“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Miss Pringle.”
“Oh?”
“A handful of the prisoners you tended last night disappeared just before dawn. Have you checked yet to see if yours are all there?”
“My goodness! Yes, all five of mine are still in the meeting hall.”
“The escapees took Lem Kennedy’s boat.”
Martha grimaced. “Ah.”
Mr. Clarke nodded wearily. Lem Kennedy was one of the island’s more fractious residents. He vocally advocated leaving the shipwreck victims to their fate rather than offering any help. He was also known to have a number of objects of questionable provenance tucked away in the caves not far from his cottage.
“There is some good news,” Mr. Clark said. “When I went over this morning to look for Lem’s boat I learned that all four lifeboats made it to shore and there were ninety-eight men aboard them: forty-two crew, the rest, er, passengers.”
“Did anyone know how many were in the hold?”
“It would appear that between ours and theirs—both living and deceased—another thirty convicts and seven crew are unaccounted for.”
“Dear Lord,” Martha whispered. “Thirty-seven missing. Did you find out what the ship was doing up here?”
“The captain was not among the survivors and the crew had several different versions of a similar story, but none of them make sense. The constable thinks it was mutiny. As far as he could establish, some of the crew were determined to get the ship to Sutter’s Cove.”
“Ah.” Sutter’s Cove was a well-known haunt for criminals.
“It appears the crew haven’t been paid in a while. No doubt the ship would have been stripped of its valuables and sold to a buyer not overly concerned with legality. The constable is quite overwhelmed and the convicts that came on the lifeboats have been disappearing into the countryside like weasels into a cornfield. We’ll have to keep the ones we’ve rescued for at least a week before somebody from Thurso can collect them.”
Martha nodded absently. “The islanders should be warned to keep an eye on their boats.”
“We’ve already spread the word.” He hesitated. “And how about you, Miss Pringle? Has he—well, have any of the men given you any trouble?”
“No, they are behaving like gentlemen.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. “And the one you are thinking of is called Hugo.” She hesitated and then added with a smirk, “Hugo Higgenbotham.”
Chapter 6
Hugo reclined on his bench and flexed his injured leg while his brain worked on a plan for getting off this bloody island.
It had only been three days and already the gash had dried up and the swelling had gone down. He hated to admit it, but Miss Prissy Pringle had been right about the cold salt water and its healing properties. He wondered if he shouldn’t ask—
The door to the meeting hall opened and the woman herself entered, followed by Cailean, who was carrying a long board that was a piece of ship’s planking with the words he Royal Cond in faded, scrolling black script.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Miss Martha smiled at the other four men but ignored Hugo.
Well, he supposed he’d earned her treatment over the last few days. Despite his resolution to behave like a gentleman, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from saying shocking things to tease her and elicit that delicious blush. After he’d complimented her trim ankles yesterday—which had all but begged for his attention by peeking out from beneath her too-short hem—she had stopped speaking to him.
Cailean, on the other hand, only had eyes for Hugo.
Hugo grinned at the big man and winked. “How are you this fine afternoon, little brother?” he asked, chuckling when the big lad colored up at the pet name. Hugo was relieved to see that the giant had come without his rat this time.
“I have a special treat today. Mrs. Couch sent over a wheel of her cheese and we’ve got fresh bread and salted fish to go with it.”
Salted fish. Hugo bit back a groan; who would have ever guessed that he’d be trapped in a place where salted fish was considered a treat?
Miss Pringle turned to Cailean, who hadn’t stopped staring at Hugo. “Can you bring in the keg, Small Cailean?” She cut Hugo a narrow-eyed look while the lad went outside and returned with a keg, his huge arms making it look tiny.
“Joe Cameron has also kindly offered up this cask of home brew.”
There was a murmur of genuine appreciation from the other four and Hugo realized he’d better join in or risk looking like an ingrate. “What generosity and kindness the people of Stroma are showing us—and you more than anyone, Mistress Pringle.” He employed an exaggerated, expansive tone of voice, as if he were declaiming from a stage.
Her plump, sensual lips—which did not match her small, serious nose or chilling blue gaze—tightened and she turned back to her makeshift tray.
“Any more news today?” Hugo asked.
“I have no new information about survivors.” She paused and then added, “However, Mr. Clark just shared the news that a constable will be here sooner than he expected.”
“How much sooner?” Hugo asked.
“You’ll only have to spend two more nights on the island.”
The earlier excitement about cheese and ale dissipated in a heartbeat and Hugo glanced around at the others. All the convicts except Franks looked as guilty as foxes caught with hens between their jaws.
Well, this wouldn’t do. The only way to manage this sort of news was to give the impression of cheerful acceptance. And then run like hell the moment the islanders’ backs were turned. Although how the bloody hell you were supposed to run from an island would require a bit of thinking.
Hugo decided now was as good a time as any to begin his campaign of cheerful acceptance.
“I wanted to thank you for your generosity, Mistress Pringle.” He turned to the giant, who’d slowly inched closer until he was practically in Hugo’s lap. “And you, too, Cailean.” Hugo held out his hand and the other man stared at it. Hugo wiggled his fingers until Cailean extended a paw almost twice the size of his.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured as Cailean’s hand gently engulfed his.
He released the giant’s hand and turned to Miss Pringle, whose ironic, skeptical expression said she was not fooled for even an instant. Well, no matter, she’d not even seen the tip of the iceberg when it came to Hugo’s charms. No woman could hold out against him for long.
◆◆◆
Martha was surprised to see Mr. Higgenbotham up and about; she would have guessed that he was an idler. But he had risen early every morning and seemed to be moving around without his crutch today.
She studied him out of the corner of her eye as he sat on the bench beside his neatly folded bedding, doing something with his hands that held Small Cailean enraptured.
By rights Mr. Higgenbotham should have looked ridiculous in the mismatched clothing she’d gathered from various islanders. Martha had not been able to find a coat or vest to fit his broad shoulders, so he wore only a wooly jumper with his trousers. The trousers were a good three inches too short and had to be held above his narrow hips with a length of rope.
Instead of looking foolish, the soft, gray fabric molded to his body when he moved, emphasizing, rather than concealing, both his muscular thighs and bottom as well as the considerable bulge of his manhood.
Never in her entire life had Martha looked at a man there—not even Mr. Clark, whom she’d walked out with more than once.
She told herself that the fabric was so thin and worn that it was difficult not to catch a glimpse. But that was a lie; she never just glimpsed. It was as if a team of oxen dragged her eyes to the front of his hips and then parked them there.
Martha had seen male dogs and horses aplenty, and Mr. Higgenbotham appeared far closer in size to the latter.
The loosely knitted sweater that stretched across his shoulders was the sort that island men wore while fishing: a boat-necked garment with raglan sleeves that w
as easy to pull on and off. Whoever had owned the sweater before had been smaller than Mr. Higgenbotham, and the striped pattern was distorted by his muscular chest but then loose around his narrow waist.
It was also too short to cover a full two inches of his tightly woven and extremely mesmerizing stomach.
To Martha’s horror, every time she saw him, saliva pooled in her mouth and her fingers actually twitched to stroke and explore the tantalizing ridges and veins that disappeared beneath the low-slung trousers.
Only his footwear did not create uncomfortable sensations between her tightly clenched thighs. On one foot he wore a sturdy brown boot that looked at least a size too large and on the other—amazingly—he wore a gentleman’s dancing slipper, which could only have come from a wrecked ship because she had never seen a man on Stroma sport such footwear.
Martha raised a hand to her mouth to cover her smile as she stared at his feet.
“I shall see you later this afternoon, little brother,” Mr. Higgenbotham said to Cailean, who stood and gathered up Lily to leave.
Martha waved to Small Cailean as he left and then, against her better judgment, crossed the room to see what Mr. Higgenbotham was working on.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Pringle.” His lids lowered and the smile that curved his thin lips made something low in her belly—something beneath her belly, truth be told—tighten, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her body.
His nostrils flared as he watched her, almost as if he were scenting something.
Martha suddenly knew—she just knew—that he was aware of what his suggestive, naughty looks did to a woman. Did to her.
As he appeared disinclined to do anything but smirk, it was up to her to end the uncomfortable silence. “What were you showing Small Cailean?”
He wordlessly handed her a tightly braided cord.
Martha ran a finger over the intricate braiding. “Why, this is lovely,” she said, looking up and catching him staring, his expression brooding. “The work is so perfect and uniform—even with this rough old rope. Where did you learn such a thing?”
“I worked for a whip-maker when I was younger.” He smiled up at her, his teeth white but crooked, the canines wolfishly sharp. “He didn’t hesitate to use those implements on me when my work was anything less than perfect.”
Martha hated how her face heated constantly in his presence; why was he able to make even the most repulsive subject sound wicked?
“That’s dreadful,” she said firmly, refusing to be baited by his mischievous look. “I do not condone whipping children—or anyone, for that matter.” She handed him back the length of braid.
Amusement glinted in his dark eyes. “I do not condone whipping, either. At least not for children or animals.”
Martha frowned. She was just about to ask him exactly for whom he did condone it when a voice spoke beside her.
“Miss Pringle?
She startled and turned to face Mr. Franks.
“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Martha gave him a genuine smile, grateful to him for breaking the spell Hugo seemed to weave around her without even trying. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Franks?”
“Fit as a fiddle, miss, and ready to do something to earn my keep.”
“Why do I think that you might be exaggerating slightly, Mr. Franks?”
“No, miss. I feel better than I’ve felt in weeks.”
Hugo snorted but Martha ignored him.
“Well, since you’re offering, Cailean just left to do his weekly peat deliveries. I’m sure he would appreciate it if you brought ours up here for him.”
“Thank you, miss. It would be my pleasure.”
“Anything I might do?” the convict named Devlin asked.
“Perhaps you might carry all the bedding outside to the cauldron that’s heating over the fire.”
“Allow me to do the wash for you, Miss Pringle,” the prisoner named Parker offered. “I worked in a hotel in London and often did such work.”
A man doing washing? Martha looked at his eager face; well, why not? “Thank you, Mr. Parker, that would give me more time to prepare our next meal.”
Lorn Smith, the youngest of the prisoners—who had a broken leg that prevented him from walking—gave her a pained look. “I’m sorry, miss, but I’m good for nothing.”
He couldn’t have been more than fifteen and Martha wondered what a mere boy could have done to deserve banishment to the other side of the world.
“Don’t fret yourself, Lorn, I’ve got potatoes for you to peel.”
He grinned as if she’d just promised him a shiny guinea.
“And what about me, Mistress Pringle?” a low, velvety voice asked beside her. “How may I serve you?”
Martha forced her face into stern lines, hoping that would disguise the pounding in her chest, and turned. It was all she could do to keep her eyes from dropping to his hips, checking to see if he was really as big as she’d seen yesterday.
Instead, she met his mocking gaze. “Can you walk without aid of your stick, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
His lips twitched at the sound of the faux name. “Yes, but not very quickly, I’m afraid.”
“You won’t have to walk fast to do what I need.”
“And what is it that I can do for you … mistress?”
“I have a rather important job in mind for you.”
“Anything you desire,” he said in a voice heavy with … something.
Martha smiled sweetly and Hugo’s dark eyes widened. “The three chamber pots are in desperate need of emptying and cleaning.”
A snorting chuckle came from young Lorn and Martha almost laughed, too, as Mr. Hugo cut the injured boy a filthy look.
“I’m not sure I can walk that far,” he said, no longer sounding teasing or sensual.
“You’ve only to take them as far as the pit out back of the building. I’m sure you can manage such a short distance if you take your time. It will be good exercise for your leg.”
His sour expression was more than enough reward for the disturbing effects that his wicked body, looks, and words had on her.
◆◆◆
Hugo dumped the last pot into the pit, grimacing and squeezing his eyes shut at the pungent odor that emanated from the narrow, deep hole.
He walked just far enough away to gulp in fresh air and then paused to stretch his leg, working the knee carefully while flexing his foot. It hurt like a bastard, but the deep gash was dry and pinky-red rather than puss-yellow. The wound had started to shrink and pull on the healthy skin, which hurt more than the wound itself had. He wondered if the woman would give him some type of salve if he asked.
Do you think that you can ask for something without saying the words bloody or fuck?
Hugo ignored his irksome inner voice, instead turning to gaze out over the small valley that was south of the meeting house. He shook his head at what he saw. Not in a million years could he have imagined that a place like this godforsaken island even existed in Britain.
Growing up in the desperate, grinding poverty of St. Giles, he’d not believed there could be anyplace worse than London’s rookeries, but he’d been wrong.
The Stroma islanders were as poor as the denizens of St. Giles but they seemed content—proud, even—to live and labor on this frigid rock at the arse end of the world.
Take Miss Prissy, for example. She was no longer young—although her smooth skin and bright blue eyes said she couldn’t be much more than twenty—but she was still young enough that she should want something better from her life, something far away from here. She still had a bit of bloom left, but when that was gone, she’d be forced to pick from the pitiful stock of islander men he’d seen these past few days.
Since most of the younger people, male and female, seemed to have left the island, Martha’s only real choice for husband was the ruggedly handsome and pompously stuffy Robert Clark.
Hugo had seen the looks that Clark gave the
vicar’s daughter when he thought nobody was watching. If Miss Prissy wasn’t careful, she’d find herself leg-shackled to a man with the personality of a halibut and stuck on this rock for good.
Hugo snorted as he considered Clark’s furtive, hungry glances. Perhaps the only good part about being a whore—aside from the money—was that it freed a man from being a slave to the demands of his cock. If Hugo wanted a fuck, he’d pay for one—not bloody court and marry some female. Not that any decent woman of good sense would have him for a husband, of course.
The hungry looks that the upstanding Mr. Clark gave the upstanding Miss Pringle when he thought nobody was watching were positively wolfish. Hugo would wager everything he had—which, admittedly, wasn’t much at the moment—that the wholesome Mr. Clark went home every night and fisted himself raw to randy thoughts of prim Martha Pringle.
No doubt the two would marry, she’d squeeze out a couple of brats, and they’d eke out their meager living eating salt fish and wearing woolen clothing harsh enough to scrape off what little bit of skin the vile winds didn’t already scour from their bodies.
Hugo shifted and winced as the abrasive wool of his trousers rasped over his bare cock.
You’re spoiled, lad, his mental companion sneered. Too many years wrapping yer arse in silk has made you weak—soft.
Hugo snorted at that last accusation as he rubbed a hand over his midriff, which was as hard as the wooden pew he was currently using for a bed. Soft was one thing Hugo Buckingham was not. Especially his cock, which was taking an inconvenient interest in Miss Pringle’s delicious little body as well as her pouty lips and amusingly rough tongue.
Hugo suspected the erection he’d woken with this morning was not so much the product of the erotic dream he’d enjoyed about Miss Pringle as it was the result of his near-death experience on the ship. He knew from his younger, wilder, days that brushes with danger could leave a man with a ferocious desire for sex.
And there was also the fact that he’d not used any of his erections for weeks. He’d been a whore since he was fourteen, and—with the exception of the few times in his life when he’d been too ill to work—he’d rarely gone a day without engaging in some form of sexual activity.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 5