She waded farther up the inlet where the shaded water was fresher, and undressed. She washed her body, scrubbed her clothing and wrung the water from it, then dressed and finger-combed her hair until it was nearly dry.
When she returned, she saw him still poised over the fish, following at a glacial speed. She perched on a palm, drumming her cleaned nails on its trunk, piping her lip out to blow a strand of hair from her face.
Enough of this. She scooped up a rock on her way to the water, and tossed it right in front of him.
Nine
Will. That's what would defeat this monster of a fish. Every time Grant tensed to launch his spear, the thing uncannily moved. But he was a patient man and could wait out the prey for hours if necessary. His arm ached from holding the spear aloft for so long, but he was dogged. And it would be worth--
Water splashed up to his face and the fish darted away, both in recoil to the huge rock sinking before his feet. Teeth clenched, he looked to the edge of the shade, where Victoria gave him a triumphant smirk. With a growl, he hurled the spear like a javelin at the waterline, where it plunged upright, then strode toward her. With every step he took, her chin notched up higher. When he stood directly in front of her and gave her a look that had cowed convict sailors, she didn't even flinch. She wasn't afraid of him or intimidated by him. Perhaps she should be.
Without a word, he clasped her in his arms and started for the water.
"No! Sutherland," she cried. "I'm warm and dry! Don't!"
Nothing could stop him from dumping her in. Except at the last second, she went from beating on his chest to a stranglehold behind his neck. Just as he hoisted her away, she pulled him down with her.
He shot past the surface, coughing water, close to laughing.
She was sputtering, pushing hair from her face. "You bastard! You'll regret that...." She trailed off as she looked down at her chest, no doubt following his gaze. Her shirt was twisted and half torn off her shoulder, revealing the top of one breast. The sandy fabric clung to the other. She plucked the shirt from her chest, but it insistently molded back to display her hardened nipples. The sight of them, the thought of touching her, his mouth on her...Explosive want burned inside him.
His hands clenched as he sorted through the thoughts and impulses wracking him. All morning he'd watched her, eyes locked on her long legs or her nearly bare breasts. The taut flare of her backside had nearly brought him to his knees. He would've given his life, he was sure of it, to hold her there, to heft the curves and fit his fingers around her flesh. He'd worked himself to a frenzy in an effort to quell the near constant erection he battled.
Now she stood before him as though unclothed. He wondered if he affected her as she did him. Her breaths were shallow and her eyes were wide, raking over his chest and lower, boldly, appraisingly.
He thought, in this brief sliver of time, that she might welcome his kiss, might let him brush her shirt from her shoulders and run his hands over her breasts. Victoria, unclothed, in the water with me.
He made some rough noise in his throat, then hauled himself to the bank. Never slowing, he snatched up his boots and shirt and stormed away. He paced furiously up and down the glaring white beach, only stopping to fling a shell or imagine his ship at anchor. Before he'd found her, he'd been in no particular hurry to return home. Now Grant saw it as his only salvation. Victoria would lose her appeal in his world. She was too outspoken, too bold.
He stared at the sinking sun, struck by the violent searing of color across the sky. Only here would he see such a scene--bloodred battled orange, magenta, and the night's coming blue, the fierce colors mirroring his own crazed feelings. Grant was about control, and if she destroyed his control, she destroyed him. She stirred his emotions to a startling degree. A dangerous degree.
No woman had ever made him...want. Made him desire more than he could or would have.
When he returned to the inlet, she was gone, so he trudged to the camp. Halfway up the trail, he smelled cooking. Nothing could smell that good. The scent became more intense and, like an animal's, his mouth watered.
He found her preparing their catch in the open-fire hearth, and concluded he'd never been more hungry in his life. After sweeping a glance around the clearing, he asked, "What do we eat with?"
She laughed without humor. "You're assuming you get to eat?"
"Utensils?" he grated.
She gave him a long-suffering sigh. "You're looking in vain. Be glad for the plate."
He peered down at the wooden disk she called a plate, piled high with flaky white fish. Eating fish with his hands?
Victoria had already begun and her savoring sounds didn't help his resistance. Finally, even manners were tossed aside, and he scooped the meat into his mouth. He closed his eyes before he could stop himself. It nearly melted. The taste, the texture, the smell registered with him as no food had before. He caught her observing him and flushed.
They devoured everything. Grant struggled to eat like a civilized person, but in the end, he wasn't particularly successful. He'd shoveled every bit of food into his mouth like a beast and was looking for more. Victoria had to yank twice at his plate to take it to clean. The island was beginning to get to him. He wouldn't--couldn't--let it. He was stronger than the pull here.
"What are you doing?" he asked when he saw her squeezing juice from some type of fruit onto her fingers. She didn't answer, just tossed him the other half. The scent was tart and obliterated the smell of fish on his hands.
"You got along fairly well without the utensils," she mused as she fell sinuously into the remaining hammock.
"I don't see why you haven't made some. I saw you'd carved hooks out of bone. I know you're capable."
"Why would I waste my knife--my one knife--carving a fork when I have fingers and opposable thumbs?"
He sat on a log before the fire. "Because you'd have some semblance of civilization? You're going to have a lot to learn when you return."
"What if I haven't forgotten?" she asked. "Perhaps I've chosen to disregard certain things."
"Such as?"
She dropped a leg outside the hammock and used her toe to rock herself. "Such as what doesn't fit out here. Dressing like a lady, for instance. Putting myself in three hundred pounds of petticoats--even if I had them--would be suicidal. You have to adapt or you'll die."
"That's not the civilized mind-set." Taking a branch from a pile of tinder, he stirred the embers. With the fire banked, he could clearly see her face. "It doesn't matter where you are--you can't lose your manners, your dress. Otherwise, you lose your identity."
"And why would I want to keep my identity?" She tensed and eyed him. "Understand this, Captain. For eight years, we thought we were dead to the world. There's a freedom in that." She relaxed again. "And whether you know it or not, you're adapting just as I did."
"What do you mean?"
"Taking off your shirt, your boots--"
"Noticed that, did you?" he asked with raised eyebrows, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "I understand why your clothes are like"--he waved a hand at the colored scarf she had tied around her chest--"that. But still, maybe a blush from you? You were old enough to know propriety when you landed here."
"Propriety?" she spat. "Shall I call you Saint Captain or Captain Saint?"
Grant worked to hide his exasperation.
"Yes, I was old enough to have learned that. If I'd been taught what was proper. When I was younger, my mother used to say that nothing limited the human spirit like propriety. She would've called you a sanctimonious killjoy."
"I am not a killjoy," he protested before he could stop himself. "I adhere to propriety because it's the backbone of Britain. It's what separates our society from every other one on earth." He raked a hand through his hair and tried to reason. Of all the things for her to misunderstand or be ignorant of--this should not be one of them. "The rules for propriety didn't simply spring up in a vacuum. They were formed by layers of time and are uphe
ld for a reason."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes, that's what I'll call you. Captain Killjoy."
He glared at her. She hadn't listened to a bloody word he'd said. "If identity and propriety mean nothing to you, I wonder if you even want to leave."
"Just because I didn't run down to the beach to meet you doesn't mean I don't want to leave. You've been reading too many castaway stories. And trust me, they have it wrong. When should women--whom no one would miss because they're believed dead--ever run out and greet sailors who'd been out to sea for months?"
"Actually, I believe you were right to be cautious." He stared into the fire, thinking of the journal, wondering what had become of the captain. "You never wrote about that captain after Miss Scott hit him."
Her toe braked her swaying. She sat up, her body rigid. "That's because his story was over. He died and we left him there. After a day, when the crew couldn't find him, they spooked and sailed." Her bearing dared him to criticize her.
"Do you regret anything about it?" He hoped not, but how could a woman not be plagued with nightmarish memories and misgivings? He had her, he was hurting her, she'd written. I wanted to protect her--I wanted to hurt him. It was as though I lost my mind.
"Regrets? Certainly. I wish we could've avoided the entire situation. If not, I wish I'd brought down the rock instead of Cammy and spared her that."
Grant barely prevented his eyes from widening, not believing her words. Any woman he'd ever been with would have wrung her hands, waiting for help in the same situation. Not one of them would have launched herself onto a fiend's back and tried her damnedest to strangle him.
Now, years later, Victoria wished she'd dealt the final blow. Grant stared at her, at her steady, clear gaze, and for a moment, he was awed by her. He understood and wouldn't want to change her actions, but it was still disconcerting to be around a woman so different from any he'd known. He coughed and said, "I appreciate your caution. You were right to be wary. The pranks, however, I could've done without."
She shrugged and sank back. "They felt right at the time."
He was glad the topic had changed "Felt? I suppose you would choose instinct over logic."
"You get the same end, only instinct's quicker." Her rocking resumed.