Clark’s threats had only amused him, but Clark’s plea?
Well, that was another matter, entirely. Maybe his words wouldn’t have been so affecting if Hugo didn’t completely agree with the other man.
“Martha is a grown woman,” he said. “She can make her own decisions.”
“Do you even love her?”
“What I feel for her is none of your concern.”
“Well I do love her,” Clark said.
Fury—and something very much like envy—flared inside him at Clark’s claim, and the ease with which he made it. Hugo sneered. “How nice for you, Clark. But Martha doesn’t love you; she loves me. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
Clark gave him a sad look. “You don’t love her, do you? You’re the sort of man who can’t love anyone but himself. Because if you did, you’d do what was best for her and leave her alone.” Clark turned on his heel and headed toward the little stone cottage that Hugo knew he shared with his mother, widowed sister, and her children.
Hugo opened his mouth to yell something—to taunt the other man and make him come back and fight—but he shut his mouth without uttering a sound. Because he agreed with Clark’s accusation.
If he truly loved Martha, he would want her to have what was best for her. And Hugo wasn’t best for anyone—especially not a woman.
Instead of leaving her here with a man who loved her, he was going to take her as his wife without ever telling her the truth: that he was a lying whore incapable of love.
If he were a better man, he’d steal a boat and row himself across to the mainland and disappear from her life.
But he wasn’t a better man, and there was no way on God’s green earth that he was ever going to let Martha go.
Chapter 24
“So, Mrs. Buckingham.”
Martha smiled at her husband of barely four hours. “So, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo grinned back at her, the expression uncharacteristically joyful and boyish. “I’m sorry our wedding was such a rushed affair,” he said as they walked from the Norseman Inn and Public House up Wick’s High Street.
“There is always too much work to be done during the harvest to take more than a few hours away,” she reassured him. “That’s why most weddings take place in the winter or spring.”
“I have to admit that I’m happy that we got into Wick before the shops closed. I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get today.”
For the wedding Mr. Stogden had loaned him a coat and neckerchief, but he’d changed back into his own clothes right before they left.
Martha’s clothing—everything except what she’d been wearing the night she’d been trapped in the Gloup with Hugo—had burnt in the fire, along with all her possessions, so the island women had contributed to her wedding ensemble. While the gesture was a kind one, the outfit was hideous. Still, even dressed in ill-fitting near rags she was happier than she’d been in her entire life.
Guilt had tried to worm its way into her day over and over since she’d woken feeling joy at the thought of becoming Hugo’s wife.
How dare she feel such happiness when her father had been dead not even two weeks?
The sharp pain that accompanied that thought was enough to make breathing difficult. But each and every time she began to spiral into despair, she’d hear her father’s voice: I love you too much to ever want you to grieve for me, Martha.
Jonathan Pringle had despised society’s insistence on imposing mourning periods.
Why mourn our loved one’s death when we should be celebrating the joy they brought to our lives?
Martha had reminded herself of her father’s words repeatedly throughout the day.
The wedding had taken place early and the wedding breakfast that Joe and Mary hosted was more like a wedding tea. In Martha’s opinion, it had been lovely and perfect and just the right amount of time to avoid any maudlin emotions to build up.
And then the three of them had piled into the Louise and Jem Packard had taken them across the firth and into Wick Bay.
And now Hugo wanted to take her shopping.
“Are you sure you can afford buying all of us clothing, Hugo? The women were very generous, and I have—”
“Buying a few outfits of clothing won’t beggar me.” He squeezed her hand and they both winced as Cailean—too busy staring in shop windows—almost walked into a lamp post. “He’s going to injure himself if he’s not careful,” Hugo muttered.
Martha was behaving like a gawking yokel, herself. When was the last time she’d even stepped foot in an actual town? As for buying a brand new dress? Well, that had never happened.
“If you are sure, Hugo,” she said.
“I’m sure, darling. You would look lovely in a burlap sack, but the three of us bear more than a passing resemblance to a trio of scarecrows.” He cocked his head at her. “What does one call a collection of scarecrows?”
“Hmm. A fright?” she suggested.
His low chuckle warmed her body through, even though the wind was a bit chill. “What about a scare, no wait, that has the same word. A startle?”
Martha smirked. “A tatterdemalion?”
Hugo laughed. “I surrender. I thought—”
“Hugo?”
They turned at the rare sound of Cailean’s voice. He was pressed up against the tiny bow window of a sweet shop.
“Go on in and tell the clerk what you want,” Hugo told him as Martha wandered to look through the bookstore window right next door. She gorged on the sight of shelves and shelves of books.
“Martha?”
“Would it be all right if I just looked inside?” When he didn’t answer, she turned. He was smiling down at her with the oddest—almost tender—look in his eyes.
“I’ll go get Cailean his sweets and we’ll sit on that bench right there”—he pointed to a bench across from a toy shop—“and wait for you.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“I’m sure.”
I promise I won’t be more than—”
“Here.” He shook several coins from a fat leather pouch into
