His thin, mobile lips curved into an unpleasant smile as he crossed his arms, looking for all the world like he was lounging on a chaise instead of lying in another man’s arms. If bloody, feces-smeared, vomit-encrusted, and soaking wet men did such a thing as lounge on chaises.
“What language are these people speaking?” the stranger demanded.
Martha gave him her most repressive stare, the one she used on recalcitrant students. “It is English as spoken by a native Scot, sir. That is where you are currently a guest—in Scotland, in the Orkneys. This is the island of Stroma.” She hesitated and then added, “Small Cailean understands both English and Scots Gaelic—he knows two languages, which, I imagine, is one more than you know.”
The man glanced around the meeting hall, his expression horrified, as if she’d just told him that he’d crossed the River Styx into Hades.
“How the bloody damned hell did—”
Martha spun on her heel.
“Oi!” he yelled after her. “Where are you going? I’m not finished with you. You can’t just turn your bleeding—”
“You needn’t hold him, Small Cailean. Please put him on one of the pews and I will attend to him when he stops using such language.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, ignoring the stranger’s response, which was to squawk like an angry gull. If he was able to emote as loudly as that, he could not be too badly hurt.
Martha worked her way down the pews, on which the patients—all male—had been laid head-to-head and foot-to-foot. Every single man had horrible chafing on their ankles which she suspected was due to manacles. She splinted broken fingers, one broken wrist, stitched up a nasty gash, and smeared salve on raw wounds.
She was busy treating the seventh or eighth man, when her patient spoke. “He is the reason most of us are alive.”
Martha looked up from his left hand, on which the two smallest fingers were broken. One of the things people learned on Stroma—which had no resident doctor—was to use splints, stitch small wounds, and do other general medical care. “I beg your pardon?”
“The, er, gentleman who was yelling—”
“Get your big bloody paws off me!” The words cut through the other chatter.
Martha’s patient—surprisingly well-spoken for a convict—grimaced, “Well, the man who is still yelling is the same person responsible for most of us who are alive.”
She glanced up at the yeller.
He was glaring repressively at Small Cailean, who appeared to have taken a liking to him and refused to put him down. Martha clucked her tongue before returning to her task. Small Cailean was sweet and gentle, but he did have a tendency to develop, well, fixations, and then cling like a burr. A huge burr.
“What is his name?” she asked her patient.
“I’m afraid we weren’t in a situation where exchanging names was—well, let’s just say the subject did not come up.”
Martha didn’t even want to think of the hellish conditions these men must have endured.
“He may be foul-mouthed and obnoxious,” her patient continued, “but he stopped that maniac from killing a lot of us.”
She looked up, arrested. “What maniac?
Her patient turned an even paler shade than his already white skin, causing his many freckles to stand out even more. “A prisoner in the hold—Graybow was his name, or at least that was what was tattooed on his chest. Anyhow, he began inciting some of the others to, er, well to acts of extreme violence. Soon there were a dozen of them, slamming their chains against the hull and making a horrendous racket. The crew—there weren’t nearly as many of them as there were of us—locked the hold shut, leaving us at that monster’s mercy for days.” He shivered. “When they stopped feeding us, Graybow sawed off the feet of the two prisoners next to him and it didn’t seem like he would stop.”
Martha sat rapt, his damaged hand forgotten in her lap. “And then what happened?”
“Well, that man”—he gestured to the obstreperous black-haired convict, who was currently asking everyone around him if they spoke proper English—“convinced everyone that we had to stop Graybow before he came after us. It took him a while to get enough people to agree, but finally we were able to rush him when his back was turned.
“It was the mouthy yeller who jumped on Graybow’s back and wrapped the chain around his neck, squeezing, until the big bastard, er …” He paused, his pale cheeks coloring. “Begging your pardon. He, um, subdued Graybow until he was no longer a danger.”
“Do you mean he—”
“I’ll not say anything about that,” the man said, his tone suddenly firm. “I will say that if that maniac Graybow had lived there would be a lot fewer of us breathing right now.”
Martha held his gaze for a long moment. “Go on.”
“That fellow took the blade that the monster had been using to kill and used it to pick open our manacles. He and one other man worked for hours freeing convicts. He kept on working even when the deck caught fire over our heads.” He swallowed, his forehead suddenly sheened in sweat. “And if all that wasn’t bad enough, the ship struck something hard and water came in faster than I would have believed possible. Men were screaming, fighting, and panicking, and yet he kept picking locks right up until the moment the water covered our heads. Those men who’d not managed to get free held onto men who were and pulled them down. Somebody grabbed one of my legs and I thought—I thought—” He began shaking.
“Shhh, it’s alright Mr.—”
“Franks. My name is Albert Franks.”
“You mustn’t agitate yourself, Mr. Franks. You are safe now.”
As Martha finished splinting his fingers and smearing his scratches and abrasions with rapidly diminishing salve, she couldn’t help casting another glance at the savior in Mr. Franks’s story.
A less likely looking hero Martha had never seen.
◆◆◆
Hugo could not understand a damned word anyone said—except for the stern-faced school mistress who’d scolded him and then left him with one of the hugest men he’d seen in his entire life.
Hugo stood five foot ten inches in his stocking feet and weighed a good thirteen stone, but this man was a bloody giant and he held Hugo as if he were a babe. And the woman had called him Small Cailean? Hugo shivered at the thought of a Big Cailean.
At his shivering the big man propped Hugo on his hip like an infant and solicitously pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Hugo smiled up at him. “Er, thank you, Small Cailean.”
The man’s response to his weak thanks was a blinding smile, confirming Hugo’s suspicion that he must be a bit touched in the upper works. Well, touched or not, Hugo owed him his life because he’d certainly saved his worthless hide.
For all his great size Small Cailean had moved swiftly and nimbly over the jagged rocks that ran from the shoreline out to sea, to where even more were hidden, one of which must have taken down the ship.
Hugo had managed to swim to one of the jutting, half-submerged rocks after he’d escaped the hold, but he’d not had the strength to do much more than hold on with one hand, his body floating like a piece of kelp in the frigid water.
He’d become so cold that he actually felt hot as a lassitude curled around him, until his fingers began to slip from the rock.
And he’d not even cared.
The giant had picked up Hugo as easily as he would a crab clinging to a rock at low tide. He’d then proceeded to carry him for what seemed like miles without even breathing hard.
So, of course Hugo was grateful, but the man—Small Cailean—refused to relinquish him, and it was bloody embarrassing to be carted about like a wounded lamb.
“Thank you,” Hugo said for the dozenth time. “You can put me down now. Just put me there, on that bench, and then you can go and do … well, whatever it is that you do.” He gave the grinning giant a hopeful smile. “Really, I shall be fine until, erm …” He looked across the room at the prickly female, who seemed determined to tre
at every other man before him. And all because he had not told her his name.
Hugo studied her humorless face as she spoke to one of the men she was treating. The man said something to her and she smiled at him.
Well, the little shrew. He’d just have to show—
The sound of guttural syllables slamming together made Hugo look away from the schoolmistress. An old woman had come to stand beside the giant, apparently for the sole purpose of gaping at Hugo.
He smiled at her. “Hello—do you speak English?” He enunciated each word clearly.
The old lady chuckled, as if he’d just said something amusing.
Hugo gritted his teeth and looked away, pulling the rough homespun blanket more tightly around his naked torso as he gazed around at the rude stone walls, some manner of pitiful assembly room. His attention settled on the ginger-hackled man who’d been manacled beside him, the man that Hugo had called Vicar because of all his praying.
Hugo hadn’t wanted to know any of his fellow prisoners’ real names, no matter that he believed several of them probably innocent of the crimes they’d been accused of.
Take Hugo for example; he was guilty of plenty, but petty thievery was not among his many crimes.
He’d been naked when they took him from Solange’s and naked when they’d kept him crammed in some vile cell. His captors had finally given him clothing that appeared to have been specifically calculated to make him look like a clown—trousers that fell only to his knees and a shirt so voluminous it might have served as a circus tent—for his brief moment before the judge. A very suspicious-looking judge.
When Hugo had opened his mouth to ask what court he was in, the guard had struck him so hard that his head was still ringing days later. So, he’d stood there before the bench, too dazed to speak while they’d accused him of petty thievery and sentenced him to seven years transportation in less time than it took to drink a pint.
Afterward the guard stripped Hugo of his embarrassing clothing and shoved him into a different cell, this one with people he came to know all too well during the week or more that they’d waited. New prisoners had been added daily, each one claiming innocence.
Hugo was familiar with criminals—he’d grown up in the rookeries, after all—and he knew that every convict insisted they were innocent. But there’d been startling similarities in all the stories that he’d heard while in that cell: every man had been arrested at night, they’d all been denied any access to the normal rights afforded even the lowliest of criminals, and all of them had sounded and behaved like the tradesmen or clerks they claimed to be.
A shadow fell over Hugo and he looked up.
“Well, Miss Martha Pringle has returned.” He bowed as effectively as a reclining man could bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I will take a look at your leg, if you can manage to be civil.” She had the sort of blue eyes he loved—the type that he would’ve liked to have himself. Except his eyes would never have contained such a severe, humorless expression.
It took every bit of restraint he could muster to gaze into those judging orbs and say, in a treacly voice, “I would be most appreciative, Miss Martha Pringle.”
Her surprisingly sensual lips curved into an ironic smile. So, she wasn’t entirely without humor.
“You can put him down, Small Cailean.”
The young giant complied without hesitation—after refusing Hugo’s fifty entreaties. So, the man did understand English.
She lowered herself to the bench and Hugo turned onto his side to accommodate her, the action causing the blanket to slip. He wouldn’t have thought she noticed his bare chest and abdomen if he’d not seen the red stain spread up from her hideous, high-necked gown.
Hugo grinned as she lifted the blanket from his legs and gingerly felt around the shallow gash on his shin. Too bad it wasn’t his thigh that she had to examine. He moved slightly and the blanket opened to his navel, exposing the taut pale skin just above his pubic hair.
Her fingers squeezed the swollen, oozing wound and he jolted. “Great fucking hell!” he yelled, his eyes leaking tears.
Her mouth compressed into a thin white line.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I shouldn’t have said that. You just surprised it out of me.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she merely turned to her bag.
Hugo hastily pulled the blanket tight around his body, no longer interested in teasing her.
“What is wrong? Is it broken? It feels bloo—”
She glanced up sharply.
“It feels broken,” he meekly amended.
“It is not broken. The skin is torn, and you are bruised.” She closed her bag of medicines and stood.
“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked, frantic that she seemed to be leaving. “Doesn’t it need to be stitched to stop me from bleeding to death? Are you finished with me?”
“The best thing for both the cut and the swelling is soaking your leg.” She turned to Hugo’s savior. “Take him down to the cove, to the flat rocks. The tide should be high enough that he can sit with his leg in the water but not get the rest of him wet.”
“What?” Hugo shrieked. “Don’t you have anything for the pain? I’m in a great deal of pain and—”
Small Cailean leaned down and scooped him up.
“Good God! You want me to dangle myself in the water? Are you mad? It’s blo—it’s freezing.”
She gave him a smile—her first—and it was every bit as superior and smug as her resting expression. “The water is cold, but the night is quite pleasant. I’m sure if you keep your blanket wrapped securely around your person that you will be fine.”
So, she’d noticed that slipping blanket ploy, after all.
Hugo bit his lip, preparing to beg her. But Small Cailean was already heading toward the door.
Chapter 4
Martha had sent her father to bed hours earlier. He tired so quickly these days and the number of dead men that they’d seen tonight had been enough to crush anyone’s spirit.
Between Martha, Mr. Clark, Mr. Joe Cameron—the man who owned and operated their tiny inn, taproom, general store, and post office—and Brian Boyle, who worked a number of jobs in their tiny community, including that of sexton—they were able to distribute the ambulatory prisoners to the villagers who had room to house them. Only one of the injured men—a boy, really—was too injured to walk.
There were seventeen men in need of shelter and Martha kept five. While the meeting hall could have held many more men, five would be plenty to feed and care for. The tiny cottage where she and her father lived was right near the meeting house, so she could conveniently bring food to them.
“You believe most of the crew made it to the mainland?” she asked Mr. Clark once they’d sent the last prisoner off with a crofter and his wife.
“Four lifeboats were seen heading toward Gill’s Bay.”
“Will they make it?”
“I should think so—the water’s calm enough and they’ve plenty of moonlight.”
“Then how is it that the ship’s captain didn’t see the rocks?”
Mr. Clark shrugged, his usually full and smiling lips compressed into a line. The treacherous rocks that flanked Stroma to the east were not a matter for discussion. Martha knew, even though he’d not said it, that the crew had decided to take their chances rowing to the mainland rather than making the far shorter trip to the island. The Stroma islanders had a bad reputation as people who wouldn’t just watch a ship founder, they would help it along and dispatch any survivors who might make it to shore.
Martha tried not to think about that.
Besides, matters had changed greatly in the years since her father had come. While it was true that cargos often went missing, there were far fewer human casualties.
“One of the men I spoke to said the crew were fighting among themselves,” Joe Cameron said.
“Yes, I heard that from several
of them myself.” Martha looked at Mr. Clark. “Do you know what might have happened?”
“There was obviously something wrong as the ship was indeed bound for New South Wales.” Mr. Clark shrugged. “It’s anyone’s guess as to what happened since we only have the prisoners’ side of the story.”
“It’s a disgrace that the crew left the prisoners trapped below,” Joe said, echoing Martha’s thoughts exactly.
Mr. Clark looked considerably less outraged, and Martha experienced an unhappy pang at his unchristian response.
Brian Boyle eyed the door to the meeting hall. “I can’t feel good about leaving you up here with those five men, Martha—no matter how pitiful they’re looking right now,”
“Aye,” Mr. Clark agreed. “Especially that one. He’s a bad ’un.”
The other men nodded, knowing exactly which one he meant, although nobody had yet managed to get his name.
“He is more bark than bite,” Martha assured them. “And all five of them could hardly lift their arms to feed themselves they were so exhausted. They won’t be causing trouble tonight.”
The men hemmed and hawed but finally moved off toward their various dwellings.
Mr. Clark was last to leave. “Are you sure about this, Miss Martha? I could bunk up along with them in the meeting hall?”
Mr. Clark had an aged mother and a widowed sister with two children to care for. He left before light most days to fish, so keeping him here would only make his life that much harder.
“That is a kind offer, but I shall manage. Good night, Mr. Clark.”
“And good night to you, Miss Mar—”
“Great bleeding bollocking hell! What the devil is that?”
Martha grimaced. “Oh dear. It sounds as if Small Cailean might have left Lily behind. I’d best be off.”
Mr. Clark frowned, but nodded and headed down the path toward his cottage.
Martha knocked sharply on the meeting hall door. “I wish to come in, are you—” She hesitated, trying to think of the least embarrassing way to ask if he had covered himself. Seeing so much of his body earlier had been an unprecedented experience, one she would not be forgetting soon.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 3