After Martha had delivered the unhappy news to the men who remained in the meeting house, both she and vicar went off, heading in separate directions.
That left Hugo, Albert Franks, and the boy—Lorn—to ponder their immediate future.
Hugo was too infuriated to even think straight; what a fool he was to have listened to the vicar. He could be gone right now.
Martha returned an hour later carrying an armful of clothing.
“Here, let me help you with that, Miss Pringle,” Franks said, forgetting that he was wearing a blanket and treading on it, yanking it off. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he murmured, scrambling to cover his drawers.
Martha appeared too distracted to notice and wordlessly left them to divide up the castoffs.
Hugo had just finished tying on yet another pair of too-short trousers with rope when an old farmer name Sutherland showed up leading a mule.
“Will you two gentlemen excuse us?” she asked Hugo and Franks, gesturing Mr. Sutherland into the meetinghouse.
“What do you reckon is going on in there?” Franks asked Hugo.
“Nothing too sordid,” Hugo said, amused when the younger man’s fair, freckled skin flamed.
There was still no sign of the vicar twenty minutes later—a fact which did not make Hugo happy—when Miss Pringle opened the door.
“We’ll need your help getting Lorn onto the mule.”
Hugo gave the woman a searching look, but she ignored him.
Lorn was a twig of a youngster and Hugo easily carried him out without any help from Franks.
Without saying a word to anyone, Mr. Sutherland led the young boy off on the mule.
Martha turned to Hugo and Franks after they’d gone. “Mr. Sutherland will keep Lorn at his farm until the boy is well.” Her kissable lips compressed into a thin line. “He is only fifteen. He stole a silver snuffbox and was sentenced to seven years.” The disgust in her voice was enough to let them know what she thought about that.
“Mr. Sutherland’s youngest son just went off to take a job on the mainland, so he needs help on his farm. Once his leg is healed, Lorn will get another chance here if he wishes to take it.”
“I don’t suppose Mr. Sutherland needs an older son?” Hugo asked, only half in jest.
“Perhaps two?” Franks piped up.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, visibly unhappy.
The poor girl’s misery was almost palpable, and Hugo felt bad for her, even though he would be the one suffering if Mr. Pringle didn’t live up to his promise.
“Where is your father?” he asked.
“He’s gone to speak to Mr. Stogden.” She hesitated and then asked, “Did you wish for spiritual guidance?”
Before Hugo could answer, Clark strode up from the direction of town. “Miss Martha,” Clark said, giving her a brief nod before turning to Hugo, his gaze hardening. “McCoy and his men are back from searching the island and they’re ready for you.”
“Did you catch the conspirators?”
Clark came closer, as if to menace him; Hugo wished he would bloody well try it.
“And how do you know they got help, Higgenbotham?”
Hugo saw Martha’s lips curling up at the corners at Clark’s use of his false name.
“Were you in on the escape?” the sanctimonious bastard prodded. “Is that how you knew?”
Hugo smacked himself in the forehead with his palm. “Blast. That’s what I forgot to do after I helped them all escape last night—go with them! You’re a bloody genius, Clark.”
Franks laughed and Martha pressed her lips together and looked down at her shoes.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Clark demanded.
“Not too clever if I’m still here after helping the others on their way.”
“I’m here to escort you and the others to the village.”
“We’re ready to accompany you,” Martha said coolly, giving the pillar of the community a frosty look.
Clark’s forehead furrowed under her speculative gaze.
Well. This was an interesting development. What had the male manifestation of masculine moral perfection done to cause Miss Martha to be displeased with him?
Clark pulled his attention from Martha and frowned at Hugo and Franks. “Where is the third one?”
“Oh, did I say there were three?” Martha asked. “I must have been addled—three escaped, only these two remain.”
“But—”
She narrowed her blue eyes, her cute little jaw jutting out. “Yes, Mr. Clark?”
Hugo wondered if the man was stupid enough to ignore the danger signs and persist in his questioning. Especially with a woman he was clearly hoping to marry.
Clark stared at her for a long moment and must have decided likewise because he nodded abruptly. “Fine. On you go, you two.” He gestured to the path.
Hugo and Franks walked—shoeless—in front of Clark and Martha.
It didn’t take long to get to the little town and the entire way Hugo wondered what the old vicar was doing. And, more importantly, where he was. What if Pringle returned after Hugo was gone—packed away like a salted herring in the hold of some bloody ship?
Hugo’s jaw was so tightly clenched that it ached. Good God, he’d been an idiot to place his trust in a forgetful old man who was likely taking a kip somewhere after his busy morning.
A veritable crowd had gathered outside the Greedy Vicar and Hugo reckoned most of the population were assembled to watch the festivities. As he looked from face to face, he wondered which of the people present had helped the convicts off the island.
Lined up against the side of the church—which was conveniently located a stone’s throw from Stroma’s only taproom—were seven men: seven men who’d been too stupid to leave with the others last night.
Men like Hugo, in other words.
Clark frog-marched Hugo and Franks toward the seven and then stood facing them, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze pinned on them—well, on Hugo—as if they might try to run.
Hugo ignored him and surveyed the crowd for Mr. Pringle’s distinctive white head.
A man who must be the constable or sheriff or whatever, shoved his way through the throng, two human oxen in tow.
“These are the last of them,” Clark said to the newcomer, his words earning him some nasty mutters from the accreting crowd.
Hugo blinked at the hostility. Why were they behaving in a distinctly unfriendly manner toward Clark?
“My name is McCoy,” the humorless-looking lawman loudly proclaimed as he unfolded several water-damaged sheets of paper and then looked up at Hugo and Albert. “I don’t suppose you two lads will behave and tell me your real names?”
“Albert Franks,” Franks said without hesitation.
McCoy didn’t acknowledge his answer. Instead, he continued flicking through the papers, as if unaware or uncaring of the tension his continued silence was generating. Or, more likely, he was the kind of man who fed on the misery of his captives.
“And what about you?” McCoy asked a long moment later, without lifting his eyes from the list.
“Hugo Buckingham.”
Clark made a soft hmmph and for a moment Hugo wondered if the other man would bring up the fact that he’d given the islanders a different surname. But one look at Clark’s smug smirk told him that the other man was so certain that Hugo was a criminal that no other evidence would be needed.
McCoy continued studying the names for a good ten or fifteen centuries before he finally looked up. “Not surprisingly, neither of those names is on the ship’s manifest.”
Franks heaved a sigh and looked ready to faint. “Thank—”
“But that hardly means anything, does it?” McCoy asked. With an authority figure’s unerring nose for a troublemaker, he directed this question at Hugo.
Hugo smiled. “I daresay a clever person might invent a name to evade transportation.”
His words drew a few chuckles from the crowd.
But not from Martha Pringle.
She stood alone at the forefront of the crowd, her hands clenched into fists, and her mouth compressed as if she were in pain. Bloody hell! The woman’s heart was in her eyes and she was all but bleeding for them—for him. When had another person ever been so anguished on his behalf?
That was easy to answer: never.
Hugo wished that he could tell her not to waste all that emotion on him or his eternal soul; he wasn’t worth worrying about and certainly couldn’t be saved.
McCoy raised the list and gave the sheets a shake, the gesture pulling all eyes back in his direction. “In addition to a host of criminal charges—including smuggling and engaging in fraudulent impressment in the name of His Majesty’s Navy, to name but a few—the captain of Fortune’s Lady”—he paused to enjoy the snickers at the unfortunate name of the now splintered vessel—“was also a casualty of his mutinying crew.”
McCoy paced in front of his enrapt listeners like a hawker working a crowd. “It seems the good captain was concerned about confusing his legal and illegal human cargo and gaining the wrong kind of attention when he reached New South Wales, so he had the King’s prisoners strip and made additional notations to the original manifest.” His piggy little eyes flickered over the convicts, again coming to rest on Hugo. “Or maybe he just wanted to see all you lads get your kit off.”
There were gasps mixed in with the laughter this time.
“Mister McCoy,” Clark chided, his face taut with anger. “There are women and children present.”
Hugo glanced at the woman Clark was concerned about, but Martha was staring at him so fixedly that he knew she’d not heard the chivalry the other man had exhibited on her behalf. Hugo gave her a quick smile and a wink, which woke her from her daze. Even now—when they both knew he’d be on a boat bound for the other side of the world by the time the sun set—Hugo had the power to make her blush with just a look.
Poor girl. She’d probably end up with only Clark to teach her about her sweet body and all the wonderful sensations it could both give and receive; it was a bloody shame.
Hugo pulled his gaze away from hers and looked at the man in question.
Clark had placed his meaty fists on his hips and was staring down the vulgar lawman. Hugo felt a grudging respect for him in that moment, no matter that he was a moralizing, tedious pillock. At least he stood up for Miss Pringle and behaved as a gentleman should behave when it came to the woman he loved. Not that Hugo knew much about such things.
Hugo’s fecund imagination was suddenly assaulted by an unwanted vision of Martha and Clark in a darkened room, Clark lifting Martha’s flannel nightgown only as far as her waist before covering her small body with his larger one and rutting into her with all the finesse of a boar.
Any respect Hugo had for the other man dissipated like a fart in high wind, blown away by the sudden fury that surged through him at the imaginary vision.
Or perhaps that is jealousy you’re feeling, Hugo.
Jealousy? Jealousy!
Ha! He’d never been jealous in his life—and certainly never when it came to sex, which represented nothing other than money in his mind.
“All right, all right, step back,” McCoy said to Clark with a dismissive wave.
Once Clark had backed away, McCoy jabbed a thick finger at Albert Franks, “The only ginger-haired convict on this official manifest is in his forties—a wee bit older than you, I’d say. If you’re not on my list, then I won’t get paid for you. That means I don’t want you.” He held up a hand when Franks opened his mouth. “And before you ask, no—I won’t bring you to the mainland. I’m not a ferryman.”
He turned away from Franks, his muddy brown gaze settling on Hugo.
Hugo recognized the glint in McCoy’s eyes: it was the look of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain for the sake of it. Their interaction, Hugo knew, would end either with him in chains or publicly humiliated, or likely both.
“Now you, Mr. Buckingham, well, you’re a bit more difficult to discard—dark hair, dark eyes, on the tallish side”—he shrugged—“all around you’re nothin’ of any note.”
Hugo hated himself for feeling insulted at the oaf’s casual dismissal of his appearance—all the more so because he believed it was accurate: he really wasn’t anything special.
At least not until he took off his clothing.
“You don’t match any of the descriptions…exactly, but you come close enough to one—perhaps two—of the men to deserve a closer look.” He glanced at the list, although Hugo was certain he’d already memorized both names and descriptions and was merely flexing his power for his audience. “Let’s see—the first you resemble is James Assent. You fit the physical description and look about the same age.” He looked up. “And how old would you be, Mr. Hugo Buckingham?”
“Thirty-two.”
McCoy narrowed his eyes at Hugo’s flat tone, and he reminded himself to act humble. Or not very smart. Or humble and not very smart.
Hugo fixed a fatuous expression on his face and added, “Sir.”
McCoy nodded, visibly appeased.
So, a gullible, stupid bully, it would seem.
“It says short brown hair.” He examined Hugo with exaggerated care. “I suppose yours might be termed on the longish side …”
“Yes, sir,” Hugo said, prepared to lick the man’s boots—or anything else he might want licked—if that was what it took to keep him off the next convict ship.
McCoy’s lips curled into a smug smile at Hugo’s obsequious tone. “It says here that Mr. Assent has a scar from a knife wound on the right buttock.” He grinned. “Kinda’ amusin’ that—Mr. Assent,” he repeated, just in case there might be somebody in the crowd who needed it spelled out for them.
But his wit hardly earned him a chuckle from the increasingly grim islanders, so McCoy continued, “This should be simple enough to confirm drop your trousers and let’s have a look.”
The crowd erupted and a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Surely you don’t mean for him to do so right here?”
All eyes turned to the vicar, who was making his way through the crush of bodies. He looked entirely awake, his blue eyes sparking with anger.
Hugo’s knees almost buckled with relief.
“Who the devil are you?” McCoy demanded.
“I am Jonathan Pringle, vicar of St. Andrews,” the vicar said in a voice Hugo supposed must be the old man’s pulpit voice.
“Er,” McCoy said, his arrogance dimming beneath the vicar’s Old Testament glare.
But then somebody in the crowd snickered and McCoy frowned, his lips compressing into a stubborn line. He said, in a loud, belligerent voice, “If nobody wants to see this man’s arse, they should shut their eyes. Now, Buckingham, turn and drop ’em.”
Hugo was vaguely aware of Clark trying to hustle Martha away, but he was too concerned with obeying McCoy’s command smartly to be able to spare any worry. Besides, Martha had seen a good deal more than his arse that morning.
Clark had bound Hugo’s hands tightly enough that he fumbled with the rope holding up his trousers; abject terror shot through him when he couldn’t loosen the bloody knot. He imagined himself back in chains simply because he couldn’t pull down his damned trousers quickly enough. Fueled by that fear, he tore open the knot and the threadbare garment dropped to the ground before he could grab it.
Several high-pitched gasps from the crowd told Hugo that more than one woman had stayed to watch.
“As smooth as a baby’s bottom—no knife wound to speak of.” McCoy’s voice brimmed with ugly amusement. “All right, Buckingham, pull ’em up.”
Hugo bent to pick up his pants, the action earning him a few more gasps, before turning to face McCoy, awkwardly tying the rope at his waist.
“Are you convinced, sir?” Mr. Pringle demanded.
McCoy shrugged. “I’m not quite certain yet.”
The crowd rumbled, no longer amused by the show. “I’ll agree you aren’t Mr. Assent,” McCoy said with a smirk. “But there is another name on this list that fits your description.”
“I would like to have a word with you, Mr. McCoy.” The vicar’s voice was stern, but not loud.
McCoy blinked. “Er—”
“It will take no more than a moment.”
McCoy took a deep breath, his eyes on the restless crowd. “Very well, but I can spare only a minute or two.”
“Step into the church, if you would.”
Every eye followed the two men as they disappeared into the church. And then every eye came back to Hugo.
He let his gaze wander over the faces. Some were flushed, a few were judging, and some were amused.
And then there was Clark, who radiated fury and disgust.
Hugo winked at him and then looked at Martha, whom he’d purposely kept until last.
Even from where he stood, Hugo could see that her eyes had darkened. She was flushed and her chest rose and fell quicker than it should have for a person at rest. Hugo smiled at her.
Clark stepped in front of him, blocking Hugo’s pleasant view.
“I don’t know what you’ve got planned, Buckingham, but you don’t fool me. I can smell the rot on you.”
“Are you sure that’s not your own upper lip you’re smelling?”
Several of the islanders laughed.
Hugo saw Clark’s fist coming and was able to duck, dodging what would surely have been a painful blow.
“Mr. Clark!”
Martha’s horrified voice must have pushed through Clark’s rage because his second swing never came to fruition. Instead, he seemed to shake himself, and dropped his fist to his side, his face fiery as he realized what he’d done.
Silent disapproval rolled off the gathered islanders: What kind of man struck somebody whose hands were tied?
The door to the church opened and everyone turned as one, momentarily forgetting about Clark. McCoy’s expression as he came toward Hugo was difficult to read, but Hugo would have sworn the man looked … frightened.
McCoy stopped in front of Hugo and said, “Pull up your left sleeve.”
When Hugo complied, McCoy nodded. “No tattoo, you are not the man on my list.” He spun on his heel, as if he couldn’t stand looking at Hugo a second longer. “Cut Mr. Buckingham and Mr. Franks loose.”
Hugo’s heart pounded in his ears. He was free! He was free!
Now all he had to do was get his un-scarred, un-tattoed arse back to London and kill the bitch who’d done this to him.