The sound appeared to shake him from his reverie, and he lifted his hand and looked at his palm, a wry smile on his mouth as he raised his eyes to hers. “My hands are not so soft and white now, are they?”
Martha took his hand in hers and traced the soft blisters and hardening calluses. “No, but they are still beautiful.”
His lips flexed slightly at her compliment. “May I untie your cloak—before it throttles you?”
“I can do it.” She reached for the worn tie with a shaking hand.
“No, let me. It will be a novelty for me to remove your cloak while you get to do it every day.”
A choked laugh broke out of her at his foolish words, his whimsical answer somehow soothing her raw nerves.
“That’s better,” he said, deftly opening the knot that was indeed pressing against her throat. “Kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies is not serious business, Martha, it should be savored and celebrated.” He tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear, his fingers never ceasing their soothing yet inciting caressing. “You have lovely hair, so glossy and thick, not unlike Lily’s silky texture.”
Again, she laughed. “Did you just compare me to an otter? The same creatures you call rats?”
He grinned. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?” This close to him she could see his pupils were swollen. “You’ll have to think of some way to punish me.”
His words were innocent, but she sensed there was some other meaning behind them. And she burned to discover it, to explore this complex and confusing man. But she was so wretchedly ignorant that she couldn’t even think how to go about beginning such an exploration.
“I was so well-behaved that night in the Gloup, wasn’t I?” he asked, the question breaking into her thoughts. “I wanted to touch you so badly.”
“Er, you did?”
“I can’t recall a time when I’ve denied myself what I wanted—especially when I wanted you so very much.”
His words were like something out of a dream. He’d wanted her? Martha opened her mouth.
“I restrained myself, but every man has his limit, Martha.” He eyes dropped to her mouth and his pupils flared. And then he jerked his gaze back up. “And I think you came here tonight to push me past mine”
Once again, she began to speak, but he pulled away, until they weren’t touching.
“I’m giving you the opportunity to leave … now. You don’t have to go back to Clark. You don’t have to marry him or anyone else. I will make sure you are taken care of—that is a favor to your father, not to you, so you needn’t feel beholden to me. I owe him that much, at least.” He paused, and then added, “You don’t need to give yourself to me, Martha.”
Her addled brain clumsily sorted through what he’d just said. He was offering to take care of her, not to marry her or spend the rest of his life with her. He felt obligated to help her—because of her father.
What he’d left unsaid, but what Martha had heard, nonetheless, was that wanting her physically—both now and that night in the Gloup—had nothing to do with love or marriage. If she wanted either of those things from him, she should leave. Now.
If she gave herself to him, it should be for reasons of her own.
Because if she stayed—if she succumbed to her desire for him—she would be a soiled dove in the eyes of decent men. Men like Robert.
But whether she gave herself to Hugo or not, Martha knew—without a doubt—that she would never want to marry anyone else: she loved him. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop loving him just because he didn’t feel the same.
So, she could either take this much of him and be ruined, or she could take nothing at all.
The decision was surprisingly easy.
Martha grabbed his head and yanked him down.
For a moment—a moment that lasted years—Hugo’s body didn’t yield to her; he remained rigid and unresponsive. And then he muttered something vulgar and claimed her mouth, thrusting his warm, silky tongue between her lips.
◆◆◆
Hugo knew that only a few words from him—the truth about who and what he was—would drive her away forever. If he really cared for her then he should speak up and save her.
But he was covetous and lustful and selfish—why should that surprise him?
Hugo didn’t just want her; he wanted to make sure that nobody else could have her. He wanted to ruin her chances with Clark or any other decent man. He wanted to leave her with only one choice: Hugo.
And so he lowered his mouth over hers.
She opened beneath him, soft and willing and sweet, and he plunged into her deep and rough, wanting her to know just what kind of beast she was giving herself to: not a kind, gentle man, but a crude, lustful brute.
He willed her to pull away and save them both—to slap him across the face and leave without looking back.
Instead, she clutched his hair even harder and moaned softy, inviting him deeper, innocently trusting herself to the worst man for miles.
Hugo had doomed them both.
He rewarded her trust by ravaging her, until she was breathless and whimpering. He took and took and took, and still she offered more. When her tongue tentatively stroked his own, Hugo stilled his pillaging and slanted his mouth, opening wider to give her access, inviting her to join in her downfall.
Had he ever enjoyed a kiss this much? Her joy in discovery made him realize that he’d never just kissed a woman for kissing’s sake. After all, whores weren’t hired for their kissing skills, were they?
Whores.
He imagined her expression when she learned he was a whore, and he jerked back.
“Hugo?” Martha blinked up at him. “Is something wrong?”
Her wide-eyed blue gaze was like the dangerous beauty of a whirlpool and Hugo allowed himself to be pulled down and down. Her eyes were easily the most expressive he’d ever seen, and right now, her pupils were huge with desire. For him.
You can still salvage this, a sly voice taunted. It’s only a kiss. So far.
He didn’t want only a kiss. He wanted all of her. Would taking her for himself—not just for tonight, but for all the days and nights ahead—really be so bad?
After all, Mr. Pringle had wanted Hugo to get his daughter off this godforsaken rock. It was Hugo’s duty to do what the vicar had wanted and marry her. He’d given the man his word.
Ha! The word of a whore.
Mr. Pringle had seen goodness in Hugo.
But he didn’t know you, did he, Hugo?
No, the vicar had no idea what sort of man he’d entrusted with his daughter.
Hugo shifted until he was no longer touching her—he couldn’t think straight with her in his arms. “Why did you agree to marry Clark, Martha?”
She knitted her brow. “Why are you asking me such a question?”
“Because a short time ago you wanted him enough to marry him. Yet now you are with me. You are in pain—confused—what if—”
“I was wrong to accept him.”
“What if you are wrong again? If there is even a chance for you and Clark then you should go.” The words tasted foul in his mouth.
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying that staying with me tonight doesn’t just mean tonight, Martha. I won’t do that to your father.” He knew his face had twisted into an ugly sneer. “I might be rotten to the core, but at least I can keep my word. And if you stay, it means you will marry me, Martha.”
“Are—are you saying you l-love me?”
It wasn’t the question that Hugo had expected. More fool him; what young woman didn’t dream about falling in love?
He looked into her eyes, which bled emotion, and knew that he could lie about everything else in his life—and he would bloody well do so if she accepted him—but not this.
Hugo wanted her intensely, more than he had ever wanted anyone else in his life. His desires had always been money and what it could buy for him: security and safety. Wanting money was easy—you just foun
d a way to make it.
Wanting another person? Well . . .
“I don’t have much experience with love, Martha—hell, I don’t have any experience with it. I doubt that I’d recognize it if it crawled up my trouser leg and bit me on the—well, I’m sure you take my meaning. I like you a great deal and enjoy your company more than anyone else’s. And I find you desirable—very desirable.” She turned a fetching shade of pink, just as he’d known she would. “But love?” He shook his head. “If I don’t know what that is by the age of thirty-two, I doubt I ever will. I don’t—”
“I love you, Hugo.”
Hugo’s jaw sagged.
“That’s what I discovered after I read my father’s journal—when I allowed myself to feel, instead of just doing what I thought my father would have wanted and marry Robert. I love you.”
A groan broke out of him at her declaration, and she flinched.
Hugo took her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. “I wasn’t groaning because you said, well, you know”—Hugo couldn’t even say the blood words. “Christ,” he muttered, and then grimaced when she jolted. “I’m sorry.”
If she found his habitual taking of the Lord’s name in vain, just wait until she learned about the rest of him. But Hugo had no intention of confessing the crimes of a lifetime to her.
Even so, she should know what kind of man he was.
“I’ve made a great deal of my money in ways which are both illegal and immoral. I am not a good man, Martha. It’s my nature to get what I want by any means. That’s the way I’ve always been, and I don’t see myself changing.”
“These—these things you’ve done, are you saying they would make me not want to marry you if I knew?”
Hugo gave an unamused bark of laughter. “I think what I’ve done would make you not want to even look at me.”
“Why won’t you just tell me?”
Yes, Hugo—tell her why you can’t share the truth. Tell her it’s because nobody in your life has ever loved you—or looked at you the way she does—and you want to see just how badly she wants you and if she’ll take you without knowing the truth.
Hugo couldn’t deny all that, but he was hardly going to admit it.
“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, Martha, but I also refuse to lay my past out for inspection—yours, or anyone else’s.”
“That’s not fair, is it?”
“That’s another thing I am not: fair.”
“Have you murdered somebody, er, not in self-defense?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you married?”
Hugo laughed, genuinely amused. “Murder and marriage are closely linked in your mind, are they?”
She didn’t laugh with him.
“No, I am not, nor have I ever been, married.” Nor did I ever bloody believe I would be.
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Are you cruel to children or animals?”
Hugo blinked. “I can’t even recall the last time I was around a child. But, no, I have never been willfully cruel to a child—well, at least not since I was a child, myself. And no as to the other.”
She stared at him with the same burning intensity she had the day McCoy came to take the prisoners back to the ship: with her heart in her eyes.
“You mentioned the way you made your money. Are—are you planning to do the things you did … again?”
How should he answer that? Would he whore again?
Just thinking about going back to that life—to whoring seven days a week—made him feel tired. But if Laura had destroyed everything he’d worked for, then he’d do whatever he needed to do to earn money. He always had.
“Short of murder or abusing children and animals, I’ll not make you any promises. I will do whatever I need to do to provide for myself and anyone under my protection. That is what I can offer you, Martha.”
She regarded him solemnly for a long moment and then laid her hand on his forearm and they both stared at it, as if it were some exotic butterfly perched between them. Her hand trembled as she slid it up his bicep, over his shoulder, and up his neck, not stopping until she cupped his jaw, her fingers as work-hardened and calloused as his own.
The raw emotion—the love—in her gaze humbled him. Hugo vowed that he would do all he could humanly do to make sure that she was happy and well-cared for.
The only thing he wouldn’t do is give her the truth, a truth that would only hurt her, anyway. Wasn’t that enough?
It would have to be.
Hugo kissed her palm. “Will you marry me, Martha Pringle?”
Chapter 22
His body tighten beneath Martha’s hand; it thrilled her that she could make such a strong, powerful man feel so deeply.
But it also pained her that he didn’t love her or trust her enough to tell her the truth about himself. But the thought of living without him—no matter what he had done or might do in the future—pained her more.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Hugo Buckingham.”
One minute they were sitting side by side, the next Martha was lying on her back, Hugo looming over her, his hands planted on either side of her shoulders.
“Martha,” he whispered, giving a slight, wondering shake of his head. “You need to understand what you will be getting. What you saw me doing that night? Fisting myself? That’s me, Martha. I’m crass and earthy and I like being that way. I’m not a gentleman—I’m not … couth. I don’t like furtive trysting in the dark—I like fucking in all its forms.”
She gasped.
Hugo nodded, as though she’d said something. “And I like saying the word fuck—and cruder words besides. I won’t be the kind of husband to visit you weekly and mount you in darkness. I want to know every part of your body, intimately, and I want you to learn all about mine.”
His eyes roamed her face. “I’ve never had a lover before.” He chuckled when her eyes bulged. “No, I don’t mean that I’m a virgin. What I mean is that I’ve never been with anyone that mattered, anyone I cared about.”
Martha’s heart leapt; caring wasn’t love, but it was better than nothing. Was that pathetic? Perhaps, but she would take what she could get.
“I know what you are like, Hugo. Do you think I don’t? You are irreverent, clever, and, yes, vulgar—but I like you just as you are. You don’t have to—”
He crushed her mouth with his, the kiss savage and hungry. Martha opened to him and slid her hands into his thick, wiry hair. He kissed her until they were both breathless and then nuzzled her chin to tilt her head back, lowering his mouth over the base of her throat and sucking.
She pushed herself against him, unable to get close enough, one hand gripping his neck and pulling him tight while the other stroked the impossibly hard lines of his shoulders and back. Only when his hair tickled the top of her breast did she realize that he’d opened the wooden buttons on her dress.
“Up a bit,” he said as he tugged both the bodice and worn chemise down her shoulders. She shivered, and not just from the cool night air. “I’ll warm you,” he murmured, and then something unspeakably soft caressed her nipple. “Martha.” The word was a damp, hot whisper against the tight pucker of flesh.
A soft grunt of pleasure slipped from her mouth as he sucked her nipple, not stopping until it was a hard, needy bud. Her body arched in wanton invitation, pure pleasure driving away any self-consciousness.
“Touch me.” He took her wrist and guided her hand beneath his untucked shirt.
Martha’s fingers brushed hot, silky skin stretched taut over muscles that were as hard and sculpted as the wooden ships the islanders made.
He hissed in a breath and flexed beneath her questing fingers. “So good,” he praised, licking and nibbling and sucking. “Unbutton my vest,” he ordered softly, his teeth grazing the thin skin over her ribs.
Her hands worked awkwardly between their bodies, and when she reached the last button, he sat up, reached over his shoulder, and
pulled both his vest and shirt over his head.
Martha had seen his upper body before, but never so close, and never with the invitation to touch. She stroked from his tantalizingly hard belly to his smooth chest.
He growled and dropped onto his elbows, capturing her mouth. Their kisses became frenzied and so did Martha’s hands as she explored the broad flare of powerful shoulders that tapered to the tight twist of muscles at his waist. And below that…
He flexed his hips as he thrust against her, the action causing the impossibly tight globes of flesh to harden even more.
“I want to touch you, Martha.”
Fear and anticipation swirled in her belly. She swallowed. “You mean you want to—”
His mouth pulled up on one side, his eyes hooded. “We will save that for our wedding night. But tonight … tonight I want to explore you and bring you pleasure.”
What did he even mean?
His hungry expression turned almost gentle as he kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s fine if you’d rather wait until we are—”
“No, I want you to t-touch me, Hugo.”
He pushed onto his knees and his gaze dropped to her chest, which she’d somehow forgotten was uncovered, and he cupped her breasts with his big, warm hands.
Martha bit her lip just in time to catch a whimper.
“You’re so beautiful.” His dark eyes moved lower.
The mortification at what he was seeing crumbled beneath the raw desire in his gaze and heat pooled in her belly.
“Hugo? Should we—maybe close the flap on—”
“No. It would be too dark without the firelight. I need to see you.”
Martha knew she should insist—what if somebody saw them?
But she wanted to see him, too.
He stared down at her as he casually thumbed her already hard nipples, each touch sending painfully pleasurable bolts to her tightly clenched thighs.
A guttural sound slipped from her mouth and she thrust her chest up at him as he lowered his mouth. He didn’t suck, as he’d done before, but dropped frustratingly soft kisses, stroking her with one hand while his other pulled the bunched fabric around her middle lower and lower.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 19
