Rurik met Duncan's gaze. "Something's happened at the site."
***
Rurik cleared the last rise, looked down, and swore.
His lonely, windswept archaeological site, with its gently mounded grave that was brushed alternately by the caress of the sea breeze and the roar of brutal storms off the North Sea, was inundated by people. Villagers, fishermen, photographers, and reporters— they were all there, tromping down the pale green grass and fragile flowers, overrunning his carefully marked sections, milling, talking, jostling for position.
Where were his workers? Who was in control?
Where was his superintendent? Where was Hard-wick?
Grimly Rurik surged forward.
The crowd had already spotted him, and he heard his name repeated over and over again.
Ashley Sundean got to him first before he reached the edge of the crowd. She was an archaeology student from Virginia, here for the summer dig, a girl whose soft-spoken drawl hid a steel core and a hard head for drinking.
He stopped and faced her. "What is going on here?"
"It's ... it's so awful.. . ." She slumped before him.
"It sure as hell is." He saw the flash as camera lenses turned his way, and heard them start to click and whirl. "Start at the beginning. Tell me everything."
She responded to his command voice by straightening her shoulders and looking into his eyes. "About a week after you left, we were clearing debris in section F21 on the ramp."
He glanced down the hill toward the site. A year ago and twenty feet from the mound, they'd found a stone ramp sloping down toward the grave. Since then they'd focused their attention there, sifting through the dirt, working their way toward what Rurik believed was the entrance to the tomb. They'd followed the wide path of flat stones down into the cool, dark shadows of the earth. Twelve feet below ground level, the path ended at the corner formed by the two vertical walls that sealed the grave.
Ashley continued. "A storm came up. We set up a tarp, but the water kept dripping down our necks and the wind ripped off the corner of the tarp."
"So you quit work for the day."
"Yeah." She sniffed, dabbed her red nose on her sleeve.
She'd been crying. Why had she been crying?
"It was a bitch of a night. Rain pouring down, and wind howling—the people in the pub said thebanshees had been loosed and the world was coming to an end." She shivered as if the threat was real.
He felt no skepticism. How could he? Perhaps banshees were real—he was the last man who could discount the old legends.
"When we came back the next day, the sun was out. The light was bright and crisp. We could see for miles." She looked at the tomb as if she was remembering. "The tarp was gone. Some of the stones on the rock wall lay crumbled on the ground—and right as we walked up, the sun entered the tomb for the first time since the day it had been sealed—and the beams struck gold."
"So I heard. On every news channel in every airport."
Ashley rubbed a spot on her forehead, "1 told him he should call you and then put the lid on it—"
"You told Hardwick?"
"Yes. And he didn't tell anyone, but the word got out with the villagers and from there, I swear, the rumor flew off the island without anyone saying a word." She scuffed her toe in the rough grass, holding back some . . . thing.
"But?"
"But once the reporters showed up, Hardwick couldn't take the pressure. He caved. He gave tours, he talked about the progress of the dig—he gave you all the credit. Really, he did." She touched Rurik's sleeve, so distressed he nodded acknowledgment. "He loved the limelight. We all did—it was cool to pull our heads out of the dirt and have reporters treat us like everything we said was important. But we didn't do anything wrong."
Rurik's gaze swept the crowd, noting the reporters now surging toward them. "Talking to the press may have been cool for you, but it didn't help the site." He started forward, ignoring the reporters, the tourists, the visitors who shouted his name.
Ashley hung on to his sleeve, letting him cleave a path through the crowd. "Hardwick said we didn't have a choice."
"Hardwick is an idiot."
Ashley's voice went up two octaves. "Don't say things like that about him!"
"He's supposed to be in control here. So why the hell not?" Rurik pushed through to the edge of the ramp. He took in the scene at the tomb wall—and knew the answer before Ashley answered.
One wall had been broken. The rock had crumbled on the ground. Inside, a window of gold beckoned ... and the hilt of an ancient steel blade jutted from that window.
The point protruded from the back of Hardwick's skull.
And Tasya Hunnicutt, the woman whose careless courage rilled him with fury and unease, struggled to lift the body free.
Chapter 3
Tasya Hunnicutt's eyes watered as she strained to lift Kirk Hardwick's limp body off the blade. She wasn't crying, exactly, but to arrive at the scene in time to see Hardwick reaching into the tomb to retrieve the first piece of gold, and trigger a thousand-year-old booby trap—that scene would play and replay in her nightmares. And in her line of work, she had viewed enough atrocities to people her nightmares; she hadn't expected one at an archaeological dig run by the cool, decisive Rurik Wilder.
But Rurik wasn't on location, and that accounted for the mistake that had cost Hardwick his life. Rurik wouldn't have allowed Hardwick to excavate the tomb while expounding for the cameras. The reporters would never have been able to bully Rurik into rushing the excavation.
She'd walked up, seen Hardwick kneeling before the window that opened into the tomb, and heard him say, "Four to five thousand years ago, tomb mounds were constructed. Mr. Wilder's theory is that a thousand years ago, a medieval warlord called Clo-vus the Beheader took the structure and made it his own, stocking it with treasure in anticipation of his death."
Brandon Collins from the London Globe had shouted, "What led Mr. Wilder to that conclusion?" "He did extensive research on Clovus and on the path of destruction he cut across modern-day France, England, and Scotland." Hardwick removed stones from the wall while Rurik's team of archaeologists stood back, frowning and watching intently, their arms crossed. "Mr. Wilder documented Clovus's slow disintegration from the most powerful and feared warlord of his time to a feeble man broken by illness, and he traced Clovus's retreat to this remote location—"
At that point, Tasya had leaped onto the stone path. She was the National Antiquities representative, the only one who had a chance of talking sense into Hardwick before he did harm to the site—and Rurik did harm to him.
That was why she saw the events so clearly: she'd been about ten feet away when Hardwick interrupted himself and exclaimed with delight, "It's a treasure chest covered with gold!"
At that moment, an unseen wave of freezing rage from within the tomb engulfed her. She hadn't experienced such a shock of pure malice since the day the four-year-old she had been saw her world go up in flames. The cold took her breath away, blinded her, stopped her in her tracks.
By the time she could see and speak again, Hardwick had reached inside.
And the sword popped out of nowhere to pierce him right through the eye.
The dull glint of gold must have been the last thing he saw.
Hardwick died instantly, hung on the sword like some gruesome warning to all who dared assault the sanctity of Clovus's treasure.
The crowd gasped, murmured, shrieked . . . and shrank back from the edge of the walkway. Distantly Tasya heard the clicking and whirring of cameras and computers as the reporters and tourists fought to capture the scene and convey a story that in an instant had gone from fluff to spectacle.
No one came to her aid. They were afraid.
Tasya was afraid, too. To her, the open grave exuded a palpable malice, as thick and green as poison. She breathed it in and urgently wanted it to clear, but the malevolence was old, potent, and endless.
Yet someone had to move Hardw
ick off the blade, place him on the ground, and give him the rest owed to the dead. Although she prided herself on her upper-body strength, Hardwick was both tall and pudgy, and every time she wiggled the body, the sound of the sword scraping flesh and bone made her want to throw up.
Then she heard it. The voice she'd last heard a month ago, calling her name in passion—
"Wait, Tasya, and I'll help you."
She glanced up. Saw Rurik striding down the ramp without a care for his own safety.
Two reactions hit her simultaneously.
My lover.
And ...
The fool. The damned fool.
Releasing Hardwick, she launched herself at Rurik. She plowed her shoulder into his belly, sending him sprawling, and before he could catch his breath, she crawled on top of him and got in his face. "Have you no sense? There are more booby traps."
"Who's without sense, then?" His eyes, the color of raw brandy, blazed with irritation—at her.
If his behavior was anything to judge by, she had always irritated him. "I am being careful, not stomping on the path with my head held high, asking to get it chopped off."
"I've walked the path before."
"Yes, and when the first stone in that wall moved, everything in this grave went out of balance." Sheheld Rurik's shirt in her fists and whispered softly, wanting none of the reporters to hear. "The old demon who's buried here is determined to make us pay dearly for the contents. Nothing's safe."
"Then what are you doing here?" His abdomen was solid. He was warm.
And she was cold and afraid. He felt like security to her.
That was wrong. So wrong. "What did you want me to do? Leave Hardwick to the carrion birds?"
He seemed to stop breathing, and his lids drooped, and his eyes grew . . . clouded, as if he fought to conceal some secret within him.
Hastily, she released his shirt.
No one knew better than she did that his straight, brown hair felt smooth when she tangled her fingers in it, that the taut body beneath his work clothes could transport a woman to ecstasy, that the tattoo that etched his chest, belly, and arm must have been a young man's foolishness, and that tracing it was a woman's. The memory of the pleasure they'd shared made her melt. The heat of possession, when he sought to brand her as his, had sent her running.
More than that—sometimes when she was close to him, she experienced the sting of something . . . frightening. Something that reminded her of that night of fire and destruction, fear, and unending darkness.
She eased herself off and away from him.
His eyes returned to normal, and they snapped with irritation. "Do you always have to be the one to fling yourself into danger? Can't you just once let someone else do the report on the massacre in Somalia or the plague in Indonesia?" He acted as if they'd had this fight a hundred times, when actually he'd never mentioned her work before.
They'd hardly talked before. Their mutual antipathy hadn't required words.
Neither had their mutual passion.
No. No memories. Not now!
She glanced up at the faces peering at them. The villagers were there. The reporters. The archaeological team. "This is no time for that conversation."
"When would you suggest we talk? After we've made love all night? No, wait. You don't stick around for a leisurely breakfast. You leave without saying good-bye." Rurik remained on the ground, mocking and, to all intents and purposes, relaxed.
He didn't fool her. Every muscle in his body was taut.
Because he wanted to grab her? To remind her that the last time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd been naked in his arms?
"Not now," she said between her teeth.
"Believe me, I realize that, or I'd be shining a light in your eyes while I interrogated you." Deliberately,he sat up, and rested his arms on his bent knees. "Tell me what happened here."
She was more than glad to change the subject. "Hardwick never saw it coming. He took one stone away and the blade popped out—it had been waiting for a thousand years for just that moment."
Rurik looked at Hardwick, and his face showed no sign of compassion. "The dumb son of a bitch."
"He didn't deserve to die for his stupidity. No one deserves that."
Rurik's gaze shifted to her. "No. No one deserves that. Unfortunately, it happens more than any of us like."
"Look, is every word you say going to be rife with significance?" She heard a murmur, glanced up at the lines of avidly staring faces, and realized her voice had risen.
"Shall we get him out of here?" Rurik asked.
He acted as if her unrestrained outburst had satisfied some perverse need in him, or proved something to him, and that made her madder. "Try not to get your head cut off. You might need it someday." She led the way back to Hardwick's body.
Rurik followed, keeping his profile low and his body tight, a man presenting a smaller target to his unseen—and long-dead—assailant. Grasping Hardwick under the arms, he lifted him easily, gently.
The tears prickled Tasya's eyes again and made her nose itch. It wasn't only sorrow and shock; seeing Rurik treat Hardwick as if he were a baby who needed his rest caused her a pang of tenderness alien to her nature.
Because how could a woman like her carry a suitcase full of tenderness on her travels? That way opened the door to heartache, and heartache interfered with work.
She wasn't a fool—she knew her work was important. Her photos shone an unflinching light on war and poverty, and her stories chronicled injustice so unmistakably that she was persona non grata with some of the world's governments . . . and a heroine to others.
More important, when she succeeded in getting her book published with an accompanying blare of publicity, she would have improved the world, and gained the smallest, most juicy bit of personal revenge. All it took to place the book on the best-seller lists was the evidence that existed in this tomb.
She followed Rurik up the ramp, watching, listening, feeling, for more traps.
The crowd had fallen silent. Rurik placed the body on one of the carts the team used to cart debris away, and turned to the people who stood around.
Visibly, he gathered the reins in his hands. "Martha and Charlie, pick two of my crew to help you haul the body to the village and lay out Mr. Hardwick."
Martha was the owner of the pub/general store,
about as in charge as anyone could be of Roi's two hundred fishermen, farmers, and elders. Charlie was the guy who dispensed religious advice, not a minister, but a learned man with a good head on his shoulders. They nodded, took Jessica Miller and Johnny Boden from his team, and headed for the village.
As soon as they topped the hill and disappeared from sight, the reporters started shouting questions. He waved them to silence. "We want to offer Mr. Hardwick the proper respect, and at the same time save the site he worked so hard to excavate. Hardwick believed deeply in protecting our heritage and understanding the past, so I want everyone to stay back while I remove the treasure chest and any other valuables. Then we'll set a guard on them and the site."
Tasya watched as the reporters responded to his easy air of command, writing and recording everyword he spoke.
From the first time she'd met him, she'd known he was a man born to authority. He led without ever looking back to see if anyone was following him— and they always were. His people worshipped him. She told herself it was because he'd been an Air Force pilot; she knew that because she hadn't been able to resist investigating his past. She resented that he could so effortlessly fascinate her while treating her like an insignificant pest, a squealer sent by the National Antiquities Society to police his efforts.
Then . . . they made love, and he proved he'd been paying closer attention than she had imagined.
My God. When Rurik Wilder showed his interest in a woman, in her, she fell like a ton of bricks. When she discovered that all the businesslike indifference he had displayed was nothing but a facade he used to challenge her, to lure her int
o his arms . . . okay, she'd run. Run like a scared rabbit.
She still thought her flight had been the best, most intelligent decision she could have made ... if she'd never had to see him again.
But here they were, standing before the tomb that would bring her success and revenge, and as she watched him take a towel and blot up the spots of Hardwick's blood on the stone and arrange for different shifts to guard the tomb, all she could think of was how much she wanted to keep him safe.
She was an idiot. Such an idiot.
His gaze shifted to hers. For one moment, her heart trilled as he focused on her.
Then he said, "Miss Hunnicutt, I'll need you to supervise the team up here while I open the tomb—"
In a flash, all her determination came rushing back.
If he discovered what she hoped he would discover—proof of the Varinskis' perfidy stretching back a thousand years—she would be by his side. She smiled, a full-frontal assault of charm mixed with resolve, and she said, "You'll need me to take photos as you excavate the site. So I'll stay with you."
Chapter 4
Rurik knelt before the window into the tomb, removing the stones one by one, brushing away the dust of a thousand years. Concentrating on his work . . . and all the while, along the edges of his mind, he was aware of Tasya. He heard the clicking of her camera as she recorded his movements. Listened to her voice as she noted his progress. Felt the heat of her body as she knelt beside him.
He didn't want her here.
Every bit of research he'd done on Clovus the Be-header told him the warrior had been nothing better than a medieval serial killer—a cannibal, a savage, a bully who scorched a path of destruction across Europe, and took such pleasure in others' suffering, modern society would label him a psychopath.
Traps? Yes, for all that Clovus was most certainly burning in hell, and had no use for his plunder there, he would have made sure no one else would ever have a moment of pleasure from his loot.
Working here was nothing more or less than waiting for the next blow to fall . . . and if Rurik wasn't careful, Tasya would be the next one lying dead on a slab in the church.