Hugo and the Maiden

of water for days. Well, other than salt water.
Thanks to the burning planks over their heads, the scene in the hold when the boat hit the rocks had been a Boschian vision of Hell. Water rushed into the damaged hull, dousing flames, while men screamed and fought against both fire and the freezing darkness of the ocean, crawling on top of each other to beat against the hatches, drowning those beneath them.
Right about the time they broke the hatch doors open the ship began to move—an unimpeded drift—and Hugo had realized the vessel was sinking.
Those men who were not able to make their way out scrambled to keep to the part of the hold that held a pocket of air, clinging to the ship’s ribs like wet rats.
Hugo followed the flicker of feet, the bare soles ahead of him like the pale bellies of fish, disappearing through the jagged hole
“It’s sinking,” he’d yelled as he stroked through the water toward the crack.
“I can’t swim,” one of the men screamed.
You’d better give it a shot, Hugo thought as he’d sucked in all the air he could hold and plunged into the blackness.
His lungs were on the point of exploding when he finally broke the surface. The sea wasn’t rough, but the rocks caused strange and powerful currents that pulled at his legs like freezing claws. Cries had filled the darkness as others who were less fortunate either gave up looking for land or struck the jagged rocks lurking below the water.
The moon was almost full, which made him wonder—even in his battered, water-logged state—how the devil the captain had managed to hit the rocks?
Or perhaps he’d died in the fire? Or abandoned his ship?
Even bobbing in the water, Hugo had been able to see a goodly distance ahead, so he struck out for what looked to be shoreline. But he’d only taken a few strokes when his leg slammed into a submerged rock. As he’d clung to the same rock that cut him, waiting to die in the freezing water, he’d stared at the ship. Through his haze of pain, it had looked like there were men fighting on the flaming, wildly tilted deck of the ship.
Hugo thought about that now as he wrapped his blankets tighter around his cold body. He must have imagined it because that would have been madness, wouldn’t it?
He pushed the unpleasant thought aside and yawned, his lips twitching into a tired smile as he thought about Miss Martha Pringle with her sensual mouth, rebuking gaze, and curvy sinner’s body. He couldn’t recall meeting another woman quite like her.
Hugo suffered an uncharacteristic pang of remorse as he recalled the way he’d treated her. She’d been kind to him and he’d been a rude, vulgar arse. Tomorrow he would do better.
He yawned again, unable to keep his eyes open a minute longer.
That night, instead of having nightmares about burning ships and bloody killers, he dreamed of liquid blue eyes and full, smiling lips.

Chapter 5
The following morning Small Cailean was waiting for Martha on the stone steps to their little house, with Lily draped across his massive shoulders like a luxurious living scarf, gazing worshipfully at him.
He leapt to his feet and Martha smiled up at him. “Good morning, Cailean. You are just in time to help me carry breakfast over to the meeting house.”
Cailean shifted from foot to foot, clearly eager to visit his newest pet.
“Come inside,” she said, leading him into the tiny kitchen. “I can see you are excited to see the man you rescued, aren’t you?”
Cailean spoke less than a few sentences a year but something about the obnoxious man appeared to have captivated him and he mumbled a word that sounded like, “Braw.”
Martha snorted. She could think of a lot of words to describe Mr. Hugo Higgenbotham but the Scots word for wonderful was not one of them.
His body certainly fits that description, a sly voice in her head pointed out.
Heat crawled up her neck even though—thank goodness—only Martha could hear the scandalous thought.
Cailean carried the large pot of porridge while Martha brought bowls and spoons and a jug of milk. She preceded him and opened one of the double doors for the giant man. The slate building had tiny windows which somebody long ago had filled with stained glass that caused the plain pews and gray stone floor to look magical in the early morning light.
Cailean and Martha paused as they took in the scene: all the men were sound asleep. She glanced around at the various lumps under blankets and decided a hot breakfast was more important than sleep.
“You can put it over there, please.” She made no effort to keep her voice down and pointed toward a bench which had been covered with oil cloth and still held a mostly empty pitcher of ale left over from last night.
“What bloody time is it?” a muffled, surly voice demanded from beneath the lump of blankets on the front pew.
Martha closed her eyes briefly; clearly she would have to pick and choose her battles with Mr. Hugo Whatever His Name Was or they’d be brangling all the time. She took a deep breath and began to portion the food into bowls.
The other sleepers were roused either by her actions or Hugo’s complaining, so Martha had Cailean distribute the food to four of the men, leaving the complainer to her.
“Mr. Hugo.” Martha stood in front of his motionless form, which was entirely shrouded with a blanket. When he still didn’t move, she said, “I’ve got your breakfast. If you do not take it, I’ll share it out for the others and you’ll have nothing until the noonday meal.”
The blanket moved with grudging slowness.
His hair, which was salt-encrusted and stuck in all different directions, was a thick black thatch that almost touched his shoulders; it was longer hair than she’d ever seen on a man. The planes of his face were even harsher in the morning light.
He was not a handsome man,