Being stuck in this cave while Cailean might be hurt somewhere was bad enough but learning that Martha and Clark were betrothed had made things even worse.
And imagining Martha married to Clark—making love to him?
Hugo scowled; no, he couldn’t bear to think about it.
Sleep. Or at least get some rest, he ordered himself.
Several minutes passed. His body refused to unclench and his mind still raced.
Go back in there, apologize, and quit sulking.
Hugo opened his eyes. He refused to crawl back there with his tail between his legs and—
You’re wasting precious lamp oil sitting here.
Hugo perked up. Yes, that was why he needed to go back; not because he wanted to be near her, but to preserve the lamp oil.
Martha was curled up on her side on the blanket, as close to the edge as humanly possible. He decided not to offend her sensibilities by lying beside her. He found a spot that had more sand than rock and settled down.
“Hugo?”
He was just about to snuff the light but paused. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I was snappish with you.”
Hugo hesitated, and then said, “I’m sorry, too.”
“You don’t need to lie over there on the sand. We can share the blanket.”
He opened his mouth to say he was fine, but then noticed she was shaking. “Martha, are you cold?”
“J-Just a little.”
Hugo got up, shrugged off his coat, and draped the ratty garment over her shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not cold,” he lied.
Her body remained tense for a moment, but then relaxed. “Thank you.”
Hugo reached for the lamp and snuffed the light.
The darkness was so complete it was almost tangible. And it was also damned chilly. Hugo wrapped his arms around his torso, closed his eyes, and tried to listen to the sound of the water rather than the chaos of his thoughts.
Where was Cailean?
Had somebody hurt him or Lily?
Would Martha be happy with Clark?
Would Solange’s still be his when he returned to London?
Would—
Hugo must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because he was wakened by something warm and soft and fragrant pushing against his side. “Martha? What’s wrong?”
“I’m so cold, Hugo.” Martha’s words were broken by the sound of chattering teeth.
Hugo was awake in an instant. In fact, he was astounded that he’d ever slept he was so bloody cold.
“Have we slept long?” he asked.
“I haven’t slept at all, but it’s maybe an hour since you turned off the lamp.” She sounded miserable.
“I can keep you warm, but I need to hold you.” He gave a snort of laughter. “I know that sounds like I’m—”
“I understand.”
Hugo turned onto his side and she immediately pressed her back against his chest, her bottom against his crotch.
Hugo gritted his teeth, grateful he wasn’t hard, but not sure he could maintain his slumberous state for long. Still, he pulled her closer, tucking her into his chest. “Lift your head,” he said. When she did, he slid his biceps under her. “Go ahead, you can use me as a pillow.”
“It won’t be too uncomfortable?”
“If it is, I will tell you.”
After a moment’s hesitation she lowered her head onto his arm.
“Better?”
“Much.” After a few moments her body stopped its violent trembling. “Thank you, Hugo.”
“You’re keeping me warm too.” Lord. Was she ever.
“You must be freezing without your coat. Do you—”
“I’m fine.” Hugo snuggled a bit closer. “I wouldn’t have thought it would be so cold.”
“Did you find anything interesting in the other rooms?”
“No, the tunnels are just as you said and too small for people.”
There was a long silence, and then, “I can’t sleep, Hugo.”
“Maybe once you warm up.”
“No, it’s more than that.”
“What is it?” he urged.
“I don’t know. I just feel … unsettled.”
“Well, being trapped in a cave might do that to a person.”
“I was feeling this way before we got trapped. I’ve just been feeling …” He felt her shrug. “It will sound foolish.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I suppose the best word for it is fey.”
“I don’t know that word,” he admitted.
“It just means you have a feeling of impending dread—that something is wrong.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good feeling.” Hugo wondered if what she was sensing was her father’s ill health. He thought Mr. Pringle owed it to Martha to warn her, but it was no business of his.
“Do you mind talking for a while?”
“I thought that’s what we were doing?”
She chuckled. “I meant about personal matters?”
What could be more personal than admitting to a feeling of impending doom?
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said quickly.
Talking about personal matters only meant lying, but what did it matter at this point if he told her more lies? He’d be gone in a short time and never see her again.
“What did you want to ask?” he said.
“I was just curious about growing up in London.”
Ah. That was easier than he thought. “It’s nothing like here.”
“I could have guessed that much. Tell me about it.”
“Tell you what?”
“You mentioned you worked for a whip-maker. How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Did you have to leave school?”
He could hear the disapproval in her voice. “Yes, but that’s not unusual where I’m from. Most people leave school much younger—ten or eleven—to start working.”
She clucked her tongue. “I suppose it isn’t so different than here—many children work on their family boats or farms. But most can get schooling in the winter. Did you father apprentice you to him?”
Hugo smiled faintly. “Yes, that is exactly what happened.”
“You said he beat you. Was it—”
She sounded so anguished—so sad—for him that he regretted ever mentioning Caton’s predilection for whippings.
“It didn’t happen often,” he lied. “He wasn’t a bad man, just … impatient.” And exceptionally horny for a man
