The Price of Pleasure (Sutherland Brothers 2)

Prologue

A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850

January 17

Today is the third day of our time here. Mother, Miss Scott, and I survived the wreck of the Serendipity and drifted in a leaky lifeboat to a deserted isle somewhere in south Oceania. Becalmed for weeks, we'd been unable to escape the approaching typhoon season. Mother said it was as though we'd been held in place for the storm.

When the timbers began to break, the sailors scurried--like rats, all of them--to abandon the ship and every one of us. One crashed into Mother--he didn't even hesitate when she fell into the lifeboat from the height of the deck. Her back was separated and her arm was shattered as well. But she is strong, and I am convinced if we find help, she will recover.

We have not yet found Father. I looked up through the rain and foam and spied him atop the deck, a child in his arms. With the next crack of lightning, the deck was gone. Is it wrong for me to wish he'd left the children screaming down below and escaped? The vile crew did. It doesn't matter what I wish--he never would have left them.

It was this morning that we received a windfall of supplies from the sea. Mother whispered to me that it is the hand of Fate that brought us these gifts, though Miss Scott says it's only a repeating current--the same that brought us here (Mother has said that though Camellia Scott is only in her twenties, she is very wise, and so I don't know which version I wish to accept).

Miss Scott and I hauled ashore several trunks, a cask of much needed water, a paddle, and other various goods. Among the trunks, we found the captain's footlocker, and inside was an empty log and a bottle of ink. Miss Scott bade me record our time here.

She probably believes if I am occupied so, I won't be able to see the misery that has befallen us. But I have, and even as I cared for Mother and wrote, I still saw the two bodies that floated in with our bounty. The sea had done awful, awful things to them.

I know Miss Scott dragged them to the edge of the jungle and buried them, because I see the tracks in the sand and her palms blistered from the paddle handle. Miss Scott has only been with us for a short time, and I know she wants to spare us any harshness. But I hope she would tell me if one of the deceased was Father.

January 18

Last night was the first night Mother cried. She tried to be strong, but the pain was too great. Rain began to drizzle and the wind gusted. Miss Scott found flints in the lifeboat and tried time after time to light a fire. It was hopeless, but I think it took her mind from the situation. By the time she'd given up and fallen asleep where she knelt, her hands were sliced and ragged.

Mother told me I must help Miss Scott because "she is so very young for such an important charge."

January 19

I see how much I've written and worry that one log will not be enough, but Miss Scott predicted we will be rescued well before I run out of paper.

Later in the day, she found a map in one of the trunks and tried to determine our location, sending me to look for firewood on the beach despite the fact that we have no fire. When I returned, both she and Mother seemed resigned to staying here for some time. We must be far away from civilization. Though Miss Scott and I beg her, Mother has stopped taking her share of what little water we have left.

January 20

Last night I dreamt of Father, of him laughing with Mother and me, of him patiently teaching me to fish or tie knots. Father's laugh is wonderful, hearty because of his barrel chest, and he's quick to it. He loves Mother so much he looks to burst with it. With each new land we explored, the two would search for creatures, some little beastie never seen before. He always marveled when Mother sketched its exact image, though she'd done it again and again for the articles they published. Then he'd set down her drawing and twirl her around, grab me up under his arm, and proclaim that the three of us were the best team in this hemisphere, at least. And then Miss Scott joined us too, to teach me deportment and sums, and to become Mother's boon companion. Everything had seemed so perfect.

Luckily, I rose before Mother and Miss Scott because I woke up crying miserably. I dried my eyes, but all throughout the day when I thought of him, I felt just on the verge of tears, my lip trembling and face turning hot, just like the babies I played with on the ship.

Both Miss Scott and Mother tell me each day to be brave, but today they seemed even more insistent. Yet in the afternoon, Mother woke to

find me with my head in my hands crying like a little child though I am thirteen!

I told her I didn't know if I was strong enough to do everything that needed to be done on the island. I know we need to build a shelter. I try to remember everything I've learned from our travels, but she and Papa always did the hardest things while I played with whatever children we came upon.

Mother told me that I am indeed strong enough to survive here. She said, "Remember, Tori, diamonds are born of pressure."

January 21

The deep cuts on Miss Scott's hands are not healing and are so swollen she can't close her fingers. I know how dangerous this is in this climate. I did not know I could worry even more than I had been. There's still no sign of Father, but I have to believe he survived and is even now standing on the bow of some grand ship (bigger than that hateful Serendipity) searching for us.

January 22

I am always dreaming about food and water now that we have so little of both. It drives me to think of ways to get them. Miss Scott wants to go inland to search for a spring or some fruit but fears leaving us alone on the beach or taking me with her into that dark jungle. The sounds at night tell us it's packed with creatures that we mightn't want to see.

This afternoon, Mother made me sit beside her. In a solemn voice, she told me that Father might not have lived. Hearing her say that was like a hit to my chest. It wasn't real until she voiced it. When my tears finally died down, she looked me in the eyes and told me that no matter what, my grandfather would find us. She swore that he wouldn't stop searching until he brought us home. But I know that he's too old to journey so far. Mother vowed he will send someone in his stead.

January 22, Afternoon

We have decided that I will go with Miss Scott. The hungrier I get, the less the jungle frightens me. But I have a sense I can't shake--a heavy feeling that something is happening. I know it, and the back of my neck feels like it's covered in ants. Something's about to go wrong.

I almost laugh at the words above. About to go wrong. How much more wrong could our circumstances be?

I glanced over at Mother and saw her urgently whispering to Miss Scott. My mother, who's always been so sensitive to others' feelings, was unaware she was squeezing Miss Scott's ruined hands. Miss Scott winced as she listened, but said nothing.

Am I to lose my father and my mother as well?

Sometimes I feel as if all my fears and sadness are held in check with something as thin as lace. And sometimes I'm tempted to rip the threads open, to tear at my hair and scream so long and loud that I become frightful. That the things I fear will fear me instead.

We leave for the jungle at daybreak.

One

Oceania, 1858

The 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.