The Price of Pleasure by Kresley Cole Page B

did.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œTaking off your shirt, your boots—”
    â€œNoticed 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.”
    â€œPropriety?” she spat. “Shall I call you Saint Captain or Captain Saint?”
    Grant worked to hide his exasperation.
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œI 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 upheld 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.”
    â€œJust 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?”
    â€œActually, 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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œRegrets? 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.”
    â€œYou get the same end, only instinct’s quicker.” Her rocking resumed.
    Had been glad. Now he wanted to shake her. “How can instinct help you when you want to plan your