The Price of Pleasure (6 page)

When they dragged into camp, Dooley greeted them with coffee and stew. After being assured of the food, Grant ate, not tasting. The pain from his muscles grew more intense now that he'd slowed from the day's pace. He reached for his pallet, unrolled and followed it, every inch of him protesting as he eased down. Though he could scarcely keep his eyes open, he lit a lantern and pulled out the journal.

Victoria as a child of thirteen had written with a clarity belying her young age. The words describing her mother's burial weren't maudlin. In fact, Grant got the feeling that as she wrote of her mother's death, she didn't accept it. There was an underlying tone that read like someone recording a bizarre dream they'd had the night before.

A drizzly misting of rain began, dousing the fire in a series of hisses, and splattering on the fragile journal pages. He and his crew were ill prepared for camping on land. He could order the tarpaulin brought to shore, but that would be admitting he might be here longer than one more night.

Not likely. He yanked his jacket off his back and shielded the journal.

Grant turned the page, perplexed to find his ship wasn't the first to land here.

Grant tensed when a bolt of lightning flashed nearby, punctuating the words. The drizzle persisted, and the lantern flickered. He thought more insects had settled on the glass, until the light completely guttered out. He lifted the lantern, brows drawn.
Bloody hell.

Out of oil.

He could read by the fire. He jerked his glance over, but the embers were wet. Rigid with irritation, he folded the journal into an oilskin pouch. He pulled on his jacket and turned up the collar, attempting to sleep. A futile gesture. Victoria had lived, but what had she lived through?

No wonder she'd been so frightened when he chased her. He rubbed a hand over his face, flinching from his actions. He wanted to find her and assure her that he was there to help. He wanted to comfort her as best as someone like him was able.

He wanted to read on so badly, the pouch seemed to burn.

 

“So, how's the campaign?” Cammy asked from beside the popping fire. Though it was wet and gusting outside, they were relatively snug in their hideaway.

Tori leaned back and placed her hands behind her head. “Today he'll get a delightful view of the twin seep holes on the west side. And for tomorrow, I planted a trail through the mangrove thicket that won't wash away.” She hoped she appeared utterly confident, but the truth was, she had no idea if she was proceeding in the right direction. They showed no signs of leaving, nor staying for that matter.

“What else have you planned?”

“Now, just hear me out before you say anything.” Tori leaned in and lowered her voice, as if what she was about to impart would be disturbing. “I was thinking that I could—” She broke off. “Why are you looking at me like that? I haven't even told you—” The look of horror on Cammy's face made her freeze. “Something's directly behind me?”

Cammy slowly nodded, gasping. Tori spun around, placing Cammy behind her.

Only to come face-to-face with a thick, black-
mottled snake, so close that her breath fanned it and would have made it blink, if scaly serpents had eyelids.

When its tongue slid out close enough to touch her cheek, Tori, in turn, piped out her lip to blow a curl from her eyes. “This is the
last
time, snake. The cave is
our
dry place, not yours.” She hefted up the weighty boa and began to lug it out into the rain.

“Tori?” Cammy said in a squeak. Tori turned, the snake still casually looped over one shoulder. “Do you think you could take it farther away this time, so it won't slither right back?”

“All right, but I don't know where to put…” She trailed off as an idea came to her. Absently patting the snake's plump torso, she said, “I know just who would appreciate your company.”

 

An hour after dawn the next day, Grant still hadn't set out, but continued to read, engrossed.

“Put the bloody book down,” Ian hollered from his hammock. As he had for the last two outbursts, Grant ignored him.

“Are you going to read or are you going to search?”

Grant reluctantly glanced up and found Ian standing over him, readied for another day. “I thought you'd had it.”

“Walking until my feet rot off actually beats staying here—”

“So, we're out of liquor?”

Ian didn't even have the grace to look shamefaced. “Quite so. And bloody boring without it. Besides, when I found the shelter, it whetted the explorer appetite in me.”

“
You
found the shelter?”

“Would you have found it without me?”

Grant scowled before looking down at the words covetously.

“Don't you feel guilty reading her journal?”

Yes, he struggled with it at every page. “I might be able to find a reference to another hiding place.”

“You might put the journal down and find her sitting in her hut.”

“She's too smart for that.”

“So, now you know her?”

He knew she was courageous and wily and loyal. He held up the journal. “I know her.”

J
ust after midnight, Tori padded into their camp, her footsteps silenced by the sand. She dragged her woven sack with difficulty and crept closer to the shadowy form of the captain, an imposing form even at rest.

When she stood directly over him, she knew she should hurry away, but she was curiously content to watch him by the light of the dying fire and the waxing moon. His brows knitted in sleep, and a lock of hair teased his eyes. If she were objective, she'd admit that he was a particularly good-looking man, with his strong chin and chiseled features.

After several moments, the contentment faded as the curious urge to touch him surfaced. What would his skin feel like? She'd wondered since she'd seen him in the pool. And the faint beginnings of his beard? Would his face be rough where hers was smooth? Captivated, she inched closer.

And promptly kicked over a lantern.

She tensed to run. He mumbled something in his sleep, his voice a deep rumble, and rolled over, but he didn't wake. Relaxing somewhat, she noticed a book tucked by his side. Setting down her roiling sack, she leaned forward, wondering what a man like him would read.

My journal.
The bastard was reading it. She pulled it free, heart hammering as he muttered again. The pages opened to where he'd placed a mark, and she read, the journal trembling in her hands. As though it'd been the morning before, she remembered finding the captain of that other ship attacking Cammy, remembered the rage she'd felt that he would dare try to hurt her. Tori had been blind with it.

Yet at the end of that harrowing trial, Tori had known she and Cammy could do whatever it took to stay alive. That realization had made her strong. The same knowledge seemed to frighten and weaken Cammy….

Tori shook her head hard. Reminded of why she was here, she gathered up her prize once more and guided it from the sack. When it coiled under his blanket, she sprinted away, hearing the captain bellowing in the distance. After another five minutes of racing away, she wondered if she could slow a bit.

Until loud footfalls crunched the ground behind her.

The blood left her face, making it cool. Her run returned to a sprint as she pumped her arms for speed. He couldn't catch her. All she had to do was make it to the line of downed trees. He was too tall, too lumbering to run beneath them. The horizontal trunks were too high to scale. To the trees. Seconds more. She had them in sight.

Everything went black.

The air shot from her lungs as a crushing weight pressed down. Her eyes opened in slits to find the big man straddling her.

“Don't move another inch,” he said, then frowned. “Ah, hell, girl, your breath will come back—”

It did. She screamed.

He looked so confounded by her shrieks that she thought she could hit him and roll away.

She might as well have hit a rock.

He grabbed her fisted hands and thrust them over her head, pinning her arms down as she bucked beneath him.

“Damn it! I want to help you.” He was breathing as heavily as she was as he held her down. “I'm here to rescue you.”

She glared at him. “I don't need rescuing, except from the likes of you.”

He gaped as though the idea of him as a villain affronted him. It was only then that he moved his gaze from her face to take in their position—him riding her hips and leaning forward over her to keep her hands restrained. Transferring both her wrists to one hand, he lifted the opposite shoulder to stare down at her heaving chest. His breath hissed out of him. He swore and dragged her to her feet, his huge hand clenched around her arm, and peered down at her in an unnerving way.

All sound from her evaporated. She'd never looked up at anyone as large as he. She'd been a fool not to run faster.

His face was tight, as though he struggled to control his anger. “Cover yourself.”

She pulled at the collar of her blouse, trying to shimmy back in, but that only seemed to make him angrier.

“Leave it,” he commanded. “I have proper clothing for you back on the ship.”

Proper clothing?…
“I'm not going back to your ship. I don't know who you are.”

“I'm Captain Grant Sutherland. I've been sent by your grandfather to return you to England.” He paused to gauge her reaction and found her raising her eyebrows at him. “You don't believe me? I know your name is Victoria Dearbourne. I know your parents' names.”

“That proves nothing.” She added in a nasty voice, “Except that you can read.”

“Yes, I've read your journal,” he grated, “but that doesn't change the fact that I've been sent here for you.”

“Why did you chase me?”

“Because you tossed a snake in bed with me,” he snapped.

“No, the first time.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, looking genuinely perplexed. “I don't know why. You've been missing for nearly a decade, and you were within reach. I didn't want to let you out of my sight.”

“If you've read my journal, then you know why I have a hard time believing you.”

His brows drew together. “Yes, I do. And I wish I could take the time necessary to explain things to you, but we don't have that luxury. We'll talk on the ship.”

His words seemed pulled from him. She got the impression this man didn't have to explain himself or his actions very often.
“I
have nothing but time.”

“If I don't get my ship out of this area before a storm strikes, we'll all need rescuing.” He caught her gaze. “Where's Miss Scott?”

“You don't really expect me to tell you that?”

“You'll simply speed up the inevitable. Because if she's on this island, I will find her and get both of you back to England.” He pulled her toward his camp again. She allowed it, giving him time to relax his guard. When something scampered across the trail, catching his attention, she lifted the arm he held and brought his hand to her mouth to take a bite.

His hand shot down. “Do not,” he said in a menacing voice, “even entertain that idea. I advise you not to anger me more than you already have.”

Anger him? She was the grubby one, banged up and bewildered. “Or what?” she dared to ask.

“Or I'll turn you over my knee,” he said with an absolute lack of emotion before pressing on.

Dear Lord, he would. She'd bragged that he'd never be able to catch her, yet here he was dragging her along. She needed a plan.
Think.
They were about to pass the pool.

“Captain? Sir? I've been hurt.” She stopped and pointed at her thigh. “I need to clean the cuts on my leg.”

His eyes widened. He grasped the back of her knee and lifted her leg so high she had to hop around on her other foot. He bunched up the skirt enough to see the beginnings of the scratch, then higher still. Tori began shaking slightly as though chilled, but she was far from cold. Her skin felt hot and sensitive to the calloused pads of his fingers.

Abruptly he lowered the skirt. “You are cut,” he said in a voice different from before. Now his words rumbled from him.

She was indeed. From days ago, not that he could see that from mere moonlight. She could swear he felt guilty. She blinked up at him and said softly, “It really stings. I need some water.” When he hesitated, she pressed. “If you're truly my rescuer, this is a good start.”

“Of course.” He coughed, and then said in a sterner voice, “Tell me which way to go.”

“Past the great breadfruit tree, take the path to the left.”

Moments later: “There is no path.”

“That's not a breadfruit tree.”

“Very well, you lead.” He propelled her in front of him. “But don't try anything.”

She walked on, guided them left until they came upon the pool he'd bathed in before.

He seemed at a loss, but finally he put both her wrists in one of his hands. “I, uh, don't have a cloth to wash the cut.”

The giant did feel guilty. Perhaps he wasn't that frightening. “I'm filthy all over. From where
you
tackled me,” she reminded him. “I'm getting in.”

“I think not,” he snapped. “Now wash the leg.”

When she looked down at her hands, he abruptly released her.

 

Victoria sat at the edge of the water, pulling her skirt up and cupping water to her scratch. Grant swallowed hard. The water, he knew, was chilled and she shivered, sighing out a breath. The sound teased something deep in him and made him grow hard as steel.

He was a gentleman, damn it. But first he was a man, and now in some forsaken jungle, he was alone with a lithe, young beauty garbed in clothing like gauze. “That's enough.”

She twined around to frown at him, and her skirt pulled farther up her slightly spread legs. She had long legs, defined, going on forever. A man could get ideas. It had been so long since he'd seen the smooth skin of a woman's thigh….

By dint of will, he turned away. A glance at his hands showed them shaking.

He heard her slip into the water and twisted around. “Get out of the water.
Now.”

Swimming as though she'd been born to it, she glided out farther.

“I said to get out of the bloody water!” He couldn't remember ever being so angry. So why did he still have an unbearable erection?

“Looks as though you'll have to come get me,” she taunted.

Little witch.
In seconds, Grant had his boots and shirt yanked off.
“Come here.”
He tensed against the cool water when he waded in. Told himself he wouldn't throttle her. “I said, come here,” he grated.

She smirked and waved at him then, fingers to the heel of her hand, the exaggerated way a child waves good-bye. He
would
throttle her.
Slowly.
Then she sank below the surface. What the devil?

He swam out to where she'd been. Even with the moon and the clarity of the water, he couldn't spot her. When a minute passed, he dove under, reaching out blindly. Another minute gone. His head began to throb in beat with his thundering heart. Again and again, he sucked in another breath and went down.

He broke the surface once more, was inhaling a gulp of air when he heard, “If you are who you say, then prove it. If you're not here for a rescue, then it's best if you give up early in this game, Captain Sutherland.”

Grant jerked his head to the shore. “What,” he demanded with a seething calm, “are you doing with my clothes?”

“I,” she replied in a tone mimicking his, “am picking them up.”

“Drop my bloody clothes.”

“With pleasure!”

He barely had an instant to wonder at her words before she'd run away.

“Bloody hell!” He raked the hair from his eyes. “Bloody, bloody hell!”

From somewhere high above him, she said, “Oh, and, Captain, I'm keeping your shirt. And one boot.”

He twisted in the direction of her voice, saw her on a cliff jutting out over the pool. Alarm clawed back up his spine, and he began to sweat even in the water. She was up too high. If she lost her footing…

He had only a second to think before his boot landed with a splash, inches from his head.