“Thirty-two.”
McCoy narrowed his eyes at Hugo’s flat tone, and he reminded himself to act humble. Or not very smart. Or humble and not very smart.
Hugo fixed a fatuous expression on his face and added, “Sir.”
McCoy nodded, visibly appeased.
So, a gullible, stupid bully, it would seem.
“It says short brown hair.” He examined Hugo with exaggerated care. “I suppose yours might be termed on the longish side …”
“Yes, sir,” Hugo said, prepared to lick the man’s boots—or anything else he might want licked—if that was what it took to keep him off the next convict ship.
McCoy’s lips curled into a smug smile at Hugo’s obsequious tone. “It says here that Mr. Assent has a scar from a knife wound on the right buttock.” He grinned. “Kinda’ amusin’ that—Mr. Assent,” he repeated, just in case there might be somebody in the crowd who needed it spelled out for them.
But his wit hardly earned him a chuckle from the increasingly grim islanders, so McCoy continued, “This should be simple enough to confirm drop your trousers and let’s have a look.”
The crowd erupted and a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Surely you don’t mean for him to do so right here?”
All eyes turned to the vicar, who was making his way through the crush of bodies. He looked entirely awake, his blue eyes sparking with anger.
Hugo’s knees almost buckled with relief.
“Who the devil are you?” McCoy demanded.
“I am Jonathan Pringle, vicar of St. Andrews,” the vicar said in a voice Hugo supposed must be the old man’s pulpit voice.
“Er,” McCoy said, his arrogance dimming beneath the vicar’s Old Testament glare.
But then somebody in the crowd snickered and McCoy frowned, his lips compressing into a stubborn line. He said, in a loud, belligerent voice, “If nobody wants to see this man’s arse, they should shut their eyes. Now, Buckingham, turn and drop ’em.”
Hugo was vaguely aware of Clark trying to hustle Martha away, but he was too concerned with obeying McCoy’s command smartly to be able to spare any worry. Besides, Martha had seen a good deal more than his arse that morning.
Clark had bound Hugo’s hands tightly enough that he fumbled with the rope holding up his trousers; abject terror shot through him when he couldn’t loosen the bloody knot. He imagined himself back in chains simply because he couldn’t pull down his damned trousers quickly enough. Fueled by that fear, he tore open the knot and the threadbare garment dropped to the ground before he could grab it.
Several high-pitched gasps from the crowd told Hugo that more than one woman had stayed to watch.
“As smooth as a baby’s bottom—no knife wound to speak of.” McCoy’s voice brimmed with ugly amusement. “All right, Buckingham, pull ’em up.”
Hugo bent to pick up his pants, the action earning him a few more gasps, before turning to face McCoy, awkwardly tying the rope at his waist.
“Are you convinced, sir?” Mr. Pringle demanded.
McCoy shrugged. “I’m not quite certain yet.”
The crowd rumbled, no longer amused by the show. “I’ll agree you aren’t Mr. Assent,” McCoy said with a smirk. “But there is another name on this list that fits your description.”
“I would like to have a word with you, Mr. McCoy.” The vicar’s voice was stern, but not loud.
McCoy blinked. “Er—”
“It will take no more than a moment.”
McCoy took a deep breath, his eyes on the restless crowd. “Very well, but I can spare only a minute or two.”
“Step into the church, if you would.”
Every eye followed the two men as they disappeared into the church. And then every eye came back to Hugo.
He let his gaze wander over the faces. Some were flushed, a few were judging, and some were amused.
And then there was Clark, who radiated fury and disgust.
Hugo winked at him and then looked at Martha, whom he’d purposely kept until last.
Even from where he stood, Hugo could see that her eyes had darkened. She was flushed and her chest rose and fell quicker than it should have for a person at rest. Hugo smiled at her.
Clark stepped in front of him, blocking Hugo’s pleasant view.
“I don’t know what you’ve got planned, Buckingham, but you don’t fool me. I can smell the rot on you.”
“Are you sure that’s not your own upper lip you’re smelling?”
Several of the islanders laughed.
Hugo saw Clark’s fist coming and was able to duck, dodging what would surely have been a painful blow.
“Mr. Clark!”
Martha’s horrified voice must have pushed through Clark’s rage because his second swing never came to fruition. Instead, he seemed to shake himself, and dropped his fist to his side, his face fiery as he realized what he’d done.
Silent disapproval rolled off the gathered islanders: What kind of man struck somebody whose hands were tied?
The door to the church opened and everyone turned as one, momentarily forgetting about Clark. McCoy’s expression as he came toward Hugo was difficult to read, but Hugo would have sworn the man looked … frightened.
McCoy stopped in front of Hugo and said, “Pull up your left sleeve.”
When Hugo complied, McCoy nodded. “No tattoo, you are not the man on my list.” He spun on his heel, as if he couldn’t stand looking at Hugo a second longer. “Cut Mr. Buckingham and Mr. Franks loose.”
Hugo’s heart pounded in his ears. He was free! He was free!
Now all he had to do was get his un-scarred, un-tattoed arse back to London and kill the bitch who’d done this to him.
Chapter 11
At the urging of what seemed like half the island population, Hugo, Albert, Mr. Pringle and Martha lingered at the Greedy Vicar after McCoy and his prisoners headed back to the mainland.
Mr. Clark, Hugo couldn’t help noticing, was not among those celebrating Hugo and Albert’s liberation.
The three men enjoyed a pint of ale and slice of mutton pie, courtesy of Joe Cameron, while Martha drank a tiny cup of chocolate and nibbled a slab of bread slathered in butter and strawberry preserves. Hugo had never seen a person enjoy a thimble of chocolate so much. Orgasmic, that was the only word for her expression.
By the end of his meal—and not two hours after he’d exposed his bare arse to the citizens of Stroma—Hugo had received five offers of work. Either the islanders were impressed with what they saw, or—far more likely—they would support any person who got one over on the local constabulary.
The best offer, Hugo reckoned, was from Mr. Abel Stogden.
Stogden was a gruff old man who earned his crust cutting flagstone and selling it to a buyer on the mainland. Hugo thought his job sounded the most promising, but that might have been because he didn’t really understand most of the others.
He suspected Martha had listened to his conversations, although she’d remained unusually quiet, and he was hoping she might have some guidance when it came to translating the other offers.
Unfortunately, Martha was no longer giving him the yearning looks she’d shot his way when she’d believed that he headed off to the far side of the world. She was now regarding Hugo as if he were a problem that she wasn’t sure she was interested in solving.
In any event, Hugo was full of good food and ale and optimistic about the future for the first time in weeks as he followed the Pringles and Albert back to the meeting house
“You may stay at the meeting house as long as you need to,” Mr. Pringle said when they reached the stone cottage. He glanced at his daughter. “But you’ll need to arrange with Martha when it comes to food or laundry and whether she has time to provide such services.” Mr. Pringle patted his daughter’s shoulder before climbing the stone steps. “It’s been a taxing day, my dear. I’ll leave you young people to your own devices.”
Hugo almost asked if he could have a minute of his
time, but the old man looked so exhausted that he decided to wait until tomorrow to ask about the mysterious favor he now owed him.
Once the door shut behind him, Albert turned to Miss Pringle. “Please, you must tell me what I can do to help—not for future bed and board as the Wilsons offered me a job with both—but for all that you’ve already done for me.”
Her smile was sweet and gentle and—Hugo couldn’t help noticing—not an expression that she ever turned in his direction. “It’s been a long day, Mr. Franks. Perhaps we can speak about the matter after church?”
“Of course, miss.” He smiled shyly. “And … thank you for everything.” He turned and disappeared into the meeting house.
Her eyes swiveled to Hugo. “And you, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo grinned. “In the flesh—but not as much as this morning.”
Her jaw sagged.
“I need to ask you something,” Hugo said hastily, before she slapped his face, stormed into the house, and slammed the door. “It’s not anything salacious,” he assured her, when she took a step back.
“Hmm.”
“Is that a yes?”
She crossed her arms. “Get on with it.”
“Did you hear my conversations with, er …” He racked his brain to recall the names he’d memorized when he couldn’t understand anything they said. “Mr. Craig, Mr. Donald, Mr. Smith, and, er, I think another Mr. Smith—Brian, maybe? And Mr. Stogden.”
“Oh, do you mean those conversations in which the islanders were all falling over themselves to give you work?”
Hugo chuckled. “They do seem inordinately fond of me, don’t they?”
“It’s more that they despise McCoy and all men like him.”
“How kind of you to keep me from getting a big head, Miss Pringle.”
“I’m far too late for that. Do you know what a wrecker is?”
Hugo blinked at the change in subject. “Er, somebody who wrecks things?”
She gave him a look that could strip the barnacles off a ship’s hull. “Wreckers are coastal folk who lure ships to their doom and then collect the cargo.”
“Ah. But surely not the people here?”
“I will cast no aspersions, Mr. Buckingham. Aside from wrecking there is also the issue of illegal spirits. A goodly number of the islanders brew to supplement their income. They are, quite understandably, wary of anyone who might be in league with the excisemen.”
“I see,” Hugo said, feeling rather stupid for not discerning that fact earlier. So that was why they were angry with Clark.
“Hmmph. But I believe you had a question.”
“Of those offers of work, which one do you advise me to accept?”
“Why are you asking me?” she asked with no little suspicion.
He scratched his head and grimaced; he was determined to wash his hair tonight even if he had to do it in freezing saltwater. “Er, mainly because the only one I could understand even a little was Mr. Stogden.” He thought that might have been a smile tugging at her lips.
“Mr. Craig offered you work on his yole—it is his boat,” she said when she saw his perplexed expression. “Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Donald are fishermen and crofters, and need help around their farms.”
“Thank you.” Hugo hesitated, “You know I am city born and bred. Could you tell me a little about what these jobs entail?”
“Mr. Craig’s work will probably be the least physically strenuous, although your days will be long. Crofter work is non-stop and you would labor from dawn to dusk, it will require a certain facility with animals—sheep, pigs, fowl, perhaps a mule. Lots of cleaning out of animal enclosures and such. As for cutting flagstone, well…” She let her gaze flicker over him and then swallowed, the flush he loved so well creeping up her neck. “I’m sure you can guess it is excessively hard work, but Mr. Stogden pays almost twice as much as the others.”
Hugo considered her information. Mr. Craig would doubtless kill and throw Hugo over the side of his fishing boat before an hour was out—unless the man enjoyed cleaning vomit from his yole. And farm work sounded very…smelly.
Hugo nodded. “Mr. Stogden it is, then. Thank you.”
Her expressive eyebrows arched.
“Why do you look surprised?”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of man to have done much strenuous work”
Hugo felt oddly insulted. “Are you saying you think I lack the physical strength, Miss Pringle?”
A layer of red washed over the pink already staining her cheeks and she grabbed one of his hands and turned it palm up, her rough finger pads tracing his smooth palm.
She looked up, her eyes very blue against the red of her face. “Your skin is so soft it’s obvious you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life.”
Hugo took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. “Why, Miss Pringle, how observant of you to notice my…skin.”
She pressed her lips together.
“And you might be pleasantly surprised to learn just how hard I can work, when properly motivated.”
She dropped his hand as if burned, took a step back, struck her heel on the step, and would have fallen on her arse if Hugo hadn’t caught her. He should have let her go once he’d steadied her, but his body wanted what it wanted, and right now it wanted to feel Miss Pringle.
Although her body was firm and muscular from all her physical labor, her breasts were small and deliciously soft as they pressed against his threadbare shirt, warming his chest. She had nice, womanly hips—at least as far as he could tell without a more thorough examination.
Hugo imagined how fetching her bottom would look bent over in front of him, his fingers digging into her hips, his cock sliding into her body.
That was all it took to make him harden against her flat belly.
Awareness—slowed by her own animal arousal—gradually dawned in her eyes. Her jaw dropped and those kissable lips quivered—anger, desire, confusion, and a dozen other emotions flitting across her face quicker than a flight of swallows.
And then her body stiffened like a plank and she shoved him back.
Hugo immediately released her.
She clamped her jaws shut, brushed off the front of her dress, inhaled enough to strain her plain frock to its limits and said, “Church begins at eight o’clock. Sharp.”
She was gone in a flurry of skirts before Hugo could tell her that he’d not be attending church tomorrow. Or any other day, for that matter.
He adjusted his throbbing erection before wandering over to the meeting house, where he found Franks looking at something on the bench beside him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The younger man jolted. “Oh, Mr. Buckingham.”
“Call me Hugo.”
Franks’s gaze dropped to the front of Hugo’s thin, obscenely tented trousers and he blushed almost as prettily as Miss Martha. Hugo saw the truth in the lad’s wide green eyes, which was riveted to his cock. Bloody wonderful—just what he needed right now—an infatuated pup.
“Well?” Hugo prodded.
Franks blinked and wrenched his eyes up to meet Hugo’s. “Uh, what was that, again?”
“What’s on the bench beside you?”
“Oh. I’m calculating how much I will need to get back to London,” Franks said, scribbling on the small scrap of paper with a graphite stick.
Hugo dropped down beside him. “What do you do in London, Franks?”
“Call me Albert.” His attempt to sound like Hugo was adorable.
“Very well, what do you do in London, Albert?”
“I’m a clerk at a solicitor’s office. At least I was.”
“Huh. What the devil did you do to end up on that ship?”
Albert’s smile dropped away. “I think my employer is responsible for my abduction.”
“That bad of a clerk, were you?”
“What?” His eyebrows knitted. “No, of course not.”
Hugo chuckled.
“Yes.”
“Er, I invented something and asked him to assist me with the patent process.” He cut Hugo a shy look. “I am a man of science—not a solicitor. I only took the position to make money while I pursued my invention.”
“What did you invent—if you don’t mind telling me, that is.”
“Of course I don’t mind telling you.”
“Perhaps you should. Look what happened the last time you shared the information.”
Albert stared blankly, making Hugo feel bad for teasing the boy, but—really—you’d think Franks would have learned his lesson already. And that lesson was: you should guard any information that involved money with your life.
“I am usually an excellent judge of character.” He must have seen Hugo’s skeptical look because he added, “Except for that one time—but he was my employer.” He sounded amazed, as if thieving employers were such a rarity in this world. “But my heart tells me that I can trust you.”
Hugo suspected he was being guided by some other organ—one closer to his waist—but kept that observation to himself because young Albert had the look of a man who’d not yet identified his own sexual proclivities.
Instead, he said, “I thought men of science only trusted their intellect.”
“I aspire to be a Renaissance man.”
“Ah.” Hugo said. “That has something to do with using both science and art to inform one’s thinking, does it not?”
“Just so,” Albert said, looking inordinately pleased.
“Admirable. So, go on, then, what is it—this invention of yours?”
Several long minutes later, Hugo held up his hand. “That’s plenty, thank you.”
“But I’m just getting to the interesting part.” Albert’s eyes shone with enthusiasm.
“I didn’t understand a bloody word you just said, Albert, so I’ll be unable to understand the interesting bit, either.”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 9