The Price of Pleasure by Kresley Cole

  "I didn't imagine it could be this..." He trailed off, eyes widening. "I can't feel my feet. Bloody hell! I can't feel my feet!"

  Leaving Ian to stumble around and ascertain that he was still bipedal, Grant ignored the stinging of his own abused body and pushed on.

  "Slow down, Grant," Ian pleaded.

  He faced his cousin. "You fall behind, you get left behind. I hope you've kept track of where you are."

  Ian peered around him at the tangle of trees and vines with what could be called a cool panic. "I didn't because I knew you would."

  Such was the way of their relationship.

  "Then you'd best keep up." Grant sustained such an unrelenting pace for more reasons than one. He'd found Victoria and, yes, he was one step closer to realizing his goal, but he also wanted to make sure she was safe. He considered her under his protection now. Yet at this moment she was alone, a young, slight woman--albeit a fierce one--somewhere on an untamed island that was shaming strong men.

  Throughout the day, his anger over her tricks had given way to guilt when he thought about chasing her down; yet after seven months--seven months--she'd been at his fingertips. Even now, his fingers curled at the thought. But then her face appeared in his mind. The look in her eyes, the confusion. He hadn't wanted to scare her, but he'd done just that.

  She'd been through enough--years without comforts or civilization, and both parents possibly dead. Of course she'd be afraid. He could almost understand why she'd put him into that fall and nearly beheaded him with the sapling. He couldn't quite reconcile her poking him with a stick and taunting him, but perhaps she was putting on a brave front.

  They searched until a three-quarter moon rose in the sky, then limped their way back to the camp. At his crew's curious looks, Grant said, "We'll find her tomorrow." His tone was authoritative, but he wasn't nearly as convinced as he had been.

  When Dooley bustled over to hand him a tin cup of coffee, Grant sank onto a horizontal palm, stupefied, drinking without thought. Finally, even that became too arduous. Too weary to drink, he threw the rest of his coffee into the sand, then mustered the energy to grab his pallet.

  He unrolled it under a break in the canopy, and even after the others slept, he lay looking up at the too-bright stars, thinking about the turn his life had just taken. He had actually earned Belmont's payment for the search, the last thing the man had to offer: his home. When the earl died, Grant would assume ownership of the sizable but declining Belmont Court. He would finally have his own home, his own people.

  Yet this mission had always been more than that. Victoria's grandfather, with his sad eyes and palpable loneliness, had somehow convinced him that his family might yet live.

  Grant had never felt particularly heroic, but if they were out here, he had wanted to save them. Now he was so close to bringing at least Victoria back. She'd managed to stay alive. To thrive somehow. But she couldn't go on indefinitely. She needed to be saved even if she didn't have the sense to realize it.

  "Have you come up with any ideas?" Cammy asked. She took her second bite of banana, patted her sunken belly as though full, and considered breakfast over. No wonder she continued to lose weight, Tori thought. The bones of her wrists and her collarbone jutted beneath her skin, and her cheekbones were sharp in her face.

  Resolving to make her eat more, Tori paced the small hut. The floor of banded planks beneath her feet creaked but didn't give. "Lots of ideas. Just none that are feasible. I simply can't see us sailing away in their ship while they stay on shore scratching their heads."

  "What a perfect solution!"

  Tori raised an eyebrow at Cammy. Luckily, Cammy was joking. "We need more information about them."

  "Yes, what if the rest of them are good? What if the man chasing you was a...a drunk?"

  Tori shook her head. "No, he was dead sober."

  "A lunatic, then?"

  She opened her lips to say "no," but then remembered his eyes. Though focused and ice-blue cold, they had looked a bit...savage. "Then why would they send him in an advance party?"

  "They were sick of him on the ship? Or in the process of marooning him?" Cammy mused. "You may have helped them!"

  Tori sank down cross-legged on her straw-filled mattress. "I suppose anything's possible."

  "So how do we walk this line once more? Play the risk of them leaving us against the possibility that they'll kidnap us for villainous reasons?"

  Tori felt her neck and shoulders tensing. What a critical walk. One misstep..."If I saw a woman on deck, or a child even, I'd feel better about approaching them."

  "Or perhaps even a chaplain."

  Tori nodded. "I'll just have to get a better look. Maybe sneak down to the beach."

  "Why don't you stay up here and use that?" She pointed to the spyglass standing in the corner of the hut--standing because it could no longer telescope in.

  Tori's gaze flickered over it. "That artifact? The end glass is cracked down the middle."

  Cammy pursed her lips. "Well, you won't see any worse--you'll just see two of everything."

  "Right now, they'll never find us up here, but if I use that, the glass might reflect," she countered. "And if I can see them, they can see me."

  "Wait for a cloud and hide under the brush." In Cammy's mind, the subject was closed. "Tori, do be careful."

  Tori sighed. "Cammy, do stay here."

  And so minutes later, Tori was crawling on her stomach, digging her elbows into the dirt, lugging a rusting, broken spyglass with her and cursing Cammy for being lucid for once.

  She brought the glass around, setting up her view, chin on the back of her flat hand, then waited what seemed like hours for a passing cloud. It moved shyly, as if someone just out of her eyesight beckoned with a crooked finger. With the sun finally cloaked, Tori swung the spyglass down, prepared to divide everything she spotted by two.

  In the lengthy space of cloud cover, she saw no women with their skirts billowing on the deck of the ship, no children playing among them--no black-robed chaplain--just a pack of common sailors.

  Her heart sank. She knew all about sailors.

  Tori scuttled backward, then returned to camp, her mind a knot of ideas. She found Cammy lolling in her hammock outside the hut, nearly rocked to sleep by the sea breezes.

  "Good afternoon, Tori," Cammy said with a yawn. "Did you catch any fish?"

  One, two, three, four, five..."I went to reconnoiter the ship, remember?"

  Cammy's eyes widened, but she covered her surprise. "Of course!" She moved to a sitting position with practiced movements. "I was jesting."

  Tori narrowed her eyes. "Is the forgetfulness getting worse?"

  She sighed. "How would I know? If I made a determination, I'd just forget it."

  Cammy had once described her episodes of vagueness, saying they were like when one first wakes up in the morning, disoriented. And often as easy to shake off. At times, she attributed them to some spoiled food, other times to an underlying sickness.

  "Tori, don't keep me in suspense...."

  "There was nothing there that we'd hoped to see. I don't understand it. Captains and first mates often sail with families."

  "They could be inside."

  Tori shook her head. "The cabins would be like a furnace on a day like today. Anyone able would be on deck beneath the tarpaulin."

  "What flag did they raise?"

  "The Union Jack." Their nationality wasn't reassuring. The last crew had flown the same flag. And Britain impressed just as many convict crews as any other country. Tori sat on a driftwood log. "I was thinking about our 'the rest of them are good' theory."

  "Doesn't that mean we have to counter with a 'the rest of them are bad' theory as well?"

  Tori nodded. "I'm worried that we want a rescue so badly that we're making excuses for them. I was chased and pawed. Fact. There are only sailors aboard. Fact. I didn't hear them chastise the one that came after me. No, they seemed overjoyed. And he wasn't sent back to the ship."
r />   Cammy's tight expression clearly evinced her decision about the men. "Haven't we learned the hard way? I think we've learned the hard way enough."

  "But they might have medicine."

  "And what do you think they'd want in exchange for it?" Cammy rubbed her perspiring forehead. "Forgive me, Tori. This illness colors my moods. But these men could very well be like the sailors before." Her face became a mask of disgust. "Or like the ones from the Serendipity reeking of the urine they washed their clothes in. At least now you're safe and unharmed." Her voice grew quieter when she said, "And what help could I be? I just don't know that I am strong enough to...to do what might be necessary." She wrapped her thin arms around herself.

  Tori dropped her gaze. She could never expect such a sacrifice from Cammy again. Lord knew, she hadn't expected it the first time. When Tori glanced up, she tried to appear impassive. And failed.

  "Oh, Tori, your eyes are so revealing, it's as if I can see your mind working. I know you want--you need--a battle plan."

  Tori leaned forward. "The way I see it, we need to find out what kind of men they are. Suppose they're good? Maybe they like to think of themselves as British gentlemen? Well, a man of honor would never leave a lady stranded. No matter what circumstances befell them."

  Cammy arched her red brows in interest. "But a crew of cutthroats might be persuaded to leave. I like this. If we can make them leave, then they weren't the sort we wanted here in the first place." When Tori nodded, Cammy asked, "Can you be certain they won't catch you?"

  "No one can catch me," she scoffed.

  "We've been wrong in that thinking before."

  Tori put her shoulders back. "I'm older. Faster."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Do you remember that plant that made us throw up for days?" Tori tapped her cheek. "I think I'm going to spice their food."

  Cammy unconsciously clutched her stomach. "Now, that I shall never forget. For the better part of a week, I begged to die."

  Tori jerked upright, gasping as she woke, the sound of the Serendipity breaking apart still thundering in her mind.

  Her hands fluttered up to her face as she just stopped herself from covering her ears. She didn't think she could ever forget the whine and vibration of boards splitting. Never stop imagining the force it would take to break thick lumber. She moved her hands to her eyes, wiping the tears there. Luckily, Cammy slumbered on, since it wasn't yet dawn.

  Though she hadn't had the nightmare in years, this was the second morning in a row it had plagued Tori. She'd always tried to hide her abject fear of ships from Cammy, but knew she hadn't been successful. When they realized they'd never be rescued, Cammy had said, "Look on the bright side. At least we'll never be in a shipwreck again." Tori had thought it was a quip, but Cammy's face had been grave.

  Yet now another ship tossed in the bay. Tori shivered and burrowed down farther under her patchwork quilt, then cracked open her eyes. She had a job to do.

  Even after she dressed and descended to the sailors' beach camp, the early morning fog stood thick and made it easy for her to slip in while they slept. Silently, she checked container after container until she worked open their supply of oats. She poured a gourd of discolored mush inside, digging down to stir with her hands. She returned the lid and brushed off her hands, tossing away the gourd and slipping back into the brush. As she watched, the men woke and began preparing for the day, stoking embers, cooking. She smirked to see several men spooning the slop into their bowls.

  The giant rose with the others, though he slept away from them. Seeing him up close and standing confirmed her earlier impression--he was the tallest man she'd ever seen. With those shoulders and deep chest, he was the biggest as well.

  She'd wondered before if he was a drunk, a lunatic, or, Lord forbid, even their captain. Now she knew. He had the look of a leader stamped over every inch of him--shoulders back, his squared chin lifted a bit higher than the other men's. He looked as if everyone was on the verge of some error, and he was on the verge of a terrible anger. The sailors, in turn, were wary around him and behaved as if he might launch a fist at any time.

  Instead of drinking or eating with the others, he said something to a squat, nervous man, then scooped up a leather roll-up case and a machete and strode in the direction of the smaller falls. She used that trail daily to get to the pool and bathe, easily walking under the banana leaves, but he had to slash at them with his machete just to get his upper body through.

  Why isn't he eating? She frowned, then silently followed him to one of her favorite places on the island. The scene was Edenic with a clear pool, dark from the shade and the smoky-colored rocks enfolding it. Two trickling falls fed it with bracing water.

  Her eyes widened. He was unbuttoning his shirt. To bathe? Sweet God, he was going...to bathe. She bit her lip, tempted to stay. Why not? This was her island. I can see his chest! He was the one trespassing. One boot off. Besides, she needed--desperately needed--more excitement. Before they'd come, life for her had turned into a routine of work, work, work, avoid death, work. Hmmm. He really is lean, even with his size.

  Her lips curled into a smile when she concluded she deserved to look at the naked man! Yet by the time he'd gotten down to just his trousers, he'd turned and she only saw his backside. Only? It was enough to quicken her heartbeat. His shoulders and upper back were broad, defined as though sculpted, tapering to this muscular part of him. She caught herself nearly pouting when he dived in.

  While she gawked, he swam back and forth as though trying to loosen up his soreness. Finally, he waded to the shallows and stood, shaking water from his hair. Any second now, he'll be out of the water, the big naked man. When he did step out, she darted her gaze to his face, avoiding any sight of that part of him.

  He was just so big. And so, so...naked.

  Just when she realized she was being ridiculous, that she was allowed to look, he grasped a large drying cloth, effectively covering his lower body.

  Her jaw went slack when she saw him rub the cloth over his chest, more lightly over the glaringly bruised strip she'd provided, and then run it lower over his torso. His stomach was flat and rigid. She swallowed, noting that the muscles there bunched as he moved. Fascinating. A trail of black hair started below his navel and trailed down--she wanted to see to where, curse it--but the cloth covered him. She'd never been so curious or frustrated. Her hands clenched the water reeds around her. Move the cloth. Drop it, now. Drop...it!

  Then he did.

  Her mouth opened wordlessly and grew dry. Her chest and neck flushed with heat. She'd seen men without clothing before--many of the tribes her family had come upon weren't particularly shy--but she'd been young and reduced to giggles each time. Now, seeing him, all of him, startled her into stillness and enlivened her at the same time.

  Power, strength, and grace fused together. Perfect. How right she'd been to label him...big. She could no more look away than she could quit breathing. The thought made her realize she wasn't breathing. When she did, she sighed, embarrassing herself.

  He looked up sharply in her direction. Though he couldn't have heard or seen her, her heart drummed in her chest. She leapt to her feet, her skin on fire, then ran through the jungle as though wild.

  Three

  Grant had a sinking suspicion that he'd been watched bathing.

  Yes, the weeds suddenly bobbing near the falls could have been caused by an animal, but he suspected not. When he returned to the camp and saw his men scrambling toward the bushes to lose their breakfasts, he was certain. Ian woke, looked up from his pallet at the scene, and through a yawn decreed, "Round two, Victoria."

  Grant concluded the same. She'd done this. He ground his teeth. If she wanted to turn this into a battle of wills, he'd oblige.

  What a way to start the day--annoyed, exhausted, his body pained and recently ogled by a young woman. And what he wouldn't give to have that situation reversed, he thought, then flushed.

  Ian rose, inc
hing up in stages. "There's something on my body that doesn't hurt," he croaked. "Can't say what it is just now. It'll come to me."

  Grant understood. Even after his swim, his head pounded in waves. And his back--he was certain someone had grabbed his shoulders and shoved a knee into his spine during the night.

  Ian hobbled around camp. "Dooley, you have any food you'd trust?"

  "No, Master Ian, not yet. I just don't understand. It must've been bad water. Or maybe a dirty cask." Dooley looked so pained when he said the last that Grant was tempted to tell him what he suspected. Then he remembered his sister-in-law describing her time aboard Derek's ship. Two dozen men had blamed her for a poisoning and clamored hourly for their first female keelhauling. For Victoria's sake, he'd have to let Dooley take this one on the chin.

  Ian announced, "Grant, I'm going with you."

  Grant simply looked at him.

  "Why? Because I'm starving and wouldn't chance anything here. Since you ordered the crew to remain in camp, my best bet's to go with you."

  Grant shouldered his pack and couldn't hide a wince. How had the damn thing gotten so heavy since last night? "If you complain like you did yesterday, I won't be responsible for my actions."

  "Understood. I won't complain like yesterday," Ian promised as they started off. "I'll either complain a little less or a bit more."

  As noon approached and the sun stabbed the canopy from directly above, Grant concluded he would not have better luck with Victoria than on the previous day. In fact, he had the impression she mocked him--staying close but just out of reach, sending them on punishing trails to marshes, seep holes, boulder-blocked paths.

  When a fly lighted on Ian's face, he slapped his cheek hard enough to leave a handprint. "That one had bulk, forgodsakes," he mumbled. "You know how explorers are always writing in their journals about the jungle, comparing it to a woman? A woman indifferent to your suffering? I believe it! This jungle's a rutting bitch."

  Grant didn't agree. No, indifference would be preferred. The jungle toyed with them, suffocating them, protecting them from the sun, yet collecting its heat to weaken them. Grant wasn't an explorer by nature. His philosophy was to expend all that energy making home so satisfying you'd never want to leave. He'd be happy to be tied to one land, if it was the right one, his entire life. Wasn't that the purpose of this trip? To claim Belmont Court?