The Price of Pleasure Page 4

  He froze in the trail, coming face-to-face with an immense spider. Bigger than his hand, it sprawled eerily among the geometric patterns knitted in its web. He bent beneath it and tossed a loose warning back to Ian. Seconds later, Ian bellowed a curse.

  Grant hurried back to see Ian's head entangled in the web, the dusty brown spider attached. Ian scrabbled backward, the web and spider wafting after him. Yelling, batting, retreating, he barreled through a copse of low trees directly into more webs, a cluster of them glinting in the sun. He gave a harsh cry, arms flailing like a windmill, harvesting each one as though on purpose. Finally, he toppled over, covered in web, swatting spasmodically. Grant reached him and brushed the spiders free.

  "Christ, Grant," he said, sounding baffled. "Why didn't you tell me there was a spider?"

  "It was over half a foot long--I didn't think you could miss it. Besides, you've made it past everything else in the trail."

  "Everything else? I didn't see anything else!" Lips thinned, Ian clutched the earth at his sides. "I've had it with this antediluvian muddle! I tell you right now. I'm done and you can go to--"

  Grant slid his machete free and raised it high. Ian's eyes grew wide. "I take it back! I'm not complaining!" But Grant had already swung the blade, slicing through a leaf near Ian's hip.

  There, on the ground, just beside Ian's splayed fingers, was a footprint.

  "How'd the morning go?" Cammy asked when Tori strolled in. Strips of spiky palm fronds littered the floor around her. One green sliver had caught in her hair and protruded upright.

  "The sailors got a taste of island life," Tori said with a grin. It faded when she saw Cammy was weaving a broad-brimmed hat, most likely for her. She hid a grimace at the bright feathers scattered all over the floor, soon to be hat plumage. Cammy was enjoying herself, but a milliner she was not.

  "And the big one? How'd he react?"

  "Sadly, we'll never know. He didn't eat."

  "A lunatic drunk who doesn't eat?"

  Tori chuckled. "I think he's actually the captain. He left to go bathe."

  One red eyebrow cocked. "Bathe?"

  Curse it! Sorting the feathers by color grew very important. "He left in that direction," she said airily.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Oh, very well," Tori said, lifting her face. "I followed him to the falls and watched him."

  Cammy's eyes grew bright. "Did he undress completely?"

  Tori folded her lips in and nodded, blushing anew.

  Cammy sighed, resting her chin in her palm. "Was he handsome?"

  Tori paused, wondering how to convey how heart-stopping she'd found his huge, rugged body. "The most handsome man I've seen in years."

  "In years? Well, aren't you the amusing one today?" Cammy stabbed a bright yellow feather into the finished hat. "Spying on naked men agrees with you."

  Tori flashed her a quelling look, then crossed to the fire pit. She dug up an ember and added tinder she'd gathered during the day. Kneeling, she blew against the twigs, feeding in larger branches, and soon a fire crackled to life. "Are you hungry?"

  Cammy laid the hat aside and sat down on a driftwood log near the fire. "Unceasingly, no," she said, anxiously stretching to the warmth. "Am I ever? I've forgotten everything about appetite except how to spell it." She frowned. "And that might be gone as well." Biting her lip, she reached down to draw letters in the dirt.

  Tori pasted on an excited smile. "Well, you're going to want to eat tonight. I've found a good supply of taro."

  Cammy looked up with a grimace. "Taro. Delightful."

  Tori sighed as she placed a halved taro and a butterflied fish on their makeshift grill, forcing her mind away from visions of tarts, milk, shepherd's pie, and rain-wet apples straight from the tree.

  The footprint led them to a previously hidden trail winding up a steep grade. When they climbed it to a clearing on a small projection of land, Grant's breath whistled out. Her camp, her shelter was here. He turned in a circle taking in every detail.

  Two handwoven hammocks stretched between palms and swayed in the breeze. A fire hearth dotted the middle of the clearing, with rocks and driftwood logs bordering it. The structure was strategically wedged into the aerial roots of an extensive banyan tree, with walls made of sail connected to a reinforced bamboo frame. A square of densely woven palm made up the aslant roof, and a porch with rails coiled in jasmine fronted it. This was permanent. A home.

  "Look at that," Ian breathed. "We can be sure some men made it off the ship."

  "For once, I agree with you." Grant slid his pack to the ground on his way to the ladder. "Guard the trail," he ordered, leveling a finger at him. "Don't let anyone get past you."

  "Anything for the cause," Ian answered, and promptly sank into one of the hammocks.

  Grant climbed tentatively on the hollow bamboo rungs, but they held. He pulled back the canvas door flap and leaned over to enter....

  "Did you hear something?" Tori asked, glancing around in every direction.

  "No, but then your ears are better than mine." Cammy tried on the hat and looked in their one fragment of mirror.

  "I thought I heard footsteps."

  "I don't see how. No one could ever slip up on us here."

  Tori relaxed and lay back on her pallet, using her bent arm as a pillow. "You're right. We've taken every precaution."

  "But did we have to take this one?" Cammy grumbled.

  Tori picked up a feather and idly ran the tip up and down her nose. "A fox continually moves her den."

  Cammy pursed her lips at the moist cave walls looming around them. "I thought there'd be more satisfaction in outfoxing him."

  Empty.

  She was gone again, elusive as ever. Grant shut his eyes for a long moment, getting his irritation under control, then opened them to find books littering the room, stacked in every corner, and all well read. He flipped open one that was decaying slower than the others. Many of the pages were marked, and copious notes filled the margins.

  A pearlescent comb atop a rough-hewn table caught his attention. He crossed, noticing the floor had no give, even under his weight. When he picked up the carved comb and ran his finger over its smoothness, he noticed a single strand of hair. It glowed white and gold in the flickering sunlight.

  A basket of folded linens occupied one corner, a stolid trunk another. He bent to the trunk's lid and opened it, the rusting hinges resisting. Inside were more books, and among them he found a weighty journal bound with a strip of linen.

  A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850

  Though it was the worst invasion of privacy, Grant gently opened it, hoping to garner some insight into who had survived and how. As he read the beginning pages, he strove for detachment--he had a job to do--but for once in his life, he wasn't successful. He scrubbed a hand over his face, recoiling from the knowledge of what had happened to this family. It was worse than he'd imagined. Grant had had only one real tragedy in his life, and yet this young girl had borne one after another. When she questioned if she was to lose two parents, something in his chest tightened.

  The journal also confirmed his suspicion that her father hadn't made it off the ship. Dearbourne not only had been a renowned scholar, he'd had a reputation as a man of honor. That he'd stay behind was no surprise. So no men had made it here? He skimmed through and read about Victoria planning the shelter. She'd done this?

  He flipped back to near the beginning.

  When we returned from the brush with water and fruit, laughing, celebrating our find, we found Mother lying as though asleep. But for the first time since we'd come here, the features on her beautiful face weren't tightened with pain.

  "Victoria, your mother's passed on," Miss Scott told me. Mother was at rest where nothing could ever frighten her or hurt her again. Though I could never tell Miss Scott, on that day, I longed to go with her.

  He closed the pages softly, flushing as though he'd been spying on someone. Yet that feeling didn't stop him from tucking
the journal into the back of his trouser waist before climbing down the ladder.

  Victoria wasn't here alone. Unless Miss Scott had died too, there were two women on this island.

  When Ian noticed Grant was back on the ground, he asked, "What's it like inside?"

  Grant didn't want to admit it was damned impressive. Seeing the shelter anew, he marveled that Victoria had designed it. He studied how the banyan's roots enveloped the structure and had begun absorbing the platform, making it that much more sturdy. He noted old knife scars on the wood around the joists and realized she'd cut wedges out to fit the baseboards.

  Amazing. She'd known exactly how much to cut without killing the root. It was an ingenious idea--letting nature do her work. The attention to detail was remarkable.

  "It's durable," Grant answered, and didn't elaborate. He snatched up his bag and stowed the brittle journal inside.

  "Are we staying here from now on?" Ian rocked in the hammock.

  "We'll go back to the beach."

  "It's going to rain soon, and that hut looks watertight."

  Grant shook his head. "No, we go back."

  Ian flashed him an impatient look that turned defiant, then leapt up to untie and steal the hammock. Grant let it go and followed him, pausing only to glance back one last time. After reading the journal, he recognized that Victoria had compiled the notes in those books. He'd wondered if she could still read, but now knew she'd made a study of all of those texts. Her intelligence continued to impress. Except when she used it against him.

  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.

  ...at the first glimpse of sail, we hurriedly dressed in our best and ran to the water. The sailors were unsettled to find us, but seemed polite, their captain acting the gentleman. That night around the fire on the beach, the crew drank spirits, became boisterous.

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

  The first mate sat beside Cammy--close--and put his arm around her. She stiffened but appeared not to know what to do. When the man reached to touch her chest, Cammy slapped him. The entire group grew silent.

  I was almost between them when he slapped her back, so hard her teeth snapped together and her lip split. I helped her up and forced myself to be calm. I told him we were tired and that we would see them in the morning, then bade him good night. We turned and slowly walked away. As soon as we entered the brush, a loud cry broke out. They yelled and laughed, and we could hear them readying for the chase and making claims on Cammy and the "young one."

  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.

  ...I'd never been so frightened. Not even the night of the wreck. But we knew the island better and escaped. I'd found a jut of land with hidden accesses, like a lip plateau against the bare rock wall, and took Cammy there. We left our soft sand camp and moved within the roots of the banyan, among the night bats and creatures. I felt safe within the grand old tree, but we were running out of food. We fought like spitting cats over who would leave, each wanting to protect the other. In the end, I planned to wait until she slept, then creep out before dawn. When I woke Cammy was gone....

  "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."

  Four

&n
bsp; Just 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.