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.

Copyright © 2004 by Kresley Cole.