Page 68 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

Never had I seen anyone push a wheelbarrow with such grim determination as Mr Rikkard Ambrose did at this very moment.

As we descended down the ramp into the subterranean levels of Empire House, both of us remained utterly silent and completely ignored the ongoing muffled protests coming from within the crate on the wheelbarrow.

I clearly remembered, years ago, walking down this very same ramp, trying to convince the stubborn son of a bachelor called Rikkard Ambrose that, no, kidnapping a man and delivering death-threats was not an appropriate response to dealing with someone who crossed you.

This time, I had no such reservations.

It was then I realised how very much I had changed over the years. How very much I had grown. Back then, I had been a young and idealistic girl, determined to find my own way in the world. Now, I was a (still young!) woman, who had found her way in the world, and someone to walk beside her.

Reaching out, I offered a hand to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Without a word, he took it, and gently squeezed.

And together, we’ll make sure tomorrow’s world will be a better one. For our children. My eyes flicked back to the rattling crate. No matter what it takes.

My children would get their chances to be young and idealistic. After all, I would have to find some way to drive Mr Ambrose up the wall when I was too busy with other things.

For now, though, I had work to do.

“Look.”

I pointed ahead to where, out of the shadows, a set of reinforced double doors had appeared.

Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod. “Almost there.”

Without another word, he swept through the double doors and around a corner. He finally halted in front of a door made out of solid steel.

Yep, this was totally a normal cellar. Not a dungeon at all, not in the least.

“Let’s show our guest his new home for the foreseeable future, shall we?”

I smiled. Mr Rikkard Ambrose never spoke superfluous words. The look in his eyes told me quite clearly those words were not meant for me.

“Yes,” I agreed, making sure to speak loud enough for our confined friend to hear. “Let’s. It should prove…entertaining.”

The muffled protests from inside the crate abruptly ceased.

Ignoring our dear guest, Mr Ambrose pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. It opened with an ominous creak that was either an ingenious ploy to scare prisoners, or evidence of Mr Ambrose’s unwillingness to spend money on oil. Probably both.

Not wasting another moment, Mr Ambrose once more took hold of the wheelbarrow and strode into the room. I followed on his heels and found myself in a low, dingy chamber without any windows in the bare stone walls. All that was missing were flickering torches on the walls and some rusty manacles.

Well…that can be arranged.

With anticipation, I turned towards the wheelbarrow and cracked my knuckles.

“May I, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”

My dear husband inclined his head. “Ladies first.”

What a nice man I had married.

In two steps, I was beside the wheelbarrow and, grabbing the edge of the crate, I gave it a hearty shove. The thing toppled over onto the floor with a crash, and a rather scruffy-looking Frenchman rolled out onto the stone floor.

“Why, hello there!” I beamed down at him. “Welcome to your new home. How do you like it?”

“Mmmh!” the Frenchman oh-so-eloquently replied. “Crétnnn! Flll dd ptt!”

Ah, yes. Silly me, how could I have forgotten about the gag? I couldn’t even understand his insults correctly.

“That will have to go.” I strode towards the man and, leisurely reaching out, plucked the gag from his mouth. “We will need you to answer questions, after all.”

The man’s head hit the stone floor with a thunk .

“Ow! Merde !”

“So, how are we going to do this?” I asked my dear husband who, unsurprisingly, had stayed quiet thus far. Fixing my eyes on the man on the ground, I gifted him with a smile. “I’m sure you know various…methods?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then…

“I do indeed. For now, though…” Next to a cabinet in the corner, there stood a chair. Mr Ambrose grabbed hold of it and sat down, one leg crossed deceptively leisurely over the other. His eyes glittered in the shadows, like ice crystals on a blade. “Let’s talk.”

“Just talk?” The man whose name we still didn’t know snorted. “You think you can get me to open my mouth so easily?”

Reaching back, Mr Ambrose grabbed hold of one of the cabinet doors and pulled it open in one swift motion. This revealed an interior filled with screws, blades, and various other torture implements.

“Yes. I do.”

The Frenchman blanched.

“First…” My dear husband leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “What is your name?”

All we got in answer was…silence.

Behind the prisoner, unseen by him, I smirked. Oh my. Our guest wanted to give us the silent treatment? To Mr Rikkard Ambrose ? This was going to be hilarious.

I pulled up a chair for myself and sat down, determined to enjoy the show.

Mr Ambrose returned his full attention to his prisoner, pinning him to the spot with his icy gaze.

“What. Is. Your. Name?”

Again, no answer.

“You think you can resist?” Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “That I cannot get the truth out of you?”

The Frenchman gave him an arrogant smirk. “I have been tortured before. Unless you break me, Monsieur , what can you do? How could you possibly get information out of me?”

In answer, Mr Ambrose simply leaned forward, reached into the man’s pocket and plucked out a handkerchief. A monogrammed handkerchief. The bound man’s eyes widened. Utterly ignoring him, Mr Ambrose unfolded the handkerchief and studied it for a moment.

“So, Mister…FDM? Would you be inclined to share more information?”

The Frenchman clamped his lips together.

Mr Ambrose didn’t bother asking any more questions. He just turned towards the door and clapped his hands. A moment later, a man with a forgettable face dressed in simple grey clothes appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”

“Send telegrams to my agents at all English and French ports. Have them enquire after anyone on the various passenger lists with a French name and the initials FDM. Inform the port officials that I would appreciate their cooperation. And if they don’t cooperate…”

He let his voice trail off, his meaning clear.

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

Then Mr Ambrose turned back to the pale man on the floor, giving him a long, calm, almost friendly look.

I had never seen anything so scary.

“Now, shall we continue?”

Things proceeded apace. I had to admit, sometimes I had wondered how Mr Ambrose had risen from nothing to a man who possessed astronomical wealth. But if this was how he conducted his business negotiations, I understood. I understood, and I felt pity for anyone who had ever gotten in his way.

Well…

Except Monsieur FDM , that is.

Question after question, manipulation after manipulation, Mr Ambrose dragged more and more answers out of the man. His name. Where he lived. Who his neighbours were. What he ate for breakfast. What shoe size he wore. What the number to his bank account was.

The only thing the Frenchman didn’t reveal, no matter how much Mr Ambrose stared holes into his head, was the name of his employer—which, in itself, was a rather telling fact. Whoever the man was, Monsieur FDM seemed to fear him more than Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

One corner of my mouth quirked up.

Fool.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose was talking to him. Mr Ambrose was taking his time . If the man had any brain cells, or any knowledge of my husband, he would know what that meant. And he would be pissing his French silk pantaloons.

As if on cue, the door to the dungeon swung open, and reinforcements for our merry little band of tortu…ehem, interrogators , stepped into the room.

“Karim?” Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “What are you doing here? I thought you were looking after the girl.”

“It proved unnecessary, Sahib .” Karim sent his employer a rather untypically broad smile.

“Apparently, your esteemed lady mother sent several attendants capable of caring for children because she heard the Sahiba was pregnant and thought that someone would not provide a sufficient budget for child care.”

“Well, you’re just in time,” I told him brightly, before my dear husband could point out that babies had better work and pay for their own care, or something equally Ambrosian.

“I think we’ve finished the preliminary stage of our little talk with Monsieur FDM here.

Would you like to take over stage two? I’m sure under your gentle ministrations, our dear guest would become much more… cooperative.”

Karim glanced between the open cabinet of torture instruments and the tied-up Frenchman, whose eyes widened abruptly. In response, the bodyguard smiled and cracked his knuckles. It sounded suspiciously like small cannon shots.

I smirked. Apparently, Karim’s short stint as nanny had built up some frustration that needed to be vented. Violently.

“With pleasure, Sahiba .”

Colour drained from the Frenchman’s face.

I smiled.

Ah, yes. The only possible way for Mr Ambrose to be the good cop in any scenario: a bloodthirsty giant with a sabre being in the room.

“Adequate.” With a curt nod, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rose from his seat and strode to the door.

He completely ignored the desperate looks thrown his way by Monsieur FDM .

I hadn’t really bothered to remember his full name.

Judging by the look on Karim’s face, the fellow wouldn’t need a name for much longer. Or a head, for that matter.

“ M-Monsieur Ambrose! Wait, I can—”

…be ignored completely, apparently. Mr Ambrose didn’t even bother throwing a glance at the other man. Instead, he stepped through the doorway and gestured for me to follow.

“Mrs Ambrose? Let’s go!”