Hugo and the Maiden

he’d send back ten-fold when he got to London.
He couldn’t leave tonight for several reasons: his leg needed another day’s rest and he had to assemble money, clothing, and find a boat. Which only left tomorrow night. His stomach churned at the thought of waiting, but he had no choice.
Miss Pringle and the two convicts chatted like normal people, a skill Hugo had yet to learn. At his age he’d probably never learn to get on with people other than whores. Actually, he didn’t get along with most whores, either. Take his business partner, for example—because that is obviously the person who’d engineered this stunt. Laura hated him enough to banish him to a living hell on the other side of the world.
Yes, Hugo had quite a way with people.
He shrugged. So what if he couldn’t conduct meaningless chatter and people didn’t like him?
He pushed himself off the steps and headed toward town, his mind back on business. He might not be well-liked or be able to behave like a normal person, but he was the bloody best at deciding what he wanted and then taking it from whomever he had to, without even a grain of remorse.

Chapter 7
Martha tried to stay away from Hugo—she refused to call him Mr. Higgenbotham in the privacy of her own mind—but he was like the proverbial flame to her moth.
Her father was eating at Mr. Stogden’s, an older man who lived alone on the southwest side of the island, so she took her meal with their guests.
She’d made a fish stew for dinner and they ate with the meeting house doors propped open since the summer had been unusually warm and pleasant for Stroma.
“Thank you, Miss Pringle,” Mr. Franks said as he took both his bowl and Lorn’s. He seated himself across from the younger man on a pew somebody must have helped him turn around. Between the men was a stool with a board and chess pieces on it. Martha had brought the game when Mr. Franks had mentioned he might teach Lorn how to play to while away the time.
Parker and Devlin sat together on another bench, talking quietly while Devlin employed a needle and thread, doing a remarkably neat job of stitching up a rent in his coat.
That left Hugo, who was sitting at the makeshift table with Small Cailean, chuckling about something. No doubt he was corrupting the younger man. It was Martha’s duty to see that didn’t happen.
She strode purposely toward the two men. “May I join you?”
Hugo stood immediately and gestured to his stool. “Please, sit here, Mistress Pringle.”
“Oh, I didn’t know there were only two seats. I wouldn’t want to—”
“It’s no bother. Please, sit.”
“Thank you.”
Hugo fetched the spent keg that was waiting to be returned to Joe Cameron and put it down between Martha and Cailean. When he sat, his chin barely reached the table.
Small Cailean made a soft, huffing sound and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, as if laughter were something bad.
Martha couldn’t help smiling; Hugo did look rather silly.
“Look at you two,” Hugo said, shaking his head, “Making fun of a chivalrous man like myself.”
“Why do I find it difficult to think of you and chivalry in the same breath, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
He placed his right hand over his heart. “You wound me.” Before she could respond he asked, “Tell me, how long have you lived here, Miss Pringle?”
The polite question surprised her. Gone was the surly, imperious man who’d arrived in Small Cailean’s arms only a few nights ago.
“We moved here from Leeds when I was nine months old.”
Hugo ate another mouthful of soup before turning to Cailean. “And what about you, Master Cailean—an islander born and bred?”
Cailean nodded, his shy expression joined by a flush of pleasure, making Martha realize that most of the islanders never asked him questions—or talked to him, at all. They just gave him orders.
“And what about you, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
“Moi?” He splayed his right hand over his chest, his eyes wide. “Why I’ve only come to Stroma quite recently.”
Cailean chortled and Hugo’s lips curled up at the corners, the expression making him look more like a satyr than ever.
“I meant where are you from, Mr. Higgenbotham?”
Martha could see that it amused him that she continued to call him by a name she knew to be false rather than use his Christian name.
“I’m from London.” While his smile didn’t disappear, his dark eyes shuttered.
“London is a large place; from what part do you hail?”
“A place called St. Giles.” He cut her a sly look. “You’ve heard of it?”
Who in Britain hadn’t heard of the infamous enclave? “It was once a leper colony.”
He blinked. “Really?”
Martha experienced a flare of pleasure. Take that, Mr. Higgenbotham, you don’t know everything, do you?
“A very long time ago, perhaps one hundred years after The Conquest. St. Giles was the patron saint of lepers, you know.”
“I didn’t know that, but it certainly sounds right. It’s the worst cesspool of humanity in the entire country, but I’ve never seen a leper. Well, perhaps social lepers, if there is such a thing.” He smiled wryly. “Tell me, how is it that you know the history of lepers in St. Giles?”
“I like to read. And I help at the school when it is in session.”
“Oh? A teacher?”
“Nothing so grand—'a helper’ would be more accurate.” She hesitated and then asked, “Did they not teach the history of London in your school?”
Hugo laughed. “They barely taught English.”
“But you read—I saw you with the books I brought yesterday—so you must have learned something.”
He finished his soup and sighed with obvious pleasure, patting his stomach, which was as flat and ridged as a washboard. “Thank you for the delicious meal, Miss Martha.”
Martha was not entirely sure she approved of his form of address. Also, she was not going to let him evade her question.
“Was your school really so terrible?” she persisted.
“No, they did their best with too few teachers and too many pupils.”
“If you don’t mind my saying