But Rurik didn't seem to frighten easily, and if she talked about the ghosts that haunted her—he'd know. He'd know the brave-reporter facade was a sham, that she was a frightened little girl who shivered in the night. He'd shine a light into the dark corners of her soul, and she'd be forced to face the memories and the fears.
Then . . . what if he hated what he saw? What if he laughed and told her to grow up? What if he used her fears to manipulate her?
What if he walked away?
No, she was better off keeping him at arm's length.
How's that going, Tasya?
Not too good, since he's holding me pressed against his body and looking into my eyes like he understands way, way too much.
Moving with slow deliberation, she untangled herself. "Look, we need to get back to the reporters and the archaeologists so I can upload the photos I took yesterday and today, and send them to my boss at National Antiquities. I'm not too happy about carrying around the only real record of your findings, and they'll be safe on the National Antiquities computer."
Rurik kept one hand on her as she stepped away. Maybe because the rock shelf where they stood was only three feet wide. Maybe because he didn't want to let her go. "I listened to the guys who blew up the tomb. Someone back there wants all the information erased. These are well-funded, desperate men, possibly ecoterrorists, and as witnesses, we need to lie low and not be recognized until we can talk to the authorities."
She almost told him then. It would have been such an easy segue from his speech to an explanation of who those men were, and the real reason why they'd set their explosives.
But then she'd have to tell Rurik what she'd been up to, and that she had put him, and his beloved excavation, in danger.
She looked over the edge of the shelf.
It was a long drop to the ocean.
She'd tell him afterward.
Chapter 7
Rurik kept an eye on Tasya as she climbed the cliff behind him.
She wasn't lying. She had no fear of heights. No fear of anything that he could see—except the dark.
He'd love to know why, but now was not the time. Now they had to run. Run far and fast, protect those photos of the wall carvings, study them, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to save not only his father's life but also his father's soul.
"Here's the situation." Rurik reached the top of the cliff. He flopped onto the flat ground, and belly crawled away from the edge. "We've got to get off this island without being spotted, and I've prepared for such an eventuality."
On a cliff a hundred feet over the ocean, Tasya stopped climbing. She ignored his hand, wiggling for her to grasp it, and looked at him as if he was nuts.
He didn't give her the chance to ask. "I've stashed survival gear not far from here."
"Sure you did." Tasya finished her climb, and flopped on the flat ground, too.
They'd come a long way in the tunnel, and now a rise concealed them from Clovus's tomb. The bare, treeless island left them little in the way of cover; he would have to use the contours of the earth to keep them out of sight.
Not that any of that mattered. If the Varinskis came looking for them, they would be found. He knew them by reputation. He recognized them in his blood.
From the day he was born, his father had trained him to expect trouble, to be prepared for trouble, to walk unseen and hear every sound. Konstantine had trained his sons—and his daughter—for the Varinskis' inevitable appearance. Rurik wasn't surprised that they'd arrived now; he was surprised only that it had taken them so long to find him.
"No one will ever spot us." Tasya brushed at her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair. Dirt showered everywhere. "We're part of the earth."
He marveled at her naivete.
She glanced up and caught him staring at her. "What? Why do you look at me that way?"
"Come on." He drew Tasya away from the tomb, leading her swiftly across the Isle of Roi, hoping they could escape before they were spotted. Perhaps he could commandeer a fishing boat? ... Or the ferry?
"I've been thinking about how to get off the island." She followed close on his heels. "My ultralight is here."
"An ultralight?" He stopped so suddenly she almost ran into him, and swung around to face her. "What do you mean, an ultralight?"
"You know—small, fixed-wing airplane designed to fly short distances at a slow speed?"
"I know what an ultralight is," he said in irritation. "Why is it here?"
"I like to fly. It's beautiful here, and the skies aren't crowded." But she glanced aside.
She didn't want him to look into her eyes. Why not? "When did you bring it?"
"While you were gone."
"When did you start flying?"
"I took lessons last time I was in the States."
Lessons. Last time she was in the States. "Why now?"
"Why wait?"
"Where did you land?" An ultralight. The damned things were notoriously unstable. A person could get killed—
"I've got the plane," he shouted as he grabbed the controls.
A stark mountain face loomed before them.
The missile was almost on them.
He drove the plane up and to the side.
They weren't going to make it—
"There's lots of flat ground here to use as a runway." She was getting annoyed.
Good. "Again—why did you bring an ultralight to Scotland?"
"What is it with the interrogation?" she burst out. "What's wrong with having an ultralight? Lots of people enjoy them. You know, hobbies and stuff!"
A hobby. She thought flying was a hobby. "Lots of people enjoy their ultralights when they're home. But on an island in the North Atlantic? Where you visit only occasionally? Where the wind currents are treacherous and a good storm off the ocean will push that ultralight into the drink?"
Rurik drove the plane up and to the side.
They weren't going to make it—
He breathed hard, trying to throw off the memories. "It is very convenient that you brought it just when we have trouble. I don't trust convenient."
"All right. Maybe I suspected there might be trouble because of the book I've written about the Varinski family and specifically nailing the Varinski Twins."
The Varinskis.
He forgot the plane. He forgot the ultralight.
The Varinskis.
He felt exactly as he had when the tunnel collapsed. Stunned, winded, unable to grasp the magnitude of the disaster.
She stood and looked up at him, his mouth agape. "Great teeth."
He snapped his jaw shut. "Give me more information."
"My publishers have me set up for an interview on GMA as soon as I lay my hands on some proof of their legend. I'm pretty sure having them blow the tomb that I happen to be exploring will put me and my story on the front page."
"I'm pretty sure you're right. Tell me all about it when we're off the island." Grabbing her arm, he marched her toward his hiding place.
"Besides, you've got survival gear hidden on the island. That's convenient, too." She was panting, but she snapped as briskly as ever.
"My father taught his children always to anticipate every threat, then be thankful if danger doesn't rear its ugly head."
"Your dad's a survivalist?"
"You could say that."
"Is that why you live in the mountains in Washington? I always heard they were full of—" She caught herself in time.
"Head cases? I know a lot of them." He knew a lot of Varinskis, too—only their last names were Wilder.
She looked sorry she'd asked. "But actually, my parents moved to Washington to avoid their families. The families didn't want them to marry, so my folks ran away." Don't tell Tasya the truth. At least—not all of it. "A love match."
"For sure. They're the reason I believe in love." Now Tasya looked as if she wanted to sprint away. Yeah, honey, 1 can talk about love, and that scares you to death—and I'm going to find out why.
They reached the headspring of the stream that ran across the island. The ancients had worshipped here, too, piling stones around the spring, planting a single tree. It was dead now, except for one branch, warped by the winds that constantly blew off the ocean.
Rurik stripped off his boots and his belt. "What about your parents? You said they were dead, but were they a love match?"
"I don't think so. I think it was an arranged marriage." She clamped her mouth shut.
"An arranged marriage? In this day and age?" Taking his dead cell phone out of his pocket, he dropped it into one boot. "They weren't born in the United States." Tasya really clamped the lid on her private info. Luckily for him, he was good at prying. "But did they love each other?" He stepped into the stream.
"I don't remember. They died a long time ago." She watched him, frowning.
Without hesitation, he reclined. The clear, cold water flowed over him, stripping away the dirt that had worked its way into every crevice. It cleansed his scent, too—if the Varinski bomb squad got smart enough to look for him, they wouldn't easily track him.
When he came up out of the water, he shook his head like a dog, spraying water everywhere.
"What did you do that for?" Tasya asked in a tone that clearly told him she'd already asked several times.
He looked up at her. "The question isn't, what did I do that for? It's, why aren't you doing it?" He stood and stepped out, wiping the water from his face, squeezing the worst from his clothes.
She glanced up at the sky.
The line of thin gray had overtaken the blue, and the sun faded. The breeze kicked up; they hadn't much time before the Scottish summer storm stole the warmth.
Kneeling, she thrust her hand in the water, and grimaced at the cold. She looked at him again.
He pointed to himself. "Clean."
She removed her boots and her belt, and with great care set her backpack aside. "All right." Taking a deep breath, she immersed herself.
She was exactly like him. She probably tore off her bandages in one swift yank, too.
While she writhed in the stream like a beached salmon, he lifted two carefully balanced rocks from the primitive monument and recovered his survival gear.
Tasya wasn't the only one with a backpack that could outlast a nuclear blast. He had a change of socks in there. One passport identifying him as John Telford, and one identifying him as Cary Gilroy. A flashlight. A compass. A signal mirror. Matches in a waterproof cylinder. Fishing line. First aid kit. Iodine tablets. Freeze-dried rations. Space blanket. Three knives, a small pistol and ammo, sunglasses, a hat— and a razor.
He waited until Tasya came out of the water, sputtering with cold. "You look good." The dirt had washed downstream, leaving her pale skin damp and vibrantly pink. Her short, curly, black hair sprang up in every direction, and . . . oh, damn, he could see her nipples poking through her shirt.
He didn't want to see the outline of her nipples right now. He didn't want to think about her breasts, or the curve of her waist, or her tiny clit, or the way she made him feel when he pressed into her and she moaned and came. . . .
They were trapped on a Scottish island. They needed to get off before his cousins caught up withthem. The best way off was an ultralight that Tasya had brought over for some nefarious reason.
And he'd sworn never to fly. Not like that. Not with the wind in his face.
Death had come too close today; the cave-in had closed his eyes and his ears, the earth had weighed too much, and for a few horrified minutes, he'd thought they'd both breathed their last. He'd thought the Varinskis had won.
Then he'd fought his way out to stand on the ledge, dirt cascading off him—and the damned tunnel had collapsed behind him.
He'd had to go back in. Into the airless darkness to rescue Tasya—or die with her.
He'd served as midwife and pulled her free, and now, whether she liked it or not, the strength of that portent bonded them together. Foolish woman. She didn't understand. But he walked the sidewalk of legend every day, and lived with the proof of evil. In his mother's prophecy, he had seen the evidence of God.
Now with death's cold stench still in his nostrils, two great wants tore at him—wanting to fly, wanting her. Both needs heated his blood, and all the frigid water in the world couldn't wash them away.
And Tasya offered one while withholding the other. She didn't understand . . . anything.
He thrust the razor at her. "Shave my head."
"Shave your—"
"There's no faster way to change my looks. I need to be unrecognizable."
She half grinned, and dropped into her best Mae West imitation. "I don't know how to break it to you,. big boy, but a guy who's six foot four is recognizable anywhere."
He didn't grin back. "The gold at the site is big news. The explosion is even bigger news, and the newspeople are here to cover it. Our disappearance will lead to speculation—first, that we're buried in the tomb, then when our bodies aren't found, that we set the charges."
She blinked, startled. "That sucks."
"Yeah. But it's reality. If you want to get somewhere safe and upload those photographs, shave my head."
She got serious. "Everyone's going to look at you."
"Hortey, everyone expects big-ass guys to look tough, and the meaner I look, the less anyone wants to look directly at me, or talk about me, or think about me."
"Yeah." She stared at his brown hair, dark and wet, then at the razor in her hand.
During the night they'd spent together, she'd touched his hair, over and over, running her fingers along his scalp, stroking the strands.
In her eyes, he saw the memories.
For sure, she didn't want to shave his head. But she gave a jerky nod, and pointed to the ground.
He sat, cross-legged in front of her, and took care not to flinch as she slid the razor carefully along his scalp.
"What are we going to do about me?" The razor was new and sharp, but with only the water to ease the passage, she still removed the very top layer of skin.
"You're going to wear my hat and sunglasses, and as soon as we can find you different clothes, you're changing your style."
"Do you always think this fast?" She was getting the hang of it, the razor sliding more smoothly.
"It's part of my training."
"Air Force training, you mean."
So. She'd researched him. But there was no way for her to research his family. Konstantine had. covered their tracks so well, no reporter could trace their background. "The Air Force taught me a little, but mostly it was my father. A survivalist, remember?"
She lifted the razor away from his scalp. "Are you making fun of me?"
He stoically stared straight ahead. "No." "Smart. I'm already scraping you raw. I wouldn't want to slip and cut you."
For the first time since arriving on the island yesterday, he grinned and relaxed. They teetered on the edge of disaster, and she threatened him. Not because she didn't comprehend the danger—she most definitely did—but because no matter what the circumstances, she didn't take shit off anybody.
She stirred his body to madness, yes, but even if she hadn't, he would still adore her. "Don't worry about scraping me. Or cutting me. I heal quickly." Very quickly. "Tell me about the ultralight." Because the damned thing was the best, fastest way off the island, and he might be able to get himself away without being detected, but the two of them?
No. She was right. They would have to fly.
"It's a two-seater, a little heavier than normal. I can get us to the mainland."
While he broke the oath he'd made as he'd stared at Jedi's broken, tortured body. The brightest young pilot he'd ever flown with . . .
He rubbed his chest, the spot over his sorrowful heart.
But maybe it wasn't so bad. Every day he ached to fly, and if he refrained from taking the controls, if he held back from the ecstasy of being the pilot, perhaps he still embraced the essence of his vow.
"The
re." She brushed the loose hair off his shoulders, stood back, and inspected him. "I did an okay job, although you sort of look like—" She searched her mind.
"A pecker head?" He ran his hands over his scalp, wincing at the abrasions, but pleased to find it mostly smooth.
"Well . . . yeah." She shivered as the wind kicked up.
Off in the distance, he heard the roar of an airplane. He glanced up; it was a seaplane, landing on the ocean, loaded with reporters or curiosity seekers or the police. Yes, the report of the explosion had gone out.
"Get ready to go." He put on his dry socks, loaded his backpack, donned his belt.
She did the same. "After we land, we'll have to walk a little to rent a car—"
"No. I've scouted out a bed-and-breakfast. Out of the way. We'll stay there tonight,"
"But if we drive all night, we can get to Aberdeen by morning—"
"We don't want to drive at night. We don't need headlights on a winding, empty road at night in the middle of Scotland. It's darker than the ace of clubs out there, everyone's going to be hunting us, and the first guy that finds us will either kill us or interview us repeatedly." When she would have objected, he held out his hand. "You get us off the island. I'll get us out of Scotland alive."
She looked at his palm, reluctance clear on her face.
She didn't want to be with him any longer than required. Yet she knew he was right.
"I'll hold you to that." She tried to make this a business deal. She tried to shake his hand.
Instead, he captured her, opened her fingers, stared at her palm. At the pale, sensitive skin and the lines experience and fate had carved there. "Do you realize what happened today?"
"What?" She watched him suspiciously.
"You and I were reborn from Mother Earth, clawing our way out of the birth canal and into precarious life." Rurik stared down at her. "Together."
He could almost see Tasya's hackles rise. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know, but lately I've learned one thing— omens are not to be ignored." Tenderly, he brought her palm to his lips, and kissed the pad beneath her thumb. "I suspect that, soon enough, we'll find out what it means."