Page 51 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

He cocked his head at me. “I do not believe there will be a need for a ship’s cook on this excursion, Mr Linton, do you?”

Translation: I am not going to let you take a single step into that viper’s nest. Not you, and especially not our child.

Standing on my tiptoes, I whispered into his ear, “If you think you can leave me behind, think again. And besides, would it be a good idea? What do you think is more likely, that your merry band of pirates gets me into trouble somehow if I stay here, or that I will be perfectly safe if I stay by your side?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. I couldn’t help but smirk at the struggle that had to be going on in that granite head of his.

He had little choice now. Either he could retract his order for me to stay and take me with him, or he could admit that I wouldn’t be safe while in his company.

My oh my. Which would he choose, I wonder?

Mr Ambrose’s jaw worked for a moment—then he gave an abrupt jerk of the head. “On second thought, maybe we will need a ship’s cook after all.”

Translation: I know what you’re doing!

“Why, thank you!” I beamed up at him. “I knew that, deep down, you appreciated my cooking!”

Translation: I know you know. But you can’t do anything about it. By the way, I’m cooking you dinner this evening.

Mr Ambrose answered by taking a stiff pose worthy of a deserter waiting for his firing squad.

Before I could comment on that, the door to the store room opened again, and the two burly pirates stepped out, looking distinctly uncomfortable in grey tailcoats and bowler hats.

Pity that I didn’t have a camera to commemorate the occasion.

“Ready?” Mr Ambrose demanded.

The two pirates shifted uncomfortably. “Err, well…”

“Are. You. Ready?”

“Yes, Captain, Sir! Ready as can be, Captain, Sir!”

Without another word, Mr Ambrose gestured to another sailor, who dashed over to the side of the ship and lowered the gangplank. With a thunk , it hit the dock, and, a moment later, our little procession strode off the ship.

As I walked beside my husband, I couldn’t help but swagger ever so slightly.

I hadn’t noticed back in the captain’s cabin while my mind had been, ehem…

otherwise occupied. But now I was very well aware of the clothes I was wearing.

The clothes he had laid out for me. They consisted of a comfortable tailcoat, a pair of trousers and bowler hat, along with a pocket watch and last, but certainly not least…

A vest.

A vest decorated with peacocks. Bright, purple peacocks, exactly like the ones on my favourite vest that was now irrevocably lost. Where the heck had Mr Ambrose found an actual, honest-to-god, amazingly fancy, big-enough-for-a-pregnant-lady-to-fit-in peacock vest?

I couldn’t help but send a long gaze at my husband’s back.

How many ships did he have to plunder to find that, I wondered?

Probably a lot. Yet he did it anyway and didn’t even say a word. He’s a keeper.

For once, I didn’t disagree with my inner voice.

“Captain? Ah, Captain, there you are!” The moment we stepped onto the dock, Woolridge strode towards us, a beaming smile on his face.

Either he was really happy to see us, or he was really, really happy to get away from us bloodthirsty pirates now that his job would soon be over.

Somehow, I had a feeling it was the latter. “My employer is waiting. Shall we go?”

All that Mr Ambrose gave in answer was a silent nod.

“Excellent! Follow me, please!”

And he was off, striding down the main street with determination. The four of us followed, trying our very best to look normal and non-piraty. With varying levels of success, incidentally.

“How are you doing this, Captain?” one of our bodyguards whispered from behind, glancing at Mr Ambrose striding confidently through the street. “You look like some rich toff out for a walk on the lemonade.”

“Promenade. That’s promenade.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Captain! I mean…” Lowering his voice and nervously glancing around, the man leaned towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose. “…you’re doing this stuff like it’s normal to walk through a town and not burn and plunder everything in sight! How do you do it?”

“It is a mandatory skill to acquire if you wish to become a successful captain in…our line of business,” my dear husband said with a completely straight face. “Blending in with the wealthy and powerful is necessary to acquire information on suitable targets.”

The two pirates stared at him with star-struck eyes, while I pretended to gag on air.

Blending in with the wealthy my juicy derrière! Do beans need to blend in with vegetables?

I didn’t know whether to give my husband a round of applause or a kick in the bollocks for his supreme shamelessness.

But before I could decide, we reached the end of the street we were walking down and stepped out onto a large square somewhere in the centre of town.

From said square, streets led in all directions, and people were bustling everywhere, buying, selling, enjoying the fresh morning air before the tropical heat set in.

“Where to now?” Mr Ambrose demanded.

“This way.” With a gesture, Woolridge led us down one of the streets.

Most certainly not one I had been expecting, though.

I had thought we’d be heading into the dingier parts of town. We were heading to see the secret instigator of a band of pirates, right? It was only right to expect some sort of secret underground villain hideout.

Don’t judge me. I’d actually been in one of those.

But no. We weren’t heading to a secret hideout, or a gothic dungeon, or even a dingy cave. We were heading to the suburbs.

“Is he for real?” I whispered to Mr Ambrose, while staring at the back of the man who was leading us.

My hubby’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Apparently.”

I glanced around, wondering which of the neat, elegant houses in resplendent white we would be stopping at.

That is, until we moved past the last of them and walked out into the countryside, where we ended up standing in front of a manor.

A real, honest-to-god manor at the centre of a large, luscious park filled with beautiful tropical flowers and various examples of neoclassical architecture.

The house—if it could be called that—was bigger than Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London put together.

The meticulously manicured lawn in front of it was being tended to by half a dozen gardeners in livery.

It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.

I hated it at first sight.

“So…” Stopping in my tracks, I leaned towards Mr Ambrose while keeping my eyes focused intently on the distant edifice. “This is it?”

He glanced at Woolridge, studying his profile for a moment—then gave a curt nod. “This is it.”

The words he didn’t speak nonetheless were clearly audible to me: This is where he lives. The one who tried to kill our child.

Farther ahead, Woolridge turned around to glance back towards us, gesturing at the coach in the driveway. “Seems like our employer is at home. Shall we go?”

“Oh yes.” Smiling, I slid my hands behind my back so, without anyone seeing, I could crack my knuckles. “Let’s go meet him.”