Hugo and the Maiden

He had no desire to move to a cottage in the country and grow turnips and raise chickens—or whatever the hell it was an old whore did once they didn’t whore anymore. He enjoyed what he did and had no interest in quitting.
He flicked the stub of his cigar into the flames and took another pull from his brandy. He didn’t want a lover and he didn’t want friends; all he wanted was money, lots and lots and lots of money. At the end of the day, money was the only thing that mattered. Without it, you were weak, vulnerable, and at the mercy of the rest of the world. And the world was a cold, cruel, ugly place and human beings were the worst part of it. The only person on the entire planet that Hugo trusted was Hugo.
And if that bothered other people? Well, they could go sod themselves. He didn’t give a damn who hated him, how much, or why. In fact, he was used to people hating him. Hell, his own father had hated him so much that he’d sold Hugo to a stranger—and a twisted one, at that.
So, yes—thank you very much—he was quite comfortable with hatred.
“Mister Hugo?”
He looked up to find one of the maids, Mindy, standing in the doorway. She was pale, shaking, and wringing her hands.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, putting down his glass and getting to his feet.
“It’s Mrs. Maitland. Something has happened to her and—” She shook her head and looked away, biting her lower lip.
Hope surged in his breast. “Is she … ill?” Or perhaps dead?
God. He was such a bastard.
“Oh, please, Mr. Hugo, come and see, I—I can’t bear to look at her.”
Hugo couldn’t bear to look at the woman, either. He decided poor Mindy was too overwrought to see the humor in such a comment.
He followed her from the room, not even bothering to put on his slippers. “Is Mr. Morgan with her?” he asked as they padded down the hushed corridor.
“No, sir. She’s all alone.”
Laura’s quarters were in the same part of the house as his—the employees lived in one area—which meant he and Mindy had to go all the way to the other side of the building.
By the time they reached the stairs leading to Laura’s apartment Hugo was breathing hard, mainly from suppressed excitement: if Laura died, Hugo had first right of refusal on her half of the business. He knew it made him a bad person to hope something had befallen her, but that’s because he was a bad person. He’d made peace with that years ago.
Mindy stopped in front of Laura’s door, which was ajar. There was a sliver of light coming from somewhere beyond the door and Hugo stuck his head inside.
“Laura?”
Blinding agony exploded in his skull, his vision went black, and Hugo dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“Tie ’is hands, ’e’s a skinny bastard but ’e’s strong,” a voice he didn’t recognize ordered.
Hugo shook his head to try and clear his vision, and promptly vomited from the pain.
“Bleedin’ ’ell,” somebody muttered.
Hugo tried to reach up and keep his skull from exploding, but his wrists had been tied behind his back. When had that happened?
“Pick ’im up.”
Rough hands grabbed him around his middle and he went flying through the air and landed on something hard—a shoulder?—just before his head smacked into another hard object.
Blackness and pain pulled him under.
When he came to, he was lying face-down on rough, smelly leather.
“Wasss happening?” His words came out choked with drool.
“You ’ear that? The tough bastard is awake again.”
Somebody chuckled.
“I fink he needs anovver sleeping draught.”
Once again Hugo’s head exploded.
This time, he gave up swimming against the darkness and slid into blessed oblivion.

Chapter 2
The Island of Stroma
North Coast of Scotland
Martha Pringle hurried toward the cluster of lights moving erratically at the north end of the island.
Everyone on Stroma knew when the church bell rang at this hour of the night that a ship had failed to clear the rocks. Now it was just a matter of how bad things were. Or how good they were—depending on a person’s point of view.
She grimaced at the cynical thought. You should be ashamed of yourself, Martha Jane Pringle.
“Have a care, Martha, the trouble will wait for us to get there safely,” her father said, his words more of a wheeze.
“I’m sorry, Father.” She slowed her pace, if not for her own safety, then certainly for his. At seventy-six Jonathan Pringle was as agile as a man half his age. But Martha knew that old bones were brittle, and it would only take one break to put an end to his active existence; people did not mend quickly at his age.
“Did you bring the black bag, Martha?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And the torches we made last month?”
“Yes, Father. I brought everything.” Martha hoped most of it wouldn’t be needed, and that the lights meant something other than what she feared.
They reached the tiny shingle beach in time to see several of the distinctive boats that the islanders called yoles push off the shore and head out toward the dark shadow near the rocks.
“My, that is a large ship,” her father said as Robert Clark approached.
Mr. Clark was a strapping, handsome man who acted in the capacity of harbormaster, although Stroma had no actual harbor. Only small boats could be brought near Stroma as the beach was the sole point of access, with sheer, craggy cliffs bordering the rest of the island.
“Good evening to you, Miss Pringle,” Mr. Clark said, nodding at Martha, his admiring look one that made her cheeks heat. Mr. Clark was attractive and unmarried, and Martha wasn’t the only woman in their tiny village who found his person engaging.
“Good evening, Mr. Pringle,” he said to her father. “She is a big vessel,” he said in response to her father’s comment, crossing thick arms over his muscular chest as he turned to stare out at the dark form. “Jem Packard got close enough