Hugo and the Maiden

at him. “Er, thank you, Small Cailean.”
The man’s response to his weak thanks was a blinding smile, confirming Hugo’s suspicion that he must be a bit touched in the upper works. Well, touched or not, Hugo owed him his life because he’d certainly saved his worthless hide.
For all his great size Small Cailean had moved swiftly and nimbly over the jagged rocks that ran from the shoreline out to sea, to where even more were hidden, one of which must have taken down the ship.
Hugo had managed to swim to one of the jutting, half-submerged rocks after he’d escaped the hold, but he’d not had the strength to do much more than hold on with one hand, his body floating like a piece of kelp in the frigid water.
He’d become so cold that he actually felt hot as a lassitude curled around him, until his fingers began to slip from the rock.
And he’d not even cared.
The giant had picked up Hugo as easily as he would a crab clinging to a rock at low tide. He’d then proceeded to carry him for what seemed like miles without even breathing hard.
So, of course Hugo was grateful, but the man—Small Cailean—refused to relinquish him, and it was bloody embarrassing to be carted about like a wounded lamb.
“Thank you,” Hugo said for the dozenth time. “You can put me down now. Just put me there, on that bench, and then you can go and do … well, whatever it is that you do.” He gave the grinning giant a hopeful smile. “Really, I shall be fine until, erm …” He looked across the room at the prickly female, who seemed determined to treat every other man before him. And all because he had not told her his name.
Hugo studied her humorless face as she spoke to one of the men she was treating. The man said something to her and she smiled at him.
Well, the little shrew. He’d just have to show—
The sound of guttural syllables slamming together made Hugo look away from the schoolmistress. An old woman had come to stand beside the giant, apparently for the sole purpose of gaping at Hugo.
He smiled at her. “Hello—do you speak English?” He enunciated each word clearly.
The old lady chuckled, as if he’d just said something amusing.
Hugo gritted his teeth and looked away, pulling the rough homespun blanket more tightly around his naked torso as he gazed around at the rude stone walls, some manner of pitiful assembly room. His attention settled on the ginger-hackled man who’d been manacled beside him, the man that Hugo had called Vicar because of all his praying.
Hugo hadn’t wanted to know any of his fellow prisoners’ real names, no matter that he believed several of them probably innocent of the crimes they’d been accused of.
Take Hugo for example; he was guilty of plenty, but petty thievery was not among his many crimes.
He’d been naked when they took him from Solange’s and naked when they’d kept him crammed in some vile cell. His captors had finally given him clothing that appeared to have been specifically calculated to make him look like a clown—trousers that fell only to his knees and a shirt so voluminous it might have served as a circus tent—for his brief moment before the judge. A very suspicious-looking judge.
When Hugo had opened his mouth to ask what court he was in, the guard had struck him so hard that his head was still ringing days later. So, he’d stood there before the bench, too dazed to speak while they’d accused him of petty thievery and sentenced him to seven years transportation in less time than it took to drink a pint.
Afterward the guard stripped Hugo of his embarrassing clothing and shoved him into a different cell, this one with people he came to know all too well during the week or more that they’d waited. New prisoners had been added daily, each one claiming innocence.
Hugo was familiar with criminals—he’d grown up in the rookeries, after all—and he knew that every convict insisted they were innocent. But there’d been startling similarities in all the stories that he’d heard while in that cell: every man had been arrested at night, they’d all been denied any access to the normal rights afforded even the lowliest of criminals, and all of them had sounded and behaved like the tradesmen or clerks they claimed to be.
A shadow fell over Hugo and he looked up.
“Well, Miss Martha Pringle has returned.” He bowed as effectively as a reclining man could bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I will take a look at your leg, if you can manage to be civil.” She had the sort of blue eyes he loved—the type that he would’ve liked to have himself. Except his eyes would never have contained such a severe, humorless expression.
It took every bit of restraint he could muster to gaze into those judging orbs and say, in a treacly voice, “I would be most appreciative, Miss Martha Pringle.”
Her surprisingly sensual lips curved into an ironic smile. So, she wasn’t entirely without humor.
“You can put him down, Small Cailean.”
The young giant complied without hesitation—after refusing Hugo’s fifty entreaties. So, the man did understand English.
She lowered herself to the bench and Hugo turned onto his side to accommodate her, the action causing the blanket to slip. He wouldn’t have thought she noticed his bare chest and abdomen if he’d not seen the red stain spread up from her hideous, high-necked gown.
Hugo grinned as she lifted the blanket from his legs and gingerly felt around the shallow gash on his shin. Too bad it wasn’t his thigh that she had to examine. He moved slightly and the blanket opened to his navel, exposing the taut pale skin just above his pubic hair.
Her fingers squeezed the swollen, oozing wound and he jolted. “Great fucking hell!” he yelled, his eyes leaking tears.
Her mouth compressed into a thin white line.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his