The Price of Pleasure (10 page)

She shrugged as though he had it exactly.

“Aren't you embarrassed to be seen like this, or in your transparent blouses?”

She arched her eyebrows. “Noticed them, did you?”

He flushed and said gruffly, “Answer the question.”

“Well, now, there's the crux of it. All my clothes are like this or worse, so would it embarrass me more for you to continue seeing what you've already seen, or for you to see me blushing and stammering when I can do nothing about it?”

“Why don't you borrow Miss Scott's, then?” he asked reasonably.

“And ruin hers as well when I have to work?”

He scowled because she had a point.

She'd already begun scanning the water, and within seconds, she lofted her spear and stabbed it down with incredible speed, then kicked it on its opposite end to display a plump fish. “I didn't sign on as your provider, Captain,” she said while levering the fish off. She took a line tied to a nearby root and looped it through the fish's gills. “If you want to eat, you better get to work.”

When he snagged another spear from the trunk, she faced him, raising her chin in challenge.

Grant was reminded of two duelers meeting at dawn. But with her gauzy clothing hugging her body and her hair shining all around her face, he was terrifically outgunned.

“Ready, master fisherman?” she said, smirking.

So she wants to lay down the gauntlet?
“Always.”

 

Tori had studied the captain and determined that though he was brave, he was obviously miserable on the island as it worked against his straitlaced manner, his impossibly crisp shirts and shined boots. He appeared as stiff-necked as Tori was carefree. No, the captain wasn't easy; he wasn't amenable. He would not be a man who reacted well to losing. All the better when she handed him this defeat on a platter.

Though her arms were like slabs attached to her shoulders, she refused to rest. He took his first fish, and then another. She spiked two more.

Irritation stamped his face and settled in tight lines. The madder he appeared, the more of his clothes were yanked off. First, his broad hat, so he wouldn't have to remove it to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. Then his shirt. Then his boots, so he could wade deeper. She wondered for a moment if he was trying to distract her—it was effective—but seeing how intent he was on his catch, she discounted the idea.

Tori brushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and surreptitiously surveyed him, noting how his lean body flexed, then stilled just before he launched his spear. Her gaze followed his long arms raised above him as he stretched afterward. When he leaned back to dunk his head underwater, the muscles in his bronzed torso tightened, and her lips parted.

Tori frowned. She hadn't ever wondered if she could acclimate to society—she'd just assumed she could do anything necessary of her—but now she felt a pause. She was beginning to see that there was a yawning gap in her knowledge, that there were questions she couldn't begin to divine answers for. Like how was it possible to detest a man and yet get more pleasure from simply looking at him than she'd ever known? What she felt when she watched him move—was it attraction? Or even lust, when she wanted to put her hands on him? Why had she momentarily enjoyed his kiss when she hated him?
Mysteries all,
she thought with a sigh.

When he caught another fish, Tori impatiently marshaled her thoughts, determined to win. They were tied when her arms finally gave out completely. Yet he continued, spear raised, waiting, waiting. The fish must be huge for him to take so much time with it. She shrugged. Though she'd have one fewer overall hers were still larger. She took pleasure in knowing they were competing by total pounds, not quantity. Even if he wasn't aware of that fact.

She waded farther up the inlet where the shaded water was fresher, and undressed. She washed her body, scrubbed her clothing and wrung the water from it, then dressed and finger-combed her hair until it was nearly dry.

When she returned, she saw him still poised over the fish, following at a glacial speed. She perched on a palm, drumming her cleaned nails on its trunk, piping her lip out to blow a strand of hair from her face.

Enough of this.
She scooped up a rock on her way to the water, and tossed it right in front of him.

W
ill.
That's what would defeat this monster of a fish. Every time Grant tensed to launch his spear, the thing uncannily moved. But he was a patient man and could wait out the prey for hours if necessary. His arm ached from holding the spear aloft for so long, but he was dogged. And it would be worth—

Water splashed up to his face and the fish darted away, both in recoil to the huge rock sinking before his feet. Teeth clenched, he looked to the edge of the shade, where Victoria gave him a triumphant smirk. With a growl, he hurled the spear like a javelin at the waterline, where it plunged upright, then strode toward her. With every step he took, her chin notched up higher. When he stood directly in front of her and gave her a look that had cowed convict sailors, she didn't even flinch. She wasn't afraid of him or intimidated by him. Perhaps she should be.

Without a word, he clasped her in his arms and started for the water.

“No! Sutherland,” she cried. “I'm warm and dry! Don't!”

Nothing could stop him from dumping her in. Except at the last second, she went from beating on his chest to a stranglehold behind his neck. Just as he hoisted her away, she pulled him down with her.

He shot past the surface, coughing water, close to laughing.

She was sputtering, pushing hair from her face. “You bastard! You'll regret that….” She trailed off as she looked down at her chest, no doubt following his gaze. Her shirt was twisted and half torn off her shoulder, revealing the top of one breast. The sandy fabric clung to the other. She plucked the shirt from her chest, but it insistently molded back to display her hardened nipples. The sight of them, the thought of touching her, his mouth on her…Explosive want burned inside him.

His hands clenched as he sorted through the thoughts and impulses wracking him. All morning he'd watched her, eyes locked on her long legs or her nearly bare breasts. The taut flare of her backside had nearly brought him to his knees. He would've given his life, he was sure of it, to hold her there, to heft the curves and fit his fingers around her flesh. He'd worked himself to a frenzy in an effort to quell the near constant erection he battled.

Now she stood before him as though unclothed. He wondered if he affected her as she did him. Her breaths were shallow and her eyes were wide, raking over his chest and lower, boldly, appraisingly.

He thought, in this brief sliver of time, that she might welcome his kiss, might let him brush her shirt from her shoulders and run his hands over her breasts.
Victoria, unclothed, in the water with me.

He made some rough noise in his throat, then hauled himself to the bank. Never slowing, he snatched up his boots and shirt and stormed away. He paced furiously up and down the glaring white beach, only stopping to fling a shell or imagine his ship at anchor. Before he'd found her, he'd been in no particular hurry to return home. Now Grant saw it as his only salvation. Victoria would lose her appeal in his world. She was too outspoken, too bold.

He stared at the sinking sun, struck by the violent searing of color across the sky. Only here would he see such a scene—bloodred battled orange, magenta, and the night's coming blue, the fierce colors mirroring his own crazed feelings. Grant was about control, and if she destroyed his control, she destroyed him. She stirred his emotions to a startling degree. A dangerous degree.

No woman had ever made him…
want.
Made him desire more than he could or would have.

When he returned to the inlet, she was gone, so he trudged to the camp. Halfway up the trail, he smelled cooking. Nothing could smell that good. The scent became more intense and, like an animal's, his mouth watered.

He found her preparing their catch in the open-fire hearth, and concluded he'd never been more hungry in his life. After sweeping a glance around the clearing, he asked, “What do we eat with?”

She laughed without humor. “You're assuming you get to eat?”

“Utensils?” he grated.

She gave him a long-suffering sigh. “You're looking in vain. Be glad for the plate.”

He peered down at the wooden disk she called a plate, piled high with flaky white fish. Eating fish with his hands?

Victoria had already begun and her savoring sounds didn't help his resistance. Finally, even manners were tossed aside, and he scooped the meat into his mouth. He closed his eyes before he could stop himself. It nearly melted. The taste, the texture, the smell registered with him as no food had before. He caught her observing him and flushed.

They devoured everything. Grant struggled to eat like a civilized person, but in the end, he wasn't particularly successful. He'd shoveled every bit of food into his mouth like a beast and was looking for more. Victoria had to yank twice at his plate to take it to clean. The island was beginning to get to him. He wouldn't—couldn't—let it. He was stronger than the pull here.

“What are you doing?” he asked when he saw her squeezing juice from some type of fruit onto her fingers. She didn't answer, just tossed him the other half. The scent was tart and obliterated the smell of fish on his hands.

“You got along fairly well without the utensils,” she mused as she fell sinuously into the remaining hammock.

“I don't see why you haven't made some. I saw you'd carved hooks out of bone. I know you're capable.”

“Why would I waste my knife—my
one
knife—carving a fork when I have fingers and opposable thumbs?”

He sat on a log before the fire. “Because you'd have some semblance of civilization? You're going to have a lot to learn when you return.”

“What if I haven't forgotten?” she asked. “Perhaps I've chosen to disregard certain things.”

“Such as?”

She dropped a leg outside the hammock and used her toe to rock herself. “Such as what doesn't fit out here. Dressing like a lady, for instance. Putting myself in three hundred pounds of petticoats—even if I had them—would be suicidal. You have to adapt or you'll die.”

“That's not the civilized mind-set.” Taking a branch from a pile of tinder, he stirred the embers. With the fire banked, he could clearly see her face. “It doesn't matter where you are—you can't lose your manners, your dress. Otherwise, you lose your identity.”

“And why would I want to keep my identity?” She tensed and eyed him. “Understand this, Captain. For eight years, we thought we were dead to the world. There's a freedom in that.” She relaxed again. “And whether you know it or not, you're adapting just as I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Taking off your shirt, your boots—”

“Noticed that, did you?” he asked with raised eyebrows, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I understand why your clothes are like”—he waved a hand at the colored scarf she had tied around her chest—“that. But still, maybe a blush from you? You were old enough to know propriety when you landed here.”

“Propriety?”
she spat. “Shall I call you Saint Captain or Captain Saint?”

Grant worked to hide his exasperation.

“Yes, I was old enough to have learned that.
If
I'd been taught what was proper. When I was younger, my mother used to say that nothing limited the human spirit like propriety. She would've called you a sanctimonious killjoy.”

“I am not a killjoy,” he protested before he could stop himself. “I adhere to propriety because it's the backbone of Britain. It's what separates our society from every other one on earth.” He raked a hand through his hair and tried to reason. Of all the things for her to misunderstand or be ignorant of—this should not be one of them. “The rules for propriety didn't simply spring up in a vacuum. They were formed by layers of time and are upheld for a reason.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, that's what I'll call you. Captain Killjoy.”

He glared at her. She hadn't listened to a bloody word he'd said. “If identity and propriety mean nothing to you, I wonder if you even want to leave.”

“Just because I didn't run down to the beach to meet you doesn't mean I don't want to leave. You've been reading too many castaway stories. And trust me, they have it wrong. When should women—whom no one would miss because they're believed dead—ever run out and greet sailors who'd been out to sea for months?”

“Actually, I believe you were right to be cautious.” He stared into the fire, thinking of the journal, wondering what had become of the captain. “You never wrote about that captain after Miss Scott hit him.”

Her toe braked her swaying. She sat up, her body rigid. “That's because his story was over. He died and we left him there. After a day, when the crew couldn't find him, they spooked and sailed.” Her bearing dared him to criticize her.

“Do you regret anything about it?” He hoped not, but how could a woman
not
be plagued with nightmarish memories and misgivings?
He had her, he was hurting her
, she'd written.
I wanted to protect her—I wanted to hurt him. It was as though I lost my mind.

“Regrets? Certainly. I wish we could've avoided the entire situation. If not, I wish I'd brought down the rock instead of Cammy and spared her that.”

Grant barely prevented his eyes from widening, not believing her words. Any woman he'd ever been with would have wrung her hands, waiting for help in the same situation. Not one of them would have launched herself onto a fiend's back and tried her damnedest to strangle him.

Now, years later, Victoria wished she'd dealt the final blow. Grant stared at her, at her steady, clear gaze, and for a moment, he was awed by her. He understood and wouldn't want to change her actions, but it was still disconcerting to be around a woman so different from any he'd known. He coughed and said, “I appreciate your caution. You were right to be wary. The pranks, however, I could've done without.”

She shrugged and sank back. “They felt right at the time.”

He was glad the topic had changed “Felt? I suppose you would choose instinct over logic.”

“You get the same end, only instinct's quicker.” Her rocking resumed.

Had been glad.
Now he wanted to shake her. “How can instinct help you when you want to plan your life, or strive for something more than the most basic needs?”

She looked at him as if he'd just bayed at the moon. “My only plan is staying alive. And I think it's a noble one.”

Grant couldn't understand her. He had the rest of his life planned out. In detail. He would return Victoria. Earn the Court. When the old man passed, he'd assume the estate and restore it to its former glory. After he'd achieved that, he'd begin the search for a wife, the way he did all things—thoroughly, without emotion. With an estate like that, Grant thought he could attract the type of woman he wanted—a placid English bride of impeccable manner and lineage….

“What's your cause, Captain Killjoy?”

He gave her a black look. “To bring you back, and then make a home for myself.”

“You disapprove of me for not having my life planned out,” she commented with a sigh. “But how can I? I have no idea what my life's to be like when I return. For instance, how will I live in England?”

“Your grandfather will care for you until you wed.”

“What will happen to Cammy? She has no family.”

“I'm sure Belmont would allow her to stay with you until you married,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Then what?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Victoria.”

“I'm
planning
. Besides, this is my new life—I'd rather not go into it blind.”

He couldn't argue with that. “Fine. Perhaps your husband would let Miss Scott stay on as a companion for you or a governess to your children.”

“Perhaps?”

“If not, she could marry.”

“Is that the solution to everything? Marriage? It's a wonder there are even any unmarried people to choose from.”

When he gave her an unamused look, she exhaled as though overwhelmed. There
was
much for her to think of, and sympathy arose in him.

“Plan on this, Victoria. You'll marry well. You'll have children,” he said with absolute certainty. “You will have friends and family.”

She appeared momentarily dazed. Then her face softened. He'd wager she'd once loved children. Deep in thought, she murmured, “Those things could be.” He couldn't take his eyes from her. When a breeze capped the fire and blew tendrils of her hair, she roused, then absently said, “Good night.” For the first time, she didn't seem to regard him with fear or disgust. She strode from the hammock to the shelter, lost in thought.

That mysterious look seized his thoughts. He'd concluded that she was an easy read, but now he didn't know. He unrolled his pallet, looking for a break in the canopy, then stilled. Had she meant what she said about being dead to the world? Could she truly have given up all hope of ever leaving? And if so, how had she lived with the knowledge of all the things she'd never have?