Hugo and the Maiden

his.
He released the giant’s hand and turned to Miss Pringle, whose ironic, skeptical expression said she was not fooled for even an instant. Well, no matter, she’d not even seen the tip of the iceberg when it came to Hugo’s charms. No woman could hold out against him for long.
◆◆◆
Martha was surprised to see Mr. Higgenbotham up and about; she would have guessed that he was an idler. But he had risen early every morning and seemed to be moving around without his crutch today.
She studied him out of the corner of her eye as he sat on the bench beside his neatly folded bedding, doing something with his hands that held Small Cailean enraptured.
By rights Mr. Higgenbotham should have looked ridiculous in the mismatched clothing she’d gathered from various islanders. Martha had not been able to find a coat or vest to fit his broad shoulders, so he wore only a wooly jumper with his trousers. The trousers were a good three inches too short and had to be held above his narrow hips with a length of rope.
Instead of looking foolish, the soft, gray fabric molded to his body when he moved, emphasizing, rather than concealing, both his muscular thighs and bottom as well as the considerable bulge of his manhood.
Never in her entire life had Martha looked at a man there—not even Mr. Clark, whom she’d walked out with more than once.
She told herself that the fabric was so thin and worn that it was difficult not to catch a glimpse. But that was a lie; she never just glimpsed. It was as if a team of oxen dragged her eyes to the front of his hips and then parked them there.
Martha had seen male dogs and horses aplenty, and Mr. Higgenbotham appeared far closer in size to the latter.
The loosely knitted sweater that stretched across his shoulders was the sort that island men wore while fishing: a boat-necked garment with raglan sleeves that was easy to pull on and off. Whoever had owned the sweater before had been smaller than Mr. Higgenbotham, and the striped pattern was distorted by his muscular chest but then loose around his narrow waist.
It was also too short to cover a full two inches of his tightly woven and extremely mesmerizing stomach.
To Martha’s horror, every time she saw him, saliva pooled in her mouth and her fingers actually twitched to stroke and explore the tantalizing ridges and veins that disappeared beneath the low-slung trousers.
Only his footwear did not create uncomfortable sensations between her tightly clenched thighs. On one foot he wore a sturdy brown boot that looked at least a size too large and on the other—amazingly—he wore a gentleman’s dancing slipper, which could only have come from a wrecked ship because she had never seen a man on Stroma sport such footwear.
Martha raised a hand to her mouth to cover her smile as she stared at his feet.
“I shall see you later this afternoon, little brother,” Mr. Higgenbotham said to Cailean, who stood and gathered up Lily to leave.
Martha waved to Small Cailean as he left and then, against her better judgment, crossed the room to see what Mr. Higgenbotham was working on.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Pringle.” His lids lowered and the smile that curved his thin lips made something low in her belly—something beneath her belly, truth be told—tighten, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her body.
His nostrils flared as he watched her, almost as if he were scenting something.
Martha suddenly knew—she just knew—that he was aware of what his suggestive, naughty looks did to a woman. Did to her.
As he appeared disinclined to do anything but smirk, it was up to her to end the uncomfortable silence. “What were you showing Small Cailean?”
He wordlessly handed her a tightly braided cord.
Martha ran a finger over the intricate braiding. “Why, this is lovely,” she said, looking up and catching him staring, his expression brooding. “The work is so perfect and uniform—even with this rough old rope. Where did you learn such a thing?”
“I worked for a whip-maker when I was younger.” He smiled up at her, his teeth white but crooked, the canines wolfishly sharp. “He didn’t hesitate to use those implements on me when my work was anything less than perfect.”
Martha hated how her face heated constantly in his presence; why was he able to make even the most repulsive subject sound wicked?
“That’s dreadful,” she said firmly, refusing to be baited by his mischievous look. “I do not condone whipping children—or anyone, for that matter.” She handed him back the length of braid.
Amusement glinted in his dark eyes. “I do not condone whipping, either. At least not for children or animals.”
Martha frowned. She was just about to ask him exactly for whom he did condone it when a voice spoke beside her.
“Miss Pringle?
She startled and turned to face Mr. Franks.
“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Martha gave him a genuine smile, grateful to him for breaking the spell Hugo seemed to weave around her without even trying. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Franks?”
“Fit as a fiddle, miss, and ready to do something to earn my keep.”
“Why do I think that you might be exaggerating slightly, Mr. Franks?”
“No, miss. I feel better than I’ve felt in weeks.”
Hugo snorted but Martha ignored him.
“Well, since you’re offering, Cailean just left to do his weekly peat deliveries. I’m sure he would appreciate it if you brought ours up here for him.”
“Thank you, miss. It would be my pleasure.”
“Anything I might do?” the convict named Devlin asked.
“Perhaps you might carry all the bedding outside to the cauldron that’s heating over the fire.”
“Allow me to do the wash for you, Miss Pringle,” the prisoner named Parker offered. “I worked in a hotel in London and often did such work.”
A man doing washing? Martha looked at his eager face; well, why not? “Thank you, Mr. Parker, that would give me more time to prepare our next meal.”
Lorn Smith, the youngest of the prisoners—who had