Hugo decided to leave out that tidbit.
She paused, and he suspected she was wishing that she’d never brought up the whip-making. “Er, do you have brothers and sisters?”
There was a subject Hugo didn’t often think about. “Yes, eight.”
“Oh, goodness. Eight?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You must be very close if you had such a large family.”
Hugo tried to recall an image of any of his brothers and sisters, but he couldn’t summon any faces—which was odd, considering he’d not been that young when he’d left home. But his siblings had all been so much older and all he could remember was that they’d considered him an annoyance.
“Er, we’re not as close as we used to be.”
“Oh.”
She sounded so disappointed that he amended, “Mainly because we all live so far apart. But we visit each other.”
“That sounds lovely.” She sounded much happier at that, but also wistful. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Favorite what?”
“Sibling.”
“Oh.” Faces and names drifted around in his head, nothing but pieces in a bland flavorless stew of memories. “Er, Susan.” At least he thought there’d been a Susan.
“Is she older or younger?”
“Older. They were all older.”
“Were? Did something happen?”
“No, no, nothing happened. It’s just a figure of speech.”
“The youngest child of nine. I’ll wager they spoiled you rotten.”
“Yes, they spoiled me,” he agreed.
“What did your father do? Was he a man of business, too?”
Hugo’s father was the one he remembered best. Maybe that’s because he was the last one Hugo had seen. He could still see him in his mind’s eye. He’d had thin, sandy hair and a worn face; his rounded shoulders had been slumped as he took the money Mr. Caton gave him. And then he’d turned and walked away without a word or backward glance.
“Hugo?”
“Hmm?”
“Your father, what did he do?”
“He sold things.”
“Things? You mean he was a shopkeeper?”
“Something like that.”
“Do your parents live in London?”
“Yes.”
“They must be worried sick about you.” Her voice pulsed with sympathy for Hugo’s mythical loving, worried family.
“They’re accustomed to me working hard and not hearing from me for long periods of time.” Sixteen years, in fact. “I doubt they are worrying.” That was certainly true.
“You must have worked hard to become so successful. Your family must be so proud of you.”
Hugo made a non-committal noise. “Are you warmer, yet?”
“Yes, I’m quite cozy.” Her bottom wiggled adorably—and dangerously—against Hugo’s groin. “What about you?”
“Much better. Tell me about your family,” he said, trying to take his mind off his cock, which was nestled between her cheeks and showing signs of liking it there.
“There isn’t much to tell. My mother didn’t have siblings and my father’s were all older. It is just me and Papa.” She hesitated and then said, “I have always yearned for a big family.”
“You’ll be happy with Clark, then—he has a large family, does he not?” There, that took care of any incipient erection he might have worried about.
Her body stiffened. “Erm, yes.”
She was silent so long he thought she’d fallen asleep.
But then she said, “You said earlier that you don’t have a sweetheart in London. Why is that?” Her voice was so soft he barely heard it, even in the quiet of the cave.
“I work too much,” he said. And nobody other than another whore would understand and accept the nature of my work.
“But since you come from a big family you must want children of your own some day?”
He snorted. “Good Lord, no.”
“You don’t like children?” She sounded horrified.
“I don’t dislike children, I’ve just never imagined myself as a father.” Nor can I imagine the patter of little feet up and down the corridors of Solange’s. “What about you?” he asked, already guessing her answer.
“Yes, I want lots of children.”
Hugo could picture her imaginary offspring: strapping sandy-haired boys with bovine expressions like Clark’s and blonde, blue-eyed little girls with their mother’s sparkling eyes and zest for life.
Why did the image leave him feeling so utterly exhausted?
He waited for more questions, but they never came. Instead, her body gradually softened against his and her breathing turned deep and regular, until he knew she was asleep.
Hugo stared into the darkness: he’d never felt so awake in his entire life.
◆◆◆
“Hugo!”
Hugo’s eyes flew open and he squinted against the blinding light. “Wha—?”
Something huge fell on him—something warm and squirmy with sharp elbows. Hugo struggled to breathe.
“Hugo!” Cailean bellowed in his ear.
“Cailean, you’re crushing him.” Martha’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“Let Mester Hyougo up, lad,” a male voice ordered.
Cailean rolled off him, grabbed him under the arms, and yanked him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Hugo gasped, looking from Cailean to the man holding the lamp. “Mr. Packard?” he said stupidly.
“Aye.”
Something suddenly occurred to him and his head whipped around. “You’re safe, little brother! I was bloody worried about you!”
Cailean flung his arms around Hugo and squeezed.
“Urgh, Cailean—” Hugo patted his massive shoulder and squirmed until Cailean released him.
The lad caught Martha up in a similar embrace and twirled her around in a circle, kicking up sand.
“Cailean! Put me doooooooown!”
“He was right worried about the two of you,” Packard said. Or at least that’s what Hugo thought he said. He still had a difficult time understanding most of the islanders.
“Do you know where he was?” Hugo asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Hidin’ with Lily in one of the caves on the east side.”
“Why?”
“Din’t say.”
Hugo yawned. “What time is it?”
“Barely dawn.” His gaze strayed to Martha, his blue eyes sharp and speculative.
“Nothing happened here,” Hugo hastened to assure him. “I know you saw us sleeping on the blanket, but—”
“Aye, aye. Come along now.”
Hugo couldn’t help thinking the man looked a bit grim. Well, likely he was losing good fishing hours to rescue them.
They folded up the blankets, handed Martha into the boat, and then Hugo and Cailean pushed it off, Cailean jumping aboard last. Hugo had imagined the cave was farther inland, but it turned out that the tunnel was twisty, rather than long. Outside it was a beautiful morning, the water around Stroma like glass, the sun just barely over the horizon.
Martha
