expect when General Vanderhout is so dedicated about meeting us upon our return from each and every maneuver.” A laconic smile traced the captain’s lips. “The general delights himself in your many conquests, Colonel, but I’ve noticed that it is his reputation that grows apace.”
“The Dutchman is concerned about his future here,” Tyrone mused aloud, squinting off toward the horizon. “ ’Tis the best pay Vanderhout has yet received, and he doesn’t want to lose it ere his contract runs out. Thus he must make his efforts look good.”
“At your expense, Colonel,” Grigori reminded him.
Tyrone reached out a hand to clasp the younger officer’s shoulder consolingly. “A general is always responsible for whatever happens in his division, whether good or bad, Grigori. General Vanderhout realizes his command of foreign officers is under the close attention of the tsar and that our exploits reflect on him.” Tyrone shrugged and then immediately winced as his swollen lip cracked open from his attempt to smile. “ ’Tis the way of it! For us to protest his practice of claiming fame where he hasn’t earned it would make us seem small and petty. Ergo, tovarish, we must take the general’s conduct in stride, for we’ve no other choice.”
Grigori heaved a laborious sigh. “The general’s ineptitude wears on me, Colonel. In making a comparison, I believe you have much more to offer. General Vanderhout takes the ideas you freely supply and incorporates them as his own, and from what I’ve been able to ascertain, it seems you deliberately advise the man in subtle ways just to keep him from making costly mistakes.”
Tyrone held a thoughtful silence for a long moment before he offered a reply. “I’ve had more experience in the field, my friend, but I’m certain General Vanderhout would not be where he is today without some ability of his own.”
Having gained a different impression of the
general, Grigori grunted in derision. “I wonder.”
3
Stenka maneuvered the coach along a narrow street in Moscow, passing vaulted alleyways where a labyrinth of galleries existed. The marketplace of Kitaigorod still bustled with activity even though twilight was swiftly approaching. Bazaars displayed a collection of wares organized in rows for the benefit of patrons. Flax, hemp, icons, silks, and melons had their own particular ryady, or section, from whence each was sold. Other articles, ranging from simple foods to more costly treasures of pearls, amber, and furs, were also available in the markets.
Captain Nekrasov’s detachment followed the countess’s coach as it wended its way toward the heart of Moscow, but the ragtag soldiers were largely ignored in the noisy bedlam surrounding them. Merchants loudly hawked their wares while bands of skomorokhi put on their masked mimes, musicals, or puppet shows. Prisoners, with their ankles fastened in stocks, had been incarcerated alongside the road and, in desperation, pleaded for bread and nourishment, a necessity the city did not provide. Blind or crippled beggars diligently shook cups, blending their chants for alms with the low grunts and rumblings of bears that did clever tricks for their handlers.
Rich boyars, those Russian men of nobility, sumptuously garbed in kaftans and high-peaked or rounded hats, rubbed shoulders with the poor as well as with the more prosperously dressed peasants. It was a common sight in the marketplace to see all manner of men. What distinguished the destitute from the affluent was often merely the size of one’s purse.
The large, traveling coach continued its painstaking progress over the heavily timbered road as Stenka cried “Padi! Padi!” to urge meandering crowds to make way for them, or “Beregis! Beregis!” to warn others to take care of the approaching vehicle. The small, swift, elegant open drozhki were drawn by a single horse and skirted around them with incredible ease. The summer sledges moved at a slower pace, forcing Stenka to haul the four-in-hand to the far side of the road whenever the conveyances converged from the opposite direction. In winter the troikas would have halted their progress altogether, for the brisk sleighs raced down a lane with three horses abreast, throwing plumes of snow that blanketed everything they passed.
Synnovea had visited Moscow on numerous occasions, and though no less sensitive to the beauty and excitement of the city, she was unable to disregard the fact that only a few moments remained of the freedom she had long cherished under her father’s protection. For most of the day she had been inundated by embarrassing details of her recent encounter with Colonel Rycroft. In spite of his misshapen features, she found something strangely fascinating about the man, at least enough to make her blush whenever she remembered his all-too-manly form pressing against her own nakedness. The lurid details she had disregarded in a time of panic, she now privately relished like some dream-bound chit with a penchant for salacious musings. The recurring, often graphic recollection of those moments when her bosom had been crushed against his stalwart chest and her thighs had all but embraced the fullness he had exhibited was so provocative in recall that her nerves were often a-jangle with a concern that her companions would somehow detect her wanton thoughts. Whenever her cheeks darkened to a profuse shade, she found good cause to be thankful for the sweltering heat. For once, she was glad that Ali hid her aching head beneath the folds of a cool, wet cloth and Ivan thought only of Ivan.
At present, the cleric was all but preening in the rosy aura cast by the lowering sun, as if he imagined the radiance as some well-deserved halo or, more far-fetched, held aspirations of presenting a sublime visage to his audience. If that was truly his quest, then he failed to realize just how clearly the ugly pockmarks scarring his bony cheeks were highlighted. Though shabbily garbed in the only robe the priests of the village church had been able to spare, he seemed in much better spirits and perhaps a bit puffed up on his own importance, as if delivering his charge to the custody of her guardians were some great feat that he and no other had accomplished.
The coach left the narrow passageway and entered the open area of Krasnaya Ploscha or, as the English were wont to call it, the Red, or Beautiful, Square. The red brick wall of the Kremlin rose like a vast, many-turreted crown above the city, encircling among other structures, several multidomed cathedrals, the bell tower of Ivan the Great, the Palace of Facets, and the nearby Terem Palace, where the future tsarina would be housed. Beneath the brilliance of the late-afternoon sun, the white facades and golden domes adorning many of the buildings gleamed like a sultan’s treasure, while other bejeweled edifices, courtyards, and gardens clustered close about them, well protected behind the enveloping wall.
The Frolovskaia Tower was heralded as the main approach to this mighty fortress, and near it, another bauble of architectural brilliance glimmered. The exotic grandeur of the Pokrovsky Sobor or, as it was more frequently called of late, the Cathedral of St. Basil, had already bedazzled many a viewer with its many towers and bulging, uniquely shaped domes and spires that glistened beneath the sun like the multihued scales of a fish.
Stenka clucked to the horses as they crossed the open promenade in front of St. Basil’s and the squat platform of the Lobnoe Mesto, or the Place of the Brow, from whence the patriarchs bestowed their blessings on the people or, on a spot beside it, where rebels and felons were beheaded or tortured for their crimes. Stenka soon turned the team away from the Kremlin into another lane where wealthy boyars lived in large wooden mansions. Synnovea came to alert attention when she espied the stately residence of the Countess Natasha Catharina Andreyevna off in the distance. The woman had once been her mother’s dearest companion and was now the only confidante whom Synnovea could truly trust for help and counsel should things go awry with the Taraslovs.
Finally the four-in-hand swept off the main street into a circular drive, and Stenka drew the animals to a halt before an impressive mansion. The event Synnovea had been dreading had finally arrived, and she took a deep breath, bracing herself for the meeting to come.
Captain Nekrasov dismounted and, hastily dusting himself, came around the carriage to open the door for his charge. A smile curved his lips as he raised a hand to assist in the descent of the young woman with whom he had become enamored.
Synnovea heaved a sigh, dismayed by the fact that she’d be placing herself under the authority of people who were hardly more than strangers. As she approached the mansion on the able arm of her escort, a flickering glow of candles drew her gaze upward to glass-paned doors which stood open beyond a balcony that jutted outward above the front portal. There a slender woman stood framed by silken draperies, and with a tentative smile Synnovea lifted a hand in a gesture of greeting, recognizing her new benefactress. Neither smile nor nod came before the woman retreated from view. Behind her, the translucent panels fell forbiddingly into place.
Any assuagement Synnovea might have derived from a warm greeting was abruptly replaced with a morbid sense of gloom. She didn’t want to be here, away from her home, away from all the things that her father had cherished and carefully nurtured. It took great resolve for her not to retreat to her coach. If she hadn’t feared that her departure would enrage the tsar, she would’ve gladly endured all the hardships of the long trek home.
Sensing that things were not entirely as they should be, Nikolai conveyed his deepening concern in a query. “Will all be well with you here, Countess?” He had no idea what he might do if circumstances went awry for her, but he felt strongly committed to offer his assistance just the same. “If there should ever come a need….”
Synnovea laid a hand upon the officer’s sleeve and sought to reassure him—and perhaps even herself. “Princess Anna and I have met only briefly on three different occasions, Captain. I’m sure she’s just as anxious about this meeting as I am.”
The officer wasn’t necessarily heartened by her claims, but he thought it best not to upset the maid by lingering on the matter. Yet he was motivated to restate his offer and did so cautiously lest he betray the full measure of his hear
t. “I’d consider it an honor if you’d allow me to serve you in whatever capacity you should either desire or require, my lady. I’ll be receiving a promotion next month and shall be in the service of the tsar henceforth as an officer of the castle guard. Should you find that you have need of me, you can send your maid to summon me to your side.” Almost emphatically, he declared, “And I shall come, my lady, or I will send no one less than His Majesty to give you my excuse.”
Synnovea was overwhelmed by his chivalrous, if somewhat unrealistic, declaration. “I’m truly honored by your pledge, Captain Nekrasov.”
“It has been a privilege escorting you here, my lady,” he assured her warmly, meaning far more than he actually voiced.
Resolving to persevere through the forthcoming meeting with Anna, Synnovea murmured encouragingly, “My name is Synnovea. I deem the familiarity appropriate for a friend.”
“Lady Synnovea,” the captain breathed as he gently squeezed the slender hand resting upon his arm. “And if you’d honor me in like measure, my lady. My name is Nikolai.”