“Could you make one of these just as thick, but longer?” the vicar asked, the question pulling Hugo from the hypnotic task of braiding.
“I can make them as long as you want, although I’d need longer pieces than the pitiful scraps I’m using for this one.”
“I can get you longer rope,” the vicar said, his pale cheeks flushed with excitement. “Would you mind taking a walk down to the church so I could show you what I need?”
It was all Hugo could do not to leap to his feet and cheer.
So off they headed.
Their pace was, by necessity, snaillike as the old man was as thin and fragile as a twig.
“You are an exceptionally well-spoken man, Mr. Higgenbotham. What did you do before you were, er, put onboard that ship?”
“I own properties in London, which I lease for income.” That wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Ah.”
A pregnant pause followed as they strolled down the hard-packed road that linked both ends of the island. Hugo suspected that knew what the old man would say even before he did.
“I do hope you will pardon my temerity,” the vicar said, his pale, papery cheeks coloring, this time with embarrassment rather than excitement. “But I can’t help thinking that you and Mr. Franks seem, er, out of place among the others. I only say this based upon my impressions after calling on all the rescued men to offer the opportunity to unburden their consciences.”
Hugo smirked at the man’s careful substitution of the word rescued for convicts.
The vicar had offered the same chance to the five men at the meeting house. Hugo had politely declined, not wishing to contemplate either his tarnished conscience or how many years of the vicar’s life it would take to listen while Hugo unburdened it.
“Out of place?” Hugo said when it appeared the older man was waiting for an answer.
“You both seem like good men to me. How did you come to be in the hold of that ship?”
He experienced an odd sensation at hearing this kind and intelligent man’s description of him. Nobody, to his knowledge, had ever called him good.
Even Melissa had often told Hugo that he was a soulless bastard only out for his own gain.
He was a soulless bastard out for his own gain and the vicar was wrong, of course—that went without saying—but Hugo decided he liked that this saintly man had a good impression of him.
I wonder if he’ll feel that way after you steal church money and abscond with it?
Hugo scowled. I’ll send him back a hundred bloody pounds to cover whatever I take.
He glanced down at the vicar, whom, he saw, was patiently waiting for his story.
“It is widely accepted that every man in Newgate has been wrongly accused,” Hugo said.
The vicar chuckled. “Oh, I daresay that is true.” He cut Hugo a surprisingly shrewd look. “I’d also say some of those men are innocent—or at least no guiltier than many others who are walking free. Being confined is not, in itself, proof of criminal behavior, Mr. Higgenbotham.”
“You are a philosopher, sir.”
“So my daughter tells me. But we were speaking of you,” he reminded Hugo gently.
Hugo sighed. He’d tell as much of his story as he could without shocking the old man into heart failure.
“I believe my business partner paid to have me abducted and wrongly accused of theft. I was given no opportunity to provide a defense before I was convicted. Afterward, I was put into a cell with other men who had similar experiences.
“I’ve done more than my share of questionable things in my time,” Hugo confessed, not wanting to look the other man in the eyes when he said that. “But I’m innocent of what I’ve been charged with. I would wager my left bal—er, a good deal of money,” he amended, “that the same is true of Albert Franks.” Hugo chuckled. “In fact, Mr. Franks has the look of a man whose mind has never been violated by an illegal or immoral notion in his entire life.”
The vicar nodded as he followed Hugo up the steps to the stone church. “I concur that Mr. Franks radiates innocence.”
Hugo pulled open the heavy door and entered a church for the first time in his life. He was more than a little surprised that the clouds didn’t part and a bolt of lightning didn’t strike him dead.
The vicar led him to a stone bench whose wooden top lifted to reveal rolls of canvas, a toolbox, and other bits and bats.
“What I’d like is one of your braided pulls for our church bell,” the vicar confessed as they studied the contents of the bench.
As they discussed the best way to replace the worn ties with something sturdier and yet still attractive—a task that Hugo would never actually complete—Hugo thought about the vicar’s earlier statement: that Hugo was a good man.
There’d been a time in his life—for most of it, really—when he would have felt proud to have deceived another person so thoroughly.
Now, all he felt was a profound sense of loss.
◆◆◆
Hugo waited until two hours after dark to make his escape.
The vicar had left him alone in the church to work on the new braided ropes, trusting him in a way that made Hugo want to scream. Didn’t these people know the island was infested with criminals? Hadn’t they learned their lesson already?
He’d easily found the church collection—a handful of shillings and pennies—in a small wooden box with no lock.
As he’d sat looking at the pitiful little pile of coins he’d decided that it felt worse to take such a paltry sum than it would have felt to take a thousand pounds. He didn’t want to take it, but he desperately needed it—and it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
But it was all he had, so he’d scooped it up and wrapped it in a square of torn canvas and tucked it into his trouser pocket, briefly wishing he had a way to leave a note in the box assuring the vicar that he would reimburse him. But he didn’t have ink, quill, or paper, so wishing was pointless.
After stealing God’s money from the vicar Hugo lost all interest in any further thieving.
He had wanted to bring food with him but decided he’d forage once he’d made it across the firth. Besides, he seemed to have lost his appetite along with his will to steal—an affliction he could not recall experiencing before.
Carrying only his shoes and the stolen coins, Hugo tiptoed out the door in his bare feet. He went round to the back of the meeting hall and sat on the ground to put on his shoes. His left foot was calloused and bleeding from the ridiculous dance slipper, which already had a hole the size of a guinea in the sole.
Well, it couldn’t be helped.
Once he was shod, there was no putting it off. He decided to stride down the main road rather than skulk. After all, the bloody island had no trees, so skulking would be difficult to pull off in any case.
As he headed for the narrow path, he cut the little stone house one last glance. “Goodbye, Miss Martha Pringle. I hope you enjoy a long and happy life,” he whispered, stunned by the hollow feeling in his gut.
Hugo shook himself. No doubt he was feeling odd because he’d not been able to eat much at supper, which had been—
“Good evening, Hugo.”
Hugo leapt a good foot in the air and his throat constricted to the diameter of a pin, yet he still managed to utter a mortifying squeak. He spun around and found Mr. Pringle sitting on a low stool on the side of the cottage.
They stared at each other, the only sounds Hugo’s labored breathing and the surf, which was audible from anywhere on the small island.
Mr. Pringle lifted up his hand and Hugo squinted: he was holding a pipe—a meerschaum.
“It is my most persistent vice,” the vicar admitted, his voice low but not a whisper. “I don’t smoke it any longer—it upsets Martha too much—but it still makes me feel meditative to simply hold it.”
A compulsion to confess struck him. “I took—”
“I know you took the money.”
“What? How? You never returned to the church, did
you?”
“No. But I could see it in your eyes. Not what you were going to do, only that you were going to do something that made you uneasy. It was simple to guess what.”
“I’m going to send you back your money and a good deal more.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Hugo gaped at the unexpected response.
“Did it ever occur to you that you could simply ask me for the money?”
Hugo scoffed. “And you would have given it to me?”
“Yes. The money you took is for those who need it. I believed your story about being innocent of what you were charged with, Mr. Higgenbotham.”
He heaved a sigh. “Buckingham.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name—it’s Buckingham.” That was another lie, but a much older one. “I only told your daughter it was Higgenbotham to tease her.”
The vicar chuckled. “It makes her smile whenever she says it—and Martha is such a serious girl that I love seeing her smile.”
Hugo had no idea what to say to that.
“I won’t tell them about the money, but you must know that they will come looking for you. Taking a boat—even for temporary use—is a grave infraction to people who rely on such things for their livelihoods. If you do this tonight, Mr. Buckingham, you will have no defense when the authorities apprehend you. And I think you must know they will catch you. Have you ever lived in the country before?”
“No.”
“I thought not. You will be an easy target. But if you stay—”
“If I stay I shall be an even easier target,” Hugo said with barely suppressed anger.
“Not if I help you.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pringle, but how can you help me?”
“The word of a clergyman carries weight in this area. Not only that, but it is my understanding there was something odd about the ship you were on. The fact that a convict transport was up near Stroma, for a start.”
“But how can you help me?”
“I won’t tell you how, I just give you my word that I will see to it that you are not taken back when the constables or runners or what-have-you come to fetch the prisoners.”
Hugo wondered if he were dreaming. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“I want a favor.”
“I beg your pardon—did you say you wanted a favor?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what kind of favor?”
“I believe you just did.” The vicar grinned impishly. “I’m sorry, that was childish. As to the favor—I will tell you what I want after I have guaranteed your freedom. That is the bargain, Mr. Buckingham.”
“How do you know I’ll keep my part of the bargain?”
“That is entirely up to you.” The kindly old vicar suddenly looked terrifyingly stern.
Hugo glanced away, unable to bear the other man’s piercing gaze, which seemed to burn its way into his soul. Or what he supposed was his soul, not that he’d ever given the matter much thought.
Mr. Pringle stood, the action accompanied by creaks and pops as his old body straightened. “I will leave you to your decision, Mr. Buckingham.” He smiled, once again a kindly old man. “I’ll have my answer one way or another come morning.” He disappeared around the corner of the house.
“Fucking hell,” Hugo cursed under his breath. A favor? Just what did the old gimmer want from him? What could he want? Money? Hugo had already offered him that.
Hugo stared across the firth, the distant mainland visible under the partial moon. His mind played out his escape: he would row across—it was not far, two miles he’d heard a local say. It was a beautiful, calm night, so he’d have no problems. If the headland was as rugged as Stroma—and there was no reason to believe it wasn’t—the cliff faces would outnumber the beaches and it might take him a while to find a place to land the craft. And then he would begin his six-hundred-plus-mile walk to London.
Hugo groaned. It sounded like a bloody nightmare.
He stared at the silent, dark stone house. But what if the vicar was wrong? What if he couldn’t save Hugo when the men came to take them?
He thought about Mr. Pringle’s eyes—they were faded and old and did not see clearly, but they’d held a degree of certainty Hugo did not think was feigned. If the vicar said he would set him free, the man would.
“Bloody hell,” Hugo grumbled. He glanced around and noticed that—while he’d been dithering—his sore, bleeding feet had already led him back to the meeting house.
It must be a dream. He, Hugo Buckingham, a man who never trusted a soul, would trust this ancient vicar he’d met not even five days ago?
“You’re a mad bastard, Hugo,” he whispered as he dropped onto the meeting house steps and removed his shoes before opening the heavy door on the right, wincing as it gave a low but audible groan.
Hugo barely took two steps into the darkness of the meeting house when his head exploded.
Chapter 9
As usual, Small Cailean was waiting outside the cottage door at dawn to carry the porridge out to the meeting house.
“Good morning, Cailean. Thank you for helping me today.”
Cailean gave him an abstracted smile, his thoughts obviously on the man who was currently occupying far too much time in both their thoughts.
Martha had woken up early that morning, determined that today she would not follow Hugo Higgenbotham around like a lost puppy.
He was a convicted criminal; he only flirted and teased her because she was female, not because he had any real interest in her; and he would be gone in less than two days.
So, those were three good reasons to avoid him.
Armed with her new resolve, she marched to the meeting house and then stopped abruptly. The cracked oar that she used to stir the laundry was jammed through both handles of the double doors.
“What in the world?” she muttered.
She turned to Small Cailean. “Why don’t you put that on the step,” she spoke in a gentle and calm tone even though the hairs on her neck prickled.
After they’d both put down their burdens, Small Cailean had to yank hard on the oar to free it.
“Will you wait for me over there?” Martha pointed to the corner of the building. “If anything happens, I want you to run as fast as you can to the village, all right?”
His face crumpled and his chin wobbled; Martha hated herself for frightening him. She laid a hand on his massive shoulder, which was trembling. “It will be all right, Cailean. Really. Go ahead,” she prodded, waiting until he was cowering beside the building before opening the door.
Martha didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the sight that greeted her.
◆◆◆
Hugo had been saying the same word for hours, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck …”
Except his mouth was stuffed with a rancid rag and he was gagged so it sounded more like: “Fuff, fuff, fuff, fuff …”
Here he was yet again, tied up and naked. Would the humiliation never end?
And the worst of it? It was all his fault. He should have ignored the vicar’s bloody conscience-twisting offer—since when did he have a conscience?—and just kept walking. The old man wouldn’t have stopped him, why hadn’t Hugo just stuck to his plan?
And he should have known Parker and Devlin were up to something. He would have known it if he’d not spent his time agonizing about robbing the islanders and sniffing around the vicar’s far-too-interesting daughter.
Hugo had to give Parker and Devlin credit; he’d not heard a sound before they fell on him in the darkness.
“Sorry to steal the togs right off your back, mate,” Devlin whispered in Hugo’s ear while Parker bound both his knees and his ankles together with his own bloody braided rope. “But I’m sure you know ’ow it is because I saw you eyeballin’ my boots these past few days.”
The man was correct; Hugo had considered stealing his boots but gave up the plan when he saw that D
evlin slept with them on his feet.
Once they’d stripped and bound him, they laid him on the cool flagstone floor in front of his sleeping bench. “Don’t want you to fall off an ’urt yourself,” Devlin whispered.
After that, he heard them tie up Franks and the boy, Lorn, neither of whom put up a struggle. Hugo could only assume the other two would be similarly stripped and bound.
So, there they lay, just like three game cocks, stripped, plucked, and trussed.
He enjoyed the briefest of moments contemplating the expression on Miss Pringle’s face when she opened the door in the morning. But his amusement was short-lived. What if the men went into the vicar’s house and stole something?
Or worse, what if they did something?
Hugo squeezed his eyes shut against the images that crowded his head, his temples throbbing with impotent rage and no small amount of worry.
He didn’t know a damned thing about Devlin or Parker—they could be forgers, or they could be murderers or rapists.
Don’t borrow trouble, the voice in his head advised, good advice for a change.
Besides, surely the men would be more interested in escaping than committing more crimes?
Hugo could only hope.
As the minutes turned to hours, his bound hands and feet swelled and became numb, so he gave up on trying to free himself from his bindings. He drifted in and out of a miserable doze for a few hours. But it was a nightmare-riddled sleep that left him even more exhausted.
It was his bladder that woke him. He tried to be thankful that he’d taken a piss before bedtime, so he didn’t really start to suffer until just before dawn.
There was only a hint of pale gray light coming through the windows when Hugo decided he could wait no longer.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 7