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I had trouble finding my voice to answer him. My mind was in a hot, foggy place very far away.
‘Err… thing? Thing? What thing, Sir?’
‘The lid of course, Mr Linton. Stay focused.’
His hard muscles digging into me… his laboured breathing right above me, only inches away…
‘Focused… Focused, of course, Sir!’
‘What is the matter with you? You’re sweating, and shivering all over. Are you ill?’
His hips bucking into me… his breath hot on my overheated skin…
‘N-no, Sir. I simply find it rather hot in here. Don’t you, Sir?’
‘To be absolutely accurate, I could not care less about the climatic conditions in here, Mr Linton. We have to get that lid open.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry?’ My voice sounded rather dreamy. I felt rather dreamy all around. The last few minutes had been a… well, let us call it an ‘interesting experience’.
‘Don’t you see? Mr Linton, if we do not get the crate open, the ship might sail with us on board, and we would be stuck in here together until we reach our destination!’
I gazed up at the dark shape of the man above me. My eyes had grown used to the gloom by now, and I could make out his classical Greek profile, his strong arms and his dark, dark, sea-coloured eyes.
‘And that would be bad because…?’
There was a pause.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘I order you to focus!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘We must leave this crate before the ship leaves the harbour.’
‘Yes, Sir! As you say, Sir!’
It was in this moment that the ship shuddered, and we heard the steam engine start with a deep, menacing rumble. Slowly, very slowly, the ship started moving forward.
It was as if Mr Ambrose were a puppet, and somebody had cut his strings. The last tension that had held his panting body upright went out of him, and he collapsed on top of me, a hundred and seventy pounds of solid bone and muscle slamming me back into the wood wool. His heart was hammering like a deranged woodpecker against my chest, and his weight was almost keeping me from breathing.
But he wasn’t too heavy. Oh no. The words too heavy would have implied I wanted him to get off me. And I didn’t want that. How could I? How could I wish him farther away, now that his cheek rested against mine, and his mouth was so close, almost close enough to kiss…
Except that you don't want to kiss him, right? Because you’re a suffragette, and he’s a chauvinist, and you would never want anything to do with him! You would, for instance, not want to lift your head the few inches that separate you and softly press your lips on his, caressing, comforting…
No. I definitely didn’t want to do that. I would never even think of it.
Oh well, maybe I would think of it a little.
Unbidden, images attacked me out of the dark. And because of the dark, I had no other images to dispel them. They were images of Mr Ambrose and me in his office, clutched in a passionate embrace. They were images of me practically tackling him and throwing him over backwards. They were images of me wanting. Wanting him. Not just his stern lips, or his granite face, or his deep, dark eyes, but every part of him.
Lies! All lies! That was a dream. An alcoholic fantasy, like Napoleon and the little yellow piggies, nothing more.
Yet the storm of images in my head didn’t want to be quieted. It expanded, roaring, and feeding on my anxiety and desperation, until it had finally reached my heart. There, it found fresh strength in the secret recesses of my soul, and turned into a hurricane which swept me along, unable to resist.
My head inched up, my lips moving closer to his.
Mr Ambrose still lay heavily on me, his breathing unsteady. He didn’t seem to notice my movement at all. I hesitated. What was I doing? Yes, the images in my memory seemed real enough, but could I really trust them? Mr Ambrose had been cold as an iceberg during the entire time we were shut in here. Even when he held me in his arms, it was not for my sake, it was only to keep me from giving away our presence. Could somebody who was this cold really want me?
And an even better question: supposing he wanted me, did that mean that I should want him? My feminine dignity raised her head and shook it firmly. No. He was the kind of man whom, indeed, I should never even contemplate to want.
My mouth was only a hair’s breadth away from his now. I could feel the gentle breeze of his breath caressing my lips. It was such an achingly pleasurable feeling.
I didn’t dare to move, frozen in indecision.
And then, he spoke. They were just four words, four little words. But they shook the foundation of my world.
‘I am so tired.’ His head slid to the side, away from mine, to come to rest on my chest. ‘I am so tired, Mr Linton.’
He didn’t seem to realize, or care, on what delicate part of my body his cheek now rested. At least I hoped for his sake he hadn’t realized, because if he had, I’d slap him from here to Honolulu!
But any thoughts of aggression I’d had went out of me as I caught sight of his chiselled face in the half-light. He looked tired. More than tired, in fact - exhausted. There weren’t any lines on his perfect face, nothing visible that spoke of exhaustion. There was only the slackness of his normally so stern, hard features.
It was an instinctive decision, born of all the strange, unfamiliar emotions raging in my innermost self. I raised my arms and put them around him. He stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed into me. He did not push me away. What did that mean? Did it mean anything?
My mouth felt bone-dry. I licked my lips and tried desperately to think of something to say.
‘What happens now?’ I asked softly.
His answer was a long time coming.
‘We stay here, shut in this crate, until we reach our destination, Mr Linton.’
You’re still calling me ‘Mr Linton’ while you have your face pressed into my pair of Cupid’s kettle drums? You have a problem with reality, Mister!
‘I know that, Sir. And then?’
‘That depends on the circumstances.’
‘Could you elaborate, Sir?’
‘I do not feel very communicative at present, Mr Linton.’
‘When do you ever, Sir?’
‘Adequate point, Mr Linton.’
Somehow, I thought I could feel some life seeping back into him. Was it only my imagination, or was there a bit of dry humour in his voice? I had to keep talking - if only to keep myself from thinking too closely about what part of me his nose was currently pressing into.