He emptied out the wash water and turned the pot upside down, staring at nothing while he tried to ignore the heavy feeling that settled over him whenever he thought about leaving this wretched little island. But there was no reason to delay any longer. He’d already extended his stay by another week because it hadn’t felt right to bugger off right after Mr. Pringle’s funeral.
He’d stayed so long that he was now leaving on the same day as Martha’s damned wedding. He was sorely tempted to go to Mr. Stogden tonight and tell him that he wasn’t coming to work tomorrow, that he was leaving Stroma a day early.
Hugo was trudging toward Stogden’s house to do exactly that when he recalled that he’d promised to eat his last dinner on the island with Cailean tomorrow at the Greedy Vicar.
Hugo muttered a vulgar word and turned back to his damned lean-to.
He was looking forward to seeing Cailean and some of the other islanders, of course, but he wasn’t looking forward to encountering Martha and Clark together. He’d been avoiding the Greedy Vicar because Martha had been staying in the tiny inn’s guestroom until she was married.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand seeing Martha happy—although that might have been difficult—but rather that she didn’t even look like her normal self.
He knew she was grieving for her father, of course, but beneath that grief Hugo saw a sort of resignation, as if life had now divulged everything to her and her future held no surprises or secrets.
Hugo suspected that was exactly what marriage to Robert Clark would be like: they would have children, he would fish, she would work their small piece of land and take care of their family, and they would scrape by.
It was a grim future, in Hugo’s opinion.
Not that being married to a whore would be any rosier.
You promised the vicar that you’d try.
Hugo gritted his teeth against the familiar, annoying refrain; it was like a Greek chorus had taken up residence in his bloody skull.
The woman had been secretly betrothed to Clark. What was he supposed to do, club her on the head and drag her to London? If the vicar had known that his daughter’s affections were already attached—or if he’d known the truth about Hugo—he wouldn’t have wanted Martha anywhere near—
Something big and warm landed on his shoulder and Hugo yelped and spun around.
Cailean was cringing, his eyes as round as coach wheels.
“Oh, sorry for screeching, little brother—you scared me.” Hugo forced a soothing smile but then frowned when he saw Cailean’s cheeks were wet, his eyes red-rimmed. “What is it?” His eyes narrowed. “Has Hamish been bothering you again?”
Cailean shook his head violently.
Hugo grunted. “Good.” He’d given Hamish Fergusson’s arse a proper kicking for teasing Cailean. “What is it, then?”
Cailean reached out, as tentative as a child, and took Hugo’s arm.
“You want me to go with you?”
Cailean nodded.
Hugo followed, but the big lad didn’t release his wrist. The boy had stuck closer than ever to him since Lily’s desertion. It turned out the female otter had a love interest—a boy otter who had a rather nasty disposition as far as Hugo could tell. Hugo had named the new otter Joss, since the big, brutish-looking bastard reminded Hugo of his nemesis from the old days: Joss Gormley.
Hugo had passed that little tidbit along to Mel in his last letter, certain she would be amused and share it with Joss in her next missive to the other man.
He knew he should feel bad about naming a snaggle-toothed water rat after Joss when the real Joss had offered Hugo the use of Lady Selwood’s—his wife—London house while Hugo sorted out his business.
The gesture was a kind one and Hugo was grateful. Doubtless he should show his gratitude by treating Joss with more respect.
But Hugo wasn’t ready to change the tenor of their relationship at this point. Besides, he doubted that Joss would even know how to deal with a polite Hugo.
Cailean yanked on Hugo’s arm, almost pulling him off his feet. “Slow down, little brother. There’s no rush.”
Hugo glanced around; Cailean was leading him in a familiar direction: toward the Gloup. He wanted to run in the opposite direction. Please, God, not another night in the Gloup.
But God wasn’t listening.
Cailean started down the ravine-like path that led toward the caves and Hugo dug in his heels. “Cailean, I don’t think—”
Cailean jerked Hugo’s arm so hard it was either go along with him or lose a limb.
“All right, all right. But you’ll need to let go of my hand so I can—”
Hugo let out an undignified squawk as an otter loomed out of a crack in the wall at them.
Well, perhaps loomed was a bit of an exaggeration, but still …
“What’s going on?” he asked Cailean.
The lad pointed to the grasses and dried kelp behind Lily. A small rill trickled down the cave wall, close enough for the otter to drink or wet its fur, which they seemed to like.
Hugo squinted and leaned closer. “Is that—" He jerked back when a tuft of dried grass moved. “Good God—Lily has babies.” They were two tiny brown lumps and Lily was trying to shove them farther back into the crevice/nest.
Hugo clapped Cailean on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Cailean, you’re an uncle. So, what are they called pups, kits, hatchlings?”
Cailean’s pale blond eyebrows knitted.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy for Lily and, er, Joss? At least I guess he’s the father.” Hugo glanced around for the male otter but, thankfully, didn’t see him.
Cailean leaned down, as if to touch the babies, and Lily made an angry chirping sound, her expression decidedly unfriendly. Cailean cut Hugo a look of profound sadness.
Ah.
“It will be all right, Cailean,” Hugo said. “She’s just a new mum. Give her a bit of time and—”
Strident chittering came from the left and Hugo
