Forever in Your Embrace (Author's Preferred Edition)

593 Pages·2000·1.25 MB·English

by  Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

FOREVER IN
YOUR
EMBRACE
KATHLEEN E. WOODIWISS
AUTHOR’S PREFERRED EDITION
To my granddaughter,
Amber Erin,
who makes everyone in the family
feel special.
Contents
Chapters
1 The lowering sun shimmered through the dusty haze looming 1
in…
2 The golden moon nestled like a newborn babe within the… 41
3 Stenka maneuvered the coach along a narrow street in 61
Moscow,…
4 Synnovea carefully debated her alternatives. As much as 79
she considered…
5 Synnovea’s slender feet fairly flitted down the stairs the 104
next…
6 Synnovea awoke with a start, her heart thumping nigh out… 129
7 An early-morning breeze wafted over the city as Tsar 138
Mikhail…
8 Prince Vladimir Dimitrievitch was a barrel-chested, 170
white-haired, mustached boyar with…
9 Afierce storm swept over the city in the wee morning… 195
10 The pendulum swung through the long hours as night 231
followed…
11 Synnovea paused just outside the veranda doors to collect 264
herself.
12 In the silence of the still night, a growing din… 306
13 Synnovea arrived at the Palace of Facets much earlier 327
than…
14 The guests finally took their leave of the bridal chambers,… 365
15 If Tyrone Rycroft had once imagined that he was 418
expending…
16 Ali was clearly ecstatic over the idea of being able… 448
17 Tyrone was usually very punctual about getting up before 469
dawn,…
18 Tyrone couldn’t even begin to think of making preparations 487
to…
19 The sun concluded its languid journey across the welkin 515
blue…
20 The lunar sphere cast a silvery essence down upon 523
Moscow…
21 The hill above Tyrone seemed to explode as another 544
volley…
22 The citizens of Moscow stood back as the dusty soldiers… 566
Epilogue 578
About the Author 584
By Kathleen E. Woodiwiss 583
Praise 585
Cover
Copyright 586
About the Publisher 587
1
Russia, somewhere east of Moscow
August 8, 1620
T
he lowering sun shimmered through the dusty haze looming
in languid stillness above the treetops, tinting the tiny grains of
sand with vibrant shades of crimson until the very air seemed
aflame. An ominous portent, the reddish aura offered no promise
of rain or respite for a parched and thirsty land. Excessive heat and
a lengthy drought had scorched the plains and barren steppes,
wilting endless areas of grass down to densely matted roots. But
here in the mixed wooded region of Russia, bordered on the north
and east by the Volga River and on the south by the Oka, the thick
forests appeared relatively unscathed by the lack of rain. Even so,
amid the voluminous clouds of choking dust stirred aloft by the
horses’ hooves, the occupants of the coach and its escort of soldiers
still suffered the same as they traversed the vast wilderness.
In her full score years of life, the Countess Synnovea Zenkovna
had seen a wide variety of faces her homeland could present. They
were as unique as the changing seasons.
2 / Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
The long, brutal winters could be a test of endurance for even the
most hearty. In spring, the thawing ice and snow created deceptively
treacherous bogs, which in times past had proven formidable
enough to dissuade hordes of marauding Tatars and other invading
armies. Summer was a temperamental vixen. Warm, lulling breezes
and the gentle patter of rain could placate the soul, but when im-
bued with dry, scorching temperatures such as those that were
presently hampering the land, the season served vengeance on
anyone foolish enough to travel beneath its broiling sun, a fact
which the Countess Synnovea had morosely considered prior to
leaving her home.
The conditions were intolerable for a lengthy trek through Russia,
especially one that had been embarked upon with equal amounts
of urgency and reluctance. If not for His Imperial Highness, Tsar
Mikhail Romanov, requesting her presence in Moscow ere the week
was out and a full dozen mounted guards sent under the direction
of Captain Nikolai Nekrasov to serve as her escort, Synnovea would
never have ventured upon such an arduous journey until the heat
had adequately abated. Given a choice, she would have remained
in Nizhni Novgorod, where she’d have continued mourning the
recent death of her father. It was useless, of course, for a mere
countess to belabor her lack of options when the Tsar of all the
Russias had issued a command. Immediate compliance was the
only prudent choice for any loyal subject, but leaving her home
had not been the worst of it. His Majesty’s announcement that she
would become the ward of his cousin upon her arrival in Moscow
had dragged her grieving spirit into a darker gloom.
She was, after all, the only offspring of the late Count Aleksandr
Zenkov, and now, much to her chagrin, the recipient of royal atten-
tion. The tsar hadn’t elaborated on his purpose for assigning her
a guardian. Yet when one took into account her sire’s notable per-
formance as an emissary and the many honors that had been heaped
upon him, the favor she was presently receiving was understandable.
Forever In Your Embrace / 3
Still, Synnovea found it difficult to think of herself as a helpless
waif in need of protection. She had passed an age when most
maidens marry, and now with her parents both dead, she had begun
to assume the responsibilities of a mistress of vast holdings. Why
in heaven’s name did she need a guardian?
Neither a youngling nor a pauper, yet treated like one, Synnovea
mused morosely. Against her will, a more viable reason for Tsar
Mikhail’s dictate came to mind, causing her to cringe inwardly.
Her elongated spinsterhood had in all probability influenced his
decision, especially if he had become convinced that her father had
failed to address that issue satisfactorily before his death. Despite
the demands of protocol, Aleksandr Zenkov had refrained from
forcing his daughter into marriage, having nurtured a hope that
she would someday discover a love the likes of which he had shared
with her mother, Eleanora. Though others might have been con-
vinced that he had dragged his heels in procuring a spouse for
Synnovea, Aleksandr had nevertheless made provisions for her far
beyond the standard for female descendants, securing lands and
wealth in her name while gaining guarantees from the tsar that,
upon the demise of her sire, none of these assets would be stripped
from her.
Much earlier, Aleksandr had confounded tradition by arranging
for Synnovea to be tutored by some of the most respected mentors
in Russia as well as abroad. Those who had once wagged their
heads while lamenting the count’s lack of a male heir had been
taken aback by his zeal to elevate his daughter to a status equal to
any son. Then, after the death of her mother some five years ago,
Aleksandr had enlisted Synnovea’s assistance in the realm of diplo-
matic affairs and foreign dignitaries, entrusting her with significant
responsibility in those areas, which had ultimately involved her in
his extensive travels abroad. Having had an English mother, Syn-
novea could speak that language as fluently as she could her native
Russian, and with a good grasp of French as well, she had been
able
4 / Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
to pen letters to officials in all three. No son could have done any
better.
Yet here she was, being whisked to Moscow like so much chattel
belonging to the tsar. And she was loathing every moment of it.
Wearily Synnovea braced an elbow upon the corner armrest and,
with a trembling hand, clasped a dampened handkerchief to her
brow as she sought to quell another attack of nausea, elicited no
doubt by the writhing instrument of torture in which she rode. The
wild gyrations of the coach remained unyielding as it swept around
curves and jounced over deeply rutted roads. To some degree, the
tinkling of harness bells and the jangling of horses’ necklets mel-
lowed the din of drumming hooves and a rumbling conveyance,
yet Synnovea was convinced that nothing short of the end of the
journey would ease the pain throbbing in her temples. Even the
late-afternoon sun seemed puckishly bent on punishing her as it
cast its blinding rays into the windows, forcing her to squeeze her
eyes tightly shut until the coach passed into the cooler, mottled
shade of the lofty trees that flanked the road. When she finally
dared open them again, a spotted red haze obscured the interior
and the other two occupants of the coach.
“Can it be that you’re distressed, Countess?” Ivan Voronsky in-
quired with a sardonic smile.
Synnovea blinked several times in an attempt to focus her gaze
upon the man who, through no design of her own, had become
her traveling companion and temporary protector of sorts. For all
of her schooling and travels, it seemed unthinkable that she was
destined to be placed under the tutelage of strangers and, toward
that end, was being escorted by an individual who she strongly
suspected was a Polish sympathizer and a leftover fanatic of Sigis-
mund’s Jesuits. Comments that the self-proclaimed cleric and
scholar had made during their enforced proximity had progressively
abetted such notions, and although his leanings were nothing that
she could positively affirm, Synnovea was nevertheless leery.