The Price of Pleasure

by Kresley Cole

  "Very well. He left hastily and everything was so rushed. He could have said something. I was just so busy wishing Derek good-bye."

  He might have said something or he might not have thought of her at all. She'd put good money on the latter, money she had very little of--though not if the Sutherland women had any say.

  Throughout the meal, Tori had to turn away offers of money--some veiled, some clever, some imperative--a total of fifteen times.

  And when Tori and Cammy were seeing them out, Nicole put her hands on her hips to announce, "We're not leaving until you agree to let us help."

  "I'm so close," Tori said. "We're right at the breaking point. If everything falls into place, then we can hold them off." She looked from Nicole to Lady Stanhope. "I want to do this."

  Lady Stanhope cleared her throat. "You've turned into a damn fine...capitalist, Tori. But we can't sit back and watch you lose your home."

  "Please, listen. I've read a few stories that had a hero who couldn't take money from friends, even if it was his downfall, because his pride simply wouldn't allow it. When I read them I didn't understand the importance. I thought, 'Well, if you say so--I'll go along with it,' and I turned the page. Now it's clear to me. I know I'm not a hero, but I think I have pride like one."

  "Oh, Tori, there's no shame in taking a loan," Nicole pointed out.

  She sighed. "There is if I can't pay it back."

  Twenty-eight

  The trail went cold in France.

  The two brothers pulled their collars up against a wild wind off the Atlantic, shuttering their eyes to the dead leaves darting in the air. They trudged into a narrow alley, then escaped into an inn.

  Day and night, Derek and Grant had chased down every lead, doggedly following their cousin's trail. And now on this blustery eve, they'd bitterly concluded that there was no new direction to follow.

  After they sank down and muttered an order for food, Derek said, "We need to look on the bright side. Hell, this might be good for Ian."

  "Might be," Grant echoed, without thought. On a night like tonight, he should be curled up in bed with Victoria.

  Derek snapped his fingers in front of Grant's face. "Damn it, Grant, you've been like this since we left Whitestone. I know what you're brooding over, so why not just speak about it."

  Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. "I left things...bad with Victoria."

  "Why should that bother you?" Derek asked in a reasonable tone. "You're unemotional, incapable of love, et cetera."

  "That doesn't mean I didn't want to marry her," Grant answered. "But she issued that damned 'love' ultimatum." His brow furrowed. "How did you know you were in love with Nicole?"

  Derek didn't have to think. "I knew it when I realized I'd lay down my life for hers."

  "But a gentleman would lay down his life for a lady--"

  "Gladly. I'd do it gladly. Plus, when I knew I'd lost her, I couldn't plan for the future, and didn't want to. 'She's not to be yours, get on with your life,' I told myself a hundred times. And right when I decided that I needed to return to Whitestone, the first thing I thought was Nicole will like it there."

  Grant was certainly incapable of planning a future without Victoria. It was as if his mind rebelled against the thought. He mulled this over until their meal was served. As they'd experienced from most of the roadside pubs, the food was ridiculously bad. What should have been hot was cold. Soft staples were hard.

  Derek picked up some indeterminate foodstuff, frowned at it, and said, "I still say we should have hired investigators."

  "I didn't think he'd really disappeared," Grant said. "I thought I could return him home as I have several times before."

  "As of today, we can be certain he's gone. We're going to have to set the runners loose on this."

  Grant exhaled in resignation and nodded. "Ian's like a bad penny--he should have turned up by now. He'd been acting strange the whole voyage."

  A buxom maid sashayed to their table and leaned down. "Is there anything else you fine gentlemen might want?" she purred.

  Neither looked up. Both said in unison, "No."

  When she stomped away, Derek said, "I'm going back, tomorrow."

  "I understand," Grant said honestly. "I need to tie up some loose ends, try to squeeze something out."

  "Then I'll return and handle Aunt Serena." Derek grimaced. "Alone."

  Grant was aghast. "You'd do that?"

  Derek nodded. "I need to see my wife. I miss Nicole and the baby. I miss her as I would air," he admitted quietly.

  Grant wondered if Victoria missed him at all. He was sure her days would be busy playing chess, exploring the estate, perhaps relearning to ride now that spring was here. When he left, she'd looked comfortable and secure with Camellia and the earl playing games by the fireside. Yet Grant knew the old earl wouldn't last much longer. When he died, Grant would make sure Victoria had everything she needed.

  Grant hit on an idea. "Could you send Victoria a horse when you get back? And tackle. Spare no expense."

  "I'll do it, but I think she'd prefer you over the gifts."

  His brows drew together. "I feel responsible for Ian. He tried to talk to me several times on the voyage and I rebuffed him at every turn. I'll return as soon as I can, but it can't hurt to keep myself on her mind." He folded his arms over his chest. "And I think being away might work to my advantage. She'll have weeks to get over her pique. She'll have time to get to know her grandfather. Most important"--Grant smiled, a confident curving of his lips--"she'll realize how much she misses me."

  "I hate him!" Tori muttered, when Huckabee delivered a gift from Grant.

  Cammy tsked. "You don't mean it."

  "Oh, but I do." A sleek mare. What was he thinking, sending her something so expensive? Had he sent the gift out of guilt? Her brows drew together and she shook her head. She couldn't understand the purpose and that irritated her. It was a communication that she'd be damned if she could decipher.

  He'd sent no word, no letters, no inquiries--just a horse.

  Cammy was already running her fingers down the animal's tawny neck. But she was a splendid horse, Tori thought, when she looked into her intelligent eyes. The mare whinnied softly and brushed her head against Tori, and she couldn't help but smile. "I think you like us," she cooed. "I know we like you." But she needed a workhorse, not a graceful runner. She stiffened and forced herself to look away.

  "Huckabee, get what you can for her. And the tackle as well."

  Cammy looked longingly after the mare as he led her away. "Do you still think we can pull this off?"

  "Now more than ever, Cammy."

  She sounded so confident to her friend, but that night when she lay awake in the dark, doubt resurfaced. She didn't know how much more she could push herself.

  At the end of each day, when she eased herself into bed, there were a few moments when her body ached worse at rest. She was too weary to stand again, or even to cry. At least her exhaustion helped deaden her desire for Grant. Though it couldn't extinguish it entirely. She still dreamed of him each night, erotic scenes piercing her murky thoughts.

  She was beginning to wonder if she could ever put him in the past. Where he belonged.

  Camellia Ellen Scott was the finest horsewoman in the world.

  Cammy was sure of it as she and the new mare flew over fields and fences, hedges and streams. She could feel her blood pumping, making her mind sharp.

  The horse's hooves pounded into the earth, the sound reminding her of her childhood spent riding every moment she could. She was glad they had the horse for two more days before the new owner picked her up. Cammy planned to be on the back of that horse for every hour of those days.

  She'd long thought she was dying, but today, now, she knew that she was alive and staying that way for quite some time. Cammy felt...strong and revived. Laughter burst from her as they took a higher hedge and approached another.

  She was flying. Really flying. Backward.

  The h
orse had slowed, balked, and reared, sending her tumbling, one leg catching over the pommel of her sidesaddle. When it dislodged, she crashed down. After a stunned second, she gingerly rolled to her knees, then stood. Pain flared high on her inner thigh and her palm darted to rub her aching backside.

  "May I help you with that?" a deep voice inquired.

  Cammy yanked her hand away and whirled around, lips pursed in irritation. Her breath left her in a whoosh.

  It was the baron.

  "I meant the horse." His gray eyes were bright with laughter. At her. "Shall I help you with her?" He'd dismounted and was leading his own, but hers was nowhere in sight.

  Speak, Cammy. This is where you return talk. "I, oh, yes. She spooked."

  "We can walk a ways and see if we spot her."

  When she took a step and winced, his eyes widened. "What's injured?" the man barked.

  What's injured, indeed. A spot on her body she'd be loath to tell a physician about, much less the charismatic baron.

  She'd just have to lie. "My ankle." Weren't ladies always turning their ankles? Before she could finish the thought, he was kneeling before her, pushing up her skirt! "I--what? Stop that!"

  "Well, you're obviously not that hurt, but I need to see if you've a break or a sprain."

  "You drop my skirts, sir!"

  He glanced up, looking as if he was just holding in his laughter.

  Her face flamed. He might be wonderful to look at, but she didn't like that he found her amusing. Chin in the air, she said, "I will examine it." To prove her point, she limped over to a stump and sat with her back to him. She thought she heard him chuckling.

  As she pretended to probe her ankle, he said, "I was up on the ridge and saw you tearing across the county. Very talented riding."

  She looked over her shoulder. "Very talented riding doesn't leave you horseless and hobbling."

  Now he did chuckle. He walked around and bent down to catch her gaze. "Well, what's the verdict?"

  She stared at him blankly. Verdict? Infatuation.

  "Your ankle? Sprained?"

  "Oh! Yes, just a sprain."

  "I'm Stephen Winfield. May I have the name of my distressed damsel?"

  She did laugh then. He had no idea. "Sir, you can't imagine distressed when it applies to me. This, I assure you, is but a hiccup."

  "Ah, so the name of my damsel?..."

  Oh, he is too charming. She felt fluttery, as if her body were melting inside, which wasn't helping her remember how small talk was done, especially small talk with a man one found remarkably attractive. "I'm Camellia Scott."

  He took her grubby hands, brushed them off against his coat, and kissed one. "My pleasure."

  They stared at each other for what seemed a very long moment until she heard a high-pitched nicker. "M-My horse! Thank goodness."

  Cammy rose, intending to hobble over and mount. She could do it, despite her pulled muscle and hurting backside, but she'd look like a buffoon in the process. She turned to Winfield. "Thank you for your help, but you can see I have everything I need."

  He gave her an amused look. "I will be seeing you home."

  "I won't be needing an escort." He raised his eyebrows at her. Cammy, as a stubborn person, recognized his stubbornness immediately. She wasn't going to win this one. "Fine!"

  He mounted, reining his horse around to her. Before she could even form a protest, he'd lifted her and placed her gently in his lap.

  "Th-This isn't proper. I thought you were escorting me, not carrying me."

  "This seemed appropriate, considering the circumstances."

  She blew out a frustrated breath and turned her head. "Then to Belmont Court!"

  "I know where you live. I saw you the other day, remember?"

  Of course she did! But how had he remembered her?

  "Are you a relative of Belmont's granddaughter?" he asked.

  "No, I was her governess when she was young."

  He inhaled sharply. "You're one of the castaways?"

  She stiffened and up went her chin.

  "You are. It's an honor to meet you, Miss Scott."

  She turned in his lap to face him better. "You don't think I'm odd?"

  He shook his head. "I think you were right. A spill from a horse must be a day's play for you. I also think you must be one hell of a woman."

  She was flustered. The way he said those last words, so low and intense, nearly made her shiver. How could she respond to him? What to say?

  She inwardly shook herself. He made her want to say even more silly things, so she pressed her lips together, determined to be silent the entire way home. When they were just beside the entrance, he helped her down, but not to the ground. He scooped her into his arms, leaving her no choice but to hold him around the neck.

  "You can't carry me in!" Oh, he was so strong. She could feel his muscles working. "You can't come in the house!" My God, he smelled incredible. "Please, put me down!"

  He kicked at the door with his boot. She groaned. She'd just wanted to go for a simple ride. Huckabee opened the door, and his dropped jaw made her face flame again.

  "If you'll direct me to a settee?"

  "Of course, my lord."

  Winfield shifted her in his arms. She thought he was just finding a more comfortable position, but he'd actually pulled her closer. Could this situation become more unbearable?

  Apparently. Tori strolled in, saw she was injured, and ran for them, looking like she'd do Winfield harm. "Are you hurt? What happened? Why is he holding you?"

  He answered in a patient voice, "Miss Scott's a little banged up. She fell from her horse. I'm holding her because I don't want her to walk."

  He placed her lightly on the settee in the parlor and called for ice, pillows, and tea. Tori hesitated, eyeing the baron, but when she saw Huckabee starting in the direction of the icehouse, she glowered at Winfield in warning and went for pillows.

  He propped up Cammy's pitifully unswollen ankle with the small cushions available. She swished her skirts over it as though modest.

  "May I call on you and check on your recovery?"

  He'd already helped her so much. "That really won't be necessary."

  "I insist."

  She shook her head. She didn't want him obligated to come see her and certainly didn't want him to know she'd lied about her ankle. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

  For the first time, his face fell. "Of course." Almost to himself he said, "I tend to forget how old I am."

  "Old," she scoffed, rubbing a smudge from her hand. "You're in your late thirties, if that, and most virile." She glanced up just as she gasped at herself. The earth would swallow her now, if it did as bidden.

  His eyes were merry, his expression pleased. "Early forties. But I fear you're too young for me."

  "I am not too young for you."

  His smile widened.

  "I meant, should two people of our ages..." She trailed off with a frown. "I'm simply saying that should circumstances..." Her face was on fire. "I'm quite near thirty!" Maybe he wasn't just amused at her. It could be argued that he was delighted with her. Or both. She just didn't know.

  "I don't see how that could be possible, but as it works to my favor--"

  Tori returned then with blankets, pillows, and Mrs. Huckabee bearing Cammy's favorite tea. Tori scrutinized Winfield looking at Cammy and didn't seem too pleased with the situation. He must have sensed Tori's animosity because, with a last lingering kiss on Cammy's hand, he turned to show himself out. But not before he said over his shoulder, "Friday, Miss Scott."

  Both she and Tori stared at the doorway for some time after he left.

  "Tell me everything," Tori finally said.

  Cammy explained her fall and detailed his kindness. And she didn't omit the inane things she'd said. By the end, she and Tori were laughing.

  "Oh, Cammy, I was so rude to him. Again. I was just worried about you. And the way he was holding you. Possessive."

  "Really?"


  Tori nodded. "Absolutely."

  "I can't believe I called him virile. And that's only one of the dim-witted things I said to him. I was rattled to find that I can't converse."

  "I think you're brilliant at conversing if the way he was looking at you is any indication. So what shall you wear Friday?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Cammy scoffed. "You make it sound like he's coming to court me."

  "That's exactly what he's doing. Mrs. Huckabee said he's been a widower for over ten years."

  Cammy hardly knew him and yet she felt so sad for his loss. "He's just being polite. Handsome, powerful men like that don't court emaciated, pale, formerly out-of-their-mind redheads."

  "None of that is true but for the red hair," Tori insisted. "But I have a feeling that even if all of it were, this man would."

  Winfield returned on Wednesday.

  After rushing up to her room and trying on as many different dresses as she owned, Cammy chose a royal-blue walking dress, smoothed her hair, and then calmly descended the stairs. The pain in her legs and backside that she'd complained of only that morning had vanished.

  He sucked in a breath when he saw her and seemed so admiring that she concluded the poor boy was losing his eyesight.

  "I had an excuse ready about how I didn't think you could get around easily and it was such a fine day I'd hate for you to be inside. But the truth is, I didn't want to wait till Friday. And I liked the idea of carrying you again."

  "Oh," was her rejoinder. She barely left off the breathy my.

  "So, I've a blanket, some wine, a bit of food, and an early-blooming cherry tree to enjoy them under."

  She nearly sighed, it sounded so wonderful. "I'll go with you, but I must insist I walk. My injuries feel better after moving around."

  "But your ankle..."

  "Hardly a twinge. Like I said, just a hiccup."

  She saw him hesitate and knew he was suspicious, but she poked out her chin and defied him to say something. Surely, as a stubborn person, he recognized her stubbornness.

  "As you wish."

  They strolled, slower than she would have liked, up in the hills to a spot overlooking the valley and set out their luncheon. Though she struggled to limit herself to only a few grapes, he plied her with wine and delicacies, candied apricots and roasted apples, cheeses so good she wanted to roll her eyes in delight, and brown and white breads wrapped in cloth and still warm.

  The more wine she drank, the more loquacious she became. The wretch took advantage of her state to ask her questions about the island. How to tell him she was previously addled in the head, could never eat fish--a main staple of the English diet--and didn't remember a great deal of the last several years? How could she confide that there were things she wished she couldn't recall? She put him off by describing the flora and fauna.