“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Are you cruel to children or animals?”
Hugo blinked. “I can’t even recall the last time I was around a child. But, no, I have never been willfully cruel to a child—well, at least not since I was a child, myself. And no as to the other.”
She stared at him with the same burning intensity she had the day McCoy came to take the prisoners back to the ship: with her heart in her eyes.
“You mentioned the way you made your money. Are—are you planning to do the things you did … again?”
How should he answer that? Would he whore again?
Just thinking about going back to that life—to whoring seven days a week—made him feel tired. But if Laura had destroyed everything he’d worked for, then he’d do whatever he needed to do to earn money. He always had.
“Short of murder or abusing children and animals, I’ll not make you any promises. I will do whatever I need to do to provide for myself and anyone under my protection. That is what I can offer you, Martha.”
She regarded him solemnly for a long moment and then laid her hand on his forearm and they both stared at it, as if it were some exotic butterfly perched between them. Her hand trembled as she slid it up his bicep, over his shoulder, and up his neck, not stopping until she cupped his jaw, her fingers as work-hardened and calloused as his own.
The raw emotion—the love—in her gaze humbled him. Hugo vowed that he would do all he could humanly do to make sure that she was happy and well-cared for.
The only thing he wouldn’t do is give her the truth, a truth that would only hurt her, anyway. Wasn’t that enough?
It would have to be.
Hugo kissed her palm. “Will you marry me, Martha Pringle?”
Chapter 22
His body tighten beneath Martha’s hand; it thrilled her that she could make such a strong, powerful man feel so deeply.
But it also pained her that he didn’t love her or trust her enough to tell her the truth about himself. But the thought of living without him—no matter what he had done or might do in the future—pained her more.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Hugo Buckingham.”
One minute they were sitting side by side, the next Martha was lying on her back, Hugo looming over her, his hands planted on either side of her shoulders.
“Martha,” he whispered, giving a slight, wondering shake of his head. “You needto understand what you will be getting. What you saw me doing that night? Fisting myself? That’s me, Martha. I’m crass and earthy and I like being that way. I’m not a gentleman—I’m not … couth. I don’t like furtive trysting in the dark—I like fucking in all its forms.”
She gasped.
Hugo nodded, as though she’d said something. “And I like sayingthe word fuck—and cruder words besides. I won’t be the kind of husband to visit you weekly and mount you in darkness. I want to know every part of your body, intimately, and I want you to learn all about mine.”
His eyes roamed her face. “I’ve never had a lover before.” He chuckled when her eyes bulged. “No, I don’t mean that I’m a virgin. What I mean is that I’ve never been with anyone that mattered, anyone I cared about.”
Martha’s heart leapt; caring wasn’t love, but it was better than nothing. Was that pathetic? Perhaps, but she would take what she could get.
“I know what you are like, Hugo. Do you think I don’t? You are irreverent, clever, and, yes, vulgar—but I like you just as you are. You don’t have to—”
He crushed her mouth with his, the kiss savage and hungry. Martha opened to him and slid her hands into his thick, wiry hair. He kissed her until they were both breathless and then nuzzled her chin to tilt her head back, lowering his mouth over the base of her throat and sucking.
She pushed herself against him, unable to get close enough, one hand gripping his neck and pulling him tight while the other stroked the impossibly hard lines of his shoulders and back. Only when his hair tickled the top of her breast did she realize that he’d opened the wooden buttons on her dress.
“Up a bit,” he said as he tugged both the bodice and worn chemise down her shoulders. She shivered, and not just from the cool night air. “I’ll warm you,” he murmured, and then something unspeakably soft caressed her nipple. “Martha.” The word was a damp, hot whisper against the tight pucker of flesh.
A soft grunt of pleasure slipped from her mouth as he sucked her nipple, not stopping until it was a hard, needy bud. Her body arched in wanton invitation, pure pleasure driving away any self-consciousness.
“Touch me.” He took her wrist and guided her hand beneath his untucked shirt.
Martha’s fingers brushed hot, silky skin stretched taut over muscles that were as hard and sculpted as the wooden ships the islanders made.
He hissed in a breath and flexed beneath her questing fingers. “So good,” he praised, licking and nibbling and sucking. “Unbutton my vest,” he ordered softly, his teeth grazing the thin skin over her ribs.
Her hands worked awkwardly between their bodies, and when she reached the last button, he sat up, reached over his shoulder, and pulled both his vest and shirt over his head.
Martha had seen his upper body before, but never so close, and never with the invitation to touch. She stroked from his tantalizingly hard belly to his smooth chest.
He growled and dropped onto his elbows, capturing her mouth. Their kisses became frenzied and so did Martha’s hands as she explored the broad flare of powerful shoulders that tapered to the tight twist of muscles at his waist. And below that…
He flexed his hips as he thrust against her, the action causing the impossibly tight globes of flesh to harden even more.
“I want to touch you, Martha.”
Fear and anticipation swirled in
