Hugo and the Maiden

a broken leg that prevented him from walking—gave her a pained look. “I’m sorry, miss, but I’m good for nothing.”
He couldn’t have been more than fifteen and Martha wondered what a mere boy could have done to deserve banishment to the other side of the world.
“Don’t fret yourself, Lorn, I’ve got potatoes for you to peel.”
He grinned as if she’d just promised him a shiny guinea.
“And what about me, Mistress Pringle?” a low, velvety voice asked beside her. “How may I serve you?”
Martha forced her face into stern lines, hoping that would disguise the pounding in her chest, and turned. It was all she could do to keep her eyes from dropping to his hips, checking to see if he was really as big as she’d seen yesterday.
Instead, she met his mocking gaze. “Can you walk without aid of your stick, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
His lips twitched at the sound of the faux name. “Yes, but not very quickly, I’m afraid.”
“You won’t have to walk fast to do what I need.”
“And what is it that I can do for you … mistress?”
“I have a rather important job in mind for you.”
“Anything you desire,” he said in a voice heavy with … something.
Martha smiled sweetly and Hugo’s dark eyes widened. “The three chamber pots are in desperate need of emptying and cleaning.”
A snorting chuckle came from young Lorn and Martha almost laughed, too, as Mr. Hugo cut the injured boy a filthy look.
“I’m not sure I can walk that far,” he said, no longer sounding teasing or sensual.
“You’ve only to take them as far as the pit out back of the building. I’m sure you can manage such a short distance if you take your time. It will be good exercise for your leg.”
His sour expression was more than enough reward for the disturbing effects that his wicked body, looks, and words had on her.
◆◆◆
Hugo dumped the last pot into the pit, grimacing and squeezing his eyes shut at the pungent odor that emanated from the narrow, deep hole.
He walked just far enough away to gulp in fresh air and then paused to stretch his leg, working the knee carefully while flexing his foot. It hurt like a bastard, but the deep gash was dry and pinky-red rather than puss-yellow. The wound had started to shrink and pull on the healthy skin, which hurt more than the wound itself had. He wondered if the woman would give him some type of salve if he asked.
Do you think that you can ask for something without saying the words bloody or fuck?
Hugo ignored his irksome inner voice, instead turning to gaze out over the small valley that was south of the meeting house. He shook his head at what he saw. Not in a million years could he have imagined that a place like this godforsaken island even existed in Britain.
Growing up in the desperate, grinding poverty of St. Giles, he’d not believed there could be anyplace worse than London’s rookeries, but he’d been wrong.
The Stroma islanders were as poor as the denizens of St. Giles but they seemed content—proud, even—to live and labor on this frigid rock at the arse end of the world.
Take Miss Prissy, for example. She was no longer young—although her smooth skin and bright blue eyes said she couldn’t be much more than twenty—but she was still young enough that she should want something better from her life, something far away from here. She still had a bit of bloom left, but when that was gone, she’d be forced to pick from the pitiful stock of islander men he’d seen these past few days.
Since most of the younger people, male and female, seemed to have left the island, Martha’s only real choice for husband was the ruggedly handsome and pompously stuffy Robert Clark.
Hugo had seen the looks that Clark gave the vicar’s daughter when he thought nobody was watching. If Miss Prissy wasn’t careful, she’d find herself leg-shackled to a man with the personality of a halibut and stuck on this rock for good.
Hugo snorted as he considered Clark’s furtive, hungry glances. Perhaps the only good part about being a whore—aside from the money—was that it freed a man from being a slave to the demands of his cock. If Hugo wanted a fuck, he’d pay for one—not bloody court and marry some female. Not that any decent woman of good sense would have him for a husband, of course.
The hungry looks that the upstanding Mr. Clark gave the upstanding Miss Pringle when he thought nobody was watching were positively wolfish. Hugo would wager everything he had—which, admittedly, wasn’t much at the moment—that the wholesome Mr. Clark went home every night and fisted himself raw to randy thoughts of prim Martha Pringle.
No doubt the two would marry, she’d squeeze out a couple of brats, and they’d eke out their meager living eating salt fish and wearing woolen clothing harsh enough to scrape off what little bit of skin the vile winds didn’t already scour from their bodies.
Hugo shifted and winced as the abrasive wool of his trousers rasped over his bare cock.
You’re spoiled, lad, his mental companion sneered. Too many years wrapping yer arse in silk has made you weak—soft.
Hugo snorted at that last accusation as he rubbed a hand over his midriff, which was as hard as the wooden pew he was currently using for a bed. Soft was one thing Hugo Buckingham was not. Especially his cock, which was taking an inconvenient interest in Miss Pringle’s delicious little body as well as her pouty lips and amusingly rough tongue.
Hugo suspected the erection he’d woken with this morning was not so much the product of the erotic dream he’d enjoyed about Miss Pringle as it was the result of his near-death experience on the ship. He knew from his younger, wilder, days that brushes with danger could leave a man with a ferocious desire for sex.
And there was also the fact that he’d not used any of his erections