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.
Marth 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.
Aman 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
