The words hadn’t even left her mouth before Martha wanted to snatch them back.
Hugo took her by the waist and firmly set her at arm’s length. “What other thing?”
You want to tell him, admit it. Shame flooded her, but she couldn’t deny it.
Hugo caused sensations in her body that she’d never even dreamed of experiencing—and he’d barely touched her.
She’d only told him the partial truth about why she’d broken off with Robert. She suspected he wouldn’t like the full story, which is that Robert had walked her to her tiny room at the Greedy Vicar and Martha had invited him in.
He’d hesitated, trying to be a gentleman, but Martha had insisted. She’d needed to know what it felt like to kiss and touch him.
It had felt like nothing.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true, it had felt embarrassing—like she was kissing her brother.
“Martha.” Hugo’s warm, calloused hand slid beneath her chin and he forced her to meet his gaze. A notch had appeared between the elegant arches of his eyebrows. “What other thing?”
Every second she hesitated, his eyebrows drew down more. Now that she’d piqued his curiosity, he would not leave it alone.
Martha stared into his dark eyes and knew—with every particle of her being—that if she didn’t say something to him before he left Stroma, she’d regret it for the rest of her days. It would be better to speak and face rejection than to remain silent and never know.
“I saw you the night in the meetinghouse, after you washed your clothes, and you had a blanket wrapped around you and—”
Realization dawned as slowly as a sunrise and his silent, speculative regard made her face hotter and hotter.
“Hmm. This sounds like a conversation best enjoyed while sitting.” He gestured to the bedroll where she’d waited for him.
She sat, leaning against the stone wall, and he lowered himself beside her.
“So, you were spying on me.”
“I was not spying.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“I was—I wondered—”
His smile grew with each sputter.
Martha shut her mouth.
“Why are you telling me this now?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.
She could hardly tell him the truth, could she? That she couldn’t stop thinking about him. That it was his face she wanted to see when Robert kissed her? That Robert’s hands on her body made her feel worse than unmoved, it made her feel as if she were being … unfaithful.
“Martha?” he prodded.
She could tell him none of those things because she was a coward. Instead, she said, “I feel guilty.” That wasn’t entirely a lie …
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why do you feel guilty?” he asked patiently. “After all, it’s not your fault if you caught a glimpse of me doing that. In fact, most people would say I should not be doing that anywhere at all, and certainly not in the middle of the meeting house with the doors wide open.” He stopped abruptly and frowned. “Tell me, how long did you stay to watch?”
“Um.”
“You stayed um? How long is um, Martha—more than a minute? Less than an hour?” His voice was low and compelling—almost menacing.
Just tell him. You know you want to.
“Erm, until the end.”
His expression was inscrutable.
“Won’t you say something?”
“Did you think about me—after? When you were alone in your bed?”
“What?” she shrieked, recoiling.
“You heard me.”
“But—”
“No buts.” The harsh lines of his face were stern and intense. “You wanted me to know that you watched—don’t deny it. If you’d said nothing I would never know. Now you’ve told me. So now answer my question: did you think about me when you were in bed.”
She sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and nodded.
He gave a low, satisfied chuckle and cupped her jaw. “Look at me, Martha.”
She opened her eyes to find that he was no longer leaning against the wall but was facing her.
“You came here to seduce me tonight, didn’t you?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.
“It’s all right; you don’t need to answer that.” He caressed her cheek, his expression thoughtful. “It arouses me to think of you watching me when I was naked and hard.”
She sucked in a noisy breath at his provocative words.
“I especially like to imagine you thinking of me later when you were alone. Did you touch yourself?”
Martha’s jaw sagged.
His soft words cut the invisible threads that were holding her together and she began to unravel. It was an effort to breathe and there was no way she could form a word.
But he didn’t seem to care about an answer.
“I remember what I was thinking about that night—as I pleasured myself. Do you want to know?”
Martha had to breathe through her mouth to get enough air.
“Do you?”
She gave a jerky nod.
“No, I want you to say it: Hugo, what were you thinking about as you stroked yourself to orgasm?”
A strangled squeak came out of her gaping mouth.
Hugo swept his thumb lightly over her lower lip, his skin salty on the tender flesh. “I adore your mouth, Martha.” His gaze remained on her lips while his thumb moved back and forth. “Shall I tell you what I was thinking that night without making you beg? Would you like that?”
Their eyes locked and the expression in his was hard—almost cruel.
She nodded.
“I was thinking about you and that mouth of yours.” His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. “I’ve pleasured myself almost every night, thinking about you, your mouth, your body.”
She could hear her ragged breathing even over the drumming of her pulse.
“Just looking at you leaves me aroused and wanting.” He stroked the corner of her mouth. “You saw just how hard I was that night, didn’t you? That was your doing.” He caught his lower lip with his sharp teeth and shook his head. “Lately, once isn’t enough. Sometimes I get hard during the day.”
He kept saying that word: hard. It was doing things to her body. Her lungs labored and the place between her thighs throbbed so loudly she could actually hear it: thud thud thud.
When he lowered his mouth over hers, Martha felt as if she’d been waiting for him all her life.
His words were crude, but his mouth was so soft, so gentle. He sipped at her lips, stroking her jaw, chin, and throat with his rough fingers. “Mmm,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip and then sucking it into his mouth.
Martha’s head spun drunkenly.
He released her lip and pressed butterfly kisses on the swollen flesh. “You taste as good as you look. I’d like to eat you.”
Martha gaped, doubtless resembling a rockfish that had been brought up from a great depth.
Hugo slid his hand behind her head. “Lean back, sweetheart, I need to kiss you properly.”
Good Lord! There was more? That was nothing like Robert’s kiss. “Pr-properly?”
“Well, maybe improperly would be a better word for it.” He chuckled and it was the sort of low, growly sound that Martha imagined a dangerous jungle panther would make right before it pounced. “And please breathe, I don’t want you dropping into unconsciousness.”
It was a relief to let her head fall back, to let him support and cradle her in his arms while his mouth reclaimed hers.
“Just relax and let me please you,” he murmured. He kissed and licked at the seam of her mouth. “Open,” he whispered. His tongue invaded her parted lips and he explored her, light teasing touches on her lips, her tongue, and even her teeth.
Martha struggled to keep pace with his wit-scattering kisses, but sensation swamped her, overwhelming her body and mind.
When he finally pulled away, his breathing was as labored as hers and his eyes burned. “I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.” His wicked lips quirked in a way that always presaged something outrageous or teasing. “Well, maybe not that first night, when you were so cruel to me, but—”
“Cruel to you? I wasn’t—”
“—I thought of you even more over the days that followed.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Good thoughts, for the most part—even though you made me clean chamber pots.”
She opened her mouth and he laid one elegant finger across her lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered, stroking lightly from her jaw to her throat, where he paused, his long-fingered hand easily spanning her and lightly and squeezing. His eyes had gone vague—as if he were somewhere else—while his fingers stroked the fabric of her high-necked gown, the rough pads snagging on the worn cotton, scritch scritch scritch.
The sound appeared to shake him from his reverie, and he lifted his hand and looked at his palm, a wry smile on his mouth as he raised his eyes to hers. “My hands are not so soft and white now, are they?”
Martha took his hand in hers and traced the soft blisters and hardening calluses. “No, but they are still beautiful.”
His lips flexed slightly at her compliment. “May I untie your cloak—before it throttles you?”
“I can do it.” She reached for the worn tie with a shaking hand.
“No, let me. It will be a novelty for me to remove your cloak while you get to do it every day.”
A choked laugh broke out of her at his foolish words, his whimsical answer somehow soothing her raw nerves.
“That’s better,” he said, deftly opening the knot that was indeed pressing against her throat. “Kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies is not serious business, Martha, it should be savored and celebrated.” He tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear, his fingers never ceasing their soothing yet inciting caressing. “You have lovely hair, so glossy and thick, not unlike Lily’s silky texture.”
Again, she laughed. “Did you just compare me to an otter? The same creatures you call rats?”
He grinned. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?” This close to him she could see his pupils were swollen. “You’ll have to think of some way to punish me.”
His words were innocent, but she sensed there was some other meaning behind them. And she burned to discover it, to explore this complex and confusing man. But she was so wretchedly ignorant that she couldn’t even think how to go about beginning such an exploration.
“I was so well-behaved that night in the Gloup, wasn’t I?” he asked, the question breaking into her thoughts. “I wanted to touch you so badly.”
“Er, you did?”
“I can’t recall a time when I’ve denied myself what I wanted—especially when I wanted you so very much.”
His words were like something out of a dream. He’d wanted her? Martha opened her mouth.
“I restrained myself, but every man has his limit, Martha.” He eyes dropped to her mouth and his pupils flared. And then he jerked his gaze back up. “And I think you came here tonight to push me past mine”
Once again, she began to speak, but he pulled away, until they weren’t touching.
“I’m giving you the opportunity to leave … now. You don’t have to go back to Clark. You don’t have to marry him or anyone else. I will make sure you are taken care of—that is a favor to your father, not to you, so you needn’t feel beholden to me. I owe him that much, at least.” He paused, and then added, “You don’t need to give yourself to me, Martha.”
Her addled brain clumsily sorted through what he’d just said. He was offering to take care of her, not to marry her or spend the rest of his life with her. He felt obligated to help her—because of her father.
What he’d left unsaid, but what Martha had heard, nonetheless, was that wanting her physically—both now and that night in the Gloup—had nothing to do with love or marriage. If she wanted either of those things from him, she should leave. Now.
If she gave herself to him, it should be for reasons of her own.
Because if she stayed—if she succumbed to her desire for him—she would be a soiled dove in the eyes of decent men. Men like Robert.
But whether she gave herself to Hugo or not, Martha knew—without a doubt—that she would never want to marry anyone else: she loved him. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop loving him just because he didn’t feel the same.
So, she could either take this much of him and be ruined, or she could take nothing at all.
The decision was surprisingly easy.
Martha grabbed his head and yanked him down.
For a moment—a moment that lasted years—Hugo’s body didn’t yield to her; he remained rigid and unresponsive. And then he muttered something vulgar and claimed her mouth, thrusting his warm, silky tongue between her lips.
Hugo knew that only a few words from him—the truth about who and what he was—would drive her away forever. If he really cared for her then he should speak up and save her.
But he was covetous and lustful and selfish—why should that surprise him?
Hugo didn’t just want her; he wanted to make sure that nobody else could have her. He wanted to ruin her chances with Clark or any other decent man. He wanted to leave her with only one choice: Hugo.
And so he lowered his mouth over hers.
She opened beneath him, soft and willing and sweet, and he plunged into her deep and rough, wanting her to know just what kind of beast she was giving herself to: not a kind, gentle man, but a crude, lustful brute.
He willed her to pull away and save them both—to slap him across the face and leave without looking back.
Instead, she clutched his hair even harder and moaned softy, inviting him deeper, innocently trusting herself to the worst man for miles.
Hugo had doomed them both.
He rewarded her trust by ravaging her, until she was breathless and whimpering. He took and took and took, and still she offered more. When her tongue tentatively stroked his own, Hugo stilled his pillaging and slanted his mouth, opening wider to give her access, inviting her to join in her downfall.
Had he ever enjoyed a kiss this much? Her joy in discovery made him realize that he’d never just kissed a woman for kissing’s sake. After all, whores weren’t hired for their kissing skills, were they?
Whores.
He imagined her expression when she learned he was a whore, and he jerked back.
“Hugo?” Martha blinked up at him. “Is something wrong?”
Her wide-eyed blue gaze was like the dangerous beauty of a whirlpool and Hugo allowed himself to be pulled down and down. Her eyes were easily the most expressive he’d ever seen, and right now, her pupils were huge with desire. For him.
You can still salvage this, a sly voice taunted. It’s only a kiss. So far.
He didn’t want only a kiss. He wanted all of her. Would taking her for himself—not just for tonight, but for all the days and nights ahead—really be so bad?
After all, Mr. Pringle had wanted Hugo to get his daughter off this godforsaken rock. It was Hugo’s duty to do what the vicar had wanted and marry her. He’d given the man his word.
Ha! The word of a whore.
Mr. Pringle had seen goodness in Hugo.
But he didn’t know you, did he, Hugo?
No, the vicar had no idea what sort of man he’d entrusted with his daughter.
Hugo shifted until he was no longer touching her—he couldn’t think straight with her in his arms. “Why did you agree to marry Clark, Martha?”
She knitted her brow. “Why are you asking me such a question?”
“Because a short time ago you wanted him enough to marry him. Yet now you are with me. You are in pain—confused—what if—”
“I was wrong to accept him.”
“What if you are wrong again? If there is even a chance for you and Clark then you should go.” The words tasted foul in his mouth.
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying that staying with me tonight doesn’t just mean tonight, Martha. I won’t do that to your father.” He knew his face had twisted into an ugly sneer. “I might be rotten to the core, but at least I can keep my word. And if you stay, it means you will marry me, Martha.”
“Are—are you saying you l-love me?”
It wasn’t the question that Hugo had expected. More fool him; what young woman didn’t dream about falling in love?
He looked into her eyes, which bled emotion, and knew that he could lie about everything else in his life—and he would bloody well do so if she accepted him—but not this.
Hugo wanted her intensely, more than he had ever wanted anyone else in his life. His desires had always been money and what it could buy for him: security and safety. Wanting money was easy—you just found a way to make it.
Wanting another person? Well . . .
“I don’t have much experience with love, Martha—hell, I don’t have any experience with it. I doubt that I’d recognize it if it crawled up my trouser leg and bit me on the—well, I’m sure you take my meaning. I like you a great deal and enjoy your company more than anyone else’s. And I find you desirable—very desirable.” She turned a fetching shade of pink, just as he’d known she would. “But love?” He shook his head. “If I don’t know what that is by the age of thirty-two, I doubt I ever will. I don’t—”
“I love you, Hugo.”
Hugo’s jaw sagged.
“That’s what I discovered after I read my father’s journal—when I allowed myself to feel, instead of just doing what I thought my father would have wanted and marry Robert. I love you.”
A groan broke out of him at her declaration, and she flinched.
Hugo took her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. “I wasn’t groaning because you said, well, you know”—Hugo couldn’t even say the blood words. “Christ,” he muttered, and then grimaced when she jolted. “I’m sorry.”
If she found his habitual taking of the Lord’s name in vain, just wait until she learned about the rest of him. But Hugo had no intention of confessing the crimes of a lifetime to her.
Even so, she should know what kind of man he was.
“I’ve made a great deal of my money in ways which are both illegal and immoral. I am not a good man, Martha. It’s my nature to get what I want by any means. That’s the way I’ve always been, and I don’t see myself changing.”
“These—these things you’ve done, are you saying they would make me not want to marry you if I knew?”
Hugo gave an unamused bark of laughter. “I think what I’ve done would make you not want to even look at me.”
“Why won’t you just tell me?”
Yes, Hugo—tell her why you can’t share the truth. Tell her it’s because nobody in your life has ever loved you—or looked at you the way she does—and you want to see just how badly she wants you and if she’ll take you without knowing the truth.
Hugo couldn’t deny all that, but he was hardly going to admit it.
“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, Martha, but I also refuse to lay my past out for inspection—yours, or anyone else’s.”
“That’s not fair, is it?”
“That’s another thing I am not: fair.”
“Have you murdered somebody, er, not in self-defense?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you married?”
Hugo laughed, genuinely amused. “Murder and marriage are closely linked in your mind, are they?”
She didn’t laugh with him.
“No, I am not, nor have I ever been, married.” Nor did I ever bloody believe I would be.
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Are you cruel to children or animals?”
Hugo blinked. “I can’t even recall the last time I was around a child. But, no, I have never been willfully cruel to a child—well, at least not since I was a child, myself. And no as to the other.”
She stared at him with the same burning intensity she had the day McCoy came to take the prisoners back to the ship: with her heart in her eyes.
“You mentioned the way you made your money. Are—are you planning to do the things you did … again?”
How should he answer that? Would he whore again?
Just thinking about going back to that life—to whoring seven days a week—made him feel tired. But if Laura had destroyed everything he’d worked for, then he’d do whatever he needed to do to earn money. He always had.
“Short of murder or abusing children and animals, I’ll not make you any promises. I will do whatever I need to do to provide for myself and anyone under my protection. That is what I can offer you, Martha.”
She regarded him solemnly for a long moment and then laid her hand on his forearm and they both stared at it, as if it were some exotic butterfly perched between them. Her hand trembled as she slid it up his bicep, over his shoulder, and up his neck, not stopping until she cupped his jaw, her fingers as work-hardened and calloused as his own.
The raw emotion—the love—in her gaze humbled him. Hugo vowed that he would do all he could humanly do to make sure that she was happy and well-cared for.
The only thing he wouldn’t do is give her the truth, a truth that would only hurt her, anyway. Wasn’t that enough?
It would have to be.
Hugo kissed her palm. “Will you marry me, Martha Pringle?”