Back when Melissa Griffin had owned Solange’s she’d ordered him to take brief holidays every year. What Mel never knew was that Hugo had spent those holidays at an expensive London hotel where he’d continued to work, taking those clients who were eager enough for his body and skills that they would risk coming to him outside the safe confines of the brothel.
Hugo gingerly lowered himself to his knees to grab a fistful of sawgrass to scour out the shitty pot. He held his breath as he scrubbed, thinking about Melissa, the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend—although he wasn’t sure Mel would say the same about him.
The gorgeous red-headed madam was also the only woman Hugo could recall ever lusting after—before now—although not for love or marriage.
Hugo had wanted Mel for the same reasons England’s most rich and powerful men had paid a king’s ransom for one night with her: not for her beauty—he knew a dozen women more beautiful—but because she was utterly unattainable, at least emotionally.
A man could buy Mel Griffin’s body—although she’d refused to sell it to Hugo, no matter how much he’d offered—but he could never have the rest of her: at least not until Mel met Lord Magnus Stanwyke.
Hugo snorted. The most sought-after madam in Britain caught by a bloody vicar. How was such a marriage even legal?
He shrugged away his annoyance: it was done now, Mel was married and disgustingly happy, with one brat and another on the way. Who would have ever believed that a whore could be so content as the wife of a clergyman—especially such a moralizing prick as Stanwyke?
Hugo tossed the shit-sodden grass into the pit and straightened his aching leg with a groan before limping over to the bucket of used wash water.
He still corresponded with Mel—even though she’d refused to give him any guidance when it came to running Solange’s because her husband forbade her to have any involvement with a brothel.
It would never cease to amaze him that there was a man alive that Mel Griffin would take orders from. But everyone, apparently, knelt to somebody.
Everyone except for Hugo.
Hugo enjoyed exchanging letters with Mel, and not only because he knew it drove her blond god of a husband half-mad to know his wife kept in touch with him.
He grinned at the thought, dumped some of the old wash water into the pot, and swirled it around before tossing it into the stunted foliage.
It was the last of the shit pots, so he limped back to the meeting house with the clean vessel, placed it inside, and then sat on the steps and watched the washing process that was taking place in the sheltered area between the tiny cottage and meeting house.
Devlin and Parker were stirring the steaming cauldron and talking in low voices like a pair of scheming witches. Hugo would have bet his left ballock they were discussing how to get the hell off this bloody rock.
It was a sign of Miss Martha’s innocence that she had told them when the authorities would come from the mainland with a prisoner manifest.
Young Lorn wasn’t in any shape to make a run for it, but the rest of them were healthy and hale enough. Although Hugo doubted the ginger-hackled man—Albert Franks—would try to escape.
It should have been obvious even to an idiot that Franks had never committed a crime in his entire life. He must have crossed somebody with enough money to have him scooped up and sent to the other side of the world. It fascinated Hugo to wonder what a mild-as-milk man like Franks could have done to so anger a person that they would have him kidnapped and transported.
Hugo extended his gammy leg and flexed it. He had no money, barely enough clothing, and no boat. There was only one way to acquire all three of those things: steal it from these impoverished rustics.
Hugo chewed his lower lip as he considered the little stone house the vicar shared with his daughter. None of the vicar’s clothing would fit him, Hugo knew they had no boat, and he doubted they possessed a single coin between them.
But the vicar must take a collection from his parishioners, mustn’t he? Even on an island as poor as this one there was a church near the little cluster of shacks they called a town.
Although he’d never stepped foot in a church in his life, Hugo knew about the concept of tithing—a way for the church to suck money out of their flock the way a poor man sucked the marrow from a bone. Ten percent of what they earned was the figure he’d heard. With Hugo’s luck the islanders would pay with fish or produce or livestock.
Hugo snorted. He could just picture himself heading south with a sack of mackerel over his shoulder and a laying hen tucked under his arm.
Miss Pringle came out of the tiny stone house. She ignored Hugo and went, instead, to the two men laboring over the caldron of laundry. The sleeves of her unfashionable day dress were rolled up to her elbows and her thick corn-silk-colored hair—her best feature next to those sinner’s lips of hers—had come loose in places and strands adhered to her damp temples. He’d seen no maid or scullery lass so Hugo knew she must keep house for herself and her father. And now there were the five of them—strangers she was feeding and tending.
At least one of whom was contemplating stealing from her.
It took him a long, disoriented moment to identify the sensation that crept over him: shame.
Since when had he been afflicted with such a loathsome emotion?
Hugo scowled and dragged his attention back to the business at hand: escaping. Besides, if he stole anything from the Pringles, he’d send back ten-fold when he got to London.
He couldn’t leave tonight for several reasons: his leg needed another day’s rest and he had to assemble money, clothing, and find a boat. Which only left tomorrow night. His stomach churned at the thought of waiting, but he had no choice.
Miss Pringle and the two convicts chatted like normal people, a skill Hugo had yet to learn. At his age he’d probably never learn to get on with people other than whores. Actually, he didn’t get along with most whores, either. Take his business partner, for example—because that is obviously the person who’d engineered this stunt. Laura hated him enough to banish him to a living hell on the other side of the world.
Yes, Hugo had quite a way with people.
He shrugged. So what if he couldn’t conduct meaningless chatter and people didn’t like him?
He pushed himself off the steps and headed toward town, his mind back on business. He might not be well-liked or be able to behave like a normal person, but he was the bloody best at deciding what he wanted and then taking it from whomever he had to, without even a grain of remorse.
Chapter 7
Martha tried to stay away from Hugo—she refused to call him Mr. Higgenbotham in the privacy of her own mind—but he was like the proverbial flame to her moth.
Her father was eating at Mr. Stogden’s, an older man who lived alone on the southwest side of the island, so she took her meal with their guests.
She’d made a fish stew for dinner and they ate with the meeting house doors propped open since the summer had been unusually warm and pleasant for Stroma.
“Thank you, Miss Pringle,” Mr. Franks said as he took both his bowl and Lorn’s. He seated himself across from the younger man on a pew somebody must have helped him turn around. Between the men was a stool with a board and chess pieces on it. Martha had brought the game when Mr. Franks had mentioned he might teach Lorn how to play to while away the time.
Parker and Devlin sat together on another bench, talking quietly while Devlin employed a needle and thread, doing a remarkably neat job of stitching up a rent in his coat.
That left Hugo, who was sitting at the makeshift table with Small Cailean, chuckling about something. No doubt he was corrupting the younger man. It was Martha’s duty to see that didn’t happen.
She strode purposely toward the two men. “May I join you?”
Hugo stood immediately and gestured to his stool. “Please, sit here, Mistress Pringle.”
“Oh, I didn’t know there were only two seats. I wouldn’t want to—”
/>
“It’s no bother. Please, sit.”
“Thank you.”
Hugo fetched the spent keg that was waiting to be returned to Joe Cameron and put it down between Martha and Cailean. When he sat, his chin barely reached the table.
Small Cailean made a soft, huffing sound and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, as if laughter were something bad.
Martha couldn’t help smiling; Hugo did look rather silly.
“Look at you two,” Hugo said, shaking his head, “Making fun of a chivalrous man like myself.”
“Why do I find it difficult to think of you and chivalry in the same breath, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
He placed his right hand over his heart. “You wound me.” Before she could respond he asked, “Tell me, how long have you lived here, Miss Pringle?”
The polite question surprised her. Gone was the surly, imperious man who’d arrived in Small Cailean’s arms only a few nights ago.
“We moved here from Leeds when I was nine months old.”
Hugo ate another mouthful of soup before turning to Cailean. “And what about you, Master Cailean—an islander born and bred?”
Cailean nodded, his shy expression joined by a flush of pleasure, making Martha realize that most of the islanders never asked him questions—or talked to him, at all. They just gave him orders.
“And what about you, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
“Moi?” He splayed his right hand over his chest, his eyes wide. “Why I’ve only come to Stroma quite recently.”
Cailean chortled and Hugo’s lips curled up at the corners, the expression making him look more like a satyr than ever.
“I meant where are you from, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
Martha could see that it amused him that she continued to call him by a name she knew to be false rather than use his Christian name.
“I’m from London.” While his smile didn’t disappear, his dark eyes shuttered.
“London is a large place; from what part do you hail?”
“A place called St. Giles.” He cut her a sly look. “You’ve heard of it?”
Who in Britain hadn’t heard of the infamous enclave? “It was once a leper colony.”
He blinked. “Really?”
Martha experienced a flare of pleasure. Take that, Mr. Higgenbotham, you don’t know everything, do you?
“A very long time ago, perhaps one hundred years after The Conquest. St. Giles was the patron saint of lepers, you know.”
“I didn’t know that, but it certainly sounds right. It’s the worst cesspool of humanity in the entire country, but I’ve never seen a leper. Well, perhaps social lepers, if there is such a thing.” He smiled wryly. “Tell me, how is it that you know the history of lepers in St. Giles?”
“I like to read. And I help at the school when it is in session.”
“Oh? A teacher?”
“Nothing so grand—'a helper’ would be more accurate.” She hesitated and then asked, “Did they not teach the history of London in your school?”
Hugo laughed. “They barely taught English.”
“But you read—I saw you with the books I brought yesterday—so you must have learned something.”
He finished his soup and sighed with obvious pleasure, patting his stomach, which was as flat and ridged as a washboard. “Thank you for the delicious meal, Miss Martha.”
Martha was not entirely sure she approved of his form of address. Also, she was not going to let him evade her question.
“Was your school really so terrible?” she persisted.
“No, they did their best with too few teachers and too many pupils.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, your accent does not strike me as one from the, er, rookeries.” Martha could see by his knowing grin that he was amused, rather than insulted, by her clumsy probing.
An expression that looked very much like fondness flitted across his hard features. “A friend of mine told me that my accent was execrable, so I made her help me with my el oh cue shun.”
He had female friends? Why did that sound so … unusual, for a man and woman to be friends? Did Martha have any male friends? Small Cailean was a friend, of course—although they didn’t discuss things.
Mr. Clark was a suitor, but Martha wasn’t sure she would call him a friend. Why was that? They discussed matters concerning the island, of course, but rarely anything personal. Could that still be considered friendship?
“Where’s your fur scarf today, little brother?” Hugo asked Cailean, interrupting her musing.
The boy gave another of his silent laughs, whether at Lily being a scarf or at having a nickname, she didn’t know. Martha liked how Hugo included the quiet giant in conversations. She was guiltily aware that she’d not done as much of that as she should have.
“Well,” Hugo said, standing. “I believe it is my turn at the dishes today.” He took his bowl and Cailean’s before glancing at Martha’s.
“May I take that, Miss Martha?” he asked, his lips curved into that slight smile that did such unnerving things to her body.
What was wrong with her? It was just a smile!
Martha handed him the bowl, jerking back her hand when his finger brushed hers.
She watched him walk—although it was actually more of a strut—the short distance to the bucket of water the men used to wash their dishes, unable to keep her gaze from lingering on his muscular bottom and the band of pale flesh between the low-slung trousers and the hem of his too-small sweater.
Martha might be inexperienced, but she was not stupid. She knew the sensations flooding her body and causing parts of her anatomy to tingle and swell were of a sexual nature. She’d had similar experiences in the past. For example, when Mr. Clark came to walk out with her, she’d often felt a pleasant fluttering in her stomach.
But this feeling was no mild flutter; it was raw, primal, and frightening.
What was happening to her?
◆◆◆
Stealing a boat, Hugo decided, would be far easier than he’d thought. Even though convicts had already stolen two crafts, the fishermen still left their boats lying about on the shore.
Hugo could just go down to the small beach and pick one that didn’t look leaky.
After thinking about it long and hard he’d decided against stealing a coat or better pair of shoes—even though the undersized dance slipper on his right foot felt more like a rat trap than footwear.
It wasn’t his conscience that kept him from pinching a pair of shoes, but lack of availability. Spare clothing was rare on the island, and spare footwear even rarer. Most people only owned a single pair of boots or shoes, which meant that he would have to steal the items off somebody’s body while they were wearing it. Even Hugo drew the line at that.
But money was another matter; money he could not do without.
He needed to find the church strongbox—if there was one. If there wasn’t, then Hugo didn’t know what he’d do.
He refused to steal from the Pringles, who’d fed and sheltered him. Besides, the more time he spent around Miss Pringle, the more he suspected that she would sense his presence in her house even in her sleep.
Hugo was an expert when it came to recognizing desire and lust and could spot a virgin from fifty paces away. Poor Martha Pringle was currently being violated by thoughts she’d never imagined herself having without bursting into flames.
Yes, Miss Prissy Pringle wanted him badly—or at least her body did. Hugo knew that the physical sensations she was experiencing were wreaking havoc in her erstwhile safe and predictable world.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the excuse of being a virgin to explain his own reaction to the woman. He was—quite astoundingly and unwillingly—fiercely attracted to the vicar’s prim daughter.
He’d never had such a strong physical reaction to anyone before. Why Martha Pringle—a censorious, repressed, prudish vicar’s daughter—exerted such a pull on him, he simply couldn’t comprehend.
His
body didn’t care that his mind was annoyed or offended. In fact, it would be fair to say his body rejoiced in her innocent prudishness.
Every single time her harlot lips pursed in a virtuous scowl as her gaze lingered on his crotch—which happened whenever she saw him—he became hard.
Every single time he made her blush or gasp or frown, he became hard.
In short, every single thing she did or said made him hard.
Hugo had no idea why. Perhaps it was witnessing the way her disapproval of him warred with her obvious desire? As virtuous as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting him—even though she wasn’t sure exactly what it was that she wanted. Somehow that restored his faith in human nature.
He took a great deal of pleasure imagining her lying in her bed at night rubbing that itch between her legs while trying not to think of him.
Hugo was a bad person for thinking such a thought and he was doubly bad for enjoying it so much. But as bad as he was, even he refused to obey his body’s commands and debauch the vicar’s daughter.
He pushed the virginal temptress from his mind and turned his attention toward finding a way to get into the church.
So he could rob it.
“Oh God,” he muttered, shaking his head. He was going to Hell.
But then, had there ever really been any doubt of that?
Chapter 8
As luck would have it, it was the vicar himself who told Hugo the location of the church collection money.
Hugo was braiding rope on the meeting house steps when the vicar came ambling over to see what he was doing. “Why, that is lovely work, Mr. Higgenbotham.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hugo imagined what the old fellow would say if he knew Hugo’s facility was the result of making whips, crops, and floggers for erotic punishment.
He was accustomed to using the finest, most supple leather, but the only materials available on the island were scraps of fishing rope. It wasn’t bad rope, but it didn’t offer much comfort or cushion to a person’s hand if you needed to carry a bucket a long distance. So, he’d decided to braid several pieces together to make thicker handles for the buckets that Cailean carried all over the island like a beast of burden. Other people had seen the handles and the requests were pouring in. One old man had even offered to trade him a pair of gloves for two handles.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 6