Albert’s face fell.
“Come now,” Hugo said, feeling like an ogre for taking the wind from his sails. “You must be used to people not comprehending this…this, well whatever it is.”
“Yes, since I left school, it has been difficult to find like-minded men of science.”
Hugo wanted to tell the boy that he should bugger the science and go get his corn ground by a like-minded man. But he didn’t.
“Cheer up,” he said, clapping Albert on his slender shoulder. “You’re a free man now. Tell me about these Wilsons you’ll be moving in with?”
Albert brightened. “Mrs. Wilson needs help while Mr. Wilson is fishing.” He paused, his expression pensive. “I have never actually been on a farm, although of course I understand the underlying concept. Have you?”
“No. City born and bred.” Hugo pushed up off the bench.
“What do you suppose Mrs. Wilson shall have me doing?” Albert asked, a pucker of concern between his eyes.
“Probably birthing cows, slaughtering hogs—thing of that nature,” Hugo said.
Albert’s eyes threatened to roll out of his head. “No, do you really think so?”
Hugo turned away to hide his smile. “Oh, I daresay you’ll become accustomed to it in no time.”
He left the boy to his worries and went to investigate the benches where Devlin and Parker had slept. The two men had left their bedding, so he now had two more blankets and could fashion a pillow out of one.
When he walked back to his bench, he saw Albert was rolling up his blankets. “Makin’ a break for freedom already?” Hugo teased. “I was jesting about the cow and hog thing. Miss Martha told me it’s mainly feeding sheep and fowl, lots of shoveling manure, and bringing in the harvest.”
The boy sagged with relief but continued rolling the blanket. “I’m to go to the Wilson farm tonight. Mrs. Wilson said there will be work that need doing early in the morning before church.” He tucked the blankets under his arm and stood. “But I’ll see you tomorrow then, at church.”
Rather than tell Albert that he’d be nowhere near the church, Hugo just smiled. “Good luck to you, Albert.” He watched the younger man leave, glad to be alone for the first time in weeks.
It was stuffy inside the meeting house, which had been shut for a good part of the day, so Hugo propped the door open. The sun was only just dipping low.
A huge yawn distorted his face; he would go to bed early tonight. But not before he washed himself, which he’d not been allowed to do this morning before being shoved into smelly clothing and dragged off.
The first order of business was to haul water.
He could wash his body in cold water, but the clothing required warm if he was to rid the shirt and neckerchief of the stench of another man’s stale sweat. As for the vest Martha had found for him? Well, it was best not to wash that at all as it looked held together by threads. He still did not have a coat, but that was fine as the weather was quite warm, although he’d been told it would cool down quickly in the coming weeks. Hugo planned to be long gone before then.
He unearthed the buried pocket of coals in the fire pit where Martha heated the big wash caldron and fed in some dry grass and a little peat until he had a flame large enough to heat the water.
While that was heating, he took a bucket of cold water into the meeting house and stripped down, using his bunched-up shirt as a washcloth. It was not the best bath he’d ever had, but he felt wonderful after it. Hugo could not abide dirt, especially on his person.
Once he’d washed his hair—twice—he wrapped one of the blankets around his waist and shook out the others.
It was a shame he didn’t have some of the lye flakes that Martha had used for her laundry, but he did a creditable job using some scrubby plant that had lavender flowers and smelled quite nice.
Once the old garments were as clean as they were likely to get, he squeezed them dry and hung them outside.
The five men had tracked dirt into the meeting house, so Hugo found a broom and dustpan. He had only intended to sweep the area near his bedroll, but once he’d started it seemed wise to keep going.
When he’d finished with the floor, he made his bed on the flagstone rather than the bench, which he found difficult to turn on without falling off.
All that scrubbing and sweeping had worked up a sweat, so he left the door open. It was almost dark and he doubted anyone would be coming around so he pulled the blanket off his hips and folded it into a pillow before lying down on his bed, not bothering to cover himself, letting the cool breeze dry him.
Lying there naked on the floor reminded him of that morning and he smiled, his cock twitching at the memory of Martha’s stunned but hungry gaze as she’d stared at him: naked and erect.
Hugo could spot the lust in Martha as easily as he could in Albert. It wasn’t much of a skill after thirty years of living, but it was—other than whoring, braiding whips, and wielding them—pretty much all he had to show for himself.
Anyhow, it didn’t matter if Martha wanted him. Mr. Pringle had saved Hugo’s life so the last thing he was going to do was thank him by deflowering his daughter.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have her any way he wanted inside the privacy of his own head. He smiled at the thought and reached down, his cock lengthening as he relived the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest.
He gave himself a long, leisurely pull, luxuriating in the slow thickening of his shaft and drawing out this phase of arousal—willing to wait for his first orgasm in weeks—and making it last. His slit wept heavily, as if making up for lost opportunities, quickly producing moisture enough to slick his shaft.
His fingers tightened as he pondered his unexpected attraction to the proper young woman who’d given him this impressive erection. Martha Pringle was pretty enough, and she was one of the few young women he’d seen in the past few weeks, so he supposed it was only natural that she would figure in his fantasy.
Hugo sighed; that was a lie. Or at least an oversimplification.
His attraction to her was more than just convenience. He also enjoyed their verbal jousting and he adored making her stern little face flex into a smile.
And then there were the innocently lustful, needy, and wanting looks he’d caught her casting in his direction.
Those yearning looks—to be wanted with such ferocity—were like an aphrodisiac. His heavy eyelids drifted shut and he fisted himself with slow, firm strokes as he recalled that morning, and the greedy way her gaze had slipped down to his hips and then jerked back up. And then slid down again and again in those few precious seconds.
The memory of her raw desire made his balls tighten and he spread his legs and reached between his thighs, pulling at his sac with his free hand, holding tight to the memory of her wide eyes, her flushed cheeks, her plump lips that he imagined wrapped around his cock, sucking him so bloody hard—
Hugo flung himself into bliss, his spine arching until he hurt, until only his shoulders and heels were on the floor, his buttocks clenching and thrusting as he pumped himself with savage strokes, fucking his fist as if it were her.
He spent so hard that ribbons of hot seed crisscrossed his chest and shoulders. Even after nothing more came out, he continued milking himself, until his touch hurt, the mingling of pain and pleasure making him feel alive. Alive and free.
Sated and boneless, he lowered his exhausted body to his blanket and heaved a huge, contented sigh.
He was drifting in a pleasurable post-orgasmic daze when a sound startled him. He opened his eyes and glanced around. But there was nothing, only the breeze gently rattling the open doors on their hinges.
Hugo enjoyed a long, languorous stretch before picking up the corner of the bottom blanket and wiping the cooling spunk from his skin; he would wash the blanket tomorrow.
He’d begun to get goosepimples so he padded over to the doors and closed both before wrapping the lightest blanket around his hips so he’d be decent in the
morning.
After all, he thought with a huge yawn, it wouldn’t do to shock the vicar’s daughter two days running.
Chapter 12
Martha had not seen Hugo for a week—not since he left the meeting house last Monday morning, heading out for his first day of work.
She’d watched him from the safety of the house, lurking in the kitchen window and spying like a sneak thief, consuming him with her eyes as he left, his few possessions in a neat bundle under one arm, his step jaunty.
Every day she’d expected him to call, or at least stop by on his way to the Greedy Vicar, where Albert told her he’d seen Hugo give a letter to Joe Cameron, who collected the mail for the mainland.
Tuesday through Friday she’d told herself he was probably too exhausted from his first week of strenuous work to do much other than eat and sleep.
But when she went to the Greedy Vicar late Saturday on the pretext of buying something or other, she learned that Hugo had been in earlier, not to the taproom, but to purchase some items from the small store.
And still he’d not stopped by.
Martha told herself she was grateful for his absence, good riddance to the man. Besides, Mr. Clark had been coming by and asking her out walking more often. Martha wished she were more excited about his attention, but she was still displeased by his willingness to expose his neighbors to possible prosecution merely to spite a man who turned out to be innocent. Well, at least innocent of whatever had landed him on that ship. She had a strong suspicion that Hugo Buckingham was guilty of plenty of other things.
When it came to Robert, Martha had reminded herself that it wasn’t her place to judge her fellow human beings, and so she’d gone walking with him and they discussed the matters they’d always talked about: his work, her day, his sister and mother, her father—all the while carefully avoiding any mention of the man who now stood between them.
Although Martha didn’t see Hugo during the day, she saw him—to her lasting mortification—every night in her dreams.
What she’d witnessed last Saturday night in the meeting house had been shocking. But surely such a vision should have become mundane after the fiftieth time she’d relived it—or certainly by the hundredth. Yet the images burnt into her mind’s eye had not lost their potency. Indeed, they’d become more powerful, escaping the confines of her dreams to spread into her waking hours.
Like right now.
She was supposed to be cleaning the meeting house; instead, she was standing motionless, her mind’s eye filled with images of Hugo stretched out on his back, naked, the last sullen rays of the sun painting his rippling muscles and pale skin a dull, devilish red. The thick muscles in his biceps and forearm bulged while he stroked himself, the thrusting of his hips primal and savage.
To her shame, she had begun to tingle and swell between her thighs. She’d squeezed her legs together to stop the tingling, but that had only intensified it.
One squeeze had led to another. And another. Until soon she’d found herself clenching along with his thrusts.
Each stroke had tightened him like a clock key turning a spring, his impossibly hard body arching until his back no longer touched the floor, his movements becoming less controlled, guttural sounds escaping his open mouth, his head thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy—
And then Martha’s own pleasure had seized her, the intense physical sensations doubling her over until her forehead rested on the cold flagstone step. Part of her mind—the tiny part that was not given over to sensual gratification—shrieked at her to leave, to run, to get away before Hugo saw her.
Please, Lord, she’d prayed, even while she’d continued to flex her inner muscles to draw out the pleasure, I know I’m a wanton sinner, but if you let me get away from here without him seeing me, I’ll never do anything like this again.
Martha knew—even as she made the promise—that it was a lie, perhaps the first lie she’d ever consciously told God.
She’d backed away on her hands and knees, and, when she was sure she would not be seen, pushed to her feet, still backing toward the house. And that was when she brushed against an empty peat crate and knocked it over, the soft clunk sending her fleeing the short distance back to the stone house as if the hounds of Hell were on her heels.
Once inside the house she’d collapsed against the door. A quick glance at her watch had shown that barely ten minutes had passed since she’d gone outside to see where the smoke was coming from.
Her entire world had changed in ten minutes.
She’d barely slept that night. Every time she had closed her eyes, she saw him again. The delicious explosion had occurred twice more, no matter how much she tried to prevent it.
The same thing had happened every night since. Martha was beyond hope—utterly lost to the pleasures of the flesh: a child of Onan, as it were, not that she’d ever suspected that applied to women.
“Martha?”
She squeaked and jumped at the sound of her father’s voice, clutching her broom to her chest. Would he know what she was thinking just by looking at her?
“In here, Father,” she called out in a quavering voice.
The door opened and the vicar stood in the doorway. “Hello, my dear. I just wanted to let you know I was back from visiting young Lorn.”
“How is he?”
“It will be a while before his leg mends, but Mrs. Sutherland has already installed him in Denny’s old room and Lorn will probably be too plump to move by the time he’s healed.”
“I am so happy to hear it.” She glanced at her watch and saw it was after two. “Do you want me to come in and fix you something?”
“No thank you,” he said, patting his non-existent paunch, “Mrs. Sutherland puts on quite a midday spread. I shall be working on my sermon in my office if you should need me.”
Martha looked into his faded blue eyes and saw no condemnation of her—no disgust that she was an immoral wanton. Was it really that easy to hide thoughts that burned like fire inside her body? Is that what other people were doing while they were walking about the island?
Martha sighed and closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the cool stone wall. But Hugo was there, waiting for her.
Chapter 13
Hugo soon discovered that getting back to London was not going to happen as quickly as he’d hoped.
Once the euphoria of being free dissipated, he was in the same situation as before: he either needed to earn or steal his way back south.
Given his recent brush with transportation, he had no interest in breaking the law.
So that left working—at least until he could send a letter to Melissa and ask her to advance enough money for his journey. But before he could send a letter, he needed money to buy paper, ink, and a quill. He knew the vicar would have given him as much, but he was tired of relying on the poor old man and his daughter for everything from the food he ate, to the clothing on his back.
Fortunately, this was the busy time of year on Stroma and strong backs were in demand. While the men fished as many hours as they could, the women tended the crofts, caring for livestock and bringing in the harvest without the aid of their menfolk in many cases.
The Stroma crofters grew potatoes, hay, oats, and a variety of vegetables. But in the main, they grew corn. Most of the crofters kept laying hens and other fowl, a pig, a sheep or two, and some even a mule, although the plough was not employed on the island.
The island, fascinatingly enough, did not have one single tree. The main source of heat—peat—they had to import. Bringing the soft fuel to the island was the chief expense of most islanders, so a great deal of the local economy was barter, a skill which Hugo quickly mastered. He had two—well, he actually had three—valuable skills, but one would likely get him lynched. And so he sold his strong back and his braided cords.
Once he’d put his mind to earning money rather than stealing it, he labored every waking hour. He spent his days working for Mr. Stogden, who allowed Hugo the use of
a structure on his land that resembled a lean-to, but more substantial and built from stone. It would never serve as a dwelling in winter, but Hugo hoped to be gone before it became too cold.
Hugo liked Mr. Stogden: the old man kept to himself and had no interest in socializing—unlike just about everyone else on the bloody island.
It wasn’t that Hugo wasn’t fond of a chin wag every now and then with whores, thieves, flashmen, and others of that ilk. But just what the hell would he have to talk about with a fisherman or farmer?
Would they swap stories?
If any of the islanders ever learned that he’d earned money by servicing other men’s wives or taking it up the arse, they would likely drive him from the island with pitchforks and torches.
That knowledge hung in the back of his mind like a specter and made avoiding socializing with decent people an easy decision.
Besides, he didn’t have time. After his long day at the quarry Hugo worked braiding cords. He first finished the vicar’s bell pull—free of charge—and then took a steady stream of orders from other islanders. In order to spend his evenings braiding, he needed to purchase peat to have firelight to work by.
Luckily Mr. Stogden kindly advanced him his first week’s wages after he’d worked only two days. “I can see you’ll be worth the money,” the old man had said when Hugo had shown his surprise. Naturally, Stogden’s kindness had made him work even harder. So maybe the old man was just a savvy businessman.
Hugo used the advance to purchase fuel and a few necessities—like a quill, ink, and parchment—from the tiny store. He’d quickly learned that he had to add the Greedy Vicar to the short list of places to avoid on the island.
Another was the vicar’s house, which Hugo avoided diligently in case his curious cock led him into trouble: namely into Mr. Pringle’s daughter.
But his cock couldn’t be blamed for needing to steer clear of the little pub. No, it was the islanders themselves who kept him at bay. Not out of cruelty, but because they liked him too much. Each time he showed his face in the tiny taproom somebody would insist on spelling him a pint.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 10