The Price of Pleasure by Kresley Cole
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. "Bloo
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.
Five
One bloody boot."
Grant slashed out at the growth around his knees with a gnarled stick. "What the hell does she want with one boot?" he asked himself yet again as he leveled the unfortunate bushes around him. Perhaps marking his path would prevent him from unevenly ambling in the same circle he'd made countless times already. His brilliant idea to track her from the pool last night had only resulted in his being lost.
Again, Victoria had eluded him. She'd definitely gotten the better of him. But that was about to change. He needed to get the girl on his ship, so he would be one step closer to getting her out of his life. Unfortunately, she'd turned out to be tempting. Even for a man with his control. Even when he wanted to throttle her.
She had the softest skin he'd ever felt. And when he'd stood next to her, he could smell the clean scent of her hair. But if his thoughts hadn't centered on how incredible she smelled or the sensual feel of her skin, she might not have escaped him last night.
He entered the camp after dawn, shirtless, one foot cut to shreds, his damp trousers clinging to his legs. The men all had the same reaction. Shock.
Ian got over it first, and laughed uncontrollably. "I take it you caught her!" Laughter. Then, in a voice imitating Grant's own, Ian said, "Sailor, your shirt's not tucked in." He feigned a face of realization. "Oh. You're not wearing a shirt!" Laughter. "One boot, and it looks like your trousers are wet! To boot!" He howled at his pun.
With watering eyes, Dooley at least struggled to contain his mirth. "Sir, the snake wasn't poisonous."
"I realize that. Now." He made an effort to calm himself. "Dooley, row to the ship and get me some more clothes and another pair of boots." He let out a breath and said with disgust, "And prepare to be here a few days longer."
While Grant waited for Dooley, Ian's laughter died down, only to rise again. He repeated this cycle for several minutes before finally lounging back in the purloined hammock--his adopted favorite place--a strand of reed lazily perched between his lips.
When Dooley returned, Grant gathered up his clothes and changed, impatient to get out of his wet trousers.
"So. Did you talk to her?" Ian asked as soon as Dooley and the crew were working out of earshot.
Grant took his older pair of boots and collected his polishing kit, determined to ignore his cousin.
"Hah! You did." Ian scrambled to sit up and straddle the hammock. "What'd she say? What was she like?"
"It's none of your concern," Grant snapped. "Just go away, Ian. Go back to the ship."
"Oh no, Cousin. Things are just getting interesting." Ian tucked the reed into the corner of his mouth and gave Grant a too-easy smile. "You want her, don't you?"
"That's enough." Grant swiped at his boot with the polish brush, missed much of the leather, and blackened his hand.
Ian slapped his knee and cackled. "Why am I asking? It's obvious she's got you tied up in knots."
"I won't say this again. Leave me the hell alone."
"So you caught her and she escaped. The nerve of the little minx, absconding with your boot and shirt! She's clever, I take it."
She was clever, all right. In the newly declared war between them, she was winning all the battles--or, as Ian had sniped under his breath, "Round three to Victoria."
"You know, this whole experience could be good for you. Loosen you up a bit."
Grant glowered at him. "I do not want to be loosened up."
"Wound up too tight--that's your problem."
Grant faced down his younger cousin. "Do you really want to discuss our respective problems? Solve the number of them you have yourself before you focus on me."
"I can't do anything until I return." Ian raised his hands in the air. "And I can't return because you sailed to the bloody other side of the world!"
Grant was unprovoked. "You ran aboard my ship."
"Better your ship than the pack of thugs chasing me," Ian blustered. "Or so I believed. I thought you were sailing to the Continent. Or even America. Not Oceania."
"That's the thing about thugs," Grant began as though imparting a secret. "Generally, they don't chase you if you don't owe them money."
Ian's face fell. "I thought I was paid up. I really did."
"You thought?"
"Some of us aren't financial wizards." Ian shot him a pointed glare, but Grant refused to apologize for his one true talent.
"If you actually are paid up, then it has to be about a woman," Grant reasoned. There wasn't a man in the kingdom more cosseted by ladies, and Ian lapped it up. "Some cuckolded husband probably got sick of sharing." Besides gambling, drink, and debt, Ian had a reputation for midnight leaps from his married lovers' windows.
"At least I take what's offered to me," Ian snapped.
Grant stomped into his boots. No, he didn't toss up the skirts of every society woman who offered. He had his reasons. None of which were Traywick's business.
When he snatched up his pack, Ian said, "Wait for me."
Grant turned, raising one finger. The look on his face stopped Ian.
"Perhaps I'll let you go at it alone today." With wary eyes, Ian sank into the hammock.
Later, Grant was glad to be alone as he labored up a root-strewn trail, again replaying the sparse minutes with Victoria and his own unusual reaction. If she were the society lady lifting her skirt, would he be able to resist? He feared not.
In less than half an hour, he'd been enlivened by the chase, then angered, then aroused. The cold water had had no impact on his erection--he wondered if anything would have--until she went under. Alarm had gripped him before fury overwhelmed again.
He checked his disappointment as the setting sun closed yet another day. She might return in the night. When she came back to add company to his pallet, he'd grab her.
She didn't return that night.
He knew he'd catch her, so why did he feel like he needed to see her at that moment? Where was his hard-won patience? His brother would be alternately amused and encouraged if he could see his notoriously unemotional sibling now.
Grant looked up at the stars. His image of Victoria Dearbourne as a helpless, sweet girl had certainly been shattered. She'd grown into a spirited young woman, but she was still a small thing, hardly above five and a half feet--well, small compared to him at least, and thin. Though he'd sensed a latent strength in her, he still was uneasy thinking about her out there in the night. Out there alone. He wanted to protect her, damn it.
And every hour of the day, he pictured how the concise, neat script in her journal had grown wild and erratic as she described that captain's assault. Grant remembered the blood that had splattered down to the page as she'd recorded the event.
The man had discovered Miss Scott and attacked, but before he could truly harm her, Victoria launched herself onto his back, trying desperately to strangle him. While reading the words, Grant had cheered her.
The cutthroat had flung her off and turned once more to Miss Scott, but Victoria had run at him again scratching and kicking. When he read how the bastard had backhanded her, Grant had held the journal so tightly his fingers made permanent indentions in the moist cover.
He'd been proud when Victoria spat a mouthful of blood on the man's boots, even while dreading his reaction. But then Miss Scott had been behind him, bringing down a rock....
Grant wasn't an emotional man, so the blinding rage he'd felt toward that bastard had staggered him.
As did his fear.
He'd felt desire for Victoria, and couldn't help comparing himself to that captain.
&
Damn it, Victoria was no girl at nearly twenty-two. She was strong--able to hold her own. But another part of him argued that though she was older, she was still woefully naive. She was strong, but still in an incredibly vulnerable position.
It wasn't until the moon had set that he slept.
Finally, he slept.
As Tori waited at the edge of the camp, she watched the captain contemplating the stars, his face in a pattern of scowling, relaxing, and scowling again. She'd wondered the other morning why he unrolled his pallet directly under the one break in the canopy of limbs above and decided he wanted to prevent anything, or anything living, from falling on him. Now she knew he lay so he could look to the sky.
The thought was incongruous with her idea of him as the forbidding, stern captain, but then she was rethinking him anyway. Though she had no experience, no touchstone or guide stick to determine a man's duplicity, she'd begun to believe he was telling the truth. He'd come for them.
Now to get Cammy to believe. This morning, when Tori related her exchange with Captain Sutherland, Cammy had said she feared he'd taken the information from her journal. Tori admitted that she was torn, with half of her thinking Sutherland told the truth, but Cammy had seemed more concerned about any possible journal mention of the cave.
When Sutherland's eyes finally slid closed and the rise and fall of his chest grew deep and even, the wind had picked up to sieve the palms and curl waves ashore, as though in tune with Tori's unsettled feelings. She wrapped her arms around herself. Why had the sight of him gazing up at the stars softened something in her?
Lost in thought, Tori trudged back to the cave and was surprised to find Cammy waking.
"You've made a decision," Cammy said, stretching her arms over her head. "It's written on your face. So, do you think your grandfather sent him?"
Tori scratched her ear. "Yes."
"Eight years after the fact?" Cammy sat up and brought her knees to her chest.
Tori sat on her own pallet and considered the question as if she hadn't already done so fifty times. "I know I shouldn't, but I think he came for us."