“If he doesn’t like it in London, I’ll make sure he gets back to you safely,” he promised her.
Beside him, Cailean bounced on the balls of his feet, staring at Hugo as if he were a god.
Bloody hell.
“You want to come over to the Vicar to see Martha?” Hugo asked, more than a little embarrassed by Cailean’s worshipful stare.
Cailean bolted out of the kitchen and Hugo smiled at the old woman. “I guess that’s a yes, too.” He hesitated, and then added, “I hope you’ll come and enjoy a celebratory glass of sherry with us, Mrs. Fergusson.”
Her wrinkled face creased into a smile. “Aye, thank you. I’ll be over in a bit.”
Hugo left, pleased with himself for offering the olive branch.
The Vicar was already crowded when Hugo and Cailean arrived. For a moment, everything went silent, and Hugo felt the weight of several dozen eyes.
But then somebody yelled, “Hugo!” and the room erupted into warm, noisy chaos as the people he’d come to know over the past weeks shouted out congratulations, clapped him on the shoulder, and generally roasted him on his impending nuptials.
Martha sat at the table closest to the tiny bar and Hugo made his way over to her, having to stop frequently for good wishes and congratulations.
“Good evening, Mistress Pringle,” he teased.
She gave him a shy smile, her cheeks rosy. “Mr. Higgenbotham.”
Hugo laughed.
“Hello Cailean. I hope—” Martha bit her lip and looked at Hugo.
“Cailean has agreed to join us.”
Her smile was glorious. “Oh! I’m so happy to hear that.”
Hugo grinned at Cailean, who looked fit to burst. “Why don’t you go tell Joe what you want to drink, Cailean. And bring me a pint of bitter, if you don’t mind.”
The lad nodded and darted toward the bar.
Hugo dropped into the chair next to Martha with a sigh.
“I’m so happy he’s coming with us, Hugo.”
Her adoring look made him want to preen like an idiot. “Well, me too,” he said gruffly. So,” he said, changing the subject, “Was it a rough day?”
“Not as bad as I feared.”
“Everyone I talked to already knew,” he told her. “You must have been busy.”
“I only had to tell Joe and Mary and they did the rest.” She hesitated and then added, “But the day felt endless; I’m glad you’re here.”
Warmth spread inside him at her words. “Me too,” he said quietly, and then noticed the slight tightness around her eyes and frowned. “Was anyone unkind about our decision to marry so quickly?” Like Clark.
“No, not at all,” she assured him. “It’s just, well, I—I spoke to Mr. Clark first thing—I felt he deserved to know before anyone else. He was a perfect gentleman and wished me all the best.”
“Of course, he was.” Hugo scowled at the surge of jealousy in his belly.
“Everyone understands why we are doing it this way.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “People like and respect you, even though they’ve not known you long, and they care about me and are happy for us both.”
Hugo wasn’t so sure of her assessment, but, as the evening wore on and more people came to congratulate them, and he realized that she was right. The people of Stroma saw Hugo as a man who’d been wronged by the law and worked hard over the past weeks. Also, many of them still hadn’t forgiven Robert Clark for the help he’d given McCoy. The cynical part of Hugo—the larger part—suspected that was the true reason that so many people seemed happy about Martha’s decision to marry Hugo.
Whatever the reason, Hugo’s face hurt from smiling by the time the little taproom began to empty out.
“Do you need a lantern?” Martha asked as Hugo walked her upstairs to the inn’s one guestroom.
“No, there’s moon enough.” Hugo opened the door to her tiny bedchamber.
She cut him a furtive glance. “Well, good night, then.”
Hugo caught her arm before she could slip away. “Surely I can give you a kiss?”
She blushed adorably. “Well—”
Hugo gave her a chaste peck on her flushed cheek.
She frowned. “Is that all?”
Hugo laughed and claimed her petal-soft lips with a real kiss. “Sleep tight, Martha. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He winked. “At our wedding.”
He’d only gone a short way up the road when he noticed somebody with a lantern approaching from a cluster of cottages.
Hugo stopped. “Good evening, Clark.”
Clark didn’t stop walking until he practically stood on Hugo’s toes. “I’ve been waiting for you, Buckingham.”
If Clark thought his behavior was intimidating, he was deeply mistaken.
Rather than step back, Hugo stepped forward. “Why, Robert,” he purred suggestively. “I didn’t know you cared.”
Clark jerked back so fast that he stumbled and Hugo caught his arm before he could go arse over tip.
Clark yanked his arm away. “There’s something rotten about you, Buckingham.” He snorted. “Even your name sounds false.”
He was right about that much, at least.
“I think what you are trying to say is ‘congratulations, Hugo.””
Clark’s jaw moved from side to side, his hands fisted at his sides.
Hugo’s body remained taut as he waited for the other man’s attack.
But then Clark’s shoulders slumped and all the rage seemed to drain out of him. He shook his head, his expression one of resignation and disgust. “I can’t blame Martha for choosing you—she’s just a simple country lass who lost her father and is confused and scared. Life on the island is hard and I’m sure that London must sound exotic and appealing to her. But she belongs here with people who will care for her. I think you know that Buckingham. If you care for her then you should think of her best interests. Don’t do this to her; don’t take her away from the only home she’s ever known.”
Clark’s threats had only amused him, but Clark’s plea?
Well, that was another matter, entirely. Maybe his words wouldn’t have been so affecting if Hugo didn’t completely agree with the other man.
“Martha is a grown woman,” he said. “She can make her own decisions.”
“Do you even love her?”
“What I feel for her is none of your concern.”
“Well I do love her,” Clark said.
Fury—and something very much like envy—flared inside him at Clark’s claim, and the ease with which he made it. Hugo sneered. “How nice for you, Clark. But Martha doesn’t love you; she loves me. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
Clark gave him a sad look. “You don’t love her, do you? You’re the sort of man who can’t love anyone but himself. Because if you did, you’d do what was best for her and leave her alone.” Clark turned on his heel and headed toward the little stone cottage that Hugo knew he shared with his mother, widowed sister, and her children.
Hugo opened his mouth to yell something—to taunt the other man and make him come back and fight—but he shut his mouth without uttering a sound. Because he agreed with Clark’s accusation.
If he truly loved Martha, he would want her to have what was best for her. And Hugo wasn’t best for anyone—especially not a woman.
Instead of leaving her here with a man who loved her, he was going to take her as his wife without ever telling her the truth: that he was a lying whore incapable of love.
If he were a better man, he’d steal a boat and row himself across to the mainland and disappear from her life.
But he wasn’t a better man, and there was no way on God’s green earth that he was ever going to let Martha go.
Chapter 24
“So, Mrs. Buckingham.”
Martha smiled at her husband of barely four hours. “So, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo grinned back at her, the expression uncharacteristically joyful and boyish. “I’m sorry our wedding was such a rushed af
fair,” he said as they walked from the Norseman Inn and Public House up Wick’s High Street.
“There is always too much work to be done during the harvest to take more than a few hours away,” she reassured him. “That’s why most weddings take place in the winter or spring.”
“I have to admit that I’m happy that we got into Wick before the shops closed. I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get today.”
For the wedding Mr. Stogden had loaned him a coat and neckerchief, but he’d changed back into his own clothes right before they left.
Martha’s clothing—everything except what she’d been wearing the night she’d been trapped in the Gloup with Hugo—had burnt in the fire, along with all her possessions, so the island women had contributed to her wedding ensemble. While the gesture was a kind one, the outfit was hideous. Still, even dressed in ill-fitting near rags she was happier than she’d been in her entire life.
Guilt had tried to worm its way into her day over and over since she’d woken feeling joy at the thought of becoming Hugo’s wife.
How dare she feel such happiness when her father had been dead not even two weeks?
The sharp pain that accompanied that thought was enough to make breathing difficult. But each and every time she began to spiral into despair, she’d hear her father’s voice: I love you too much to ever want you to grieve for me, Martha.
Jonathan Pringle had despised society’s insistence on imposing mourning periods.
Why mourn our loved one’s death when we should be celebrating the joy they brought to our lives?
Martha had reminded herself of her father’s words repeatedly throughout the day.
The wedding had taken place early and the wedding breakfast that Joe and Mary hosted was more like a wedding tea. In Martha’s opinion, it had been lovely and perfect and just the right amount of time to avoid any maudlin emotions to build up.
And then the three of them had piled into the Louise and Jem Packard had taken them across the firth and into Wick Bay.
And now Hugo wanted to take her shopping.
“Are you sure you can afford buying all of us clothing, Hugo? The women were very generous, and I have—”
“Buying a few outfits of clothing won’t beggar me.” He squeezed her hand and they both winced as Cailean—too busy staring in shop windows—almost walked into a lamp post. “He’s going to injure himself if he’s not careful,” Hugo muttered.
Martha was behaving like a gawking yokel, herself. When was the last time she’d even stepped foot in an actual town? As for buying a brand new dress? Well, that had never happened.
“If you are sure, Hugo,” she said.
“I’m sure, darling. You would look lovely in a burlap sack, but the three of us bear more than a passing resemblance to a trio of scarecrows.” He cocked his head at her. “What does one call a collection of scarecrows?”
“Hmm. A fright?” she suggested.
His low chuckle warmed her body through, even though the wind was a bit chill. “What about a scare, no wait, that has the same word. A startle?”
Martha smirked. “A tatterdemalion?”
Hugo laughed. “I surrender. I thought—”
“Hugo?”
They turned at the rare sound of Cailean’s voice. He was pressed up against the tiny bow window of a sweet shop.
“Go on in and tell the clerk what you want,” Hugo told him as Martha wandered to look through the bookstore window right next door. She gorged on the sight of shelves and shelves of books.
“Martha?”
“Would it be all right if I just looked inside?” When he didn’t answer, she turned. He was smiling down at her with the oddest—almost tender—look in his eyes.
“I’ll go get Cailean his sweets and we’ll sit on that bench right there”—he pointed to a bench across from a toy shop—“and wait for you.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“I’m sure.”
I promise I won’t be more than—”
“Here.” He shook several coins from a fat leather pouch into his hand and held them out to her. “Will that be enough for a book or two?”
“Hugo! That’s far too much, I could never—”
He closed her fingers around the coins and lifted her hand to his mouth. “Take all the time you want, darling.” His low voice did disturbing, exciting things to her body. He kissed her fingers, his lips hot even through the thick cotton of her gloves. “I’ll be out here feasting on Turkish delight if you need me.”
◆◆◆
Martha looked from the boxes piled in the corner of her room to the stack of three books on the nightstand and felt almost giddy.
And then she immediately felt ashamed that she was taking such pleasure in material possessions. But it had been so long since she’d had a book that wasn’t dog-eared, or stained, or something that she’d not already read a dozen times.
As for her new dresses? This was the first time in her life that she had not one but five new gowns, none of which she’d sewn herself. New ankle boots, two pairs of slippers, two hats, a new cloak, four pairs of gloves, and on and on.
She’d been too shocked to do more than gape as Hugo had ordered around the elated saleswoman, the pile of garments growing and growing.
Hugo had purchased only a few articles of clothing for himself. “I have lots of clothing in London.” Irritation had flickered across his features. “Hopefully.”
Cailean had been far less interested in new garments than in the book Martha had bought for him. It was a reading primer with the most beautiful pictures she had ever seen. She was determined to teach him to read now that they both would have time.
They had topped off the magical day with a delicious meal in the small inn’s only private parlor. Afterward Hugo and Cailean had gone down to the taproom.
And now Martha was waiting for her husband to come to her.
Her husband.
Martha hugged herself, her fingers stroking her new feather-soft muslin nightgown. It was one of the few garments that she’d chosen for herself, too shy to allow Hugo to select such an intimate thing for her.
She had brushed her hair until it shone, and it hung in a pale blonde froth down to her hips. Martha knew it was her only beauty. She was neither pretty, nor ugly, but average, except for her corn-silk hair. But the way Hugo had looked at her that night in his lean-to had made her feel beautiful.
There was a light knock and then the door opened. Hugo stepped inside and then saw her and froze, his expressive, dark eyes flickering up and down her person before settling on her face. He locked the door without looking away from her.
She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him with such short hair or wearing clothing that fit and flattered his magnificent body.
He looked handsome and virile in snug buckskins, a black coat that molded to his broad shoulders, and a white cravat that was an attractive contrast to his tanned face.
“You look lovely,” he said, closing the distance between them in two strides.
He stopped so close that Martha had to crane her neck to look up at him. She could smell smoke and spirits. Beneath that was the faint masculine earthiness that seemed to be distinctly Hugo’s own scent.
He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. “I have been looking forward to tonight.”
“M-me too.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I only took the one bedchamber for us.”
“Er, should I mind?”
“Lots of married couples don’t share the same room—at least not beyond a few hours on selected nights.” His shapely mouth curved into a smile that made her breathing quicken. “But I will want you in my bed all night. Every night.” He leaned close and whispered, “I will want to make love to you often.”
Martha’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
“You will have your own chambers wherever we live, of course, but we shall always sleep together.”
She moistened her lower lip, whi
ch felt unaccountably dry.
Hugo’s gaze dropped to her mouth, his eyes darkening. “Undress me, Martha.”
Martha jolted at the quiet command. “Oh.”
He nodded encouragingly at her, waiting patiently as her shaking hands reached for the buttons on his coat. As she unfastened them, he carded his fingers through her hair. “You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen.”
She’d heard similar things in the past, but never had mere words caused her entire body to heat.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
She cut him a quick glance, both annoyed and aroused by the lazy confidence in his hooded gaze.
Once the last button was undone, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth over hers.
His kisses were light and teasing and he smelled and tasted so good that Martha felt intoxicated. She didn’t realize he’d coaxed her mouth open until she felt the smooth flick of his tongue against hers. She shuddered and grabbed his biceps, wanting—no, needing—more.
Instead of pulling her closer, he stepped back, his eyes glinting with gentle amusement and something else. Desire?
“Help me take off my coat.”
The garment was tightly fitted, but not ridiculously so and she was able to peel it from his shoulders when he shrugged. Martha laid it over the clotheshorse at the foot of the bed and turned to find him waiting.
She fumbled her way through the buttons on his waistcoat, intensely aware of his silent gaze. When she reached for his cravat, she risked a look up at him.
He was no longer amused; he smoldered.
“My wife,” he murmured, sounding dazed. He yanked off his cravat and tossed it aside, his movements no longer languid, but abrupt and impatient. “I wanted to take my time and seduce you slowly, properly.” He pulled his shirt over his head and it joined his neckcloth. “But I want you too damn much, Martha.” He gave a soft snort that sounded like disbelief and held out his hand; it was shaking. “You see that?”
Before she could answer—not that she knew what to say—his hand dropped to the ridge tenting his leather breeches and he pressed the heel of his hand against it, grimacing as if he were in pain. “Get on the bed.”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 21
