Hugo’s eyes bulged.
Martha bit her lip. Hard. Why had she said such a thing? Robert had never asked her to marry him, and she wasn’t sure that she would say yes if he did.
She wanted to yell—or hit something. Or somebody. What in the world would Robert say if he learned what she had just said?
Martha opened her mouth to take back her spurious claim.
“Congratulations to you both.” Hugo sneered. “I’m sure you will make each other very happy.”
She flinched, stung by his nasty, condescending tone. “Why Mr. Buckingham, could it be that you are jealous?”
“Ha! That’s not jealousy, sweetheart, that was sarcasm. And more than a little relief. I think you’re perfect for each other.”
Martha refused to let him see how much his words cut her. “Think whatever you like in the privacy of your own mind,” she retorted. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone. It’s a private matter.”
He gave a rude hoot of laughter. “As difficult as it might be for you to believe, the subject of you and Robert rarely comes up in any of my conversations.”
“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get some sleep.”
He pushed up off the blanket and shook out his coat before slipping it on. Instead of going elsewhere to lie down he relighted the other lamp.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m suddenly not sleepy,” he snapped. He began to stalk across the sand but then stopped and turned. “Will you be all right here by yourself?”
So, he wanted to get away from her? Fine.
“I’ll be better by myself.” She turned her back on him. “Please don’t disturb me when you come back.”
Martha’s ears strained for some sound, but there was nothing other than the gentle lapping of the water.
The tears she’d held back suddenly broke free. Say something, Hugo, she willed him. Don’t leave like this. Tell me … something.
But the light in the cave flickered and grew dimmer.
And then Martha was alone.
Chapter 19
“Well done, arsehole,” Hugo muttered under his breath once he’d left the main cave.
He stopped and glared at the rock walls around him.
What the hell was he doing? The last thing he wanted to do was creep around these bloody caves. Still, it was better than sitting beside Martha after hearing that she was betrothed to Clark.
Hugo clenched his jaws hard enough to make his teeth hurt; he wanted to hit something—to break something.
Why the hell had she only told him that now—after he’d spent ten days making a fool of himself over her? If she’d admitted to being betrothed when he’d asked her to spend some time with him, he could have passed the message along to the vicar and he’d be in London right now.
Maybe it took a few days with you to convince her that Clark was the more appealing option.
Hugo snorted contemptuously. That would be fine by him. As if he had ever wanted to saddle himself with a wife! And a vicar’s daughter, at that.
Liar.
Hugo ignored the mocking laughter in his head and stomped down the tunnel that led away from the water—and away from Martha—and deeper into the island. He didn’t get far before the cave shrank to the diameter of a badger hole.
Well, good. Because he had no desire to wander off, he’d only needed to get away from Martha before he said something he’d regret.
His crude words—about wanting to fuck her—came back to him in a rush.
Hugo scowled. Fine, before he said something else that he’d regret.
“Bugger.” He lowered himself to the rocky but dry floor of the cave and leaned against the wall, grimacing at the cold that penetrated even through his coat and shirt.
He yanked his thoughts away from Martha, only to have them slide in another—even more unwelcome—direction: Cailean.
Where the hell was the boy? He knew this island like the back of his hand. If he was missing, then something was wrong. Hugo should have guessed that Cailean wasn’t down here. Regardless of what Martha said, Cailean had looked genuinely terrified when Hugo had suggested exploring the caves.
It sickened him to think of his cousin Hamish and cadre of bullies finding the boy while Hugo was stuck down here. He couldn’t do a damned thing except pointlessly fret about the lad for the next twelve bloody hours.
Speaking of pointless, what about that argument you just fled from like a vaporous miss?
Hugo gritted his teeth, but he didn’t try to argue. For once, the voice in his head was right: their disagreement had been foolish and pointless.
But then so had entertaining the futile hope that there could ever be something between them. All she felt for him was animal attraction. He knew better than anyone that physical attraction could happen between strangers and even between people who hated each other. It had nothing to do with the finer feelings that led to love or marriage.
Hugo could only be grateful that he’d kept his pitiful feelings for her to himself.
“Feelings,” he scoffed, absently grabbing a handful of sand and letting it drain through his fingers. Since when did he give a damn about—or even notice—any feelings other than the desire for money, security, and physical pleasure?
It was being on this bloody island and out of his element that was causing him to behave like such a gudgeon. Once he was back in London—back in the only milieu where he really belonged: a whorehouse—he could forget this whole nightmare had ever happened.
But first he had to get through the next five days, thanks to his asinine promise to the vicar to extend his stay. He couldn’t believe that he’d allowed Mr. Pringle to talk him into courting Martha. He’d enjoyed spending time with her these past few days, of course, but it had been pointless.
Well, not entirely pointless. His lips curled into a smug smile; he’d hugely enjoyed annoying Clark with his presence.
But his amusement at that thought was short-lived. He tossed the handful of
