He almost laughed as he recalled how naïve he’d been.
“He took me to a whip-maker, a man named John Caton.” Hugo chewed his cheek, wondering how to phrase what came next.
“That is who taught you to braid,” she said softly. “You mentioned once that he … whipped you.”
“Yes.” Hugo still remembered that first time, although he’d forgotten the dozens, if not hundreds, of others over the years that followed.
He turned to her again. “There are people—a great many—who find sexual pleasure in either whipping or being whipped.”
Martha swallowed, her chest rising and falling too quickly for a person at rest.
Hugo took in her signs of distress and shook his head. “I don’t think you want to hear this, darling.”
“I want to know about you, Hugo.”
He traced the graceful line of her throat down to her breast and caressed her nipple as he considered what he was about to say.
“Caton bought me because he liked men—very young men.”
“Boys,” she corrected, her eyes suddenly fierce.
“Very well, boys. But don’t fret over me, Martha—I wasn’t a virgin when I went to him and I knew what he wanted from me. My life at home had always been difficult. There was never enough food, my mother was ill for a long time before she died, and my father expected me to work. I was a slender lad until I turned eighteen or so—not good for manual labor—and it didn’t take me long to discover that I appealed to certain men.” He met her gaze, which was direct, but wary. “What I’m about to say will doubtless sound wrong—sinful—”
“It’s not my place to judge you, Hugo.”
“But you are, aren’t you?”
“I did at first. Those first few days after you told me the truth, I was angry, hurt, and—yes—disgusted,” she admitted. “I was so very shocked and caught by surprise, some of the things you mentioned had never even entered my mind. But once I stopped being so furious at you for leaving, I thought about what my father would say. You know how he was—he never judged others.”
Hugo nodded; the vicar had been a truly kind, good soul. But Hugo suspected that even he would have blanched at Hugo’s past.
“My father never believed in using the Bible as a weapon or hectoring people for their sins. He believed in loving others and doing no harm. I think the only person harmed by the things that you did—and that were done to you—was you.”
“Perhaps,” Hugo said, not in any hurry to play the victim in her eyes. “Until you, I had always viewed fu—er, sex—as a way to make money. That’s all that mattered to me: who paid the most.”
As Hugo let her absorb that, he considered the fact that he enjoyed using the word fuck when they were in the heat of passion—he adored shocking her—but that it felt wrong and crude to use it in conversation.
“Why am I different?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but he heard the pain and confusion beneath it. She was genuinely trying to understand him, but it was a lot for anyone to comprehend, especially a woman who was hardly more than an innocent.
“At first I didn’t know why,” he said. “On Stroma, when I couldn’t stop thinking about you, it bothered me. No,” he amended, “it terrified me, although I refused to admit it at the time.”
“You were scared?”
“I’d never had such strong feelings—such a relentless desire—for anyone. I wanted you, badly, but I didn’t want to hurt you or ruin your life. That was also a new consideration for me.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’m sure you remember what I was like when I arrived that night.”
She chuckled softly. “You were horrid. But also very …”
“Yes?” he prodded.
She dropped her gaze, her cheeks fiery. “I couldn’t look away from you. Your b-body was so beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever seen. And when your blanket slipped—”
It was Hugo’s turn to laugh. Amazingly, he also felt his own face heat at her compliment. “Ah, you remember that, do you?”
“You were so naughty.”
Hugo smiled down at his love. “And you were so cruel.”
She snorted, but the smile faded from her face. “Finish your story, Hugo.”
Hugo sighed. “Caton made it clear my first night the way things would be between us.”
By that time Hugo had already been with many men, but those had been furtive back-alley encounters. Caton owned his body outright and had the leisure and opportunity to use him fully.
“He liked to, er, well, whip me and then use me.”
She bit her lip, and her eyes became glassy.
He groaned. “Don’t cry for me, Martha. It’s a sign of what a bad man I am that I really didn’t suffer all that much during the years I worked off my debt. He knew how to handle a whip and never damaged me in any permanent sense. He was quite old when he’d bought me and took me less and less as time wore on. My last year with him was—well, it was quite possibly the easiest year of my life up to that point.” Only after he’d spoken did he realize how pitiful that sounded.
“Oh, Hugo.”
He kissed her. “He taught me a trade and I was good at it. I made enough money to buy my freedom. He wanted me to stay.” Indeed, he’d offered to give Hugo his business if he remained and took care of him. “But I was young and arrogant and, by then, I knew I could make a great deal more money elsewhere.”
“With your body?”
“With my body,” he confirmed. “I worked at several places before I managed to get a position at Solange’s. It was one of the most exclusive brothels in the city. Melissa Griffin cared about her employees and it was the safest place I had worked, by far.” He shrugged. “And the rest you know—I worked there until I could buy into it.”
“And you never saw any of your family again?”
“No. Bev told me that two of my sisters had worked for him, that my father—or the man I thought of as my father—had died some years back, and the rest of my siblings he knew nothing about.”
“Was your mother at least kind to you?”
He considered his mam, whom he’d not really thought about for years. After a moment, he shook his head. “I know it is terrible, but I can’t even recall her face. She was ill—I suppose it was consumption—for years. She was always tired, worn down, and joyless. She was never cruel to me—neither of them was—but I was just a burden to her. I don’t think she had enough of herself left to love any of us. It was a hard life, Martha. That’s why—” He bit his lip, not wanting to talk about losing Solange’s.
“That’s why you were so determined to hold on to your business—you didn’t want to be poor again.”
Hugo nodded. “Until I met you, possessions were the only things that made me feel safe or happy. I thought if I could surround myself with enough things then I would finally feel secure. But I now know that would have never happened. I would have always needed more, more, more.” He stroked his fingers through the soft hairs at her temple. “Now … well, I don’t give a damn about expensive clothing or a grand house stuffed full of fine things.”
“Do you really think you can be happy operating an orphanage in a foreign country, Hugo?”
He smiled down at the love of his life. “I don’t think you quite understand what I’m saying, Martha. When I thought I’d lost you—that I’d thrown away what we had—I realized that the only thing I needed for happiness was you. I’ll be happy living anywhere, doing anything, as long as we are together, my darling.”
Epilogue
A Small Village in France
Several Years Later
“Non, non, ne tenez pas le chien par la queue, Yvette. Il n'aimera pas ça.” Hugo said to the angelic-looking three-year-old girl who was risking life and limb by holding Fergus’s tail.
Martha smiled at both Hugo’s coaxing tone and his French. While all three of them had become far more fluent in the language over the last seven years, Hugo still had the most dreadful pronunciation. Sometimes she susp
ected that he wore his sheer Englishness as a badge of honor.
Once he’d detached the unwitting cherub from imminent canine danger, he carried the little girl back over to the group of children who were currently listening to a story before they took their afternoon nap.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur Yougo. Yvette is a sneaky one!” Sandrine said in charmingly accented English. She was one of the five women who lived and worked at their small orphanage. Hugo, Martha, and Cailean had all learned French, but they asked that their employees learn English so their young charges would learn both languages. All the children would one day have to work for a living and being bilingual was a valuable, and lucrative, skill, as the three of them had quickly learned.
Once he’d deposited the little girl, Hugo strode across the lawn of what had once been the country home of the de Courtney family. While the grounds were still lovely, much of it had been allowed to return to nature. What lawn remained was dotted with dandelions—which the children adored—and only raggedly trimmed.
Martha knew that the lovely estate was a mere shadow of what it had been when it belonged to the de Courtneys, but she liked to think that it was far more beloved by the children who had come here to heal and begin new lives.
Although Melissa and Magnus had originally purchased the house and land and employed Hugo and Martha to operate the orphanage, they had been able to buy the property after Albert’s first factory began production three years ago.
Rather than pursue his interest in Solange’s, Hugo had used the ducal favor he’d been granted to ensure that Albert gained speedy control of his patent. Not only that, but the man who’d tried to steal his idea and condemned Albert to transportation was now, himself, a resident of the southern colonies.
Over the years Albert had applied for more patents than Martha could count and was currently constructing a second larger, factory several miles outside London. While he made his permanent home in England, he still visited them three or four times a year and always brought his employee and dear friend—Daniel Charters—with him on his trips.
Last year Albert had invested money in yet another of Magnus’s ventures, a school that would teach older children both practical skills as well as mathematics and sciences.
Hugo dropped into the chair beside her with a sigh, and then patted his knee. “Come here, Fergus old boy,” he cajoled. “She didn’t hurt you—well, maybe your pride,” he amended with a chuckle as the old dog walked stiffly toward him.
Hugo scooped him up and Fergus immediately settled in for a nap, the first of several he’d take today.
Hugo turned to her. “How are you feeling, darling?”
“Big.”
He chuckled and set a hand on her belly. “And Annette is sure it’s not twins?” he asked, not for the first time.
Annette was the woman who served as midwife and nurse for the little village that was only a mile from the chateau.
Martha set her hand over her husband’s and squeezed. “She is certain it is just one very large boy.”
Like her other pregnancies, this one had been free from sickness or discomfort—until this past month. Not only was it full summer, but she was already one week past her due date. She was ready to have this baby.
“When is Cailean supposed to return?” she asked him.
“I made him promise to be back two full hours before dinner.” Hugo picked up the newspaper he’d been reading before he’d gone to rescue Fergus from Yvette.
Cailean had taken the older children—those five to eleven—out to the large barn at the edge of the property. In the years since London, he’d expanded his menagerie exponentially.
The barn was his animal hospital, where he kept anywhere from twenty to fifty or more animals at any given time. Most of the animals were those he rescued—dogs, cats, and wild creatures like rabbits and birds—but the people of the village had begun bringing him farm beasts several years ago when they heard about his facility for healing.
Twice a week he took a group of children—including their daughter, Elizabeth—with him to help. Martha suspected that having seven little humans underfoot was more of a burden than any great help, but Cailean loved the children and they adored him.
He still rarely spoke, and when he did, it was usually to one of his patients, rather than a person, but Elizabeth could always get a word or two out of him. At almost six years of age, she was her father’s daughter when it came to her gregarious, fearless spirit.
“Oh,” Hugo said, removing the glasses that he’d finally admitted he needed on his thirty-ninth birthday. “I forgot to tell you that Mel wrote to say Laura finally agreed to marry that blacksmith—I can’t recall his name—”
“Jacques.”
“Yes, that was it. Mel said the man’s daughters adore her and she is enjoying being a grandmother.” He turned back to his paper and Martha smiled. She was both relieved and amused by his attitude toward the woman who’d stolen his business and sent him on a journey to New South Wales that had ended on an island in northern Scotland.
The third year they’d been in France, Hugo had sought her out one day when she’d been working in the nursery, her favorite part of the job.
“There you are!” He’d been breathless, as if he’d run to find her.
“Is anything wrong? Is it Elizab—”
“No, no, nothing like that. She’s fine—Cailean’s watching her.”
Elizabeth had been almost two at the time and the French women had dubbed her Mlle Comète because of her comet-like speed when it came to shooting through a room.
“I just thought of something.” Hugo had lifted her to her feet and slid his arms around her.
“Oh, Hugo—I can’t right now, I’m the only one here watching the—”
“Not that, my wicked wife.”
As ever, she’d blushed when he teased her about anything intimate.
“No, I was just thinking about seeing Laura when we go and visit Melissa and Magnus next month.”
“Oh, Hugo—I was hoping you were getting less angry with her. You know that we—”
He’d laid a finger over her lips. “What I wanted to say, is that I should probably be thanking her for what she did.”
“What?”
“If she hadn’t sent me on that dreadful journey, I never would have met you.”
Martha had immediately teared up. “I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She still remembered his lovemaking that evening. He’d been intense—even more passionate than usual—and she was convinced they’d conceived their younger daughter, Amelia, that night.
Ever since then, he’d seemed to take almost a proprietary interest in Laura’s life.
Martha was grateful that he’d let go of his anger, no matter how justified. Anger, jealousy, envy—and a raft of other negative emotions—were always more corrosive to the bearer than the target.
Hugo wasn’t the only one who had wrestled with such problems over the years.
Martha had suffered through terrible months during their first year of marriage, unable to forget all the beautiful and skilled lovers Hugo had enjoyed before her. She’d been stunned by her capacity for jealousy—an emotion she’d not had much experience with until then.
It had been Melissa who’d helped her accept her husband’s past.
“Hugo and I are very much alike,” the beautiful redhead had said after Martha finally broke down and asked the other woman if Magnus, her husband, had ever been jealous of the men in her past. “It was always a job to us,” she explained. “I knew other women—and a few men—who fell in love with their clients, or came to care for them, but that never happened to either of us. I know it is difficult for most people to understand, but the act of physical love is meaningless if there is nothing else to go with it.” She’d laughed. “I once compared it to other activities—eating a meal together or playing cards—and poor Magnus almost fainted.”
Martha could certai
nly understand the man’s reaction. The things she did with Hugo were unlike any card game she’d ever played.
Melissa’s smile had faded, and she’d given Martha a direct, unflinching look. “What you should remember is that when it comes to love, you were Hugo’s first and only. Nobody ever touched his heart until you.”
Her words had been a revelation. Hugo had said something similar, but she’d been unable to push aside her jealousy and listen.
Martha would probably always feel a twinge when she thought about all the people he’d shared his body with, but the thought no longer rode her like a demon. She was the only one to have his heart.
As she looked at him now—bespectacled, with a few strands of silver threading through his striking black hair—she experienced the same overwhelming love for him that she’d felt all those years ago on Stroma.
It made her shiver when she thought about all the things that could have happened to keep them from being together. If the sailors hadn’t mutinied and the journey had gone as planned. If the ship had struck the rocks at a different angle and trapped the men inside. If Cailean hadn’t found Hugo in the darkness and rescued him. If her father hadn’t coerced Hugo into taking a chance on a vicar’s daughter. If Martha had chosen the safe fork in the road and stayed with Robert Clark.
And a thousand other things that might have happened to keep her from spending her life with this most wonderful man.
As if feeling her eyes on him, Hugo looked up and smiled, his expression quizzical. “What is it, my love?”
Martha quickly swallowed back the tears that always made him anxious for her, even when she tried to convince him they were borne of joy.
Instead, she gave him the cheekiest smile she could muster. “I was just thinking how grateful I am to be married to you.”
He perked up at that and folded the paper without taking his eyes from her. “Is that so?” His wicked black eyebrows arched. “Er, how grateful, exactly?”
Martha laughed and smoothed a hand over her huge belly. “Not that grateful.” She cocked her head. “I’ve come to realize that you are almost the perfect man for me.”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 33