“So, Mrs. Buckingham.”
Martha smiled at her husband of barely four hours. “So, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo grinned back at her, the expression uncharacteristically joyful and boyish. “I’m sorry our wedding was such a rushed affair,” he said as they walked from the Norseman Inn and Public House up Wick’s High Street.
“There is always too much work to be done during the harvest to take more than a few hours away,” she reassured him. “That’s why most weddings take place in the winter or spring.”
“I have to admit that I’m happy that we got into Wick before the shops closed. I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get today.”
For the wedding Mr. Stogden had loaned him a coat and neckerchief, but he’d changed back into his own clothes right before they left.
Martha’s clothing—everything except what she’d been wearing the night she’d been trapped in the Gloup with Hugo—had burnt in the fire, along with all her possessions, so the island women had contributed to her wedding ensemble. While the gesture was a kind one, the outfit was hideous. Still, even dressed in ill-fitting near rags she was happier than she’d been in her entire life.
Guilt had tried to worm its way into her day over and over since she’d woken feeling joy at the thought of becoming Hugo’s wife.
How dare she feel such happiness when her father had been dead not even two weeks?
The sharp pain that accompanied that thought was enough to make breathing difficult. But each and every time she began to spiral into despair, she’d hear her father’s voice: I love you too much to ever want you to grieve for me, Martha.
Jonathan Pringle had despised society’s insistence on imposing mourning periods.
Why mourn our loved one’s death when we should be celebrating the joy they brought to our lives?
Martha had reminded herself of her father’s words repeatedly throughout the day.
The wedding had taken place early and the wedding breakfast that Joe and Mary hosted was more like a wedding tea. In Martha’s opinion, it had been lovely and perfect and just the right amount of time to avoid any maudlin emotions to build up.
And then the three of them had piled into the Louise and Jem Packard had taken them across the firth and into Wick Bay.
And now Hugo wanted to take her shopping.
“Are you sure you can afford buying all of us clothing, Hugo? The women were very generous, and I have—”
“Buying a few outfits of clothing won’t beggar me.” He squeezed her hand and they both winced as Cailean—too busy staring in shop windows—almost walked into a lamp post. “He’s going to injure himself if he’s not careful,” Hugo muttered.
Martha was behaving like a gawking yokel, herself. When was the last time she’d even stepped foot in an actual town? As for buying a brand new dress? Well, that had never happened.
“If you are sure, Hugo,” she said.
“I’m sure, darling. You would look lovely in a burlap sack, but the three of us bear more than a passing resemblance to a trio of scarecrows.” He cocked his head at her. “What does one call a collection of scarecrows?”
“Hmm. A fright?” she suggested.
His low chuckle warmed her body through, even though the wind was a bit chill. “What about a scare, no wait, that has the same word. A startle?”
Martha smirked. “A tatterdemalion?”
Hugo laughed. “I surrender. I thought—”
“Hugo?”
They turned at the rare sound of Cailean’s voice. He was pressed up against the tiny bow window of a sweet shop.
“Go on in and tell the clerk what you want,” Hugo told him as Martha wandered to look through the bookstore window right next door. She gorged on the sight of shelves and shelves of books.
“Martha?”
“Would it be all right if I just looked inside?” When he didn’t answer, she turned. He was smiling down at her with the oddest—almost tender—look in his eyes.
“I’ll go get Cailean his sweets and we’ll sit on that bench right there”—he pointed to a bench across from a toy shop—“and wait for you.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“I’m sure.”
I promise I won’t be more than—”
“Here.” He shook several coins from a fat leather pouch into his hand and held them out to her. “Will that be enough for a book or two?”
“Hugo! That’s far too much, I could never—”
He closed her fingers around the coins and lifted her hand to his mouth. “Take all the time you want, darling.” His low voice did disturbing, exciting things to her body. He kissed her fingers, his lips hot even through the thick cotton of her gloves. “I’ll be out here feasting on Turkish delight if you need me.”
Martha looked from the boxes piled in the corner of her room to the stack of three books on the nightstand and felt almost giddy.
And then she immediately felt ashamed that she was taking such pleasure in material possessions. But it had been so long since she’d had a book that wasn’t dog-eared, or stained, or something that she’d not already read a dozen times.
As for her new dresses? This was the first time in her life that she had not one but five new gowns, none of which she’d sewn herself. New ankle boots, two pairs of slippers, two hats, a new cloak, four pairs of gloves, and on and on.
She’d been too shocked to do more than gape as Hugo had ordered around the elated saleswoman, the pile of garments growing and growing.
Hugo had purchased only a few articles of clothing for himself. “I have lots of clothing in London.” Irritation had flickered across his features. “Hopefully.”
Cailean had been far less interested in new garments than in the book Martha had bought for him. It was a reading primer with the most beautiful pictures she had ever seen. She was determined to teach him to read now that they both would have time.
They had topped off the magical day with a delicious meal in the small inn’s only private parlor. Afterward Hugo and Cailean had gone down to the taproom.
And now Martha was waiting for her husband to come to her.
Her husband.
Martha hugged herself, her fingers stroking her new feather-soft muslin nightgown. It was one of the few garments that she’d chosen for herself, too shy to allow Hugo to select such an intimate thing for her.
She had brushed her hair until it shone, and it hung in a pale blonde froth down to her hips. Martha knew it was her only beauty. She was neither pretty, nor ugly, but average, except for her corn-silk hair. But the way Hugo had looked at her that night in his lean-to had made her feel beautiful.
There was a light knock and then the door opened. Hugo stepped inside and then saw her and froze, his expressive, dark eyes flickering up and down her person before settling on her face. He locked the door without looking away from her.
She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him with such short hair or wearing clothing that fit and flattered his magnificent body.
He looked handsome and virile in snug buckskins, a black coat that molded to his broad shoulders, and a white cravat that was an attractive contrast to his tanned face.
“You look lovely,” he said, closing the distance between them in two strides.
He stopped so close that Martha had to crane her neck to look up at him. She could smell smoke and spirits. Beneath that was the faint masculine earthiness that seemed to be distinctly Hugo’s own scent.
He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. “I have been looking forward to tonight.”
“M-me too.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I only took the one bedchamber for us.”
“Er, should I mind?”
“Lots of married couples don’t share the same room—at least not beyond a few hours on selected nights.” His shapely mouth curved into a smile that made her breathing quicken. “But I will want you in my bed all night. Every night.” He leaned close and whispered, “I will want to make love to you often.”
Martha’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
“You will have your own chambers wherever we live, of course, but we shall always sleep together.”
She moistened her lower lip, which felt unaccountably dry.
Hugo’s gaze dropped to her mouth, his eyes darkening. “Undress me, Martha.”
Martha jolted at the quiet command. “Oh.”
He nodded encouragingly at her, waiting patiently as her shaking hands reached for the buttons on his coat. As she unfastened them, he carded his fingers through her hair. “You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen.”
She’d heard similar things in the past, but never had mere words caused her entire body to heat.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
She cut him a quick glance, both annoyed and aroused by the lazy confidence in his hooded gaze.
Once the last button was undone, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth over hers.
His kisses were light and teasing and he smelled and tasted so good that Martha felt intoxicated. She didn’t realize he’d coaxed her mouth open until she felt the smooth flick of his tongue against hers. She shuddered and grabbed his biceps, wanting—no, needing—more.
Instead of pulling her closer, he stepped back, his eyes glinting with gentle amusement and something else. Desire?
“Help me take off my coat.”
The garment was tightly fitted, but not ridiculously so and she was able to peel it from his shoulders when he shrugged. Martha laid it over the clotheshorse at the foot of the bed and turned to find him waiting.
She fumbled her way through the buttons on his waistcoat, intensely aware of his silent gaze. When she reached for his cravat, she risked a look up at him.
He was no longer amused; he smoldered.
“My wife,” he murmured, sounding dazed. He yanked off his cravat and tossed it aside, his movements no longer languid, but abrupt and impatient. “I wanted to take my time and seduce you slowly, properly.” He pulled his shirt over his head and it joined his neckcloth. “But I want you too damn much, Martha.” He gave a soft snort that sounded like disbelief and held out his hand; it was shaking. “You see that?”
Before she could answer—not that she knew what to say—his hand dropped to the ridge tenting his leather breeches and he pressed the heel of his hand against it, grimacing as if he were in pain. “Get on the bed.”
Her sex—already sensitive and swollen—pulsed at his low, rough command as she hastened to obey.
He sat on the bench in front of the small dressing table and removed his new boots with a few rough jerks, throwing them to the floor with loud thunks before pushing down his stockings and standing.
Their eyes locked as he undid the closures on his fall and then quickly flicked open the four buttons beneath. His movements were practiced yet sensual—as if he’d disrobed in front of women countless times and was comfortable displaying his body.
Martha didn’t want to think about how many lovers he must have had to gain such confidence and competence in the bedchamber.
He shoved down his breeches and drawers in one graceful motion and when he stood, his erection jutted long and thick from his narrow hips.
She knew her mouth was open but couldn’t make herself close it.
Hugo strode toward her, his shaft bobbing, and reached for the hem of her nightgown. Martha lifted her hips without being told and he raised the garment up over her head, throwing it to join the other clothing.
His eyes glittered as they traveled down her body, lingering on her stiff nipples. “So bloody beautiful,” he murmured as he climbed up on the bed. “Lie on your back, Martha.”
When she complied, he nudged her thighs apart and knelt between her legs. “You do this to me,” he said, sliding his palm around his erection, his tone almost contemplative. They both looked down as he pumped himself, a bead of moisture appearing at the very tip.
Martha was frightened of his size, but her body craved him—desperately—and she ached with need.
His lips curved into the tiniest, smuggest of smiles—as if he could see the contents of her wicked mind. He ran his other hand, hot and calloused, up the inside of her thigh, delving into her curls when he reached the top. He traced her lips, his stroking too maddeningly light.
As she’d done the other night, Martha opened her legs wider and lifted her hips in silent entreaty.
He groaned, released himself, and gracefully lowered his torso, shoving her legs even wider to accommodate his wide shoulders. “You’re driving me mad,” he muttered, and then opened her with his thumbs, the tip of his tongue peeking between his lips. He made a noise that sounded like he was in pain and then lowered his mouth over her.
She squeezed her eyes shut at the unbearable bliss of his hot, wet mouth and caressing tongue. His forearms kept her thighs pinned and spread while he ruthlessly worked her toward her climax.
Martha bucked and thrust and writhed, shameless in her passion.
And then he pushed his tongue inside her.
“Hugo,” she cried out, shocked and aroused in equal measures at the erotic invasion.
He didn’t pause, the primitive rhythm of his thrusting a promise of what was to come.
The second orgasm was upon her before she knew what was happening. Unlike the headlong rush of the first, this was a brutal punch of intense pleasure that shattered her.
He slid a finger inside her and she gasped as her inner muscles contracted around him.
“Mmm.” He kissed and nibbled the tender skin where her thigh joined her sex and then moved up beside her, until they were hip to hip, and claimed her mouth.
Martha gasped; that was herself she tasted on his tongue.
“Sweet, aren’t you?” He sucked her lower lip into his mouth as he rubbed his erection against her hip. “Touch me, Martha.”
Martha had been dreaming of touching him for weeks—never had she expected the astounding silky softness of his skin. Or the heat of him.
He closed his hand around hers and gave a low growl of approval. “Just like that, darling—tight.” He released her hand and palmed her mound, gently squeezing her sex. “Mine.” He pushed two fingers inside her, working her with languid pumps. “All mine.”
With each stroke of her hand, she spread more and more moisture down his shaft, until he was slick with it. He grunted and thrusted his hips, pushing into her tight, wet fist.
It was challenging to ignore her own pleasure and concentrate on bringing him to his release, but she wanted to see him come apart.
“So good,” he muttered. And then he did something to her with his thumb, and a blissful sensation ambushed her yet again.
Martha bucked and cried out. “Hugo.”
He groaned. “Oh, Martha. I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now,” he said in a husky voice, his hand stilling while she shuddered, boneless with ecstasy.
He waited until she came back to herself before removing her limp hand from his erection, making her realize that she had stopped stroking him.
Martha reached for him again. “I want—”
“No.” His jaws were tight enough that she could see the muscles and sinews beneath the skin “I can’t wait any longer to get inside you.” He positioned his body over hers and cut her a quick, concerned look. “It will only hurt for a moment, darling, and then I promise I’ll make you feel wonderful.” His slick, hot crown pressed against her entrance, hard and insistent. “Do you want me, Martha?”
“Yes … please, Hugo,” she begged, as if some wanton had gained control of her mouth.
He breached her with a quick, firm thrust and she cried out, more in surprise than pain, although there was considerable discomfort.
He was panting, like he’d been running, his pupils huge. “Mmmm, Martha. So wet and tight for me,” he growled against her temple, his biceps bulging as he held himself still.
Martha squirmed beneath his far larger body as she stretched to accommodate him. He was big and it hurt more than she’d expected. But she wanted him—wanted this—no matter how uncomfortable it was.
“Can you take the rest of me?” he asked in a strained voice.
She bit her lip and tilted her hips.
“Good girl, open yourself for me,” he praised as her knees spread wider.
He gave her his length slowly, entering her inch by inch, not stopping until the ridged muscles of his abdomen pressed against her stomach and it felt like he was poking her spine.
“Relax your muscles and let your body adjust. You’ll be fine in a moment,” he soothed, kissing her temple. “And breathe, darling, breathe.”
Martha took a deep breath, and then another. He was right: the initial pain was gone; what remained was only a vague ache and the sensation of fullness. Regardless of the discomfort, she reveled in their joining; this is what both their bodies had been designed to do. She felt more like a wife right then than she had earlier that day, when she’d spoken her vows.
He kissed her brow again. “Better?”
“It’s lovely.” And it was.
He smiled and his shaft flexed inside her.
Martha’s lips parted. “Did you do that?”
“Who else would be doing it, darling?” He flexed again and again, jerking against her swollen sheath.
Martha tightened her inner muscles, the action sending ripples of pleasure through her body.
Hugo groaned. “You’re a fast learner, sweetheart. Are you trying to break me in two?”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Only in the most delicious way. I’m going to move in you, now.”
Martha could breathe more easily when he withdrew, but she immediately missed him.
He slid back in, faster this time, burying himself to the hilt.
“So good,” he muttered. And then he began to move, his strokes slow and measured, each one leaving more pleasure in its wake than the one before. The long, lean muscles of his flank bunched beneath her hands as he filled her again and again, his body angled in such a way that he grazed her core with each thrust.
“Come once more, for your husband,” he said, and then reached between their bodies and drove her toward yet another climax.
He moaned when she contracted around him, his thrusts becoming less controlled, until his hips pounded into her with the unrestrained force of a winter storm.
Martha forced her heavy eyelids up, desperate to watch as he gave in to his climax.
His jaws clenched and his dark eyes locked with hers. “Going to come,” he growled, and then rammed himself deep, holding her in a punishing embrace while he kept her full and impaled, his shaft pulsing and thickening as he flooded her with a hot rush of seed.
Martha drifted for a moment, reveling in the feel of his hard, hot body on top of her and inside her. A body which gradually became heavier and heavier, until he was no longer supporting his weight on his arms. Instead, he crushed her into the mattress, his breathing deep and even.
He’d fallen asleep.
She smiled and slid her arms around him, reveling in a moment of complete happiness.
“I love you, Hugo,” she whispered.
Hugo shifted to get more comfortable and something beneath him groaned.
He opened his eyes and stared directly into the sky-blue eyes of his wife.
“Did I fall asleep on top of you?” he mumbled thickly as he rolled aside.
“Just for a minute. It was … nice.”
Her voice was breathy and high—nothing like the Martha he knew.
That’s because this wasn’t just a fuck for her, you dunce. It was her first time; you need to act like a lover.
Hugo scowled; how the hell did a person act like a lover?
Talk to her, comfort her … make sure you didn’t hurt her.
It was that last thought that woke him from his stupor.
Hugo turned on his side and pushed up onto his elbow. Her face was turned away from him, so he took her chin and turned her back. “Martha?”
She was blushing fierily, but she smiled, too. “Hugo?” she said in a mocking tone.
If she was smiling and teasing him, it couldn’t have been too bad.
Could it?
“Did I hurt you? I meant to go slower, to be more—”
“No, you didn’t hurt me—except for a moment or two at the beginning.”
He supposed it was too much to hope that she might have enjoyed it. Did virgins enjoy their first time? Virgins were not a subject he had much experience with.
“Regrets?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Good. Because you can’t undo it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good,” he said again, because he could think of nothing else.
She yawned. “I’m so sorry,” she said, flushing. “That’s rather rude.”
“I’ll forgive you. This time.”
“I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
“Because I wore you out, darling. I’m going to take it as a compliment.” He pulled the blankets up around her.
“Mmm. Thank you, Hugo.” She turned onto her side and snuggled down into the covers, pushing her bottom against his groin.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart.”
He waited until her breathing became regular and then rolled onto his back and stared at the yellowed plaster ceiling.
His jaw tightened as he recalled what he’d done: he’d spent inside her. He never done that before, at least not inside a woman. It had been careless, no matter that they were married.
Why? You’re married. That’s what married people do: have children.
Married. Children. Hugo swallowed a hysterical laugh. Bloody hell. He couldn’t wrap his mind around having a wife yet, and he sure as hell couldn’t wrap his mind around having a brat.
You’d better start wrapping because she’ll want them. A lot of them.
Those had been her words.
His half-hard cock twitched at the thought of putting a baby inside her. Hugo snorted; well, at least one part of his body was thrilled.
Shame flooded him at the snide, unworthy thought.
Children were necessary for Martha’s happiness and he’d already vowed to do everything in his power to ensure she never regretted her decision to marry him. That meant children.
Besides, while it was true that he’d not wanted children in the past, he could imagine having them with Martha. He might lack the ability to love, but he could support and care for children and bloody well make sure that no child of his ever felt unwanted. And Martha would be such a wonderful mother that she’d make up for his emotional deficiencies.
He turned to look at her sleeping form, thrilling at the knowledge that she was his wife. He could have her every night, as often as they both liked—and he would use all his skills to make sure that she wanted him often.
He smiled at the thought. Being married wasn’t going to be bad, at all.
You think that now; imagine how wise you’ll feel when she figures out how you make your money.
She won’t; I’ll make sure of it.
Hugo would have cause to remember those words before too long.