Forever in Your Embrace (2 page)

Ivan lifted his chin in pompous arrogance and considered her with frosty aloofness. “If you’re uncomfortable, Countess, may I suggest that your extravagant attire is fully at fault. A simple
sarafan
would’ve better served your needs while modestly adhering to the customs of a Russian maid.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Synnovea sighed, bridling the urge to argue. The conventional
sarafan,
with its loose lines flaring slightly from shoulder to floor, would have definitely disguised her form better, but the traditional layers worn beneath and over the sometimes costly, heavily ornamented gowns would have literally stifled her. “After sailing abroad so many times, I’ve become accustomed to the styles of the French and English courts and have ceased to consider that anyone would find them offensive.”

“Then you do indeed err, Countess,” Ivan Voronsky asserted with vigor. “Indeed, had I not the discipline of a saint, I would have detached myself posthaste from the duties to which the Princess Anna has assigned me and sought other means of travel. Truly, I’ve never seen a Russian-born maid so partial to wearing such lewd foreign trappings.”

The man’s unbridled faultfinding chafed Synnovea’s patience no less now than when he had first voiced his aversion to her garments shortly after his arrival at her stoop. No doubt, had she matched his own stoic black garb, she’d have fallen into better favor with the man.

“Oh, sirrr…” Ali McCabe’s voice trembled with barely suppressed ire as she dared to enter the conversation. “I can understand that ye’ve no ken o’ what’s acceptable ’cross the seas, seein’ as how ye’ve ne’er ventured beyond these climes. Ta be sure, sir, there’s a whole different world o’er there. Why, ye’d be appalled at the license some highborn ladies take ta walk an’ talk right out in the open wit’ men what be neither monk nor close kin. Take, for instance, Queen Elizabeth, God rest her soul. Nary a soul e’er entertained thoughts o’ her bein’ locked away in a
terem
or secluded in a castle wit’ only women an’ a few holy men in attendance. Can ye imagine all o’ them fine, high-ranking lords flockin’ ’round the late queen, an’ nary a Brit thinkin’ her depraved?”

“Disgusting behavior!” Ivan rose to the bait with eager outrage. “Indeed, I have to wonder why I’m even here after the many visits your mistress made to that realm. I fear my protection has come too late to be of benefit.”

Whatever humor Synnovea had felt over Ali’s bantering discourse vanished abruptly at the man’s slur. Bristling with indignation, she was considering how best to air her objection when Ali McCabe drew herself up sharply in a highly offended snit.

“As if me own sweet lamb is anythin’ less than the innocent she’s always been!” The old woman twitched on the seat, growing more irate with each passing moment. Having closely attended her charge from infancy, the maid was greatly incensed by the cleric’s insinuations. “Whether it be here or there, sir, I can assure ye that no man has e’er laid a wayward hand ta me mistress.”

“That remains to be seen, does it not?” Ivan challenged, a thin eyebrow elevated loftily. “When your mistress wears such close-fitting attire, I can only think that her main purpose is to attract male attention.”

“How dare you suggest such a thing, sir!” Synnovea gasped, taking umbrage at his slander.

Ali’s rancor deepened. “Seein’ as how ye’re ridin’ in me mistress’s coach an’ eatin’ meals an’ stayin’ in rooms what she’s been payin’ for, sir, ye might consider showin’ her the proper respect due a lady just ta show how grateful ye ought ta be.”

Ivan fixed the tenacious little maid with a disdaining sneer. “You’ve been ill-tutored in the treatment of saints, old woman, else you’d know that charity is expected, especially from those who can afford it. Apparently you haven’t been in this country long enough to understand our customs.”

The old woman cocked her head at a curious angle. It was fresh in her mind that Ivan Voronsky had claimed poverty soon after presenting himself to the countess, declaring himself without wealth or possession beyond the clothes on his back and those few he carried within his black valise. Thereafter he had left the full burden of his subsistence upon her mistress, as if he had every right to expect her benevolence. Only the day before, he had voiced the belief that few were worthy of such charity, which had obviously been his way of trying to dissuade the countess from giving a generous purse to a young mother who had been left stranded with an infant at a coach station after the sudden death of her husband. Ivan’s efforts to halt her mistress’s largesse had seemed onerous enough, but when he had suggested the contribution be given to him instead so he could carry the gift to the mother church, Ali had felt rankling spurs dig deeply into the flanks of her Irish temper. His solicitations had solidified her belief that he was far less concerned with the needs of the poor and the destitute than with his own wealth and circumstance.

“Yer pardon, Yer Eminence.” The address was greatly exaggerated as Ali yielded to her unmeasured distrust of the man. “ ’Tis a simple fact that I’ve not laid me poor eyes on a real saint in some years now, though there be some what seek ta convince folks o’ their piety. Wolves in sheep’s clothin’, I’ll warrant, but that’s neither here nor there, seein’ as how ye’re so fine and saintly yerself.”

The veins in Ivan’s temples became darkly distended as his beady eyes pierced the servant. His stare was so menacing that he seemed on the verge of concocting some strange incantation to make the maidservant vanish into thin air. If he meant to frighten Ali, then in that quest he failed miserably. The fact that Ali had come to Russia with Count Zenkov’s bride some twenty-odd years ago and, since that time, had been treated with kindly deference, which a lord might bestow upon a favored servant, had instilled within the old woman an unshakable confidence in herself and in those whom she loyally served.

“You dare question my authority?” Ivan demanded sharply. “I am of the church!”

“O’ the church?” Ali repeated in an inquisitive tone. “There be churches far an’ wide, sir. Which be the one what sanctioned ye?”

His thin lips twisted in a repugnant sneer. “You wouldn’t know the order, old woman. It was founded a great distance from here.”

It wasn’t the first time that Ivan Voronsky had skirted around his affiliations and ordination, but his evasive answers only heightened Ali’s curiosity. “An’ the direction, sir? Which way would it be? Up or down?”

For a moment Ivan seemed ready to explode. “Were I to hold out some hope that you’d have knowledge of the province from whence I came, old woman, I might deem an answer worthy of being uttered, but I see no reason to discuss such matters with an old dullard of a servant.”

Ali squawked and flapped her thin arms in high-flying indignation as she twitched on the seat. Indeed, she seemed ready to catapult herself with claws bared upon the man.

Synnovea laid a lightly restraining hand upon her servant’s arm to forestall such a possibility. Nevertheless, the two combatants glared at each other as if tempted to duel to the death, leaving her bereft of any hope that a truce could be established between them. On the outside chance that their ire could be diminished by some slight degree, Synnovea turned a plaintive appeal to the pinch-faced man. “When our tempers have been sorely tested by the horrible conditions that we’ve had to endure these past days, ’tis understandable that we are wont to quarrel among ourselves, but I plead with you both to desist of this bickering. ’Twill only extend the ordeal.”

Had Ivan been of a gentler, more kindly or manly bent, he might have given pause to Synnovea’s plea, for her softly cajoling expression was most engaging. He may have admired the translucent radiance of the large, thickly fringed eyes that slanted slightly upward beneath delicately winged brows. Those mesmerizing orbs were a curious blend of shades: variegated shards of jade flaring outward from pupils and darkening to a warm, clear brown. As a man, he might also have appreciated the fair skin presently glowing with a moist, reddish sheen or even savored her delicate features. Most assuredly, had he been cast from the same mold as others of his gender, he might have been held much in awe by her stunning beauty, but Ivan Voronsky was not like most men. He was more of a mind to think that feminine pulchritude was a finely devised tool of a darker realm, primarily invented for the purpose of diverting extraordinary men like himself from a path toward exalted greatness.

“You err if you think your benefactress won’t hear of this, Countess. You’ve allowed your maid to insult me, and I shall be most specific in telling Princess Anna of your toleration for your hireling’s impertinence.”

Synnovea made her own conjectures as to Ivan’s origins as his hissing whisper filled the confines of the coach. “Tell her what you will, sir,” she invited stiltedly, refusing to be intimidated. “And should I be of such a mind, I might also caution His Majesty about those who yet hold out some hope of a Polish pretender or another false Dmitri gracing the throne. I’m sure such a hero as the Patriarch Filaret Nikitich would find your sympathies misplaced, considering his recent release from a Polish prison.”

Ivan’s small, dark eyes shot sparks as he recognized the havoc she could create in his life. “Misplaced sympathies? Why, Countess, I’ve never heard of anything so absurd. However did you manage to concoct such a ludicrous notion?”

“Was I mistaken?” Surprised by her own trembling disquiet, Synnovea struggled to convey an aplomb that was, at best, strained. “Forgive me, sir, but with all of your chatter about the possibility of a direct descendant of the late Tsar Ivan Vasilievich being alive, I couldn’t help but recall two previous occasions when the Poles tried to place a man upon the throne by claiming he was the late Tsar Ivan’s own son come back to life. How many times must a false Dmitri be revived to vie for the tsardom when everyone knows his father killed him in a fit of temper?”

Ivan detested being challenged by a woman, particularly one who had acquired just enough knowledge of history and the events of the world to be dangerous. It was even more galling to be forced to assuage her suspicions. “You do me a grave disservice, Countess. What I spoke of was no more than speculations derived from reports that I had heard some months ago. Believe me, my lady, I hold Tsar Mikhail in the highest esteem. Why, I wouldn’t be here if the Princess Anna didn’t trust me implicitly.” He managed a stiff smile for Synnovea’s benefit. “Despite your doubts, Countess, I hope to prove myself a worthy escort, certainly one of higher merit than His Majesty’s guards. They are, after all, no more than common men incapable of entertaining any aspirations beyond their own selfish desires.”

“And what of you, sir?” Synnovea inquired with a touch of skepticism. In her mind the cleric fell far short of the gentlemanly standards to which the officer who led the entourage adhered. Throughout his career, Captain Nekrasov had been praised for his unswerving valor and gallant manners. Tsar Mikhail couldn’t have sent a more dedicated soldier to serve as her protector. “Have you truly vaulted well beyond that moat which poses a hindrance to mortal man and founded your feet upon the lofty elements of sainthood? Forgive me, sir, but I remember as a child being cautioned by a kindly priest not to think of myself as some magisterial gift to mankind, but, with humbleness of mind, to consider my frail form to be temporal and with a fervent zeal to look toward a higher source for the wisdom and perfection which I am obviously lacking.”

“What have we here? A learned scholar?” Ivan chortled, failing badly in his attempt at humor. If anything, his tone communicated an underlying hint of malice. He was a man who had set himself to the task of influencing the misguided and had little patience with anyone who overlooked his potential or questioned his importance or ideas. “Imagine such wisdom ascribed to so fair a maid. What is to become of those ancient scribes who, for their enlightenment, have cleaved to the weighty tomes of bygone eras?”

Synnovea sensed the man was chiding her for voicing a logic he considered worthless. Apparently he had his own schemes for the universe, and far be it that any should try to dissuade him from his purpose. Yet she was not above trying. “When a person has a fault deeply rooted within his reasoning, if he continues to nurture that defect, though he may study the works of a thousand philosophers, he shall remain no wiser than before.”

Ivan’s thin lips twitched with growing irritation as he accepted her reasoning as a personal affront to himself. “And, of course, you know such a man.”

Synnovea stiltedly directed her gaze out of the window, knowing full well what he thought. Considering the cleric’s irascibility, it seemed advisable for her to retreat into silence and endure his company without further comment on
any
subject. She only wasted her breath trying to reason with the man.

The four-in-hand swept past a thick stand of lofty firs edging the road and, in its wake, left widely spreading boughs swaying vigorously. The sweating, foam-flecked steeds strained to pull the weighty coach up yet another incline, and though the animals were nearly spent from the harsh extremes and the unrelenting pace, the driver’s whip gave them no reprieve. It continued to flick out with fiery urgency, forcing them to expend whatever strength they still possessed in a quest to reach the next station before nightfall.

The soldiers valiantly kept pace, yet even those well-seasoned stalwarts, with their faces and tunics darkened by the grime of the road, were beginning to show signs of deep fatigue. No doubt each of them anticipated a respite offered by a night’s lodging in the village up ahead. The seemingly endless trek, the miserable conditions, the countless hours spent in the saddle or enduring the spine-jarring jolts of the carriage, had all coalesced into a diabolical torment, one which seemed particularly bent on sapping the last shred of spirit and vitality from each of them. It was disheartening to think that there was still another grueling day of travel left before they would come in sight of Moscow.