The Price of Pleasure by Kresley Cole Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œVictoria, 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.
    â€œIt’s durable,” Grant answered, and didn’t elaborate. He snatched up his bag and stowed the brittle journal inside.
    â€œAre we staying here from now on?” Ian rocked in the hammock.
    â€œWe’ll go back to the beach.”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€¦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