Page 25 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

Splash!

“Wrrg! Gk! What the hell…!”

“Wakey wakey, you sleep-fakey. It’s time for breakfast!”

Groaning, Mr Rikkard Ambrose blinked up at me. He looked almost unbelievably scrumptious, staring up at me through half-lidded eyes, his chiselled face spattered with glistening droplets of water, his wet shirt clinging tightly to his pectorals.

But all of these things paled in comparison to the most important, incredibly amusing fact: I had woken him up.

“My, my, Mr Ambrose…” I grinned down at him. “Sleeping in? How scandalous! Don’t you know that knowledge is power is time is money?”

“I,” he stated, icy eyes boring into me, “was drugged .”

“…by drugs you consumed yourself.” I shook my head. “How deplorable. I married an addict. I should really have listened to my aunt and married that nice, steady accountant.”

The growl that erupted from his throat was very gratifying.

“Which accountant?”

My grin widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He sent me a look that told me, yes, he most definitely wanted to know, and was prepared to go to quite some lengths to find out. His mouth opened, probably to give some order from on high—then he seemed to notice he was still lying flat on his back.

Let’s help him out with that, shall we?

I bent forward. Before he got a single word out, I grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him up into a sitting position.

“What the—! Mrs Ambrose, what are you doing?”

Leaning him against the cave wall, I sent him another beaming smile. “Why, helping you sit, of course. It’s breakfast time!” And, reaching down, I picked up the previously prepared platter of stone, and held out my lovingly prepared mess of dissected fish bits. “Here you go! Scrambled fish!”

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Dicky Darling?”

“There is no such thing as scrambled fish.”

I considered that for a moment—then beamed at him again. “There is now! Aren’t you glad your wife is such an amazingly inventive cook?”

Cautiously, he reached out, picked up a tiny piece of fish and plopped it into his mouth. To give credit where credit was due: he did not make a face. He did not move so much as a single facial muscle. He chewed. He swallowed. Then he looked up at me.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes?”

“Once we are home, remind me to never ever order you to cook for me.”

If I’d smiled before, my grin now nearly split my face apart. At least getting shipwrecked had been good for something!

“Gladly, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Now, why don’t you take another bite? You look really hungry.”

“Appearances can be deceptive, Mrs Ambrose.”

“You haven’t eaten in days.”

“Biological facts can be deceptive, too.”

I gave him my most endearing, innocent puppy-dog eyes. Oh, and what eyes they were! After all, by now, I’d had plenty of opportunity to study the art of the puppy dog with my great teacher, Professor Fence.

“For me? Please?”

He held my lethal puppy-dog gaze for about three whole seconds—then slowly, inexorably, lowered his hand, picked up another scrap of fish, and plopped it into his mouth.

Yay! Victory!

Being a cave-wife was so much better than being a housewife.

Over the next hour or so, I sat contentedly in a corner and watched Mr Rikkard Ambrose slowly and deliberately consume my marvel of culinary art. He really had to be savouring and enjoying every bite. After all, could there be another reason why he was eating so slowly?

When he was finally done and had successfully suppressed the urge to regurgitate, he took a deep breath and looked over at me.

“Where did you get it from, Mrs Ambrose? And I am not talking about your amazing new recipe.”

I told him about the pond and the fish. Then, at his insistence, I gave him a rough summary of what happened during the last few days, including how I confronted the wild beast known as Fence with amazing bravery, and tamed her to be my loyal, face-licking minion.

“I could have done without the last part,” Mr Rikkard Ambrose stated coolly.

“I know,” I happily agreed. “But I couldn’t. By the way, you look a little dry. Would you like your face moisturized?”

“I would like some water. Water , not saliva.”

Dang! And I was so close.

“Come, Fence.” Scratching my furry friend behind the ears, I turned and marched away, striding out of the cave. “Let’s go. No need to stay where we’re not wanted.”

“Woof!”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Over the next few days, our lives continued in a manner that was rather idyllic, if somewhat monotonous.

In the morning, I would go to the pond and gather water, at first by hand, later with an improvised cup made from large leaves and some twigs and grass.

Next, I would catch some fish and prepare it to the very best of my ability, and have breakfast with my darling husband.

After five days or so of this, he almost looked ready to eat poisoned fruit again.

Later in the day, I would take some walks around the island with Fence trotting behind me.

It really was quite amazing how nice a little holiday on a Caribbean island could be when you weren’t starving or dying of thirst. As the days passed, I grew increasingly fond of the scruffy mutt.

Privately, I decided that, when we left the island, I wouldn’t be leaving him behind.

Ambrose Junior, the camel, was going to get a new neighbour.

With a spit-happy camel and a lick-addicted dog, life in London should be a lot more interesting, right?

It was going to be such a nice surprise when I told Mr Ambrose.

In the evenings, I would help Mr Ambrose to the exit of the cave and watch the romantic sunsets with him.

It truly was an awe-inspiring sight. Almost as beautiful as the look on the face of my dear invalid of a husband as his pregnant wife helped him to stand and walk.

The twitch in his cheek as he fiercely tried to banish any facial expression was simply amazing to watch.

Finally, the symptoms of whatever whacky venom my dear husband had decided to ingest began to subside. His tremors vanished, his strength returned, and he very firmly took over the preparation of meals.

Oh, what a travesty! He is encroaching upon my wifely duties! I am outraged!

…not really.

“Hm…” Licking my lips, I took another big bite of the scrumptious roasted fish. “Dish ish delicious!”

“Compared to the last few days’ menu?” he cast a glance into the corner of the cave where he had disposed of my last attempt at cooking. “Indeed, Mrs Ambrose.”

“Oy!” Still chewing, I waved my fish at him. “I did my besht!”

“That, Mrs Ambrose, is what concerns me.”

Somehow, without even glancing up from his dinner, he managed to duck the fish bone I chucked at his head. Damn him! I couldn’t even curse him for his agility. You couldn’t really curse something you had to come to appreciate so very much during your wedding night.

“For that,” I told him, stabbing a threatening finger at him, “you owe me another roasted fish!”

“A fish in exchange for a fishbone?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m your wife. You didn’t think I’d pick up a thing or two?”

He considered this for a moment—then inclined his head in silent recognition of my negotiation skills and handed me a fish.

Mental note: being greedy pays!

Thus, over the next few days, our peaceful island life went on.

Waking. Fishing. Lazing around. Breakfast. Lazing around.

Fishing. Lazing around. Lunch. Lazing around.

Fishing. Lazing around. Dinner. Lazing around.

And, just to annoy Mr Rikkard Ambrose, a bit more lazing around.

Ah, Caribbean holidays! Wasn’t life spiffing?

I was perfectly aware that the fish in the pond weren’t going to last forever. But that, luckily, wasn’t as much of a problem as it once might have been. Or at least so Mr Rikkard Ambrose informed me.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” I hissed, peeking through the underbrush at the edge of the clearing.

“Are you sure you wish to eat Fruit Surprise tomorrow?”

I winced. “Good point. But if you knew this would work, why didn’t we do this before?”

“Because,” he explained in the long-suffering tone of a businessman explaining to his accountant that one plus one makes two, “before, we were just wandering aimlessly through the forest. Just wandering through an unfamiliar forest looking for animals is a fool’s errand.

But this…” Pushing a branch aside, he pointed towards the familiar pond ahead. “This is far more efficient.”

I opened my mouth to protest—just when a medium-sized, furry creature slipped out of the jungle on the opposite side of the clearing and headed straight towards the pond.

Dammit! Why does he always have to be right?”

“You see?” Mr Ambrose’s voice was no more than whisper. “All living things need to drink. A simple and efficient plan.”

“Yes.”

So simple I probably should have bloody thought of it myself! Especially considering I found this place by following a god darn dog in the first place! Did my brain rot in the damp climate, or what?

Before I could say or do anything, though, I felt Mr Rikkard Ambrose stiffen beside me.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Shh!” He raised a finger to his lips. “Quiet!”

Then he pointed ahead, to where, I now noticed, two more unidentified furry beasts had stepped out into the clearing.

With one arm, Mr Rikkard Ambrose lifted a hand-made wooden spear, the tip of which had been hardened in fire.

Because, apparently, that was a thing. I made a mental note to remember that for the bedroom, in case he would ever have problems hardening his personal “spear”.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”

“What are you grinning for?”

“Nothing, Sir. Nothing at all.”

He eyed me suspiciously for a moment—then nodded. “Adequate.” Reaching down, he handed her his second spear. “Then make yourself useful.”

“Oh, you need a new stick up your arse?”