Chapter 8
Tasya waited until they were airborne and over the ocean before calling back, "You never fly anymore."
Rurik didn't answer. He sat directly behind her on the tiny seat, his body warm against her backbone. During preflight and takeoff, he'd been tense and uncommunicative, and she remembered all too clearly that her research had turned up Rurik's resignation from the Air Force following the accidental death of his copilot.
She hadn't been able to get more information than that; her inquiries had made the Air Force tight-lipped and suspicious, so she'd dropped the matter. She couldn't afford to make them mad; a woman who traveled the world taking photographs never knew when she might need military assistance.
But obviously Rurik had suffered some trauma because, except for taking commercial airlines, he hadn't flown since.
The motor—small, compact—hummed loudly, but the breeze blew the sound away. His weight made the ultralight handle differently. His silence made her want to help him relax. She chatted, "My instructor told me I have a real sense for flying. I don't know if he was bullshitting me, but I love this. I love the wind in my hair. I love the feeling of freedom."
No response.
"When I'm up here, I wish I could do this forever. I wish I could climb to the clouds, and skim the tops of the trees. But I won't." She chuckled. "Am I making you nervous?"
No response.
"Did you feel like that when you flew?"
Still no response.
She didn't know if he was petrified or catching a nap. As soon as they were over the mainland and the winds stabilized enough for her to glance away, she twisted around and looked at him.
His eyes were closed.
But he wasn't afraid.
He wasn't asleep.
He wore an expression of bliss unlike any she'd seen . . . except once, when she'd held him in her arms, in her body, and felt him shudder in ecstasy. She faced forward again, and wondered what the story behind his flying might be—and desperately wished she didn't care.
Chapter 9
Rurik stood on the mat in the entry of the small bed-and-breakfast. He was dripping from the rain that had been falling for the last four hours, and Mrs. Reddenhurst wouldn't let him walk any farther into the warmth.
Instead, she stood with her hands on her ample hips, and impatiently listened to him beg.
"Please, my wife and I need a room." He wiped his face with the kitchen towel she handed him. "We decided to hike the Highlands for our honeymoon. Because we both have, you know, Scottish ancestry. And we really liked Braveheart. We were supposed stay in Cameron Village tonight, but then the rain started falling—"
"A wee mist." Mrs. Reddenhurst was tall, stout, and brisk, with a strong accent. "It does that here."
"Yes, I guess it does. We brought slickers." He lifted the edge of his poncho and showed her the camouflage waterproof nylon. "But we took the wrong turn. We're cold and we're hungry. Please, please, if you have any compassion in your heart—" This place was perfect. Small, out-of-the-way, a private home that catered to tourists, but not well-known.
"Mr. Telford, I told ye. We dunna' have any rooms left."
"A closet. An attic. Someplace we can bed down for the night. We'll leave first thing in the morning." He gestured out the door. "I promised Jennifer I'd come ahead and get us a room. Please. We're newly-weds and I don't want her to realize . .." He shuffled his feet. "She thinks I can do anything and I wish . . ." He took Mrs. Reddenhurst's reddened hand, and looked soulful and pitiful. "Please, don't mess me up now."
He had her. Mrs. Reddenhurst sighed hugely, but she said, "Ye remind me of my husband. A big doo-fus with more hair than brains." Taking her hand away, she wiped it on her apron. "All I've got is the attic."
"We'll take it."
"I call it the honeymoon suite."
"That's perfect!"
"I call it the honeymoon suite because the bed is awful, and ye'll both roll to the middle."
"Oh. That's even better." He'd never spoken with more sincerity in his life.
"Yell have to share my bathroom. That's down the attic stairs, first door to the left."
"Here's my credit card." He dragged his wallet out of the backpack. When the charge came through the Telford account, Jasha would notice at once. It was a smarter and safer way than a cell phone call to let the family know he was alive and safe.
"Ye'll have to make do with steak and eggs for dinner. I havena' got salmon or lamb for ye!"
"Whatever you're making smells good." It did, and he was starving. "Do you need to see my ID?"
"I'm not waiting on ye." She shook her finger at him. "Ye'll have to fend for yerselves!"
"We can do that."
"When will yer wifey get here?" Mrs. Reddenhurst peered out the door into the mist.
"I left her back about a mile ago. I'll run up and bring her back." He did his best imitation of a bashful American. "We haven't seen anything but sheep all day, and she's sort of embarrassed by the way she looks. So if you don't mind, she'll stop in and say hello to you, then skedaddle up the stairs to the attic."
"I'm fixing supper, so take her to the attic and let her get cleaned up." Obviously, it never occurred to Mrs. Reddenhurst that he might be lying.
"The other guests aren't here?" He peered down the long corridor behind her. There were wide openings on either side—public rooms of some kind, he would guess.
"One couple is up in their room, changing for supper. The other drove to Loch MacIlvernock. Ye Americans are always so energetic!" She shook her head as if she didn't understand.
Rurik and Tasya had arrived at precisely the right moment.
As he dashed out the door, she called, "Ye'll have to eat in the kitchen."
He waved back at her, waited until she was out of sight, then walked to the shed in the yard, and found Tasya standing under the overhang, her arms crossed, her lips blue.
Her clothes had been damp while they flew over the sea, and by the time they'd set down on a flat piece of ground, she'd been shivering. They'd started across the hiking paths toward the B and B, and within an hour, the rain had started to fall. They'd both donned their slickers, but while the exertion made Rurik warm up, Tasya couldn't shake the chill.
Being Tasya, she complained heartily, pointing out that they could have reached the town and the car-rental counter within an hour, but she trudged on after him. She'd pledged to trust him, and she wouldn't break her promise because of some lousy weather.
"Come on. We can go right up to the room, so let's try to avoid being spotted." He took her hand, and for once, she was too tired and cold to wrestle it away.
They ran for the house and up the stairs to the second floor. He located the door to the attic, and when he opened it, a cold draft whipped down the narrow stairs. "The Scots and their obsession with fresh air could be the death of us," he said.
Tasya shuddered. "I'm going to the bathroom, take a shower and change, and see what I can do to make myself look different." She clutched her backpack and tried to smile. "Shaving my head may be my best bet."
He wanted to forbid her. He wanted it so badly. But looking into her eyes, he saw the mixture of mischief and challenge, and he did what he did well and she did abysmally—he picked his battle. As mildly as any henpecked husband, he said, "We want to change your appearance, not make you a terrorist suspect."
Tasya looked crestfallen that he'd refused her challenge. "I hope the owner has some makeup or some hair product I can sneak." She headed for the bathroom.
"Yeah, me, too," he muttered. Recalling Mrs. Red-denhurst's iron gray hair and thin mouth, he wouldn't bet on it.
With Tasya's pale, clear skin, her electric blue eyes, and that sooty black hair, she was far too recognizable—and far too appealing to him.
He ran up the stairs and looked around—and if Tasya had seen his wicked grin, she would have sprinted in the opposite direction and not stopped running until she reached the English border.
How many weeks had it been since he'd laid claim to her? How many weeks had he been waking every night in a roaring fury that she'd left, and he'd spent every day brewing in a red lust for her?
Now Rurik and Tasya would spend the night in a B and B in the middle of nowhere, in a cold, tiny attic, huddled together in a double bed piled high with comforters, with a mattress that sagged in the middle.
Tasya Hunnicutt was in such trouble—and she didn't even know it.
***
Tasya was in such trouble, and she knew it. She leaned against the chipped white porcelain sink and stared in the mirror into her own darkly circled eyes.
This morning, Rurik's determination to stay at a B and B made sense. But then, this morning she'd barely made it out of an explosion and a cave-in. This morning had been a miracle of life. This morning, she had felt she could handle anything, even Rurik at his most ruthless.
Now she'd been cold for hours, she was starving, and she had to play the role of a bride ... to Frankenstein.
Okay, Rurik didn't look like Frankenstein, but he was big enough to be the monster. In fact, the first time they'd made love and he'd pushed inside her, she'd had second thoughts.
That night, if she'd been thinking, his reaction to her panicked gasp would have scared her more than his size. They'd been sprawled on the bed, fully naked, and at a time when most guys would have been full steam ahead, he had noted her apprehension. He had stopped, actually stopped himself. He'd taken the moment, adjusted her legs, kissed her lips, swept his fingertips across her nipples, then down her belly. . . . When it came to figuring out what worked for a woman, he was the master. When he touched her clit. . . well, by the time she had finished coming, he was all the way inside and teaching her the meaning of multiple orgasm.
He was big, he was determined, he was ruthless, and he wanted her. Oh, and, Tasya, let's not forget that he's pissed because you walked out on him.
Walked out because she'd given far too much of herself, and Tasya Hunnicutt never did that.
Worse, she wanted him so much that when he got close, whether she knew he was there or not, every nerve went on alert and she got this low-level adrenaline rush going.
She turned on the faucet and splashed a little cold water on her face. Taking the hand towel, she dabbed it on her face, and looked at herself again. She still looked like hell. Because she had to tell him the truth soon. Well, not all the truth. She never told anybody all the truth. But enough truth to make him realize that the responsibility for the explosion rested on her shoulders, and that if he was smart, he'd get the hell away from her. She lifted her chin at herself. She would probably be killed before this was all over, but if she succeeded in getting damning information on the Varinskis, justice would have to be served; in Sereminia, Yerik and Fdoror Varinski would be convicted of racketeering and murder, and executed. Tasya might die, but she would die with the satisfaction of knowing the Varinskis would be shattered, their thousand-year reign of terror over— and she had her revenge.
She looked down at her backpack. Her camera was in there. The photos were in the memory.
A sense of urgency prodded at her. If only she could see exactly what evidence she had collected!
She glanced at the door, wondering if Mrs. Red-denhurst would let her use a computer.
Still, having the pictures wouldn't matter if she didn't live long enough to get out of Scotland.
Somehow, she had to disguise herself.
Opening Mrs. Reddenhurst's medicine chest, Tasya hopelessly dug through the tubes of ChapStick, the ointment for bunions and the one for hemorrhoids, the hand lotions, the tweezers, the Band-Aids. . . . Mrs. Reddenhurst must be the most boring woman in the history of the world.
Then, back in the bottom corner, Tasya found what she wanted. She looked at the battered box, at the expiration date long past, and realized—this was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Not only could she change her appearance, but she could almost guarantee Rurik was going to loathe this makeover. Loathe it, despise it ... and have to live with it for the rest of this trip.
***
Rurik stood in front of the old-fashioned kitchen stove, warming his rear end, watching Mrs. Reddenhurst cook.
On the counter, the small-screen television blared with reruns of BBC sitcoms. One pot on the stove popped its lid every time it bubbled. The earthenware plates in the oven turned dark as they grew warm. All the while, Mrs. Reddenhurst talked about her big, dumb husband in tones of affection and exasperation. It was obvious she missed him; Rurik had gathered from her conversation that the loss of his income was the reason she'd had to turn her tiny home into a bed-and-breakfast.
Mrs. Reddenhurst reminded him of his mother— tough-talking on the outside, soft and sweet inside. Mrs. Reddenhurst had sworn she wasn't going to put herself out for her unexpected guests, yet in the space of a half hour, she had agreed to let him use her computer to look at his "vacation" photos. She had offered to wash and dry his clothes for him, and have them ready by daybreak. She'd arrange for them to ride to Edinburgh with one of the other couples staying at the B and B. Most important, she'd scrounged up this morning's oat scones for him to snack on while he waited for Tasya.
Which was good, because Tasya had been in that bathroom for over an hour.
"Young ladies like to take their time over their toilette, especially when they've got a young man to impress." Mrs. Reddenhurst moved him over to the counter and got the lamb out of the oven. "You'll see. When yer missus steps into that doorway, ye'll be bowled over."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered.
But really, what mischief could Tasya get into in Mrs. Reddenhurst's bathroom?
Mrs. Reddenhurst looked up from arranging the serving plates and said, "Here's the young lady now!"
Rurik looked toward the door—and did a horrified double take.
Somehow, Tasya had got peroxide and now the tips of her hair were brilliant white. As if that weren't enough, she'd found styling gel and worked all the curl out of her hair. Spikes stuck out in every direction. She looked like a frightened, aging porcupine.
He was going to kill her.
He took one step in her direction—and almost ran into Mrs. Reddenhurst as she bustled around, setting the wooden table.
"Aren't you a pretty thing!" Mrs. Reddenhurst looked disapprovingly at him. "I didn't realize you'd taken a child bride, Mr. Telford."
Oh, God. Mrs. Reddenhurst was right. The hair made Tasya look like jailbait.
Why? he wanted to say to her. Why? Why? Why?
But he knew the answer—because he'd said they needed to change her appearance, because she'd somehow found some bleach, and because she loved to irritate the shit out of him.
She'd done a good job this time.
"Those clothes are perfect for a casual evening." Mrs. Reddenhurst approved Tasya's easy-care khaki pants, loose-fitting black T-shirt, and close-fitting khaki jacket. "Come on in and sit down. Don't be shy."
"I'm so glad to meet you, Mrs. Reddenhurst." Tasya marched in and, with a smile, extended her hand. "Thank you so much for taking us in, and I hope we're not too much trouble."
Rurik wasn't the only one who had charm in abundance. He saw the proof now as Mrs. Reddenhurst beamed and responded, "No trouble at all."
"Mr. Telford got us lost, but you've saved our lives." Tasya slipped an arm around Rurik's waist and hugged him with phony affection.
Rurik hugged her back, a little too hard, and held her closely enough for her to intuit his ire. "Now, darling, if you start telling Mrs. Reddenhurst all our exploits up in her beautiful mountains, someone's going to blush."
Right on cue, the color sprang to Tasya's cheeks. "I guess it's you." He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, and for all he was doing it as retaliation for her smart-ass comments, his lips still lingered . . . and returned. She was warm from the shower, damp, and fresh smelling, an aphrodisiac in his arms. Lifting his head, he looked down at her face:
her closed eyes, those ridiculously long eyelashes, the way her lips blushed to match her cheeks. . . .
The sound of a distant bell pulled them apart. "I guess the others are wanting their main course. Good thing—'tis getting warm in here." Mrs. Red-denhurst smirked as she took the plates and hustled into the tiny dining room, leaving them alone.
Rurik leaned to kiss Tasya again.
She put her hand on his mouth. "Let me go. I'm starving."
She'd aggravated him today; he held her captive just for fun. "I ought to spank you for that hair."
"You told me to change my looks." She had that cocky air about her that clearly told him she delighted in his reaction.
"Then I ought to spank you for fun."
She almost laughed. Almost.
He wouldn't have thought she would. She seemed like the kind of woman who took a threat, any threat no matter how rooted in sexuality it might be, too seriously. "Do you think I wouldn't do it?"
Now she did chuckle. "I think if you did, you'd enjoy yourself too much."
"I think you'd enjoy it, too." He leaned back against the counter, and adjusted her so all her body parts rested against all his body parts. "You'd especially enjoy the part where I held you facedown in my lap afterward, and spread your legs, and touched you."
Tasya's laughter faded.
"Pretty soon you'd be begging me. You'd use that breathless tone you have when the need is driving you."
Her blue eyes turned a smoky gray.
"I heard it several times that night in Edinburgh." He drawled, "You do remember that night, don't you?"
"Let me go." She squirmed against him.
The best damned torture he'd ever suffered. "That night, I learned a lot about what you like. That's why I know that after I spanked you, I could touch you here." He slid a hand between their bodies and pressed where it would do the most good. "Then I'd slip a finger inside you, and you'd come right on my lap."
She pulled out of his grasp.
He let her, then stalked her as she fled to the kitchen table. "By the time I pushed that second finger inside you, you'd be so ready, I'd have to hold you down with the other hand so you wouldn't bounce right onto the floor."