Page 80 of Storm over the Caribbean (Storm and Silence Saga #8)

***

Splash!

I had been woken up many different ways during my lifetime. With loving care. With a not-so-loving brick to the face. Face-first in horse muck.

“Wrrg! Gk!”

Being drowned by my wife was a new one, however.

Spluttering and spitting, I wiped the water out of my eyes and glared up at her.

“What the hell…!”

She gave me a big, innocent smile. “Wakey wakey, you sleep-fakey. It’s time for breakfast!”

Groaning, I reached up and massaged my temples. I would never have thought that, one day, I of all people would say this, but…it was too early in the day for this.

“My, my, Mr Ambrose…” Her teasing voice met my ears and, slowly, I opened my eyes to see her grin floating above me. “Sleeping in? How scandalous! Don’t you know that knowledge is power is time is money?”

“I,” my voice came, somehow calm despite my urge to strangle her, “was drugged .”

“…by drugs you consumed yourself.” With an astonishingly convincing sad expression on her face, she shook her head. “How deplorable. I married an addict. I should really have listened to my aunt and married that nice, steady accountant.”

The growl erupted from my throat before I could stop myself.

“Which accountant?”

My wife, may Mammon curse her, chose this moment to widen her grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I sent her a look that told her exactly what I thought of that response and opened my mouth to start giving orders—only to close it again when I realised I had no means to enforce said orders. I was still flat on my back, with no power in my muscles whatsoever.

Swear words were a waste of time, but sometimes, they truly were so very tempting.

Something that was confirmed for me a second later when Lillian grabbed me by the lapels and dragged me into a sitting position like a sack of potatoes.

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

She gifted me with another big, beaming smile. Recent experiences considered, I would have preferred a scowl. My instincts honed through countless years of business negotiations sent me blaring warning signals.

“Why, helping you sit, of course. It’s breakfast time!” And, reaching down, she picked up a stone platter covered in the food she had prepared for me. “Here you go! Scrambled fish!”

Did I ever mention that my instincts were always right?

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes, Dicky Darling?”

“There is no such thing as scrambled fish.”

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

Inventive? I would use another word for it.

Cautiously, I reached for one of the tiny pieces of fish. Understandably, I had grown rather cautious in regard to potentially poisonous things as of late.

But…this was the food my wife had prepared. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Tentatively, I put the piece of fish in my mouth, and…

I retract my previous statement.

“Mrs Ambrose?”

“Yes?”

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

Her grin only widened at my words, and suddenly I realised: I just commanded her to refrain from housework. Did I perhaps fall into her trap?

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

Correction: there is no “perhaps” about it.

“Appearances can be deceptive, Mrs Ambrose.”

She gave me a stern look. “You haven’t eaten in days.”

I didn’t even blink. “Biological facts can be deceptive, too.”

“For me? Please?”

Then she opened her eyes wide and gave me the sweetest, most innocent expression I had ever seen on anything that wasn’t a newborn kitten with a pink bow on its head. My little finger twitched. Taking a deep breath, I held her gaze. I would not relent. I would not.

I managed to resist for exactly three point two seven seconds.

Under my wife’s eager and happy gaze, I grabbed another scrap of fish and stuffed it into my mouth.

Instant. Regret.

On the other hand, that expression of happiness on Lillian’s face…

Right then and there I decided that, even if I had to work in the kitchen for the remainder of my life, I would never allow my wife to cook again. The threat posed to my and my future son’s wellbeing was simply too great to ignore.

It took me over an hour to squeeze the indescribable substance my wife called “food” into my stomach.

When I was finally done and had successfully suppressed the urge to decorate the cave in half-digested fish scraps, I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on my wife.

There was a question that needed answering.

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

So she told me. She told me about how she went catching fish with her bare hands.

Told me all about the outrageous adventure she had experienced (and barely survived) during the last few days.

During the whole hair-raising story, I switched between wanting to strangle her for risking her life and myself for putting her in that situation in the first place.

Then she happily told me about how she had met and befriended the dog that had spent half an hour licking my face, and I decided strangling her was the better plan.

“I could have done without the last part,” I informed her icily.

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

My fingers twitched in yearning. Too bad my arms were not ready to cooperate quite yet.

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

Over the next few days, the same kind of torture continued. One unspeakable dish after another was served to me by my wife. Or could you even call it a dish if there weren’t any actual dishes present, let alone cutlery?

Suffice it to say, eating from a stone slab didn’t really make the raw fish more palatable. After five days of this, I thought back wistfully to that poisoned fruit that had nearly killed me. Would it be really such a bad idea to try again? Perhaps I had gained immunity to the poison.

I was abruptly and thoroughly pulled from my thoughts by a long tongue licking my face from top to bottom.

“As soon as I can arrange it, you will go belly-up.”

“Woof?”

“I know that expression is only for fish. I don’t care.”

“Woof!”

Just then, Lillian entered the cave with water stains all over her clothes. Her expression brightened when she saw the dog and I staring at each other.

“Ah! So the two of you are getting along? Spiffing!”

“Yes. We are…” I sent the dog a warning look that told him what would happen if he squealed. “…getting along splendidly.”

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands! “And I’ve got good news as well, look! Dinner!”

…if ever, for some reason, we went on a second honeymoon, I would make certain it would not be on a Caribbean island.

“Oh, and…” Moving beside me, she snuggled up to me and brushed a kiss against my cheek. “After dinner, I’ll help you outside so we can enjoy the beautiful sunset and have some…‘private time’.”

On the other hand, the Caribbean had its positive points.

Time passed excruciatingly slowly. No matter how well my wife was taking care of me, I was still stuck in a cave without any work to do or any money to earn. It was quite literally my definition of hell. And then there was the thing that made it worse than hell.

“Rise and shine, Dicky Darling! Breakfast is ready!”

Yes, that.

Just like this, day after day went by. At long last, the symptoms of whatever poison I had ingested began to subside. The tremors in my muscles faded, strength returned to my limbs and, most importantly of all, I was finally able to take over cooking duty.

“Hm…” Licking her lips, my wife took another big bite of the fish I had painstakingly prepared, and which she had snatched from my hands as soon as it was done. “Dish ish delicious!”

Checking on the second fish roasting above the fire, I determined it was nearly finished. “Compared to the last few days’ menu?” I cast a glance at the corner of the cave where a pile of unspeakable fish remains were buried under a layer of leaves and earth. “Indeed, Mrs Ambrose.”

“Oy!” Eyes narrowed, she waved her fish at me. Reaching up, I carefully wiped off some meat juice that had landed on my face. “I did my besht!”

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

I ducked my head. A wise decision as it turned out when, a moment later, a fish bone sailed by above my scalp. When I righted myself, I found my wife glaring at me.

“For that,” she informed me, stabbing a threatening finger at my face, “you owe me another roasted fish!”

That almost made me raise an eyebrow. Almost. “A fish in exchange for a fishbone?”

My wife, not sharing my aversion to the horrific waste of time called “facial expressions”, cocked one of hers. “I’m your wife. You didn’t think I’d pick up a thing or two?”

For a moment, I considered that—then inclined my head in acknowledgement and reached out to hand her a second fish.

My recuperation continued at a crawling pace. By the time I was up on my feet again, the fish in the nearby pond had all ended in our stomachs. We urgently needed an alternative food source. As luck would have it, the pond presented an opportunity.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” My wife whispered beside me, peering into the clearing ahead from the underbrush.

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

Because I for one would not. Leaving my wife to fend for herself once was already a mistake. I did not plan on repeating it.

She pulled a face. “Good point. But if you knew this would work, why didn’t we do this before?”

Because I could not go on a hunt for potentially dangerous beasts with a pregnant wife in tow while there was still any other choice.

Thanks to my well-developed instincts for self-preservation, I did not say this sentence out loud. Instead, I said something equally true.