Hugo and the Maiden

by S. M. LaViolette

  “Er—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care about what?”

  “About what you used to do.”

  “But you don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “No.”

  Hugo felt like they were having two different conversations. “Uh—”

  “My father kept his journals—there were five of them, in all—in the church beneath the strongbox. There was a hollowed out area in the stone floor where he kept the other church valuables.”

  Hugo knew all that since he’d stolen the church money. He kept that piece of information to himself. “And?” he prodded.

  “I—I didn’t want to read them at first. I knew it would be too painful. But today I just felt—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I felt. I read them. Well, not all of them, obviously, but I started at the most recent and went back several weeks—to the night of the shipwreck. There were entries that mentioned you.”

  “Yes, I stole the money, but—”

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I also know that my father offered to help you if you stayed. And that he did help you with Mr. McCoy.”

  “That’s true.”

  “He wanted a favor in return.”

  His little peat fire sent shadows dancing over her face.

  “Yes,” he said, carefully.

  But when she spoke, it wasn’t what he’d feared. “He said that you were a good man, even if your past was, er, checkered.” She swallowed and it looked like hard work. “He also said—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. “He also said that he thought you might, erm, care for me.”

  Hugo opened his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to force any words out.

  She pinned him with her gaze. “Do you?”

  It was Hugo’s turn to swallow—several time. “Er—” He experienced the oddest sensation just then; like he was watching himself from somewhere outside his body. He wasn’t impressed by what he saw: His mouth hung open, his eyes bulged, and he looked like an idiot. A terrified idiot.

  “Never mind.” She pushed to her feet and shoved past him.

  Hugo grabbed her upper arm lightly and held her. “Just … wait a moment, Martha.” This close to her he could see her face was scarlet.

  “Wait for what? For you to come up with some pablum? You should have seen the expression on your face.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew.

  “You looked horrified and terrified.”

  That was an accurate assessment. Fortunately Hugo didn’t say that out loud.

  She yanked her arm. “Just let me go.”

  Hugo held her in place. “I do care for you, Martha. But you don’t understand…”

  “I don’t understand what?”

  Why had he returned to his lean-to? If he’d gone looking for Cailean he could have avoided this confrontation. Why hadn’t—”

  “You say that you care for me?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “So why would you stand by while I married Robert?”

  “Because he is the better man. Er, for you,” he added, just because he couldn’t bear that she thought he meant Clark was better in general.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Um—”

  She made a noise that was amazingly similar to the one Lily had made earlier. “Just because I don’t have much experience with—well, with life, I suppose—doesn’t mean I don’t understand my own feelings. Shouldn’t I be the one who decides who is best for me?”

  “I just think that right now—so soon after your father’s death—isn’t the best time to make important decisions.”

  “Is that why you pushed me into marrying Robert?” she scoffed.

  It was Hugo’s turn to sound like an angry otter. “Now wait just a minute, Martha. I didn’t do any such thing. You told me that you were secretly betrothed. Or have you forgotten that?”

  She bit her lower lip—the same lip he’d dreamed about biting times beyond counting. “I made that up.”

  “What?”

  “I thought that maybe you’d say or do something if I told you that.”

  “What exactly did you expect me to say or do after you’d told me you were promised to another man?” he sputtered. “Challenge him to a duel?”

  “Oh, don’t act so innocent!” She jerked her arm away. “You knew Robert wanted to marry me and yet you kept asking me to spend time with you. Or was that only to goad him?”.

  “No, of course not.”

  Although he did enjoy goading Clark and behaving flirtatiously with Martha was the quickest and easiest way to do that. Still, he could hardly say that, at least not without destroying her. “That was different,” he added lamely.

  “Different how?”

  Hugo’s normally crafty brain seemed to have abandoned him. “Um, I asked you to spend time with me because I didn’t think you were betrothed.”

  “Well, I’m not betrothed, now.”

  “Martha, the entire island is coming to your wedding in less than two days.”

  “Not anymore.”

  He felt like he was in one of those dreams, the ones where he tried to run, but couldn’t seem to get anywhere.

  If you really want to get rid of her all you need to do is tell her who you really are. And then watch her go sprinting back to her good man.

  Nausea rose in his throat at the thought of confessing who he was. What he was.

  Hugo ground his teeth; his own shame infuriated him. He had never lied about who he was to anyone, nor had he been embarrassed by what he did for a living.

  And yet he couldn’t seem to stop lying to Martha.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hugo looked into her stricken eyes. “For what?”

  “I can see from your expression that you are searching for a kind way to reject me. That you just don’t want to hurt me.”

  She was offering him a way out, and Hugo opened his mouth to take it.

  But nothing came out.

  She made a gulping sound and her eyes got glassy. “I shouldn’t have put you in this position. It’s my fault that—”

  “Oh, Hell,” Hugo muttered as a soft sob broke out of her. “Come here.” He pulled her into his arms. “Shh, shh.” He patted her back, trying to ignore the way her breasts pushed against his chest. What kind of pig thought about soft, lovely breasts when a woman was in mental anguish?

  Hugo held her and let her cry, rubbing her back the way he’d seen people soothe crying children.

  He closed his eyes; she felt good in his arms—she fit, as if she belonged. As if her body had been made for his.

  Hugo shoved aside the insidious thought, but it kept pushing its way back in.

  There was no way he could take her with him. Being with her on Stroma was one thing—it was a place out of time, where he didn’t have to be Hugo Buckingham—but in London? He couldn’t hide who he was, what he did, where he came from. There simply—

  “I’m sorry for being a watering pot. But I miss my father so much, Hugo.” She whispered the words into the worn material of his vest, her hot breath causing goosepimples to break out all over his body.

  “I know,” he said, even though he didn’t know. When had he ever loved anyone like Martha had loved her father? Never. Not even close.

  “I can’t seem to stop feeling alone.”

  “I’m sure that is normal, sweet—er, Martha. After all, you lived with him all your life.”

  “I’m lonely when I’m with Robert and feel even lonelier when I imagine being married to him.” She mumbled something into his clothing.

  “Er, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—”

  “I said, then I thought about you, Hugo.”

  “Um—”

  “I realized the last time I felt safe and happy was down in the Gloup.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s natural since you didn’t know about your father back then and—”

  “No, it’s more than that.�
� She nuzzled closer, her body soft, curvy, and delicious. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  And Hugo couldn’t stop thinking about her breasts and the way they were rubbing against him. Thrusting against him.

  Only a genuinely selfish, thoughtless bastard would become hard right now, Hugo.

  Hugo gritted his teeth and didn’t even bother to defend himself; he was a bastard.

  The sudden stiffening in her back told him that she’d noticed his sudden stiffening.

  “Ah, Christ, Martha—”

  She flinched at his blaspheming.

  “I’m sorry,” he hastily said. “I’m, er, well—”

  Hugo tried put her at arm’s length, but she clung to him like a barnacle, too innocent to realize what she was doing to him. “Um, you should let me take you back to your room at the Vicar, darling. This isn’t a—”

  She nuzzled closer, her hips pressing hard against his.

  Hugo groaned and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Martha—”

  “It’s all right, Hugo, I know what you want.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “I—I want you, too, Hugo. You don’t need to do that other thing this time—I want to stay.”

  Chapter 21

  The words hadn’t even left her mouth before Martha wanted to snatch them back.

  Hugo took her by the waist and firmly set her at arm’s length. “What other thing?”

  You want to tell him, admit it. Shame flooded her, but she couldn’t deny it.

  Hugo caused sensations in her body that she’d never even dreamed of experiencing—and he’d barely touched her.

  She’d only told him the partial truth about why she’d broken off with Robert. She suspected he wouldn’t like the full story, which is that Robert had walked her to her tiny room at the Greedy Vicar and Martha had invited him in.

  He’d hesitated, trying to be a gentleman, but Martha had insisted. She’d needed to know what it felt like to kiss and touch him.

  It had felt like nothing.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true, it had felt embarrassing—like she was kissing her brother.

  “Martha.” Hugo’s warm, calloused hand slid beneath her chin and he forced her to meet his gaze. A notch had appeared between the elegant arches of his eyebrows. “What other thing?”

  Every second she hesitated, his eyebrows drew down more. Now that she’d piqued his curiosity, he would not leave it alone.

  Martha stared into his dark eyes and knew—with every particle of her being—that if she didn’t say something to him before he left Stroma, she’d regret it for the rest of her days. It would be better to speak and face rejection than to remain silent and never know.

  “I saw you the night in the meetinghouse, after you washed your clothes, and you had a blanket wrapped around you and—”

  Realization dawned as slowly as a sunrise and his silent, speculative regard made her face hotter and hotter.

  “Hmm. This sounds like a conversation best enjoyed while sitting.” He gestured to the bedroll where she’d waited for him.

  She sat, leaning against the stone wall, and he lowered himself beside her.

  “So, you were spying on me.”

  “I was not spying.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “I was—I wondered—”

  His smile grew with each sputter.

  Martha shut her mouth.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.

  She could hardly tell him the truth, could she? That she couldn’t stop thinking about him. That it was his face she wanted to see when Robert kissed her? That Robert’s hands on her body made her feel worse than unmoved, it made her feel as if she were being … unfaithful.

  “Martha?” he prodded.

  She could tell him none of those things because she was a coward. Instead, she said, “I feel guilty.” That wasn’t entirely a lie …

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why do you feel guilty?” he asked patiently. “After all, it’s not your fault if you caught a glimpse of me doing that. In fact, most people would say I should not be doing that anywhere at all, and certainly not in the middle of the meeting house with the doors wide open.” He stopped abruptly and frowned. “Tell me, how long did you stay to watch?”

  “Um.”

  “You stayed um? How long is um, Martha—more than a minute? Less than an hour?” His voice was low and compelling—almost menacing.

  Just tell him. You know you want to.

  “Erm, until the end.”

  His expression was inscrutable.

  “Won’t you say something?”

  “Did you think about me—after? When you were alone in your bed?”

  “What?” she shrieked, recoiling.

  “You heard me.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” The harsh lines of his face were stern and intense. “You wanted me to know that you watched—don’t deny it. If you’d said nothing I would never know. Now you’ve told me. So now answer my question: did you think about me when you were in bed.”

  She sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and nodded.

  He gave a low, satisfied chuckle and cupped her jaw. “Look at me, Martha.”

  She opened her eyes to find that he was no longer leaning against the wall but was facing her.

  “You came here to seduce me tonight, didn’t you?”

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.

  “It’s all right; you don’t need to answer that.” He caressed her cheek, his expression thoughtful. “It arouses me to think of you watching me when I was naked and hard.”

  She sucked in a noisy breath at his provocative words.

  “I especially like to imagine you thinking of me later when you were alone. Did you touch yourself?”

  Martha’s jaw sagged.

  His soft words cut the invisible threads that were holding her together and she began to unravel. It was an effort to breathe and there was no way she could form a word.

  But he didn’t seem to care about an answer.

  “I remember what I was thinking about that night—as I pleasured myself. Do you want to know?”

  Martha had to breathe through her mouth to get enough air.

  “Do you?”

  She gave a jerky nod.

  “No, I want you to say it: Hugo, what were you thinking about as you stroked yourself to orgasm?”

  A strangled squeak came out of her gaping mouth.

  Hugo swept his thumb lightly over her lower lip, his skin salty on the tender flesh. “I adore your mouth, Martha.” His gaze remained on her lips while his thumb moved back and forth. “Shall I tell you what I was thinking that night without making you beg? Would you like that?”

  Their eyes locked and the expression in his was hard—almost cruel.

  She nodded.

  “I was thinking about you and that mouth of yours.” His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. “I’ve pleasured myself almost every night, thinking about you, your mouth, your body.”

  She could hear her ragged breathing even over the drumming of her pulse.

  “Just looking at you leaves me aroused and wanting.” He stroked the corner of her mouth. “You saw just how hard I was that night, didn’t you? That was your doing.” He caught his lower lip with his sharp teeth and shook his head. “Lately, once isn’t enough. Sometimes I get hard during the day.”

  He kept saying that word: hard. It was doing things to her body. Her lungs labored and the place between her thighs throbbed so loudly she could actually hear it: thud thud thud.

  When he lowered his mouth over hers, Martha felt as if she’d been waiting for him all her life.

  His words were crude, but his mouth was so soft, so gentle. He sipped at her lips, stroking her jaw, chin, and throat with his rough fingers. “Mmm,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip and then sucking it into his mouth.

/>   Martha’s head spun drunkenly.

  He released her lip and pressed butterfly kisses on the swollen flesh. “You taste as good as you look. I’d like to eat you.”

  Martha gaped, doubtless resembling a rockfish that had been brought up from a great depth.

  Hugo slid his hand behind her head. “Lean back, sweetheart, I need to kiss you properly.”

  Good Lord! There was more? That was nothing like Robert’s kiss. “Pr-properly?”

  “Well, maybe improperly would be a better word for it.” He chuckled and it was the sort of low, growly sound that Martha imagined a dangerous jungle panther would make right before it pounced. “And please breathe, I don’t want you dropping into unconsciousness.”

  It was a relief to let her head fall back, to let him support and cradle her in his arms while his mouth reclaimed hers.

  “Just relax and let me please you,” he murmured. He kissed and licked at the seam of her mouth. “Open,” he whispered. His tongue invaded her parted lips and he explored her, light teasing touches on her lips, her tongue, and even her teeth.

  Martha struggled to keep pace with his wit-scattering kisses, but sensation swamped her, overwhelming her body and mind.

  When he finally pulled away, his breathing was as labored as hers and his eyes burned. “I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.” His wicked lips quirked in a way that always presaged something outrageous or teasing. “Well, maybe not that first night, when you were so cruel to me, but—”

  “Cruel to you? I wasn’t—”

  “—I thought of you even more over the days that followed.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Good thoughts, for the most part—even though you made me clean chamber pots.”

  She opened her mouth and he laid one elegant finger across her lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered, stroking lightly from her jaw to her throat, where he paused, his long-fingered hand easily spanning her and lightly and squeezing. His eyes had gone vague—as if he were somewhere else—while his fingers stroked the fabric of her high-necked gown, the rough pads snagging on the worn cotton, scritch scritch scritch.

  The sound appeared to shake him from his reverie, and he lifted his hand and looked at his palm, a wry smile on his mouth as he raised his eyes to hers. “My hands are not so soft and white now, are they?”