But this was Rurik. He didn't doubt her story about her parents' assassins, and he had come with her every step of the way of her journey.
Unhurriedly she caressed his thigh.
She felt as if he'd seen her yield. She was sure he knew he'd won.
Sliding his arms around her, he lifted her.
She groaned, knowing what would happen now.
"Trust me." He thrust inside. "Trust me now. Trust me forever."
***
When at last Rurik lifted the shade, morning was well advanced and Tasya barely remembered what it was like not to have him inside her. He'd kissed her lips, filling her with his tongue. He'd taken her with his mouth, with his penis, with his fingers. He'd knelt beside the bed, held her in his lap, and entered her. He'd taken her so many times, and every time he was strong and full, larger than any man she'd ever imagined, tireless, determined, and a man with a mission.
Trust me.
He'd said it over and over.
Trust him? She had made it her policy to never trust anyone, and that policy had stood her in good stead.
So why now was she tempted to discard a lifetime of hard lessons? Why did it seem possible that at last she could dredge down to the bottom of her soul and come up with emotions she thought vanquished?
Love and trust . . . how bright and shiny those emotions looked this morning.
Slowly she sat up, pushing her hair off her forehead. She glanced at Rurik, stretched out beside her, still naked, still large, still watching her as if he would never stop wanting her.
She didn't know what to respond, what to say, how to be the woman he adored.
So she looked out the window.
They'd reached Ruyshvania.
She recognized the mountains, rugged, rock-strewn, shadowy.
She recognized the valleys, filled with rushing rivers and occasionally a farming hamlet.
She recognized the ruins of medieval castles and the Bronze Age standing stones that crowned the peaks.
She recognized this place because, for the first time in twenty-five years, she was home. Home.
She looked down, and she recognized Rurik, too. Recognized him from the days of travel, from the night spent entwined with him while the train rolled along beneath them. My God, she could never forget him now, although she half wished she could.
If only ... if only it didn't seem as if Rurik was willing to risk his life for her and her mission.
He was beginning to assume the proportions of a hero.
He watched her now, his eyes alive with some ear- nest emotion . . , the kind of emotion that made her far too uneasy. Taking her face between his hands, he pressed a kiss on her lips.
"Trust me, Tasya," he said again. "Trust me forever. I will never hurt you. I will never betray you. I swear it on my father's immortal soul. Trust me."
Chapter 21
"Talk about terminally quaint." Rurik stood out-side the old-fashioned railway station and looked around.
Time had left Capraru behind. Crumbled remnants of its medieval walls snaked through the town. Not far away, a massive clock tower loomed over the square. Bavarian-style scroll decorated the two- and three-story buildings, and cobblestones lined the narrow streets. A few of the cars were new, but he saw well-kept sixties and seventies and eighties models threading through the pedestrians that thronged the streets.
"Ruyshvania lived under the hammer and sickle until the Soviet Union fell. Then their puppet leader, Czajkowski, seized power and kept it until nine years ago. After a cruel reign, he was deposed and executed, and since then, the people have struggled to join the twenty-first century. In the end, the quaint-ness has paid off—Americans like the clean streets, and the old-fashioned hospitality, and tourism is doing well." Tasya sounded like a guidebook, cool and well-informed, and her expression couldn't have been more undemonstrative.
That surprised him. At every stop, Tasya had been enthusiastic about their surroundings, interested no matter how many times she'd visited before.
Perhaps the tension of seeking the icon and failing was getting to her. Or after last night, perhaps she felt awkward as she tried to fathom what it was he wanted.
And he'd told her so many times. . . . Trust me, "Let's see if we can find someone to take us up
to the convent." Rurik put his hand on the base of her spine.
Tasya adjusted her backpack, moving her shoul- ders as if she couldn't find a comfortable position for the straps.
Good. Maybe last night had exhausted her, made her ache in every sinew and muscle. Maybe every time she moved today and her bones protested, she would think of him and his dedication to her plea-sure. Trust me. "Let me carry that for you." He reached for the backpack. She jerked aside. "No, I'll carry it."
And maybe his plan had backfired. Last night she'd clung to him, yielded to him, let him take her beyond fear and into passion. Perhaps now her irri-tating and compulsive independence had caused her to panic . . . but that was all right. She couldn't flee. She had an icon to find.
"I like the way the people look here. I like the way they act." Almost everyone on the street had dark hair and strong features, and they moved purpose-fully, as if they held their fates in their own hands. "They remind me of my mother."
She gasped softly, as if he'd surprised her. "They remind me of my mother, too."
Her mother? She spoke of her mother? Perhaps she was coming to trust him, after all.
He listened closely to the dialect. It sounded similar to the Russian his parents had taught him, much like Portuguese and Spanish. ... He couldn't quite understand it, no matter how hard he tried. "Do you know any of the language?"
"No! Why would I?"
"I don't know. I've heard you speak French—"
"Badly!"
"—German, and Japanese to those tourists—"
"1 don't know every language there is. Okay? I'm just a photojournalist, not the Tower of Babel."
"Okay! I thought you might know a few words of Ruyshvanian." Man, she was snappish. When his mother and his sister got like this, he and his brother knew better than to tease them—about anything. PMS was no joking matter . . . well, except he and; his brothers used to say it stood for "Pack My Suitcase," and they'd use it as an excuse to run for the hills. There they'd camp and fish, and feel sorry for their father stuck at home with two really cranky women.
But Rurik couldn't run from Tasya. She wouldn't be safe, and anyway ... he didn't want to.
Maybe that was why his papa stayed home instead of joining his sons for some recreation. No matter what her mood, he still wanted to be there for Zorana.
No wonder people claimed that love was three parts glory and one part suffering.
"Shall we try the visitors' center?" he teased.
She relaxed and grinned. Briefly, but she grinned.
He found a policeman who spoke English, and that policeman directed them to the hotel on the square.
As they walked, Tasya glanced over her shoulder.
Rurik glanced, too.
The policeman was watching them. Watching her.
She turned to face front, and she looked . .. uneasy.
"It's all right," Rurik said. "You're a pretty girl. Men gawk at you all the time. Haven't you noticed?"
"You're right, I am a pretty girl." She clutched the straps of her backpack. "This place is just creepy, that's all."
Rurik glanced around. "Twenty thousand people, nice and clean, lots and lots of restaurants. So what's creepy?"
"Nothing."
He raised his eyebrows at her.
"Really. Nothing!"
He held the hotel door for her and followed her inside. Nice place. Small, clean, and there was a woman behind the counter.
She was about his mother's age, and she smiled at him like a woman smiles when she sees a man she likes.
Good. He'd been chasing Tasya so hard, and she'd been running so earnestly, this woman's appreciation was balm on his wounded ego.
&
nbsp; "You're swaggering," Tasya murmured. "And I'm good at it." He glanced at the woman's name tag, leaned across the counter, smiled his most charming smile at the desk clerk, and asked, "Bela, can I hire a guide here?"
"You have come to the right place." Bela picked up a form, placed it on a clipboard, and held her pen at the ready. "Do you want to go any place in particular, or would you like a tour of our lovely countryside?"
"We want to go to the Convent of St. Maria," Rurik said.
Her pen ripped the paper. "The convent? Oh, but there is nothing up there. It was not a rich convent to start with, and Czajkowski stripped it of everything of value. The countryside around it is not attractive. The relics are long gone, as are the nicest of the holy objects. Can I interest you in Horvat?"
"No," Rurik insisted. "The convent."
Bela's smile faded. She put down her pen, leaned on the counter. "I can't get a guide to go up there."
"Why not?" Rurik asked.
She led them to the window. "See that hill?"
It looked more like a mountain to Rurik, looming over the town, craggy and forested, rising toward the sun, catching wisps of clouds as they whirled past.
"People say that hill is bad luck. Not me, of course, but people. They say it's haunted. They say it's no place to be at night, and since the road is in such bad shape, it's almost impossible to get up there and back in one day. The convent's on that mountain. The convent and—" Bela shivered. "That mountain is not a good place."
Tasya apparently couldn't stand to be silent any-more. "We have to get there." Bela seemed to notice her for the first time. Eyes narrowed, she considered Tasya, then nodded as if, for the first time, she understood their resolve.
"Of course. The stories are superstition, but this is Ruyshvania. Superstition is difficult to overcome here. You understand."
"Yes," Tasya said. "Yes, I understand."
"May I suggest a rental car and a good map?" Bela was the desk clerk, travel agent, and car-rental counter. She got out a different form, put it on the clipboard, and pushed it across to Rurik. "There is still one nun left alive, but I hear she's a little batty."
"One nun?"
"Sister Maria Helvig." Bela shook her head. "She refuses to come down and live in town. Well, she has lived up there since she was eighteen, and she's watched all the sisters pass away or be—well, they're dead, and she's alone."
"That's enough to make anyone crazy," Rurik agreed.
"She is harmless," Bela assured them. "As is the mountain, I am sure."
As Rurik handed back the filled-out form, Bela smiled hugely and he saw the flash of a gold tooth.
Bela added, "At least—nothing will hurt you up there."
Oddly enough, she spoke only to Tasya.
Chapter 22
An hour later Rurik and Tasya found themselves driving up a steep, winding grade. When Kurik glanced back, he could see Capraru appearing and disappearing behind the curves.
The clutch was loose, the five-speed transmission ground every time he shifted gears, and the driver's seat was on the wrong side. But Rurik had driven mountain roads all his life and this one held no surprises for him.
So why did Tasya flinch every time they rounded a corner? Had he scared her crossing Germany to Vienna? He'd been driving like a maniac, yeah, but he'd been driving a Mercedes, the road was the Autobahn, and he hadn't slipped a tire.
He could snap at her—that's what his father did when his mother grabbed at the dashboard—or he could distract her. So he said, "It looks as though Ruyshvania has recovered from the dictator well."
"Yes." Her teeth snapped when the car hit a pothole.
"Sorry," he said. "Bela was right. The road is lousy. But the town is thriving—you'd think they Could fix it."
"Not if they're afraid to come up here."
They came around a corner, and there was a fork in the road. One way, to the right, was paved. The other way was graded gravel. Both looked rough and ill-used.
He started to take the paved way.
But Tasya said, "Take the fork to the left."
He slowed almost to a crawl. "Bela said—"
"Take the left."
"The other way's paved."
"I'm looking at the map. This way is shorter."
He turned to look at her.
She wanted to be anywhere but here. Because he'd scared her to death last night with his promises of loyalty and demands for trust?
Or did she sense something about this place? A malevolence similar to the coldness she'd sensed at the burial mound?
"Okay, we'll do it your way." He rested his hand On her knee.
She hesitated, then put her hand over his. "Yes. Please. Let's do it my way."
Maybe she was beginning to soften toward him, after all. Putting the car in gear, he took the left.
To his surprise, she was right. They traveled ten miles of bad road before they rounded a corner . . . and drove through the gate to the Convent of St. Maria.
He parked, and they got out. The convent was old and handsome, and should have had his full attention.
But the view! He'd lived his life in the Cascades in Washington. In his travels as a pilot and an archaeologist, he'd been awed by many a breathtaking spectacle.
But the mountains of Ruyshvania felt . . . ancient. The peaks alternated light and shadow. They whis-pered of treachery and devotion. And in the distance, another mountain clawed at the skyline, and another, and another, until the pale blue faded into the horizon.
When he could pull his gaze away from the vista, he saw the same clashes of soft and hard on this mountain. Tempestuous outcroppings of stone punched through the billowing, emerald grass. Here and there, cliffs broke the conifer groves into halves. Dense underbrush covered the rugged mountain with green, and beneath it he could see the stiff branches and long thorns that repelled invaders.
He turned to face the convent.
Stone by stone, the walls had been constructed, and stonecutters had created filigrees and gargoyles. High atop the cloister, crosses probed the clear blue skies. The chapel was old, the oldest, tiniest building on the grounds, with small, stained-glass windows and a beautiful door carved with the figures of saints. Just as the mountain was primal, the convent breathed holiness.
This place held contradictions, and hid secrets. He knew that without a doubt.
A tiny woman dressed in black and white stepped out of the cloister.
Sister Maria Helvig.
A pair of Coke-bottle-thick glasses enlarged her faded blue eyes and pale lashes. Her wimple wrapped around her chin, and crepey, finely wrinkled skin draped over the stiff edge. A smile lit her face, and she hurried toward Tasya, hands outstretched.
Tasya shied from her, a movement so quick, only he recognized it as reluctance. Then she smiled and accepted the nun's welcome.
Sister Maria Helvig held Tasya's hands, kissed them with enthusiasm and, in heavily accented English, said, "I've been waiting for you to come!"
He stood, arms crossed, staring at the nun. She came toward him, hands outstretched—and he put his hands behind his back, and he bowed from the' waist. "I am honored to meet you, Sister."
Sister Maria Helvig stopped short. She smiled. "Of course. I should have recognized you! He told me, about you."
"Who told you?" Rurik asked sharply.
Sister Maria Helvig pointed toward the skies. "He did."
Rurik's face softened. He smiled and, like a kinder-gartner in a Catholic school, looked at his feet. "Did He tell you how this would turn out?"
"He doesn't know. But He hopes that you make the right decisions."
Rurik looked up, and he wasn't smiling. "I hope so, too."
Sister Maria Helvig etched a cross in the air over his head. "I get so lonely here since the other sisters died. I'm so glad you came to visit. ... Do you have the key?"
Tasya stared at the good sister. "Do we have the key? To what?"
"I'm sorry." The sister looked confused. "T
hey said someone could come for the icon." Both Rurik and Tasya stiffened and stared.
"The icon? You know where the icon is?"
"No, but it's here. The legend says it is."
"What legend?"
Sister Maria Helvig tucked her hands into her sleeves. "Almost a thousand years ago, a great king from the west received a tribute from a conquered warlord. The gift gave the bearer power—or so the warlord said. But the warlord hated his conqueror, and it was a cruel trick. For the gift was a holy object, a picture of the Virgin and her son, and if a man possessed the icon and possessed no good in his heart, bad luck would follow him."
Rurik's heart began to pound as he listened. This was the place. He knew it.
Sister Maria Helvig continued. "The warlord withered and died, laughing at the trick he'd played on his liege, and soon the king's might failed him. He was helpless against his enemies—and he had no friends. He sent it here for safekeeping. And so we've held the icon ever since."
"What does it look like?" Rurik asked. "I don't know. I've never seen it." She smiled sweetly.
"Where do you keep it?" Tasya asked.
"I don't know. No one does."
"So you don't know if you have the icon?" Rurik hid his frustration beneath logic.
Sister Maria Helvig laughed, a light, tinkling laugh, and one that didn't fit her plump frame. "Of course we have it. Don't we, Sisters?" She turned to the side and stared fixedly at the door of the church.
Rurik also turned, expecting to see ... someone. More than one someone. Not no one. Not empty air. Sister Maria Helvig nodded as if the invisible sis-ters had agreed with her. "Where else would it be? This is the holiest place in Ruyshvarua, perhaps in the whole empire."
"Empire?" Rurik rubbed his forehead.
"I think she means the Holy Roman Empire," Tasya said.
"Of course. Come, let me show you." Sister Maria Helvig might look old, but she walked like a much younger woman, and straight uphill.
Rurik and Tasya hurried to follow her up the nar- row path. It cut through a forest grove, and when they stepped out into the sunshine, they found them- selves facing a cliff that rose above them and plunged below them, cutting the mountain in two—or per- haps uniting two peaks into one.