She’d seen men without shirts, of course, but never had she seen a body like his. Even the men on the island, who were well-muscled from days of grueling work, could not compare. He was as hard as stone, defined and distinct as if someone had created him with a sculptor’s chisel. His pale skin was almost completely smooth but for a fine trail of dark hair that grew down the center of his body, between the stunningly delineated muscles of his abdomen, disappearing into the—
The door flew open and Martha squeaked in surprise.
It was the troublemaker, of course.
Small Cailean must have made him a crutch because he was standing beside the door, shrouded in blankets, his face tight with pain, and his dark eyes wide with something that looked like fear.
“It’s over there.” He pointed to the far corner of the dimly lit room. “Some manner of beast that slithered onto the bench and tried to come at me beneath my blankets. It tried to bite my co—”
Martha cleared her throat.
He stopped abruptly.
“You needn’t work yourself into a lather—that is only Lily.”
He eyed her apprehensively. “What is a Lily?”
“Lily is an otter. Small Cailean’s otter, to be precise. He must have left her to comfort you. He likes you a great deal, it appears.”
“Why the bl—” His jaw snapped shut at whatever he saw on her face. “Never mind.” He turned and stumped back to the bench he’d claimed for himself. He’d taken two blankets and wrapped them in creative ways to cover up most of his body. The other four men, she saw, were in various stages of sleep. Two were snoring and two others were looking as if they’d like to.
Unlike her obstreperous, otter-fearing guest, the other men had clothing, albeit tattered and grimy.
Martha could not understand why nobody had thought to bring the man at least a nightshirt, but it was too late to ask for such a thing now and her father’s clothing would be far too small for such a muscular, broad-shouldered man.
She went to where Lily must have hidden after being yelled at. “Come here, little girl,” she cooed, making the kissing sound Small Cailean used to call the young otter.
Lily came out grudgingly, her dark eyes full of reproach as she scampered into Martha’s outstretched hands.
“There’s a good girl,” Martha praised, holding her just like you would hold a baby. Which is what Lily was, a spoiled little baby.
Martha walked back to the foul-mouthed convict. “See,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Lily is just a sweet little girl.” She scratched the otter under her chin and Lily’s eyes closed and she made a soft rattling sound in her throat.
The man shuddered. “It’s a rat. The most enormous, filthy rat I’ve ever seen.”
“Shame on you,” Martha said, only partly jesting. “Lily is a sea otter. And she’s very clean and well-mannered, aren’t you, Lily?”
“Ha! She tried to sneak beneath my blankets—you call that manners?”
“Otter manners.”
To Martha’s surprise, he laughed. As it did for most people, laughter transformed him. He still looked like a wicked satyr, but he looked like a younger, less intimidating wicked satyr.
“What is your name?” Martha asked before she could stop herself.
He regarded her from beneath heavy eyelids that were fringed with long and lush feminine eyelashes. Martha swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable as she recalled her glimpse of his distinctly unfeminine body.
“What would you like my name to be, darling?” His voice was like velvet and even Lily perked up at the sound.
Martha’s face heated, which only angered her more. “I am not your darling.”
He gave her another of his crooked smiles. “Hugo.”
“I hardly wish to call you by your Christian name.”
“My surname is Higgenbotham.”
Martha frowned at the unusual name. “Your name is Hugo Higgenbotham,” she repeated, feeling rather silly as her mouth struggled with the tongue-twisting syllables.
He gave a chuckle that made her belly clench. “No. I just wanted to see what those gorgeous lips of yours looked like when you said the word Higgenbotham.”
Martha’s jaw sagged. Lily, sensing her sudden change in mood, sat up and chittered nervously.
Hugo Whatever His Name Really Was merely chuckled. “Careful, your rat is getting excited.”
Martha was seized by such powerful emotions—anger, shock, and something else, something less familiar—that she was shaking. “I find it hard to believe that you are mocking me after I have done everything I can to help you.”
“Not everything, sweetheart.” He scooted until he was against the back of the bench and patted the smidgeon of space in front of his hips. “You could toss that rat outside and crawl under these blankets and keep me warm.”
To say she’d never been so shocked in her life would have been an understatement. She was so shocked she needed a whole new word for it.
But that wasn’t what bothered her.
No, what bothered Martha was how tempted she was to do exactly what he suggested.
◆◆◆
Hugo knew he was acting like an arse but he couldn’t stop himself. He wouldn’t even know how; he couldn’t recall a time when he’d not behaved like an arse.
Now might be a good time to embrace a change, a cool voice in his head recommended as Hugo watched the woman—Miss Martha Pringle—turn on the heel of her sturdy brown boot and march back the way she’d come, snuffing out the only source of light, a candle that gave off more smoke than illumination, on her way out the door, leaving only the moon to light up darkness.
Hugo considered calling after her—not apologizing, exactly, but perhaps charming her out of her mood. It had always worked well for him with women in the past, but then he’d not been lying wrapped in a scratchy blanket, beaten like a piece of flotsam, and without so much as a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of before.
He was too bloody tired and achy to beg or charm. He’d beg and charm tomorrow.
He grunted and lay back on his hard bed.
Hugo told himself that he should be grateful he wasn’t still covered in puke, chained to other men, and trapped with a maniac in the hold of a prison ship.
He chewed his lower lip, which had become painfully chapped from being deprived of water for days. Well, other than salt water.
Thanks to the burning planks over their heads, the scene in the hold when the boat hit the rocks had been a Boschian vision of Hell. Water rushed into the damaged hull, dousing flames, while men screamed and fought against both fire and the freezing darkness of the ocean, crawling on top of each other to beat against the hatches, drowning those beneath them.
Right about the time they broke the hatch doors open the ship began to move—an unimpeded drift—and Hugo had realized the vessel was sinking.
Those men who were not able to make their way out scrambled to keep to the part of the hold that held a pocket of air, clinging to the ship’s ribs like wet rats.
Hugo followed the flicker of feet, the bare soles ahead of him like the pale bellies of fish, disappearing through the jagged hole
“It’s sinking,” he’d yelled as he stroked through the water toward the crack.
“I can’t swim,” one of the men screamed.
You’d better give it a shot, Hugo thought as he’d sucked in all the air he could hold and plunged into the blackness.
His lungs were on the point of exploding when he finally broke the surface. The sea wasn’t rough, but the rocks caused strange and powerful currents that pulled at his legs like freezing claws. Cries had filled the darkness as others who were less fortunate either gave up looking for land or struck the jagged rocks lurking below the water.
The moon was almost full, which made him wonder—even in his battered, water-logged state—how the devil the captain had managed to hit the rocks?
Or perhaps he’d died in the fire? Or abandoned his ship?
Even bobbing in the water, Hugo had been able to see a goodly distance ahead, so he struck out for what looked to be shoreline. But he’d only taken a few strokes when his leg slammed into a submerged rock. As he’d clung to the same rock that cut him, waiting to die in the freezing water, he’d stared at the ship. Through his haze of pain, it had looked like there were men fighting on the flaming, wildly tilted deck of the ship.
Hugo thought about that now as he wrapped his blankets tighter around his cold body. He must have imagined it because that would have been madness, wouldn’t it?
He pushed the unpleasant thought aside and yawned, his lips twitching into a tired smile as he thought about Miss Martha Pringle with her sensual mouth, rebuking gaze, and curvy sinner’s body. He couldn’t recall meeting another woman quite like her.
Hugo suffered an uncharacteristic pang of remorse as he recalled the way he’d treated her. She’d been kind to him and he’d been a rude, vulgar arse. Tomorrow he would do better.
He yawned again, unable to keep his eyes open a minute longer.
That night, instead of having nightmares about burning ships and bloody killers, he dreamed of liquid blue eyes and full, smiling lips.
Chapter 5
The following morning Small Cailean was waiting for Martha on the stone steps to their little house, with Lily draped across his massive shoulders like a luxurious living scarf, gazing worshipfully at him.
He leapt to his feet and Martha smiled up at him. “Good morning, Cailean. You are just in time to help me carry breakfast over to the meeting house.”
Cailean shifted from foot to foot, clearly eager to visit his newest pet.
“Come inside,” she said, leading him into the tiny kitchen. “I can see you are excited to see the man you rescued, aren’t you?”
Cailean spoke less than a few sentences a year but something about the obnoxious man appeared to have captivated him and he mumbled a word that sounded like, “Braw.”
Martha snorted. She could think of a lot of words to describe Mr. Hugo Higgenbotham but the Scots word for wonderful was not one of them.
His body certainly fits that description, a sly voice in her head pointed out.
Heat crawled up her neck even though—thank goodness—only Martha could hear the scandalous thought.
Cailean carried the large pot of porridge while Martha brought bowls and spoons and a jug of milk. She preceded him and opened one of the double doors for the giant man. The slate building had tiny windows which somebody long ago had filled with stained glass that caused the plain pews and gray stone floor to look magical in the early morning light.
Cailean and Martha paused as they took in the scene: all the men were sound asleep. She glanced around at the various lumps under blankets and decided a hot breakfast was more important than sleep.
“You can put it over there, please.” She made no effort to keep her voice down and pointed toward a bench which had been covered with oil cloth and still held a mostly empty pitcher of ale left over from last night.
“What bloody time is it?” a muffled, surly voice demanded from beneath the lump of blankets on the front pew.
Martha closed her eyes briefly; clearly she would have to pick and choose her battles with Mr. Hugo Whatever His Name Was or they’d be brangling all the time. She took a deep breath and began to portion the food into bowls.
The other sleepers were roused either by her actions or Hugo’s complaining, so Martha had Cailean distribute the food to four of the men, leaving the complainer to her.
“Mr. Hugo.” Martha stood in front of his motionless form, which was entirely shrouded with a blanket. When he still didn’t move, she said, “I’ve got your breakfast. If you do not take it, I’ll share it out for the others and you’ll have nothing until the noonday meal.”
The blanket moved with grudging slowness.
His hair, which was salt-encrusted and stuck in all different directions, was a thick black thatch that almost touched his shoulders; it was longer hair than she’d ever seen on a man. The planes of his face were even harsher in the morning light.
He was not a handsome man, but somehow he had the most compelling face she had ever seen; it was difficult to pull one’s eyes away from him.
At least it was difficult for Martha.
His squinty gaze slid from the steaming bowl in her hands to her face and narrowed with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Does it really matter?”
He cocked his head to the side and pressed his expressive lips into a prim line—an imitation of her expression, Martha surmised. “Oooh, look who isn’t in a good mood this morning.”
Martha ignored his taunt and set the bowl down on the bench not far from his head with a loud thunk. She went back to her serving area and picked up the jug of milk. The other men were digging into their bowls like they’d never seen food before and had eaten at least half before she could offer them some milk.
“It’s sweetened with honey,” she said to Albert Franks.
“Yes, please, Miss Pringle—thank you so much, this is manna from heaven.”
Mr. Franks’s shocking red hair and pale freckled skin made Martha smile. “You are welcome.”
She moved along to the next man, whose name she could not recall. Like two of the others, the man was young, skinny, and didn’t want to meet her eyes. Interestingly, only Mr. Franks and Hugo behaved like they were not guilty. She suspected Mr. Franks might actually be innocent, but Hugo, on the other hand?
Martha snorted.
“What are they getting?” The peevish voice interrupted her musing, but Martha ignored him, making her way to the last two men before going to where Hugo sat away from everyone else, as if he were special.
Small Cailean certainly thought he was. The big lad was gazing down at him with the same expression Lily was giving him: one of rapt adoration. Who knew what the sweet giant saw in the unpleasant man?
Hugo had not yet touched his food. Instead, he was giving her small serving station an enquiring look, his beak of a nose twitching. “No coffee?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He gave a pained groan. “Why did I have to wash up on the only rock in Britain too savage to have coffee?”
“You didn’t wash up, Small Cailean rescued you. And we do have coffee, but we save it for special occasions.”
“Special occasions? I’d say today is a bloody special occasion since I’m still alive.”
Martha turned on her heel at the foul word and handed the pitcher to Small Cailean. “I shall leave him in your hands.”
“Wait, where are you going?”
Hugo sounded pleading and pitiful, but Martha was not drawn in. She slammed the door behind her and headed back to the cottage, where she put on her bonnet and changed into the nicer of the two cloaks she owned. Although it was only early fall on Stroma the mornings were cool.
Martha found her father in the box room they’d converted into a tiny study. “I’m going down to see what news there is, Papa.”
He glanced up, his mind slow to follow his vision. “Ah, Martha. What’s that you say?”
“I’m going to the inn.” Martha avoiding using the pub’s name—the Greedy Vicar—which she knew pained her father, even after all these years.
He gave her an absentminded smile. “Very good. And, er, the gentlemen in the hall?”
“I’ve given them breakfast and Small Cailean is in with them.”
“Ah, yes, he’s such a good lad. So gentle. Um …” He paused and she knew he’d lost the thread of his thought. Fear slithered down her spine. He’d become so vague lately.
He pushed up his spectacles and that is when she noticed his hands.
“Father.” He jolted at her sharp tone and she softened her voice. “Let me see your hands.”
He offered them to her, as trusting as a child. Ink stained his thumb and two fingers of his right hand, but all ten digits were a disturbing shade of blue.
“You are freezing, Fa
ther.”
“No, no. It’s quite pleasant in here.”
The sun shone through the east-facing window, turning the air shimmery with heat; it was warm. Martha held his frozen fingers for a moment between both of her hands, trying to chafe some warmth into them.
His crystalline blue eyes sharpened, and his face creased into a smile, changing in an instant from a confused, vague stranger to the father she knew and loved. “Don’t you worry, Martha. It’s just a bit of sluggish circulation that will be fine when I get moving.” He squeezed her hands.
Martha wasn’t so sure, but what could she say? He was quite an old man for anywhere in Britain, but especially for Stroma, where the harsh climate aged people and took most before their time.
“I will be back in plenty of time to make the noonday meal.” Whose ingredients she would need to beg Joe Campbell to give her on account as their monthly budget was not sufficient to feed seven people, or eight if Small Cailean chose to stay.
“Very well. I shall see you when …” But his gaze wandered back to his book before he finished.
The Greedy Vicar was the social center of Stroma. Of the almost four hundred people who lived on the island perhaps one hundred lived in or near Uppertown. Another fifty or so lived in Nethertown, at the other end of the island, and the rest lived on the area known as The Mains—the agricultural center of the island.
As Martha walked toward Uppertown, she looked out over the Pentland Firth; the water between Stroma and the mainland was as smooth as proverbial glass, although she knew that could change without warning if the wind picked up.
The tiny inn/taproom/store was crowded when she entered.
“Miss Pringle!” a half-dozen voices called out.
Martha was busy greeting several of her father’s parishioners when Mr. Clark approached her. For once, he was not smiling.
“Do you have a moment, Miss Pringle? Joe said we can use the small parlor.”
Martha followed him into the Greedy Vicar’s only parlor, small or otherwise. She pulled off her ancient leather gloves and then untied her bonnet.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 4