Hugo and the Maiden

hands in a placating gesture. “I shouldn’t have said that. You just surprised it out of me.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she merely turned to her bag.
Hugo hastily pulled the blanket tight around his body, no longer interested in teasing her.
“What is wrong? Is it broken? It feels bloo—”
She glanced up sharply.
“It feels broken,” he meekly amended.
“It is not broken. The skin is torn, and you are bruised.” She closed her bag of medicines and stood.
“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked, frantic that she seemed to be leaving. “Doesn’t it need to be stitched to stop me from bleeding to death? Are you finished with me?”
“The best thing for both the cut and the swelling is soaking your leg.” She turned to Hugo’s savior. “Take him down to the cove, to the flat rocks. The tide should be high enough that he can sit with his leg in the water but not get the rest of him wet.”
“What?” Hugo shrieked. “Don’t you have anything for the pain? I’m in a great deal of pain and—”
Small Cailean leaned down and scooped him up.
“Good God! You want me to dangle myself in the water? Are you mad? It’s blo—it’s freezing.”
She gave him a smile—her first—and it was every bit as superior and smug as her resting expression. “The water is cold, but the night is quite pleasant. I’m sure if you keep your blanket wrapped securely around your person that you will be fine.”
So, she’d noticed that slipping blanket ploy, after all.
Hugo bit his lip, preparing to beg her. But Small Cailean was already heading toward the door.

Chapter 4
Martha had sent her father to bed hours earlier. He tired so quickly these days and the number of dead men that they’d seen tonight had been enough to crush anyone’s spirit.
Between Martha, Mr. Clark, Mr. Joe Cameron—the man who owned and operated their tiny inn, taproom, general store, and post office—and Brian Boyle, who worked a number of jobs in their tiny community, including that of sexton—they were able to distribute the ambulatory prisoners to the villagers who had room to house them. Only one of the injured men—a boy, really—was too injured to walk.
There were seventeen men in need of shelter and Martha kept five. While the meeting hall could have held many more men, five would be plenty to feed and care for. The tiny cottage where she and her father lived was right near the meeting house, so she could conveniently bring food to them.
“You believe most of the crew made it to the mainland?” she asked Mr. Clark once they’d sent the last prisoner off with a crofter and his wife.
“Four lifeboats were seen heading toward Gill’s Bay.”
“Will they make it?”
“I should think so—the water’s calm enough and they’ve plenty of moonlight.”
“Then how is it that the ship’s captain didn’t see the rocks?”
Mr. Clark shrugged, his usually full and smiling lips compressed into a line. The treacherous rocks that flanked Stroma to the east were not a matter for discussion. Martha knew, even though he’d not said it, that the crew had decided to take their chances rowing to the mainland rather than making the far shorter trip to the island. The Stroma islanders had a bad reputation as people who wouldn’t just watch a ship founder, they would help it along and dispatch any survivors who might make it to shore.
Martha tried not to think about that.
Besides, matters had changed greatly in the years since her father had come. While it was true that cargos often went missing, there were far fewer human casualties.
“One of the men I spoke to said the crew were fighting among themselves,” Joe Cameron said.
“Yes, I heard that from several of them myself.” Martha looked at Mr. Clark. “Do you know what might have happened?”
“There was obviously something wrong as the ship was indeed bound for New South Wales.” Mr. Clark shrugged. “It’s anyone’s guess as to what happened since we only have the prisoners’ side of the story.”
“It’s a disgrace that the crew left the prisoners trapped below,” Joe said, echoing Martha’s thoughts exactly.
Mr. Clark looked considerably less outraged, and Martha experienced an unhappy pang at his unchristian response.
Brian Boyle eyed the door to the meeting hall. “I can’t feel good about leaving you up here with those five men, Martha—no matter how pitiful they’re looking right now,”
“Aye,” Mr. Clark agreed. “Especially that one. He’s a bad ’un.”
The other men nodded, knowing exactly which one he meant, although nobody had yet managed to get his name.
“He is more bark than bite,” Martha assured them. “And all five of them could hardly lift their arms to feed themselves they were so exhausted. They won’t be causing trouble tonight.”
The men hemmed and hawed but finally moved off toward their various dwellings.
Mr. Clark was last to leave. “Are you sure about this, Miss Martha? I could bunk up along with them in the meeting hall?”
Mr. Clark had an aged mother and a widowed sister with two children to care for. He left before light most days to fish, so keeping him here would only make his life that much harder.
“That is a kind offer, but I shall manage. Good night, Mr. Clark.”
“And good night to you, Miss Mar—”
“Great bleeding bollocking hell! What the devil is that?”
Martha grimaced. “Oh dear. It sounds as if Small Cailean might have left Lily behind. I’d best be off.”
Mr. Clark frowned, but nodded and headed down the path toward his cottage.
Martha knocked sharply on the meeting hall door. “I wish to come in, are you—” She hesitated, trying to think of the least embarrassing way to ask if he had covered himself. Seeing so much of his body earlier had been an unprecedented experience, one she would not be forgetting soon.
She’d seen men without shirts, of course, but never had she seen a body like his. Even the men on the island, who were well-muscled from days of grueling work, could not compare. He was as hard