Forever in Your Embrace (3 page)

The coach lurched heavily as the team raced around another sharp bend, and once again Synnovea braced back into the plush cushions to keep from being launched into the lap of her maid. Heavy fir branches snapped back suddenly against the conveyance, momentarily startling the passengers, but in the very next instant a more terrifying sound intruded. The exploding bark of gunfire muffled the din of loudly crashing branches and thundering hooves, wrenching frightened gasps from the three and bringing them upright in their seats.

“We’re being attacked!” Ivan exclaimed in high-pitched panic.

Synnovea went cold with dread as another deafening volley reverberated in diminishing waves through the forest. The barrage ebbed to a more tolerable level. Then a shot cracked from the rear of the coach and was promptly answered by a more distant report that ended abruptly in the footman’s shriek of pain. As his scream faded, the driver sawed on the reins, bringing the steeds to a jolting halt. A heartbeat later, the door was snatched open and the occupants found themselves gaping at the unwavering bore of a huge flintlock pistol.

“
Out!
”

The rumbling command wrenched surprised starts from the three as a giant of a man leaned inward, enhancing the threat of his massive weapon. His slanted gray eyes flicked from one to the other until they came to rest upon Synnovea. Half masked by a long, drooping mustache, the brigand’s mouth slowly twisted into a leer.

“Eh, now, what a pretty pigeon we caught for ourselves.”

Synnovea could imagine what the presence of this miscreant meant and she was absolutely terrified. It was difficult to determine the origin of the brigand, for his countenance was as fierce as any she had ever seen. His head was bald except for a long thatch of tan hair tied with a thin leather cord near the scalp and left to hang free over one ear. His faded, sky-blue military coat might have once graced a Polish officer of wide girth, but it now hung open to accommodate the broad chest of its present owner. Perhaps for the same purpose, the sleeves had been stripped away, leaving the bulging arms bare. A dingy yellow sash encircled the brigand’s thick waist, securing a pair of boldly striped, wide-legged pantaloons, the bottoms of which had been stuffed into the slouched tops of a pair of boots frivolously adorned with silver buckles.

Synnovea lifted her chin in an attempt to subdue its trembling and, with more spirit than she had deemed herself capable of, inquired sharply, “What’s the meaning of this outrage? What do you want from us?”

“Treasures,” the rogue answered with a deep chortle. Lifting his powerful shoulders briefly, he enlarged upon his reply as he ogled her. “One kind or another. It make no difference.”

Ivan craned his neck from his dour little collar as he eyed the weapon that threatened them. Anxious about his prospects for survival, he settled on the premise that if he informed this brash intruder of his close association with people of power, the fellow would be reluctant to do him harm. Perhaps the oaf would even see some advantage in ransoming him unharmed. Surely the Princess Anna would be willing to pay a sizable sum for his safe return. Or perhaps her cousin Tsar Mikhail could be persuaded to offer a minute part of his wealth to guarantee the outlaws’ good comportment.

“I urge you, sir, to take heed that you do not set awry the disposition of the tsar by doing harm to those he favors.” Ivan clasped a stubby-fingered hand to his own bony chest, managing to achieve a more dignified mien than he had been able to demonstrate since their forced halt. “I am Ivan Voronsky, and I’m here for the purpose of escorting the Countess Zenkovna to Moscow….” The hulking giant’s cocky grin never wavered, and Ivan’s apprehensions intensified as he realized he had failed to impress the brute. In rising panic, he screeched the last words out in a frantic rush. “
By order of the tsar!
”

The thief began to guffaw in deepening mirth, utterly destroying the cleric’s expectations. When the miscreant finally sobered enough to speak, he poked a long finger into the darkly garbed chest of the other, making that one wince sharply. “What you mean, you come as escort? You too skinny to fight Petrov. You make a jest, eh? You grow some, then maybe you fight.”

Ivan’s pinched features quivered with ill-suppressed emotions. A confused blend of fear, fury, and humiliation rendered him momentarily incapable of speech and action. Yet when the pistol beckoned him out, he hastily complied amid the sporadic chuckles of the oaf, who stepped back several paces to allow him room to alight. Upon stumbling to the ground, the cleric froze in sudden awe. Everywhere his gaze flitted he could see mounted men, dressed in all manner of array, surrounding the coach and its escort of soldiers. Each bore an assortment of weapons clutched in hand, tucked in sashes, or crisscrossed over their chests. They looked to be a murderous lot, and he could only wonder how he’d fare as their captive.

At the rear of the conveyance, the footman clasped a bloodstained handkerchief over his ear as he, too, cautiously eyed the villains. His still-smoking musket lay in the dust some distance behind the rear wheel where it had fallen after his wounding. Another armed bandit sat on the scrawny back of a mottled gray steed, from whence he covetously eyed the servant’s red livery over the sights of a cocked pistol. A similar threat was carried home to Captain Nekrasov and his men by a vast number of highwaymen. It was widely presumed by the hostages that any attempt to resist would be tantamount to inviting complete annihilation.

In freshening apprehension, Ivan Voronsky began to quake as Petrov sauntered near, for it seemed the towering hulk would commit mayhem upon his person, but in passing him, the brigand only smirked in amusement and leaned into the coach. Seizing the black valise the cleric had guarded so zealously during the journey, Petrov turned with a chortle and emptied the contents into the dust at his feet.

Ivan came alive with a cry of alarm and bolted forward, sweeping his arms about in anxious haste as he sought to catch his belongings before his money pouch could be discovered. He was promptly brushed aside by Petrov, whose well-practiced ear had detected an all-too-familiar clink of coins. Plucking the purse from the tangled mound of clothes, the thief tossed it into the air and guffawed in glee over its significant weight.

“Give me that!” Ivan demanded, jostling the larger man in his quest to seize the small pouch. “It belongs to the church!” His voice rose to a piercing shriek. “I was only carrying tithes to the
Moscow
church! You mustn’t steal from the church!”

“Aha! The crow now flap his wings like big hawk, eh!” Petrov glanced toward the two women, who were watching from the doorway, and grinned at Synnovea. “Little man protect his gold more than you, pretty lady.”

Petrov hunkered down on his haunches in search of more wealth, shredding the dark vestments that lay in the dust to glean whatever they might hold. His hunt proved futile, and with a roar of rage he soared to his feet, extracting a frightened yelp from Ivan as he seized him. “You tell Petrov where you hide more gold, little bird. Maybe then he won’t squash you.”

Though the sight of Ivan’s hoarded wealth had repulsed Synnovea, it went against her grain to sit calmly by and allow him to be abused without offering some defense, as frail as it promised to be. “Let him go,” she enjoined from the coach. “The satchel is all that belongs to him. Everything else you see is mine. Now let him go, I beg you!”

Petrov complied, and Ivan sagged to his knees in enormous relief as the huge man stalked back to the coach. Lending the countess his full attention, he grinned broadly while he stretched forth a hand to her. Reluctantly Synnovea settled trembling fingers within the enormous paw and alighted as courageously as her shaking limbs would allow. When she came into view of the outlaws, wild hoots and exaggerated cries of admiration rose to a deafening intensity as the thieves expressed their delight with her uncommon beauty. The thunderous din heightened Synnovea’s trepidation, and she glanced around in deepening dismay as a dozen or more stalwarts rushed forward, shouldering each other roughly aside in their quest to be among the first to reach her, already anticipating the succulent sweetmeat they would soon devour. Everywhere her frantic gaze darted she saw a deepening wall of the lecherous leers and assaulting perusals. Their lusting eyes left no curve untouched, no piece of garment intact. Eagerly they pressed in close around her, suffocating her with their hot, panting breaths and rudely pawing hands.

Synnovea clamped her jaw tightly in an effort to subdue her rising panic. Though a virgin still, she could imagine the degradation that would be forthcoming, and her mind raced in a frenzied search for escape or at least some reasonable argument that would convince the thieves to leave her and her companions unscathed.

Ali McCabe was no idealistic fool to hold out any hope that these lawless brutes would honor the gallant creed of highborn gentlemen, and certainly not when they held such a winsome captive within their grasp. The servant scrambled down from the coach and snatched up a stout stick from the ground as she hastened forward. Thrusting herself between her charge and those who sought to test the pliant curves, she raised her weapon threateningly. Though it might well mean her own death, she was totally dedicated to the defense of her mistress. “I’ll warn the lot o’ ye vile vermin!” she railed in frail, strident tones. “The next beastie ta lay a filthy hand on the Countess Synnovea will deal wit’ me. An’ I swear ta do ye ill afore I die!”

Uproarious laughter came from the slavering beasts. They readily dismissed her threats as feeble and stretched forth grubby hands to capture the prize, but Ali proved as cantankerous as an old Tatar warrior. Setting her bony jaw with unquenchable tenacity, she swung the cudgel with swift and wicked intent, cracking a fair share of knuckles and noggins. Teeth were bared in irate snarls as tempers flared beneath the vicious swat of her club. Intent now upon showing her just how easily they could trample her underfoot, the rabble began to close in around the old woman.

Captain Nekrasov surmised that he had been virtually forgotten as he observed the events from beyond the confines of the fray. Rising to the occasion, he leaned forward in his saddle and clobbered a nearby raider with a driving fist. Even as the thief tumbled to the ground, the deafening roar of an exploding pistol cracked through the air, heralding a shot that tore with splintering pain through the captain’s arm and wrenched a cry of anguish from grimacing lips. He clapped a hand to his reddening sleeve and then, in sudden wariness, glanced around, detecting the metallic clicking of several weapons close around him. At least a half-dozen flintlocks were now aimed at him, and by the fixed snarls on the faces of the brigands who held them, they were more than willing to dispense with him.

A dastardly scamp squinted up at him. “Ye’ll die, Kapitan! Ye move one eyeball, an’ ’twill be yer death.” He snapped grimy fingers to demonstrate just how quickly they could deal with him. “Just like that!”

The captain lifted his gaze as several bandits began shuffling back to open a path for another giant, this one flaxen-haired, clean-shaven, and riding on a horse. The thieves’ dispatch in giving ground to this newcomer clearly attested to their obeisance. Scars marked the newcomer’s face, giving rise to the supposition that he had fought many battles in the past. His very presence proved his success, perhaps to the extent that he had dispatched many to their death.

The man leisurely reined his black stallion to a place where he could easily assess the proceedings and settled a confident grin upon Nikolai as he shoved a still-smoking flintlock into his sash. “Your efforts to defend the ladies against such odds gives me cause to wonder if you’re daft, Captain. I’d advise you to be more careful of your life in the future. Next time I shall have to kill you.”

The thieves eyed their commander in a cautious gauging of his mood, but they found nothing unduly disquieting in the contemplative smile he swept over them. Accepting his silence as mute consent, they chortled once again in boisterous merriment and eagerly returned their attention to the countess, roughly buffeting the Irish maid about as she sought to safeguard her mistress.

Outraged gasps were wrenched from Synnovea as she twisted this way and that in a desperate attempt to escape the hands that reached out to seize her. The bandits’ eyes gleamed in avid lust, instilling within her an undermining horror of what she would soon suffer. Though she strained away from this one and that, the rending of cloth affirmed their eagerness to unmask whatever delights remained hidden from view. Her hat was knocked askew, and a sleeve was ripped from her shoulder. The stiffly pleated ruff adorning her throat was no more safe from their greedy divestment than the heavy silk ruching that trimmed the stomacher of her gown. A scream was finally torn from Synnovea as they pulled open her bodice in ravenous greed, revealing the creamy fullness swelling above a lacy chemise. One glimpse of her womanly curves seemed to incite them more, and in frenetic haste they reached out to rip away whatever else they could grasp.

“
Rutting louts!
” the pale-haired chieftain bellowed without warning, startling the lechers who immediately stumbled back from their prey. Passions cooled in rapid degrees beneath the icy gaze that swept them. “Would you maul the wench to death before we leave this place?” he barked. “Is that how you would treat a rare prize? Hell and damnation! Can you not see that she’s worth a pretty coin to us alive? Now loose her and stand aside, the lot of you! Henceforth, I shall claim the wench for my own, for ’tis evident you rogues are unappreciative of what has fallen into your hands!”