He’d just rolled onto his side—rather than urinate on his stomach—when he heard movement outside the meeting house and the door swung open.
If he’d not been in excruciating pain both inside and out, he would have laughed. He doubted the modest young woman could have looked more shocked if she’d opened the door to a full-blown Roman orgy.
Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes grew comically huge as they rested on his Man Thomas, which—predictably—did some significant growing of its own now that it had an audience.
Hugo closed his eyes, rolled onto his back, and let his head drop to the hard, gritty floor with a dull thunk. Naked, bound, and sporting a cock stand—and to think he’d spent the night believing things could not get any worse.
◆◆◆
Martha would never be able to look Hugo in the face again without bursting into flame.
His sexual organ, she could now verify, was prodigious. Or at least it seemed so to her. For all she knew an organ that length and girth lurked in every man’s trousers.
Not only had it been huge, but it hadn’t looked at all like she’d expected—not that she thought about such a thing. Or at least not much.
It had been ridged and curved and darker than the rest of his skin. The top had been domed and fatter than the shaft.
And most shockingly, it had moved independently of the rest of his body when she’d looked at it—almost like it was sentient.
Martha shivered—how was it possible for a woman to take such a monstrous instrument into her body?
The wanton, wicked, and unholy though made her shiver with another emotion entirely and she fled to the back of the meeting house, leaving Cailean to untie Hugo.
Fortunately, the other two men, while missing their shirts and trousers, at least retained their smallclothes. As Martha liberated Lorn and Mr. Franks, she tried not to think about why it was so easy to keep her eyes away from their hips.
Once the men were free, Martha left Cailean in charge and ran all the way to the Greedy Vicar. The first thing she noticed after flinging open the door were four strangers standing at the bar talking to Joe Cameron, the innkeeper.
Joe smiled. “Ah, here is the lady who has been taking such good care of five of your survivors. You know Mr. McCoy, do you not, Martha?”
Martha knew of the arrogant sheriff from Wick, but she was too breathless from running to speak.
Mr. Clark, who was sitting at a table enjoying one of the Greedy Vicar’s hearty breakfasts, shoved back his chair and strode toward her. “Miss Martha, is something amiss?”
“The prisoners …” She paused, panting.
Shock and fear tightened Mr. Clark’s handsome features. “Did he do something—”
“They’ve run,” she wheezed out.
“All of them?”
“No, just two.”
“Two of them escaped?” McCoy repeated, his expression grim.
Martha nodded and McCoy turned to the men beside him and they spoke among themselves before he glanced at Mr. Clark. “My men could use help from somebody who knows the island.”
Mr. Clark hesitated; the other islanders would not approve of assisting any arm of the law—for any reason.
“I’ll help,” Clark said.
Martha somehow suspected that the gleam of anticipation in his eyes was because he believed Hugo was among the escapees. He must dislike Hugo a great deal because his cooperation with the authorities would not endear him to his neighbors, many of whom kept stills or ill-gotten goods hidden on their property.
Martha lingered to watch the men split into two groups and leave while other islanders began to trickle in, no doubt having seen McCoy’s boat and wondering what was afoot.
She’d just declined—with regret—Joe Cameron’s offer of breakfast and was about to go back to the meeting house when she discovered that Mr. Devlin and Mr. Parker were not the only ones who’d disappeared.
◆◆◆
The final count was twelve missing.
As Martha headed back to the meeting house, she couldn’t help wondering how twelve men had sneaked away in the dead of night unnoticed. Something told her that they’d had help.
Cailean was standing with her father when Martha arrived.
“It seems Mr. Devlin and Mr. Parker weren’t the only ones to run last night,” Martha told her father.
Hugo’s blanket-shrouded figure appeared in the open doorway of the meeting house. “How many?”
“Twelve.”
“Bloody hell! How the devil did so many get off the island?”
For once, she ignored his foul language. “Nobody knows. There are no boats missing.”
“That means they had help.”
Albert Franks appeared beside Hugo, wrapped in another blanket, reminding her that she’d forgotten to beg for more clothing when she’d been at the pub.
She also recalled the other, not-so-good news she had to share.
“What is it?” Hugo demanded, as if he counted mind-reading among his many annoying abilities.
“Mr. McCoy is here from Wick with the ship’s manifest.”
“Bloody fucking wonderful.” The furious man whirled on his heel and stomped back into the meeting hall, his blanket fluttering behind him like a cape. “I don’t suppose there’s another pair of trousers lying about?” he shouted from inside the building, the glass in the windows vibrating with the strength of his anger.
Albert slumped as if the weight of the world had descended on his shoulders.
Martha knew exactly how he felt and there was no lying to herself about the reason: Hugo was leaving today.
Chapter 10
After Martha had delivered the unhappy news to the men who remained in the meeting house, both she and vicar went off, heading in separate directions.
That left Hugo, Albert Franks, and the boy—Lorn—to ponder their immediate future.
Hugo was too infuriated to even think straight; what a fool he was to have listened to the vicar. He could be gone right now.
Marth returned an hour later carrying an armful of clothing.
“Here, let me help you with that, Miss Pringle,” Franks said, forgetting that he was wearing a blanket and treading on it, yanking it off. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he murmured, scrambling to cover his drawers.
Martha appeared too distracted to notice and wordlessly left them to divide up the castoffs.
Hugo had just finished tying on yet another pair of too-short trousers with rope when an old farmer name Sutherland showed up leading a mule.
“Will you two gentlemen excuse us?” she asked Hugo and Franks, gesturing Mr. Sutherland into the meetinghouse.
“What do you reckon is going on in there?” Franks asked Hugo.
“Nothing too sordid,” Hugo said, amused when the younger man’s fair, freckled skin flamed.
There was still no sign of the vicar twenty minutes later—a fact which did not make Hugo happy—when Miss Pringle opened the door.
“We’ll need your help getting Lorn onto the mule.”
Hugo gave the woman a searching look, but she ignored him.
Lorn was a twig of a youngster and Hugo easily carried him out without any help from Franks.
Without saying a word to anyone, Mr. Sutherland led the young boy off on the mule.
Martha turned to Hugo and Franks after they’d gone. “Mr. Sutherland will keep Lorn at his farm until the boy is well.” Her kissable lips compressed into a thin line. “He is only fifteen. He stole a silver snuffbox and was sentenced to seven years.” The disgust in her voice was enough to let them know what she thought about that.
“Mr. Sutherland’s youngest son just went off to take a job on the mainland, so he needs help on his farm. Once his leg is healed, Lorn will get another chance here if he wishes to take it.”
“I don’t suppose Mr. Sutherland needs an older son?” Hugo asked, only half in jest.
“Perhaps two?” Franks piped up.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, vi
sibly unhappy.
The poor girl’s misery was almost palpable, and Hugo felt bad for her, even though he would be the one suffering if Mr. Pringle didn’t live up to his promise.
“Where is your father?” he asked.
“He’s gone to speak to Mr. Stogden.” She hesitated and then asked, “Did you wish for spiritual guidance?”
Before Hugo could answer, Clark strode up from the direction of town. “Miss Martha,” Clark said, giving her a brief nod before turning to Hugo, his gaze hardening. “McCoy and his men are back from searching the island and they’re ready for you.”
“Did you catch the conspirators?”
Clark came closer, as if to menace him; Hugo wished he would bloody well try it.
“And how do you know they got help, Higgenbotham?”
Hugo saw Martha’s lips curling up at the corners at Clark’s use of his false name.
“Were you in on the escape?” the sanctimonious bastard prodded. “Is that how you knew?”
Hugo smacked himself in the forehead with his palm. “Blast. That’s what I forgot to do after I helped them all escape last night—go with them! You’re a bloody genius, Clark.”
Franks laughed and Martha pressed her lips together and looked down at her shoes.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Clark demanded.
“Not too clever if I’m still here after helping the others on their way.”
“I’m here to escort you and the others to the village.”
“We’re ready to accompany you,” Martha said coolly, giving the pillar of the community a frosty look.
Clark’s forehead furrowed under her speculative gaze.
Well. This was an interesting development. What had the male manifestation of masculine moral perfection done to cause Miss Martha to be displeased with him?
Clark pulled his attention from Martha and frowned at Hugo and Franks. “Where is the third one?”
“Oh, did I say there were three?” Martha asked. “I must have been addled—three escaped, only these two remain.”
“But—”
She narrowed her blue eyes, her cute little jaw jutting out. “Yes, Mr. Clark?”
Hugo wondered if the man was stupid enough to ignore the danger signs and persist in his questioning. Especially with a woman he was clearly hoping to marry.
Clark stared at her for a long moment and must have decided likewise because he nodded abruptly. “Fine. On you go, you two.” He gestured to the path.
Hugo and Franks walked—shoeless—in front of Clark and Martha.
It didn’t take long to get to the little town and the entire way Hugo wondered what the old vicar was doing. And, more importantly, where he was. What if Pringle returned after Hugo was gone—packed away like a salted herring in the hold of some bloody ship?
Hugo’s jaw was so tightly clenched that it ached. Good God, he’d been an idiot to place his trust in a forgetful old man who was likely taking a kip somewhere after his busy morning.
A veritable crowd had gathered outside the Greedy Vicar and Hugo reckoned most of the population were assembled to watch the festivities. As he looked from face to face, he wondered which of the people present had helped the convicts off the island.
Lined up against the side of the church—which was conveniently located a stone’s throw from Stroma’s only taproom—were seven men: seven men who’d been too stupid to leave with the others last night.
Men like Hugo, in other words.
Clark frog-marched Hugo and Franks toward the seven and then stood facing them, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze pinned on them—well, on Hugo—as if they might try to run.
Hugo ignored him and surveyed the crowd for Mr. Pringle’s distinctive white head.
Aman who must be the constable or sheriff or whatever, shoved his way through the throng, two human oxen in tow.
“These are the last of them,” Clark said to the newcomer, his words earning him some nasty mutters from the accreting crowd.
Hugo blinked at the hostility. Why were they behaving in a distinctly unfriendly manner toward Clark?
“My name is McCoy,” the humorless-looking lawman loudly proclaimed as he unfolded several water-damaged sheets of paper and then looked up at Hugo and Albert. “I don’t suppose you two lads will behave and tell me your real names?”
“Albert Franks,” Franks said without hesitation.
McCoy didn’t acknowledge his answer. Instead, he continued flicking through the papers, as if unaware or uncaring of the tension his continued silence was generating. Or, more likely, he was the kind of man who fed on the misery of his captives.
“And what about you?” McCoy asked a long moment later, without lifting his eyes from the list.
“Hugo Buckingham.”
Clark made a soft hmmph and for a moment Hugo wondered if the other man would bring up the fact that he’d given the islanders a different surname. But one look at Clark’s smug smirk told him that the other man was so certain that Hugo was a criminal that no other evidence would be needed.
McCoy continued studying the names for a good ten or fifteen centuries before he finally looked up. “Not surprisingly, neither of those names is on the ship’s manifest.”
Franks heaved a sigh and looked ready to faint. “Thank—”
“But that hardly means anything, does it?” McCoy asked. With an authority figure’s unerring nose for a troublemaker, he directed this question at Hugo.
Hugo smiled. “I daresay a clever person might invent a name to evade transportation.”
His words drew a few chuckles from the crowd.
But not from Martha Pringle.
She stood alone at the forefront of the crowd, her hands clenched into fists, and her mouth compressed as if she were in pain. Bloody hell! The woman’s heart was in her eyes and she was all but bleeding for them—for him. When had another person ever been so anguished on his behalf?
That was easy to answer: never.
Hugo wished that he could tell her not to waste all that emotion on him or his eternal soul; he wasn’t worth worrying about and certainly couldn’t be saved.
McCoy raised the list and gave the sheets a shake, the gesture pulling all eyes back in his direction. “In addition to a host of criminal charges—including smuggling and engaging in fraudulent impressment in the name of His Majesty’s Navy, to name but a few—the captain of Fortune’s Lady”—he paused to enjoy the snickers at the unfortunate name of the now splintered vessel—“was also a casualty of his mutinying crew.”
McCoy paced in front of his enrapt listeners like a hawker working a crowd. “It seems the good captain was concerned about confusing his legal and illegal human cargo and gaining the wrong kind of attention when he reached New South Wales, so he had the King’s prisoners strip and made additional notations to the original manifest.” His piggy little eyes flickered over the convicts, again coming to rest on Hugo. “Or maybe he just wanted to see all you lads get your kit off.”
There were gasps mixed in with the laughter this time.
“Mister McCoy,” Clark chided, his face taut with anger. “There are women and children present.”
Hugo glanced at the woman Clark was concerned about, but Martha was staring at him so fixedly that he knew she’d not heard the chivalry the other man had exhibited on her behalf. Hugo gave her a quick smile and a wink, which woke her from her daze. Even now—when they both knew he’d be on a boat bound for the other side of the world by the time the sun set—Hugo had the power to make her blush with just a look.
Poor girl. She’d probably end up with only Clark to teach her about her sweet body and all the wonderful sensations it could both give and receive; it was a bloody shame.
Hugo pulled his gaze away from hers and looked at the man in question.
Clark had placed his meaty fists on his hips and was staring down the vulgar lawman. Hugo felt a grudging respect for him in that moment, no matter that he was a moralizing, tedious p
illock. At least he stood up for Miss Pringle and behaved as a gentleman should behave when it came to the woman he loved. Not that Hugo knew much about such things.
Hugo’s fecund imagination was suddenly assaulted by an unwanted vision of Martha and Clark in a darkened room, Clark lifting Martha’s flannel nightgown only as far as her waist before covering her small body with his larger one and rutting into her with all the finesse of a boar.
Any respect Hugo had for the other man dissipated like a fart in high wind, blown away by the sudden fury that surged through him at the imaginary vision.
Or perhaps that is jealousy you’re feeling, Hugo.
Jealousy? Jealousy!
Ha! He’d never been jealous in his life—and certainly never when it came to sex, which represented nothing other than money in his mind.
“All right, all right, step back,” McCoy said to Clark with a dismissive wave.
Once Clark had backed away, McCoy jabbed a thick finger at Albert Franks, “The only ginger-haired convict on this official manifest is in his forties—a wee bit older than you, I’d say. If you’re not on my list, then I won’t get paid for you. That means I don’t want you.” He held up a hand when Franks opened his mouth. “And before you ask, no—I won’t bring you to the mainland. I’m not a ferryman.”
He turned away from Franks, his muddy brown gaze settling on Hugo.
Hugo recognized the glint in McCoy’s eyes: it was the look of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain for the sake of it. Their interaction, Hugo knew, would end either with him in chains or publicly humiliated, or likely both.
“Now you, Mr. Buckingham, well, you’re a bit more difficult to discard—dark hair, dark eyes, on the tallish side”—he shrugged—“all around you’re nothin’ of any note.”
Hugo hated himself for feeling insulted at the oaf’s casual dismissal of his appearance—all the more so because he believed it was accurate: he really wasn’t anything special.
At least not until he took off his clothing.
“You don’t match any of the descriptions…exactly, but you come close enough to one—perhaps two—of the men to deserve a closer look.” He glanced at the list, although Hugo was certain he’d already memorized both names and descriptions and was merely flexing his power for his audience. “Let’s see—the first you resemble is James Assent. You fit the physical description and look about the same age.” He looked up. “And how old would you be, Mr. Hugo Buckingham?”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 8