The Price of Pleasure (2 page)

T
he short relay from the
Keveral
to the inscrutable island before him reminded Captain Grant Sutherland of the whole bloody voyage: Dooley, his first mate, working tirelessly, his restless eyes darting around even in this small rowboat to find a crisis to forestall. Grant's crew—wary around their captain, obeying orders quickly out of their fear of him. His cousin, Ian Traywick, reeking of spirits and still—after all the miles and islands they'd covered—drunkenly optimistic of success.

“I have a good feeling about this island.” Ian slapped Grant on the shoulder, then swiped a hand over his bristly face, attempting to smooth the bed linen indentions that still pinkened his skin. Throughout the voyage, Ian had provided what he called “shipboard levity” for a crew commanded by “one cold bastard.” “Mark my slurred words, it's going to be this one. And as much as you think it won't be, surely it must.”

Grant scowled at Ian. Reason dictated that Grant begin accepting his failure—this island marked the end of an exhaustive search and was the last in the Solais archipelago. After four months of sailing just to reach the Pacific, they'd spent another three futilely scouring every island in the chain for the Dearbourne family, lost at sea eight years ago.

“And if we find them today,” Dooley added, clapping his weathered hands for emphasis, “we can make a run and dodge us some typhoons.” The old salt was as kind as he was capable and would never rebuke Grant, but Grant knew he'd kept the ship in this region far too long—weeks into the peak storm season.

Both Dooley and Ian were still hopeful that they'd find the Dearbournes. Grant thought hope at this point was an indulgence.

And Grant Sutherland
never
indulged.

As the boat neared the island and the smell of damp earth and seaweed smothered the brine, Grant's thoughts turned inward. He scarcely registered the mountain, cloaked in foliage, or the emerald bay guarded by reef. They'd rowed out to search countless times before today, and variations of paradise had greeted them each time.

“Cap'n, what do you think about the north end of the shore?” Dooley asked, pointing out a beach cupped between rock outcroppings.

Grant studied the salt-white beach and, noting the channel through the reefs in front of it, waved them on.

Back into the lulling pattern of inching forward, then pausing after each stroke, Grant peered down through the crystal water. A massive bull shark prowled beneath them. Not surprising—sharks were legion in this area. He hoped that wasn't how the family had met their end.

Perhaps they had made it to one of these islands only to die of exposure. Little better, that. Grant knew exposure took lives as a cat kills a downed bird, playing with it, never quite extinguishing hope until the last. Yet both scenarios assumed the young family had escaped their foundering ship. Most likely, they'd been pressed against their cabin wall as they watched the water eclipse them.

As the last of eight search parties, Grant's mission was either to find them or confirm their deaths. He dreaded the inevitable time when he would have to deliver the news—

“Cap'n?”
Dooley cried in a strangled voice.

Grant's head jerked up. “What is it?” Before his eyes, Dooley's craggy face swelled crimson.

“You ain't—you just ain't gonna believe this.
Over there!
South-southwest.”

Grant trained his eyes in the direction of the man's periscope. And shot to his feet so hastily that several hands slapped wood to clutch the pitching boat. Speech refused to come.

Finally, somehow, he managed,
“I'll—be—damned.”

A woman ran across the beach, seeming to light over the sand.

“Is it the daughter?” Ian demanded, as he stood as well. He clamped Grant's shoulder from behind him. “Tell me that isn't her!”

Grant shook him off. “I…can't say for certain.” He turned to the oarsmen and barked, “Put your backs into it, men. Come on, then!”

He was just about to shove the smaller sailor away from the starboard oar and take it himself when he spotted something that defied belief. Hair spilled out from under her broad-brimmed hat and swayed down her back. Hair so blond it was white, just like the girl's in the daguerreotype Victoria Dearbourne's grandfather had given him.

The closer they got to the beach, the more certain he became. He could more clearly make out her appearance—long legs stretching out as she picked up speed, one slender arm raised and bent to keep the hat atop her head. A tiny bared waist. Grant frowned. Plainly bared.

Victoria Dearbourne.
It had to be. Grant's mind could hardly wrap around the idea of finally finding her. By God, he was going to bring her back to England alive and obviously hale.

They were closing in on the breakers when she caught sight of them. She stopped so suddenly, sand kicked up at her feet and caught on the breeze. Her arm went limp and her hat, forgotten, cartwheeled away.

The boat was close enough now for Grant to see an expression of total bewilderment on her face. He felt the like. In the wind, wild hair blew to her side, or curled around her ear and streamed across her neck like a collar. Thoughts bombarded his head. She'd been a pretty child, but now…

Exceptional. So alive.

She was drawing back.

“Stay there, girl!” Ian called. “Stay put!”

But she continued backing away—
getting away
—igniting in Grant a frustration like he'd never known. “She can't hear you over the breakers,” he snapped.

Then Grant witnessed something he knew would be branded forever into his mind. Never slowing, she spun forward with startling agility to sprint from them. He'd never seen a woman run like that.

She ran…
fast as hell.

Then she was gone as though the jungle sucked her inside.

“My God,” Ian cried. “Tell me I'm not seeing this.”

Grant wanted to speak, but no words came. After a muted chorus of swearing, the astonished crew looked up at him expectantly.

Never taking his eyes off the spot he'd last seen her, Grant said, “I'll just go retrieve Victoria now.” And then he was swinging out of the boat and charging through the waves. When he reached the shore, he ran faster, not even pausing at the looming mesh of trees and vines. Grant matched her entrance and followed her to a well-worn path. He caught glimpses of her but couldn't gain.

Then, she was just before him—holding something to her side—eyes intent. When he got over his shock, he drew a ragged breath to speak. “I'm…Captain…Gr—” The slim muscles in her arms relaxed; Grant heard a whoosh. A branch whipped into his chest, toppling him to the ground. He bellowed in pain, his anger hot and blinding as he pushed himself up. He swung his head around, but couldn't spot her. Continuing on the trail, he loped with the pain, then picked up speed. All he could hear was his heart pounding in time with his shallow breaths.

He ignored everything as though wearing blinders, seeing only shadows of her as he gained, nearly able to reach her. Just when she came into view and he was about to lunge forward, she put her hand flat on a tree, using it to swing around. Now they were on opposite sides of the thick trunk. He ran to his right, she to hers. He reversed directions; her eyes narrowed in challenge. Then she feinted right, only to go left and hedge around him. He reached out at the last moment to grab her.

Got her.
He wanted to howl his triumph.

Until he stared in disbelief as the skirt he clenched in his fist stayed there while she tripped forward. The sound of ripping cloth and her cursing him melded together over his own heavy breaths. He gaped as the worn fabric ripped a swath straight up the side of her thigh to her waist before tearing free. And then she was gone once more. Bloody hell.
Bloody, bloody hell!

Anger gave way to frustrated fury. He tore off faster.
Catch her. Explain who I am. Put her on the ship. Damn it, just catch her!
As he plunged deeper into the jungle, the air grew cloudy with mist. The leaves that slapped at his chest were slick.

A waterfall of mythic size roared into view, the driving water deafening on the black rocks below. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied her white clothing amid the green.

Amid the green,
across
the rushing river.

“Victoria,” he bellowed. Amazingly, she slowed. “I'm here to rescue you.”

She turned and marched into a clearing. Putting her hands to her mouth, she yelled back at him. The words were incomprehensible over the water. “Bloody hell!” She'd have had no better luck hearing him.

Seeing no way around it, he ran to the bank and dove in, swimming furiously across the sweeping currents. Choking water, scarcely able to breathe, he hauled his big frame onto the opposite shore and staggered forward. He spotted her ahead, but as he returned to an agonizing run, he knew there was no way to catch her, no way to gain. Then he saw it, a chance.

She was following the path—he could cut through the brush separating them and intercept her. He veered left, hurtling a lazy palm, gaining already.

Then, strangely, he saw his feet—above his head. Right before he felt the first punch of earth as he plummeted down a ravine.

Even as he dropped, helpless to stop himself, he knew she'd led him here on purpose. When he caught her…He tumbled one last time and landed on his back so hard, the impact knocked the air from his lungs.

Before he could focus his eyes, she stood over him, prodding his hip with a stick, sunlight through the canopy haloing her hair. She tilted her head. “Why were you trying to catch me?”

He fought for breath, fought to speak, but only managed wheezing sounds. He could see her blond brows knit and her lips part to demand “Why?” once more, but she heard his men crashing toward them. She looked back at him, running her eyes over him, thoroughly, slowly, until she leaned in closer to taunt, “Next time you try to run me down, Sailor, I'll drop you off a cliff.”

She turned to stride away. He lunged over onto his front and sucked in a roar of air, breathing in the moisture from the plants enmeshing him. Coughing violently, he reached out a hand, wanting to stop her.

But she didn't look back. An iguana scuttled in her path, hissed at her, and deepened its stripes aggressively. She hissed back and disappeared into a black-green wall of brush.

 

Though she was loath to show it, Tori Dearbourne's heart hurt from fear as she plunged, arms raised above her, through foliage so thick it was like wading through water. She could hear the band of sailors, hear them hooting and laughing, slashing through the undergrowth behind her. She shuddered. Just like the last batch to land here.

No, at least they'd acted like friends, even saviors, before their heinous attack. Now, this towering giant, with his fierce eyes, hadn't even waited for the boat to reach shore before he charged like a lion after her, then pawed and ripped at her clothing.

Her fear beckoned worry as well. She just couldn't afford fear, and Lord knew she should be immune to it by now. Fate had tossed her about so much that that part of her simply should have withered away.

At least she hadn't appeared as terrified as she was; no, she'd just coldly made sure that if he attempted to cut her off, he'd take a spill for his troubles. She'd yelled a warning. For the tenth time, she told herself he'd chosen his own path.

All she'd planned for this morning was to check a trap in the shallows. A simple, routine chore. She'd been intent on reaching the waterline and rushing back to the canopy, avoiding the burning sun as one would run in from the rain, and hadn't exactly expected company after so many years….

A rebounding branch slapped at her thigh, startling her with its force, the pain cutting through her thoughts. She looked down to see blood streaming from the slash, staining what was left of the white lawn skirt she wore. Curse it! She might've mended it, but she didn't think the fabric could take another scrubbing before disintegrating.

Forcing herself to slow, she looked back in her wake. She knew better than to leave such a trail—splintered branches and now blood on a broad leaf. After a deep, calming breath, she returned to her task of picking through spiny palm fronds until she reached the trail to their camp. Ten minutes of sprinting up the hillside brought her to the arch of banana leaves serving as an entryway to their home.

“Men!” Tori gasped as she lurched into the clearing. “Men and a ship!” She bent over, sucking in air, then sank down, her thighs tight against her mud-speckled calves. No one answered. “Cammy?” she called. Nothing. Their hut, supported high in an ancient banyan, was silent. So help her, Cammy had better be in there. How many times had Tori ordered her to remain in the camp?

And Cammy would've been able to remember if she hadn't begun losing her wits at a spectacular rate.