Hugo and the Maiden

so, your accent does not strike me as one from the, er, rookeries.” Martha could see by his knowing grin that he was amused, rather than insulted, by her clumsy probing.
An expression that looked very much like fondness flitted across his hard features. “A friend of mine told me that my accent was execrable, so I made her help me with my el oh cue shun.”
He had female friends? Why did that sound so … unusual, for a man and woman to be friends? Did Martha have any malefriends? Small Cailean was a friend, of course—although they didn’t discuss things.
Mr. Clark was a suitor, but Martha wasn’t sure she would call him a friend. Why was that? They discussed matters concerning the island, of course, but rarely anything personal. Could that still be considered friendship?
“Where’s your fur scarf today, little brother?” Hugo asked Cailean, interrupting her musing.
The boy gave another of his silent laughs, whether at Lily being a scarf or at having a nickname, she didn’t know. Martha liked how Hugo included the quiet giant in conversations. She was guiltily aware that she’d not done as much of that as she should have.
“Well,” Hugo said, standing. “I believe it is my turn at the dishes today.” He took his bowl and Cailean’s before glancing at Martha’s.
“May I take that, Miss Martha?” he asked, his lips curved into that slight smile that did such unnerving things to her body.
What was wrong with her? It was just a smile!
Martha handed him the bowl, jerking back her hand when his finger brushed hers.
She watched him walk—although it was actually more of a strut—the short distance to the bucket of water the men used to wash their dishes, unable to keep her gaze from lingering on his muscular bottom and the band of pale flesh between the low-slung trousers and the hem of his too-small sweater.
Martha might be inexperienced, but she was not stupid. She knew the sensations flooding her body and causing parts of her anatomy to tingle and swell were of a sexual nature. She’d had similar experiences in the past. For example, when Mr. Clark came to walk out with her, she’d often felt a pleasant fluttering in her stomach.
But this feeling was no mild flutter; it was raw, primal, and frightening.
What was happening to her?
◆◆◆
Stealing a boat, Hugo decided, would be far easier than he’d thought. Even though convicts had already stolen two crafts, the fishermen still left their boats lying about on the shore.
Hugo could just go down to the small beach and pick one that didn’t look leaky.
After thinking about it long and hard he’d decided against stealing a coat or better pair of shoes—even though the undersized dance slipper on his right foot felt more like a rat trap than footwear.
It wasn’t his conscience that kept him from pinching a pair of shoes, but lack of availability. Spare clothing was rare on the island, and spare footwear even rarer. Most people only owned a single pair of boots or shoes, which meant that he would have to steal the items off somebody’s body while they were wearing it. Even Hugo drew the line at that.
But money was another matter; money he could not do without.
He needed to find the church strongbox—if there was one. If there wasn’t, then Hugo didn’t know what he’d do.
He refused to steal from the Pringles, who’d fed and sheltered him. Besides, the more time he spent around Miss Pringle, the more he suspected that she would sense his presence in her house even in her sleep.
Hugo was an expert when it came to recognizing desire and lust and could spot a virgin from fifty paces away. Poor Martha Pringle was currently being violated by thoughts she’d never imagined herself having without bursting into flames.
Yes, Miss Prissy Pringle wanted him badly—or at least her body did. Hugo knew that the physical sensations she was experiencing were wreaking havoc in her erstwhile safe and predictable world.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the excuse of being a virgin to explain his own reaction to the woman. He was—quite astoundingly and unwillingly—fiercely attracted to the vicar’s prim daughter.
He’d never had such a strong physical reaction to anyone before. Why Martha Pringle—a censorious, repressed, prudish vicar’s daughter—exerted such a pull on him, he simply couldn’t comprehend.
His body didn’t care that his mind was annoyed or offended. In fact, it would be fair to say his body rejoiced in her innocent prudishness.
Every single time her harlot lips pursed in a virtuous scowl as her gaze lingered on his crotch—which happened whenever she saw him—he became hard.
Every single time he made her blush or gasp or frown, he became hard.
In short, every single thing she did or said made him hard.
Hugo had no idea why. Perhaps it was witnessing the way her disapproval of him warred with her obvious desire? As virtuous as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting him—even though she wasn’t sure exactly what it was that she wanted. Somehow that restored his faith in human nature.
He took a great deal of pleasure imagining her lying in her bed at night rubbing that itch between her legs while trying not to think of him.
Hugo was a bad person for thinking such a thought and he was doubly bad for enjoying it so much. But as bad as he was, even he refused to obey his body’s commands and debauch the vicar’s daughter.
He pushed the virginal temptress from his mind and turned his attention toward finding a way to get into the church.
So he could rob it.
“Oh God,” he muttered, shaking his head. He was going to Hell.
But then, had there ever really been any doubt of that?

Chapter 8
As luck would have it, it was the vicar himself who told Hugo the location of the church collection money.
Hugo was braiding rope on the meeting house steps when the vicar came ambling over to see what he was doing. “Why, that is lovely work, Mr. Higgenbotham.”
“Thank