The lights were on in the windows of the Pringle cottage and Hugo grimaced as he realized how late he was. He wouldn’t be surprised if that bloody Clark had taken advantage of the situation and stolen a march on him.
He raised his hand to knock but the door opened.
“Oh, Hugo,” Martha said, her expression anxious.
“I’m sorry I’m late it—”
“Hush, you needn’t apologize.” She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I heard you helped bring poor Gerry to Nethertown.” She drew him inside and led him toward the small table where he’d had tea with Mr. Pringle. “Mr. Stogden went with him to the mainland?”
“Yes,” Hugo said, more than a little distracted by the feel of her small, work-roughened hand on his. She was so small physically and yet so … potent.
She released him to reach for the kettle, and Hugo immediately missed her.
“Would you like some tea?”
It took a moment for his befogged brain to translate her words. “Er, please. I would love some.”
Hugo took his hand from the table and rested it in his lap, covering his half-hard cock, more than a little alarmed by what a simple touch from her did to his body.
Martha bustled around the small space far more efficiently than her father had.
Hugo glanced around—where was Mr. Pringle? “Is your father here?”
“No, he’s gone to sit with Gerry’s wife, Adele.”
Even a whore like Hugo knew he shouldn’t be in the house alone with a young unmarried woman—not unless he wanted to destroy her reputation.
“I should wait outside,” he said when she turned to place cups and plates on the table.
Martha smiled. “Nobody will think the worse of me for giving you a cup of tea and a few biscuits after the day you’ve had.”
“But—”
“If it makes you feel better, I can open the front door.”
As she left the room Hugo marveled at how quickly their roles had changed. Since when was he such a knight protector? But he knew the answer to that: he didn’t want to repay Mr. Pringle’s kindness with scandal.
Nor do you want to be forced into marriage.
The thought drove him to his feet just as Martha entered the kitchen.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’d rather have a pint,” he lied. “If you don’t mind being seen with me in all my dirt I’d like to go down to the Vicar as we’d planned.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Good, I’ll wait outside for you.” Hugo darted out the door before she could stop him.
He was pacing and delivering a lecture to himself on the subject of proper behavior when Martha opened the cottage door.
He stopped in mid-stride and looked up at her. She had tucked her lovely hair under an old straw hat and had tossed a crocheted blue shawl around her shoulders.
She was the most beautiful thing Hugo had ever seen.
“Hugo?”
He jolted. “Hmm?”
“I’m ready.”
They set off.
“What did you do today?” Hugo asked, not wanting to think about his own day.
“I transcribed my father’s last sermon for him.”
“You transcribed it?”
“Yes, he keeps a record of them all, a leather-bound book just for that purpose, but his handwriting is dreadful, so I copy it into the book for him. It is also an opportunity to read his words over. Sometimes, on a Sunday there are things to distract me.”
Hugo felt a twinge of guilt at her words; he’d never heard her father speak.
There it was again—another bizarre feeling assaulting him: guilt. Hugo had always been the most guilt-free person in Britain and now he was—
“Martha?”
Hugo and Martha turned to find Mrs. Fergusson, Cailean’s aunt, rushing toward them.
“What is it, Mrs. Fergusson?” Martha asked.
The old woman’s expression was tense and pinched. “It’s Small Cailean.”
“What about Small Cailean?” Hugo asked before Martha could speak.
“He didn’t come back last night and he’s not back again tonight.”
“Who saw him last?”
“Er, my lad, Hamish.”
Hamish Fergusson was one of Cailean’s principal tormentors; Hugo had already given the lad a stern talking-to about teasing his giant but gentle cousin.
“Did your boy do something to him?” Hugo demanded, not bothering to hide his displeasure.
“Oh, boys will be boys, you know. It’s nothing that—”
“Where was he last seen?” Martha cut Hugo a worried glance.
“He was off looking for Lily.”
“What happened to Lily?” Hugo asked, dread pooling in his chest.
“Well, the boys were just playin’ and—”
“What did they do to her?”
The old woman flinched at the cold menace in his tone.
Martha laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hugo, perhaps you should—”
“No, Martha—I want the truth.” He frowned at Mrs. Fergusson. “And I want it now.”
“Hamish said they chased Lily into the Gloup,” Mrs. Fergusson blurted.
“Bloody hell!”
“But they didn’t mean—”
Hugo turned away from her before he said something he’d regret. “I’ve not been into the caves because Cailean is terrified of them,” he admitted to Martha. “Do you think he would have braved his fear if Lily went in there?”
“Cailean knows the entire island like the back of his hand, Hugo—the Gloup included.” She turned to the older woman. “What is the tide tonight?”
“It’s almost low slack.”
“That’s a bit of luck, Hugo. Low slack is the only time you can access the cave,” Martha explained.
“So we can go now, then?” Hugo said, trying not to think of the boy and his damned rat scared or hurt someplace. Dammit! He should have known something was amiss when Cailean hadn’t shown up to visit him yesterday evening.
“Have you looked elsewhere for him, Mrs. Fergusson?” Martha asked.
“I’ve got Hamish and the boys lookin’ for him around Swilkie Point and—”
“He’s hardly likely to answer the same people who drove him intohiding, is he?”
Mrs. Fergusson recoiled from Hugo’s anger.
“Who do you know who’s not out tonight?” Martha asked softly, giving Hugo a chiding look.
Hugo knew she meant the fishing boats. Almost every fisherman on the island was out on the water taking advantage of some sort of fish run.
“Jem Packard isn’t out—I saw the Louise on the beach.” Mrs.
