Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

A s they ate, Abigail regarded Hugo curiously. She had never given him much thought before, always thinking of him just as Domnhall’s friend, but now she was forced to think more about him and that made her want to figure him out.

He was an odd man, that much was certain. In their short time together, Abigail had become convinced that he was a pervert, what with him being pressed up against her at night, his manhood standing at attention, and him walking in on her just as she was dressing. He was also rude and combative, constantly picking fights with her.

But he could also be sweet. Hugo had been under no obligation to go with her. He only wanted to protect her from any dangers, and knowing that flooded her chest with a warmth that was as enjoyable as it was unnerving.

She hardly knew the man, and from what little she knew, she didn’t even like him. However, the kiss he had given her while trying to get rid of the man harassing her still lingered on her lips. Abigail had kissed several men before—in fact, it was one of her favorite things to do and she was more than experienced in the act. And yet, when those lips brushed over her own, it was as though she was being kissed for the first time, her stomach fluttering and her heart thundering in her chest.

She couldn’t make sense of it. As handsome as Hugo was, he was also infuriating, and though Abigail could appreciate beauty better than anyone, a pretty face wasn’t enough to sway her.

“You’re staring,” Hugo said, not even bothering to look up from his food. He ate with a ravenous appetite that made his movements stuttering and a little inelegant, which was an odd sight. It was also odd to see him in full dress, plaid and all, when ever since Abigail had known him, he had been hellbent on wearing nothing but the clothes he had brought with him from France.

It suited him, she thought. His clothes often looked to her like an armor. The plaid made him seem more approachable to her, more real.

“I’m thinkin’,” she said with a small shrug.

“About?”

“Things.”

Hugo looked up at her then and Abigail gave him a small grin, as annoying as she could muster. Hugo only chuckled, though, shaking his head.

“I dinnae ken much about ye,” Abigail continued. “But ye ken plenty about me. Tell me about yerself.”

“What should I tell you?” asked Hugo.

“I dinnae ken,” said Abigail. “Anythin’ ye want. Tell me about what ye like, what ye dinnae like. Tell me about France.”

Hugo let the silence stretch between them, taking a few bites of his food before he spoke again. “I like reading. I like riding and swimming whenever I can. I dislike too many questions.”

Unfazed, Abigail leaned back in her seat, watching him expectantly until he continued.

“We went to France with my parents when I was a child to avoid the war. My mother is… was French, so it made sense. I enjoyed it there very much but I suppose France didn’t quite agree with me.”

“It didnae?”

“ Non ,” he said. “I was always getting into trouble. Little things, at first, when I was young. Then there were the women and too much wine and some deals I am not very proud of. I was lost until I met Domnhall and he put me back on the right path.”

“That is why ye’re so loyal to him,” said Abigail, and it was not a question.

“He’s my best friend,” said Hugo with a shrug. “He has done many things for me and I know I can never repay him for them, but I can at least be the best friend to him that I can be.”

Abigail nodded slowly in understanding. The bond between Hugo and Domnhall was an unbreakable one, she knew, the two of them being inseparable ever since she had first met them.

The serving wench gathered their plates as they finished and brought them dessert—hattit kit with cream and stewed fruit, which Abigail devoured before asking for a second serving. There was little she loved more than a good dessert and though she indulged at the castle, she also had her sisters and the cooks chasing her around to try and get her to eat less of them.

Across from her, Hugo had hardly touched his by the time she was finished with her second serving.

“Will ye eat that?” she asked.

“I am eating it,” Hugo said, nodding at the spoon in his hand.

“Ye’ve hardly touched it.”

“I am eating it, Abigail.”

“I suppose ye prefer yer frangipane an’ yer pate a la royale,” Abigail teased, only to have Hugo roll his eyes at her with a sigh.

“What do you want?”

“Can I have it if ye’re nae eatin’ it?”

“No,” Hugo said, pulling the bowl a little closer to him. “You’ve already had two.”

“But it will only go tae waste,” Abigail pointed out. “Ye think ye’re too refined fer hattit kit, dinnae ye?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Hugo asked. He had been looking at his bowl with distrust ever since it had been placed in front of him, though he had slowly been nibbling at the cream and the fruit. “What does that mean?”

“It comes from the hat that forms when ye mix milk an’ buttermilk when ye leave it tae sit,” Abigail said. “The kit’s the bowl where it sits.”

“Ah,” said Hugo, offering nothing else. “I don’t think I’m too refined for it. I am simply unfamiliar.”

As he spoke, he took a bigger bite, though a little reluctantly. At least he didn’t immediately spit it out, Abigail thought, something she considered a win.

“Ye’re a strange man, dae ye ken that?” she asked.

“I’ve been told,” said Hugo. “Domnhall likes to remind me often.”

“I dinnae ken how ye’ve ever managed tae charm a lass like this,” Abigail said, placing her elbows on the table to lean closer. “Perhaps French lasses are different. Are ye havin’ any success here or dae they all think yer too dainty?”

Instantly, Hugo dropped his spoon, which landed with a clatter on the bowl, his lips pursing into a thin line. Blood rushed to his face, painting his skin a deep, furious red, and his hands curled into tight fists as he looked down at himself, as if he couldn’t believe someone like him could ever be called dainty.

“I think I am anything but dainty,” he said. “Have you seen many dainty men who look like me?”

“Perhaps ye dinnae look dainty, but that doesnae mean that ye’re nae,” Abigail pointed out. “Ye have yer bonnie clothes an’ ye only eat certain things an’ yer have yer… yer hair.”

“My hair?” Hugo demanded. “What, precisely, is wrong with my hair?”

“It looks too perfect.”

“Too perfect.”

“Aye.”

Abigail sat back with a grin, enjoying seeing Hugo in such a frazzled state and knowing that she had been the one to bring him there. He truly was easy to rile up, she thought with a twisted sense of glee. She could hardly help herself. Teasing him was simply too enjoyable.

“I’ll have you know that I have plenty of success,” Hugo said, slowly regaining his composure. “I can have any woman in here.”

Now that was interesting, Abigail thought. A mischievous smirk spread on her lips as she pulled her chair closer to the table, leaning over as if meaning business.

“Ye cannae have me,” she said.

“Who says I want you?”

“It doesnae matter if ye dae,” she said with a small shrug, letting the slight sting of his words slide over her, soon forgotten. “I’m only sayin’ that ye cannae. If there is one thing I ken, it is how tae be charmin’ an’ I ken that ye cannae charm me.”

“But you can charm me?” Hugo asked.

“O’ course,” said Abigail with the kind of unshakable confidence that had already gotten her so far. “Like I said, I ken how.”

“Shall we see if that is true, then?”

As he spoke, Hugo reached for her, though he stopped short, only touching her hand with his pinky. Abigail had expected him to grab her hand, maybe even press a kiss to her knuckles, but this small, barely-there touch was more exciting than anything else could have been, sending a thrill down her spine.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Hugo said, and that low, gravelly tone of his, coupled with his dark gaze that seemed to be focused only on her made it easy to believe his words, even if Abigail knew it was nothing more than a game. Suddenly, he was certainly not the dainty man Abigail had thought him to be, her mind already conjuring up all sorts of scenarios of them pressed up against each other, the thoughts heating her cheeks.

It was silly, of course. She knew Hugo was only doing his best, putting on his most successful persona so he could prove to her that he was better at this than she was. She wouldn’t fall for it. That would be madness.

Leaning even closer, Hugo let his voice drop to a quiet whisper, his words breathy as they reached her over the small gap that divided them.

“Ever since I saw you up in the room, I’ve been thinking about all the ways I can bring you pleasure,” he said, and suddenly Abigail was torn between a rush of embarrassment and a rush of need. Hugo’s finger was brushing slowly back and forth over her knuckles now, drawing small patterns that drove her crazy, the touch not nearly enough.

Belatedly, Abigail realized her breath was coming out in soft pants, her lips parted as though inviting him for a kiss. Hugo had been staring right into her eyes this entire time, but now he let his gaze drop to her lips and then to the swell of her breasts, his gaze leaving behind a trail of fiery heat that made her feel as though her entire body was burning.

He was shameless and that was the appeal of him, Abigail thought. Perhaps this approach wouldn’t have worked on a girl who was meeker, who had no experience at all with men, but Hugo knew precisely what to do to have her shaking with need. No other man had ever been so bold with her, all of them fearing that they would be found out or that they would somehow offend her. Hugo had no such qualms. Abigail was certain that if this had been real, if it had been more than a game, then he would have taken her with no hesitation if she asked, which was more than she could say about the guards and the servants with whom she often flirted.

“I’ve been dying to kiss you,” Hugo said and his hand came up to cradle her cheek, his thumb ghosting over her lips. The tiny touch had her gasping, the breath torn out of her in an instant. “I think your lips would be like the first touch of spring.”

Abigail was frozen in place, her mind grinding to a halt. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move; it was as though she was under a spell, Hugo controlling her every action. She wanted him to kiss her. She thought she would die without it.

And then his hand fell away and he leaned back, a smug grin gracing his features.

Abigail all but sputtered as she leaned back, too, trying her best to control her reactions. She didn’t want him to see just how much he had affected her, but perhaps it was already too late. Her face was flaming and she could hardly bear to look at him, her gaze straying back to his lips over and over again as images of him pressing them over her neck, her chest, between her thighs kept assaulting her mind.

She had to get herself under control. She couldn’t let him win.

“Well?” Hugo asked. “How did I do?”

“Ye could have done better,” Abigail said, somehow managing to sound indifferent, despite being so affected by him. Hugo’s grin widened, though. He could surely tell she was lying.

“Your turn,” he said.

I’ll show him. He will regret ever makin’ this bet with me.

“Leave this. We were speaking about ye. Ye said ye like books, did ye nae?” she asked. “Which one is yer favorite?”

The sudden change in conversation took Hugo by surprise. Briefly, he only stared at Abigail, surely wondering what it was she was playing at, but she only stared at him with a pleasant smile, patiently waiting for his answer.

“ La Fontaine’s Fables ,” Hugo said, still blinking in surprise, as though just answering her question somehow confused him.

“Ach,” said Abigail. “I have never read them, though Faither has.”

“He is often right,” Hugo countered.

“What are the fables about?” Abigail asked, ignoring Hugo’s comment. She didn’t really care to know. She could read the book herself if any interest arose, but now she simply wanted to get Hugo talking about something he enjoyed.

As Hugo spoke, Abigail gave him her entire focus, looking at him through her lashes. She laughed along with him, her hands never ceasing as they touched his own, small, fleeting touches carefully designed to make him crave more. She even leaned over the table, shifting her posture so that it flattered her breasts, drawing Hugo’s gaze to the swell of them over the neckline of her dress.

As Hugo spoke, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, nor did he stop smiling. She had his entire attention, even as she reached for his bowl of hattit kit and began to eat it, pursing her lips over the spoon and licking the stray drops from it, her tongue curling around its length.

By the time she was done with it, Hugo was flushed, and for the first time since they had met, he was talking to her animatedly, moving his hands.

For a short while, Abigail only watched him in silence to see when he would realize what was happening. It only occurred to him that something was wrong when he finished speaking and she didn’t respond, so used to her feeding the conversation that now he was at a loss for what to do.

Then, he slowly took in the state of himself and looked at his bowl, now in front of Abigail and almost entirely devoured.

Abigail couldn’t hold back her laughter, her entire body shaking with it. Much to her surprise, Hugo also laughed, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to pull himself together.

“I suppose nay one has done this tae ye before,” she said, some of her pride slipping into her tone.

“I can’t say that they have,” said Hugo, begrudgingly impressed by her efforts. “I’d say that you won this one.”

“Ye made a valiant effort,” said Abigail.

They were so close to each other now that all Abigail would have to do to kiss him was lean just a little closer. Still, she refrained from doing so. Instead, she took a short breath and gave Hugo a small smile.

“Thank ye fer sendin’ that man away,” she said softly. “An’ fer comin’ with me.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Hugo said. “I’ve been such a fool that I don’t think I deserve it. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

Abigail chuckled, giving him a small shrug. “It wasnae so bad. Ye could dae it again if ye wished.”

For a moment, Hugo stilled and Abigail’s stomach dropped. Had she misread the entire situation? Had she made a terrible mistake?

But then Hugo leaned in closer, bridging the gap between them, and their lips almost touched, the two of them sharing the same breath?—

The door to the inn opened with a bang and two men walked inside, striding straight to the innkeeper. In their hands, they were holding a picture that they slammed down on the counter.

“Have ye seen this lass?” one of the men asked. “Her name is Abigail Robertson.”