“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.
Chapter 11
At the urging of what seemed like half the island population, Hugo, Albert, Mr. Pringle and Martha lingered at the Greedy Vicar after McCoy and
