Martha raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh no! Do you—”
But Hugo was already walking.
Chapter 17
There was a distracting buzzing in Hugo’s head. Or maybe it was outside of his head.
Either way, it was maddening. A vision of quiet, gentle Cailean with his head split open flickered through his mind’s eye and the buzzing intensified.
“Hugo. Hugo? Hugo!” Martha’s breathless voice came from behind him.
“What?” he barked.
“We don’t know it is Cailean’s blood.”
“We don’t know it isn’t.”
“We won’t be of help to anyone if we hurt ourselves before we can get there.” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “Please.” She was panting so Hugo stopped. “Thank you.”
They stood for a moment while Martha caught her breath. “That blood could be any number of things, Hugo. I know for a fact that Bridget Simpson’s dog has been stealing hens. And then there’s—”
“It’s all right, Martha. I’ve calmed down.” She gave him a doubtful smile, which Hugo returned. “Shall we carry on?” They walked in silence for a while.
“You mentioned some other tunnels,” Hugo said a short time later. “Should we check those first or go straight to the main?”
“If he came after Lily he might have gone into any of the passageways and not all the way to the still cave.”
“And you say this still is no longer in use?” he asked, more to hear her voice rather than any real interest in island brewing.
“Not after some long-ago customs agent or exciseman found it. They destroyed it, but the name stuck.”
“The islanders didn’t replace it?”
“No. The caves are used for smuggling, but nothing so permanent as brewing anymore.”
Hugo couldn’t imagine spending any time down here no matter how good the money might be. The stench of seaweed, fish, and rot that clung to everything on the island was especially strong.
“Right ahead is the first tunnel that branches off,” Martha said.
The tunnel in question looked like more of a hole. They’d only gone about ten feet in when the passage narrowed dramatically.
“This would be a devil of a place for a man as tall as Cailean,” Hugo muttered, already bent nearly double.
“Why don’t you let me go first?”
Hugo didn’t like that idea. At all. “I can go a bit farther.” Unfortunately, that was all he could go. He dropped to his haunches and turned to Martha, who was still upright. Hugo grinned up at her. “Why, you’re just a little thing.”
“I am five foot one- and three-quarter inches.”
“Ah.”
She pursed her sinful lips and looked down her small, straight nose at him. “So, have you changed your mind about letting me go first?”
“All right; but be careful. And go slowly—if you slip and sprain an ankle it would be difficult to—”
“Why, Hugo—are you worried about me?” She was smiling—no grinning—down at him.
“No, I’m worried about how sore my back would be having to carry you.”
She laughed.
“Go on with you,” he said gruffly.
“Yes, Mr. Buckingham.”
“How very obedient you are, Miss Pringle. I do like the sound of that.”
She edged around him and proceeded into the darkness. “I wouldn’t become accustomed to it, Mr. Buckingham,” she tossed over her shoulder.
The light from her lamp disappeared far too quickly. “Keep talking to me, Martha.”
“Do you miss me already?” Her voice sounded hollow and bounced off the walls—an odd, soggy echo.
“Do you like living on Stroma—or would you like to one day leave?”
“I could make a case for either.” Her voice was far too faint for his liking.
“Martha? How far—”
“Oh, Hugo. Oh, no!”
“What is it? Martha? Martha!” Hugo snatched up the lamp and started after her, his knees bent as he all but crawled forward. “I’m coming. Just—”
“I am not hurt. But I’ve found a dead otter.”
Hugo sank to his haunches in relief, blood pounding in his ears. Thank. Bloody. Hell.
“Hugo?”
“What is it, darling?” The word slipped out, and the silence that followed was a good eight-months pregnant.
“This isn’t Lily.”
“Can you tell the difference between one otter and another?”
“Can you tell between one dog and another? Or between two cats?”
That was true; he’d know Tiger anywhere.
“Oh, heavens,” she said, which was as close as Martha ever got to cursing. “It’s just dreadful—so many cuts and gashes. I can’t believe the poor creature made it this far.”
“From a knife or another animal?”
“Um, I don’t know. It could be either.”
“Are there any animals that might have done this?”
“Well, male otters can be quite vicious.” She paused. “I believe this is a boy otter.”
Hugo heard her mortification at having to articulate such a thing and couldn’t help laughing.
“You are not a nice man.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Now get back here.”
◆◆◆
By the time they crept out of the dead otter cave more than twenty minutes had passed.
“We have to hurry, Hugo,” Martha said, frowning at the watch pinned to her bodice.
“Is the next cave like that?”
“Even narrower.”
“I think we should get to the main cavern first and look at smaller ones on the way back if we have time. What do you think?”
“We could split—”
“Don’t. Just don’t even say it.”
“Are you afraid to be alone?”
“I’m not bloody keen on caves or dead animals or a tide about to rush in and drown us.”
She laughed.
“I’m delighted to amuse you, Miss Pringle. How much farther?”
“No more than a few minutes.”
Hugo stopped. Martha wasn’t expecting it and staggered. He caught her, one of his hands on her waist to steady her.
Martha had never been this close to him; he was like a furnace. And so very, very … hard.
“Listen,” he said softly, leaning close. “I think you were right about splitting up. It’s possible whoever killed that otter is still down here.”
“Who would—”
“I don’t know, maybe one of the smugglers you’ve mentioned.”
“I can’t believe that. It was probably just another otter.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to take any chances. I want you to hang back. If there is somebody, er,
