Page 1 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

It was a completely normal day in the bustling city of London.

The calls of gulls echoed across the harbour.

Vendors praised their wares at innumerable roadside stalls, and swarms of people were bustling through the streets, intent on their own business, not paying the least attention to each other.

All in all, it was a peaceful, perfectly average morning.

That is, until one of the pedestrians looked up and froze in place.

Another slammed into him from behind, and was about to start cursing when he also looked up, and his mouth dropped open. Another passer-by noticed and, glancing up, stopped in his tracks, eyes widening. Then another. And another. Slowly, they started backing away.

“Why, thank you for making way, gentlemen,” came a voice from high above. “I’m glad you recognize my magnificent marvellousness. You may prostrate yourselves, if you wish.”

“Bleaawwwk!”

“Ah, you see? Ambrose Junior thanks you, too.”

Patting my trusty camel’s neck, I urged him forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea with Moses phobia. “Gee-up! Let’s hurry, shall we?” I smirked. “We wouldn’t want to turn up for work late, now, would we?”

“Bleeaagk!”

“So glad you agree.”

And, patting my double-humped friend, I spurred him on down the road, which was suddenly amazingly empty and easy to navigate.

Why, you may ask, was I causing a scandal by riding through the streets of London on a camel named after my husband?

Well, duh. It was a camel . In the middle of London. How could I resist?

But, besides this very obvious and universally agreed-upon point, there was also one other.

Looking up at the towering facade of my workplace, otherwise known as Empire House, I spotted the fellow I’d been looking for.

Right there, next to the front door, stood the towering form of Karim, my dear husband’s bodyguard and personal walking armoury.

“Oy, Karim!” Beaming, I waved at him. “Wonderful day, isn’t it?”

He responded to my cheerful expression with a face etched from wood. “I am fairly certain when the Sahib said that, due to being in the family way, you should not walk to work, he did not intend for you to come riding on the back of a camel.”

“He did not?” I widened my eyes in totally genuine surprise, looking around at the street on which several carriages were parked. “But what else could he have possibly been referring to?”

He sent me a dirty look. “I couldn’t possibly say.”

My grin widened. “Dicky Darling is rationing his staff’s words again, is he?”

“Get. Inside!”

“Right-o! Have fun bodyguarding.”

Sliding down from my comfy hump, I strode over to the front door and put the reins into Karim’s hand.

“Here, take care of him, will you?”

The last thing I saw before disappearing into the building was Ambrose Junior taking aim at Karim.

“Agh! No, you furry beast, I order you to desist! You shall not spit at—gggk! Agh! You burá hawání! ” 1

Whistling, I stepped into the building. Instantly, the cool and soothing air of the familiar entrance hall enveloped me.

The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed through the massive room, and hushed whispers rose from where some brave people were courageous enough to waste their work hours on talking.

Any such whispers, however, abruptly cut off when they saw a woman step into the room, whistling a cheerful melody.

A very pregnant woman.

In Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s hallowed halls of forced servitude.

Ignoring all the incredulous stares, I stepped to the receptionist’s desk where Mr Sallow-Face, also known by some uncreative people as Mr Pearson, was scribbling in a large book, his narrow eyes completely focused on the paper.

“Good morning,” I greeted cheerfully. “I’m here to see Mr Ambrose.”

“Mr Ambrose is a very busy man,” Pearson replied without looking up. “You may go to desk 7-B and get an appointment next summer.”

“Odd. I wasn’t aware that employees need appointments to see their boss.”

Mr Pearson’s pen froze halfway across the paper. Around them, various clerks and accountants stopped their work to stare at me.

Will you look at that? Even pregnant, I was apparently still so stunningly beautiful that I garnered all men’s attention.

Slowly, very slowly, Pearson looked up. His eyes widened when he came face-to-bulge with my belly.

“Pardon me,” he started, his voice a bit hoarse for some reason. “I must have misheard. Did you say you worked here?”

I nodded cheerfully. “Filling in for my brother. The fellow caught the sniffles, so, of course, he sent his pregnant sister as a substitute. Brotherly love is such an amazing thing.”

“It’s… you ?”

“Ah, you remember me!” Happily, I clapped my hands. “So delighted to hear I made an impression.”

His gaze travelled past me to where, through the open front door, my pet camel was still visible. Then his face twitched. “You tend to do things that are rather…memorable.”

“Yep, I’m spiffing that way, aren’t I?”

“That, young lady, would be a matter for debate. Now, pray tell, what are you doing here ?”

“I told you. I came to work.”

He sent me a patronizing look. “Please. I can make some allowances for your condition, but even a young woman in the family way should not make a fool of herself in such a manner. If your brother has told you anything about his employer, you should know that Mr Ambrose would never employ a—”

A whistling noise came from the horn that rested on his desk, attached to a certain system of tubes that ran throughout the building.

Reaching out, Pearson lifted the horn to his ear.

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir? How may I help…oh. Um…are you quite sure, Sir? I mean, she is here, but I would not have thought that a man such as you would…Yes, Sir! No, I didn’t mean to imply any such thing, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!”

Slowly, Mr Pearson lowered the horn until it came to rest on the desk. His head lifted until his eyes met mine.

“Miss Linton?”

“Yes?” I enquired innocently. “Did he have something interesting to tell you?”

“You may go up, Miss Linton.”

“You don’t say.” Smiling widely, I inclined my head in thanks, then turned away to eye the stairs that led up several floors in a narrow stairwell. “I think I’ll be taking the elevator.”

How splendid the elevator had recently been renovated and slowed to a reasonable pace, just after my pregnancy was discovered. An amazing coincidence, wasn’t it?

With a swing in my step, I strode to the elevator door—then hesitated and glanced over my shoulder.

“Oh, and Mr Pearson…it’s not Linton.”

He blinked. But he didn’t look up, or stop writing in his book. “Pardon?”

“It’s not Miss Linton. It’s Mrs Ambrose .”

Pearson’s pen jerked, sending a splash of ink all across the documents on his desk. The two dozen people hurrying through the entrance hall froze in their tracks, their jaws nearly slamming to the floor, their eyes bulging. Grinning, I sent them a last little wave and stepped into the elevator.

Ding!

A short journey later, the elevator doors opened with a soft sound. I strode out into the corridor, and waved at the upstairs receptionist in passing.

“Good morning, Mr Stone.”

“Good morning, Mr Linto— what the heck !?”

“Yes, I know.” I glanced down at myself and my bulging belly. “I really should have gone with the green dress instead of the blue, right? It totally clashes with my eyes.”

“I…you…what…how…who…?”

I gave him a commiserating pat on the shoulder. “I sometimes have trouble waking up in the morning, too. Get some coffee. It’s on my new husband.”

And, whistling, I stepped past the desk and into my office. Ah…my office. Home sweet home. The place where my heart dwelled. The most amazing—

“You! Inside my office! Now!”

Ah. The sweet sound of domestic bliss.

“Coming, Dicky Darling! Coming!” I piped up.

From outside, I heard Mr Stone’s chair clatter to the ground as he toppled over and crashed to the floor. Grinning, I made my way to the connecting door leading to the office of my husband/boss. Not bothering to knock, I pushed open the door and strode into the room.

“A wonderful morning to you, Mr Ambrose!”

Silence.

Ah, wasn’t it a joy to be so warmly greeted by your husband?

Mr Ambrose sat behind his massive dark wood desk, fingers steepled. His icy eyes roamed up and down my figure, boring into me like icicle drills.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”

“When you told me yesterday that you would have a surprise for me on our first day back at work, I did not think you meant showing up in a flowery sundress.”

“Yep!” I beamed. “My surprises can really be amazingly surprising, can’t they?”

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”

“ Why are you in female attire ?”

I cocked my head. “Would you have preferred me to show up as a heavily pregnant Mr Victor Linton, to explain to an entire entry hall full of people that the two of us are now married and you impregnated me? Not that I’d mind.

Now that I think about it, that might actually be quite interesting.

Wait here and I’ll get my trousers and tailcoat, and—”

“Stop!”

Already halfway back to the door, I halted and glanced back at him. I did not smirk. Most definitely not. “Yes, dear? Was there something you wanted?”

“You can remain as you are. I suppose your attire is…” He eyed me for a moment. “…adequate.”

A face-splitting grin spread across my visage. “Why, thank you so much for giving me such a charming compliment, Mr Ambrose.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Of course you didn’t.”

He sent me one of his patented arctic stares. “Documents on your desk. Shorthand to be transcribed into letters. Now .”

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!”

Whistling again, I made my way back into my office and past the massive metal monster that was my typewriter, coming to a stop in front of my desk where, as announced, a pile of handwritten documents was waiting for me.

Picking up a piece of paper densely filled with tiny scribbles, I stared down at it.

Shorthand?