Hugo and the Maiden

as stone, defined and distinct as if someone had created him with a sculptor’s chisel. His pale skin was almost completely smooth but for a fine trail of dark hair that grew down the center of his body, between the stunningly delineated muscles of his abdomen, disappearing into the—
The door flew open and Martha squeaked in surprise.
It was the troublemaker, of course.
Small Cailean must have made him a crutch because he was standing beside the door, shrouded in blankets, his face tight with pain, and his dark eyes wide with something that looked like fear.
“It’s over there.” He pointed to the far corner of the dimly lit room. “Some manner of beast that slithered onto the bench and tried to come at me beneath my blankets. It tried to bite my co—”
Martha cleared her throat.
He stopped abruptly.
“You needn’t work yourself into a lather—that is only Lily.”
He eyed her apprehensively. “Whatis a Lily?”
“Lily is an otter. Small Cailean’s otter, to be precise. He must have left her to comfort you. He likes you a great deal, it appears.”
“Why the bl—” His jaw snapped shut at whatever he saw on her face. “Never mind.” He turned and stumped back to the bench he’d claimed for himself. He’d taken two blankets and wrapped them in creative ways to cover up most of his body. The other four men, she saw, were in various stages of sleep. Two were snoring and two others were looking as if they’d like to.
Unlike her obstreperous, otter-fearing guest, the other men had clothing, albeit tattered and grimy.
Martha could not understand why nobody had thought to bring the man at least a nightshirt, but it was too late to ask for such a thing now and her father’s clothing would be far too small for such a muscular, broad-shouldered man.
She went to where Lily must have hidden after being yelled at. “Come here, little girl,” she cooed, making the kissing sound Small Cailean used to call the young otter.
Lily came out grudgingly, her dark eyes full of reproach as she scampered into Martha’s outstretched hands.
“There’s a good girl,” Martha praised, holding her just like you would hold a baby. Which is what Lily was, a spoiled little baby.
Martha walked back to the foul-mouthed convict. “See,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Lily is just a sweet little girl.” She scratched the otter under her chin and Lily’s eyes closed and she made a soft rattling sound in her throat.
The man shuddered. “It’s a rat. The most enormous, filthy rat I’ve ever seen.”
“Shame on you,” Martha said, only partly jesting. “Lily is a sea otter. And she’s very clean and well-mannered, aren’t you, Lily?”
“Ha! She tried to sneak beneath my blankets—you call that manners?”
“Otter manners.”
To Martha’s surprise, he laughed. As it did for most people, laughter transformed him. He still looked like a wicked satyr, but he looked like a younger, less intimidating wicked satyr.
“What is your name?” Martha asked before she could stop herself.
He regarded her from beneath heavy eyelids that were fringed with long and lush feminine eyelashes. Martha swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable as she recalled her glimpse of his distinctly unfeminine body.
“What would you like my name to be, darling?” His voice was like velvet and even Lily perked up at the sound.
Martha’s face heated, which only angered her more. “I am not your darling.”
He gave her another of his crooked smiles. “Hugo.”
“I hardly wish to call you by your Christian name.”
“My surname is Higgenbotham.”
Martha frowned at the unusual name. “Your name is Hugo Higgenbotham,” she repeated, feeling rather silly as her mouth struggled with the tongue-twisting syllables.
He gave a chuckle that made her belly clench. “No. I just wanted to see what those gorgeous lips of yours looked like when you said the word Higgenbotham.”
Martha’s jaw sagged. Lily, sensing her sudden change in mood, sat up and chittered nervously.
Hugo Whatever His Name Really Was merely chuckled. “Careful, your rat is getting excited.”
Martha was seized by such powerful emotions—anger, shock, and something else, something less familiar—that she was shaking. “I find it hard to believe that you are mocking me after I have done everything I can to help you.”
“Not everything, sweetheart.” He scooted until he was against the back of the bench and patted the smidgeon of space in front of his hips. “You could toss that rat outside and crawl under these blankets and keep me warm.”
To say she’d never been so shocked in her life would have been an understatement. She was so shocked she needed a whole new word for it.
But that wasn’t what bothered her.
No, what bothered Martha was how tempted she was to do exactly what he suggested.
◆◆◆
Hugo knew he was acting like an arse but he couldn’t stop himself. He wouldn’t even know how; he couldn’t recall a time when he’d not behaved like an arse.
Now might be a good time to embrace a change, a cool voice in his head recommended as Hugo watched the woman—Miss Martha Pringle—turn on the heel of her sturdy brown boot and march back the way she’d come, snuffing out the only source of light, a candle that gave off more smoke than illumination, on her way out the door, leaving only the moon to light up darkness.
Hugo considered calling after her—not apologizing, exactly, but perhaps charming her out of her mood. It had always worked well for him with women in the past, but then he’d not been lying wrapped in a scratchy blanket, beaten like a piece of flotsam, and without so much as a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of before.
He was too bloody tired and achy to beg or charm. He’d beg and charm tomorrow.
He grunted and lay back on his hard bed.
Hugo told himself that he should be grateful he wasn’t still covered in puke, chained to other men, and trapped with a maniac in the hold of a prison ship.
He chewed his lower lip, which had become painfully chapped from being deprived