Martha was sitting in the meeting house darning one of her father’s socks when Hugo appeared in the open doorway.
At first, she thought she’d imagined him, but then she remembered the only way he appeared in her mind’s eye these days was without any clothing.
And in a state of animal arousal.
Today he was clad in a shirt, neckerchief, trousers that actually reached his ankles, boots that matched, and a waistcoat she had never seen. It looked as if his hair had grown longer since she’d last seen him, although she knew that was hardly possible in two weeks. His skin was no longer as pale from being locked in the hold of a ship, but a golden brown. He was thinner and he resembled a satyr more than ever. Cutting flagstone was brutal work and she knew men needed to eat almost constantly to do such work. She doubted he was getting enough to eat.
She berated herself for caring.
“Good afternoon, Miss Pringle. What a delight to find you here.”
As always with Hugo she took refuge in sarcasm. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Buckingham himself.”
He sauntered into the meeting house as if he owned it. “At your service, ma’am.” He dropped a ridiculously graceful court bow. “I would ask how you’ve been doing but I can see you are blooming.”
“Did you need something?” she asked coolly.
He put his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned up against the doorframe, more at ease than he had any right to be. “Are you angry with me?”
“Of course not,” she said, seething. “I just never expected to see you again.” She grimaced; could she sound more like an infatuated, lovelorn idiot if she tried?
“I think you missed me.”
If Martha trusted her aim, she would have thrown her darning needle at his head.
He strolled over and lowered his long, powerful body onto the bench beside her, sitting so close their legs almost touched.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.” His expression was as innocent as Cailean’s. “I was wondering, Martha, if—”
“I did not give you leave to use my name.”
One moment he was sitting beside her, the next he was down on his knees in front of her, taking her hand—the one with the sock rather than the needle. “I beg of you, Miss Pringle,” he said, his eyes dark and soulful, “please allow me the inestimable privilege of using your Christian name.”
She snatched her hand away. “You are incorrigible, but I suspect you already know that.”
“I do,” he admitted, gracefully rising from his knees, brushing off his trousers, and sitting back down on the bench. “But perhaps with your influence I could become … corrigible.”
“I’m not sure that’s a word.”
“It has to be.”
“Why does it have to be?”
“Well, there is indifferent and different, insolent and solent.”
Martha snorted. “I know there is no such word as solent.”
“If that is true, you should be honored.”
“And why is that, pray tell?”
“Any man can bring you flowers or baubles, but not just any man can create a new word for you.”
Martha ignored his foolishness and narrowed her eyes at him. “I see you have new trousers, shoes, and a vest.”
He looked down at said vest, fingering the lapel with his long, tapered fingers, which were no longer white and soft. Martha couldn’t help noticing the blood blisters on his thumb.
“My other waistcoat came apart while I was washing it, so I purchased this one from Willy MacLeod’s wife. She said he’d eaten too many dumplings to fit into it.”
“I don’t recall a time when Willy could have fit in that.”
“Well, Willy’s loss is my gain—or perhaps I should say Willy’s gain is my gain.” He grinned and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. His eyelids lowered and his nostrils did that ever-so-slight flaring thing that made her stomach flutter. Although, quite honestly, most of the things the irritating man did made her stomach flutter. “Tell me, Martha, do I look well in it?”
Martha pursed her lips and yanked on the darning yarn with an unnecessarily vicious tug. “You know you do.”
“Then perhaps you would like to come out walking with me and my waistcoat—be seen out and about with us?”
“I would have thought you were too busy planning your journey south to bother with walks.” Once again, she wanted to chew out her own tongue.
He smirked. “Will you miss me when I’m gone, Martha?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“When are you leaving?”
“Not for another two weeks.”
Joy leapt in her chest, but she immediately suppressed it. It didn’t matter how long he was here; he was still leaving.
“But let’s not talk about my departure. Come for a walk; it is too lovely an evening to darn socks.”
“You wouldn’t say that if it was your sock I was darning.”
Hugo lifted the right leg of his trousers to expose an ankle boot with no stocking showing. He also exposed a fine expanse of muscular calf in the process—although it was nothing she’d not seen before. “I eschew socks.” He leaned toward her when she ignored him. “I’m serious, Martha—why not come walking with me?”
“Because she’s already agreed to come out with me.”
Martha jolted. She’d been so fixated on Hugo that she’d noticed nothing else. Hugo, she suspected by the sly smile curling his lips, had known Mr. Clark was nearby and had wanted him to hear the invitation.
“You should be on your way, Buckingham,” Mr. Clark said, marching up to Martha and taking her hand.
Martha frowned at his proprietary gesture. He was more interested in thwarting Hugo than walking with her, she was sure of that.
Based on the knowing, amused glint in Hugo’s eyes, he’d guessed that, too.
Martha cut Mr. Clark a stern look and then turned to give Hugo a tight smile. “Come back tomorrow evening, Mr. Buckingham. I shall walk with you then.”
Hugo was waiting on the cottage steps when Martha opened her door at seven o’clock the next evening.
Instead of the newer outfit he’d worn yesterday, he was dressed in the clothing that she’d scrounged for him. It was a disgrace to call them clothes, but the ragged garments were spotlessly clean.
“Oh, you’re here,” she said foolishly.
“I was a few minutes early, but didn’t want to appear over-eager, so I waited outside.”
“But you thought you’d tell me that you were over-eager, just in case I didn’t happen to notice.”
He grinned. “You know me so well.”
“Ha.”
“I thought we might take a walk down to the Greedy Vicar if you’d let me treat you to a hot chocolate.”
“You are a spendthrift, Mr. Buckingham. You needn’t put yourself into debt because of me.”
“Oh, trust me—the thought would never enter my mind. Everything I do, I do for my own satisfaction.”
“Hmmm.” She cut him a speculative glance. Like everyone else on the island she knew that an aristocrat had sent him a letter containing a bank draft so large—twenty pounds—that Joe hadn’t been able to cash it.
“I’m surprised you aren’t already gone. I thought you were eager to get off the island and go back to—well, back to whatever it is you do.”
Martha began walking before he offered her his arm—which is what Mr. Clark always did. But she suspected that she wouldn’t be able to think or walk if she touched any part of Hugo.
“I’ve decided to give Mr. Stogden two weeks to secure another employee.”
“That is thoughtful.”
“Thoughtfulness has nothing to do with it. My behavior is entirely self-serving.”
“How so?”
He gave her a warm look. “It means I get to spend more time with you. Life is too precious and brief to deny ourselves every sensual pleasure, wouldn’t you agree?”
Martha’s face heated at his blatant innuendo. “That sounds like the philosophy of a hedonist.”
“Absolutely! My goal is unfettered pleasure.”
“You’re a care-for-nobody, in other words,” she suggested.
He gave her a look of mock surprise. “Why, Miss Martha, I feel as if you know me better than I know myself.”
“Hmmph. I spoke to Albert earlier today and he said you are paying for his transportation to London and gave him the name of a friend who will put him up when he reaches the city.”
Hugo frowned. “Did he.” It wasn’t a question.
“He says you have been generous to him. One might say … selfless, almost.”
Hugo’s mouth twisted into a pruney shape. “Mr. Franks needs to keep his opinions to himself.”
“Why do you wish to pretend as if you care only about yourself?”
“It’s not a pretense, trust me.”
Martha could see by the stubborn set of his jaw that she would get nowhere on this subject. “Tell me, Mr. Buckingham—”
“I insist you call me Hugo.”
“Tell me, Mr. Buckingham, what is it you do in London?”
“I manage various business concerns.”
“That sounds considerably less strenuous than cutting flagstone.” It also sounded very vague.
“Are you wondering how I maintain such a magnificent physique while engaging in such sedentary work?”
Martha’s face burned. “I’m wondering no such thing.”
He chuckled. “A man can always hope.”
Really! He was a menace to a woman’s peace of mind. Why did she enjoy his company so much when he always made her feel so skittish?
And why didn’t she believe him when he claimed to be self-centered—what sort of person would say that if it weren’t true? How come she persisted in believing that there was more to him than frivolity and selfishness? And why was he so much more intriguing than Mr. Clark—whom she knew to be a good man, at least in most matters?
Just what was wrong with her? Was she like a magpie and Hugo the new, shiny object that caught her attention? Could she really be so shallow?
Martha had—grudgingly—accepted that a great deal of her feelings for him were physical in nature. But that wasn’t all of it. There was just something about him that seemed to call to her.
Every instinct screamed that she should send him off with a flea in his ear, but she could not make herself do it. The two long weeks that he’d avoided her had been dreary—frighteningly so—and she was in no hurry to return to those tedious days.
Besides, he would only be here for a short time and then he would be gone. Forever. Surely there was no harm in enjoying him before he left?
The thought of Hugo leaving forever made her stomach churn as if she’d just eaten bad fish.
She bit her lip to keep from groaning at her own stupidity. What was wrong with her? How in the world could she have become so attached to the man in such a short time? Was she really in danger of falling in love with him?
Or even worse, had she already fallen?