Forever in Your Embrace by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss Page A

fretworked gables, were nestled close behind the trees. Small sheds, gathered like ragged skirts behind the humble dwellings, were joined together with board fences, providing a windbreak against the fierce winds which could savage the land in winter months.
    The stately carriage, with its complement of unkempt guards, rumbled past the houses, drawing young and old alike to the windows. The grandeur of the coach and the frazzled appearance of its escort were noticeable even in the gloom. The small company of soldiers, some of whom were bruised and bloody, aroused speculations as to the likely cause, but no one was more aware of their shabby condition than Captain Nekrasov. At his command, the detachment rode through the town with a practiced cadence that lent some semblance of dignity otherwise lacking in the procession. The entourage passed a single-domed wooden church in stoic silence, yet when Stenka halted the conveyance in front of a sizable inn and a bathhouse was espied nearby, deep sighs of relief were heard from the grime-coated guards as they swung down from their mounts.
    Captain Nekrasov entered the inn to make the necessary arrangements for his charge. His bandaged arm and bloody tunic drew curious stares, yet one did not casually delay an officer of the tsar single-mindedly intent upon his duties. Synnovea awaited the captain’s return in the privacy of her coach, unwilling to extend the innkeeper’s bemusement by the presence of two bruised and badly disheveled women.
    Ivan Voronsky hastened off to beg for more appropriate garb from those in the church. As he skittered along the thoroughfare, he kept to the shadows and shielded his face against recognition, however remote the possibility of that occurrence.
    The innkeeper was proud of his new bathhouse and boasted of its clever features as he directed his male guests around the facilities. The guided tour allowed Synnovea the privacy she needed to help Ali upstairs to their room. By now, the servant’s head was throbbing so painfully that even the slightest movement made her queasy. She had taken on a pallor that was sharply accentuated by the purplish swelling on her pointed chin. Synnovea gratefully accepted the tray of food that the innkeeper’s wife brought up to them, but Ali could endure only a few morsels. Solicitously Synnovea filled a basin for the tiny maid, helped her bathe and don a fresh nightgown. Finally, with an agonized groan, Ali sank onto the bed and drifted off to sleep, thoroughly spent.
    Synnovea desired more than a mere token washing for herself and settled her mind on having nothing less than a thorough cleansing and a soothing soak for her own sorely bruised body. It became evident, however, that the soldiers had much the same notion in mind after depositing their gear upstairs. In passing her door they made as much noise as a stampeding herd of young colts, jostling and elbowing each other aside in a light-hearted endeavor to be among the first to reach the bathhouse. Listening to their cavorting descent, Synnovea had to wonder how they had managed to find so much energy after such a grueling day.
    The delay was hardly objectionable to Synnovea. Eventually it would allow her as much leisured time in the facility as she desired, a privilege reserved expressly for the last in line. As she waited for the soldiers’ return, she collected toiletries and nightclothes in a small satchel. Painstakingly she brushed out the debris that had become entangled in her long hair and left the black, silky length unbound as she stripped away her torn clothes. After treating the scratches on her arms, she gathered a voluminous robe around her slender body in preparation of her descent.
    The officer who had rushed to her defense came to mind, and she began to pace restlessly about, stricken by her conscience. His face was nothing more than a dark void in her memory, yet she recalled her own blended feelings of awe when, at every turn of the hand, he