Page 180 of New Storm Rising
Thud!
“—not insult my wife again,” Mr Rikkard Ambrose finished icily for the now unconscious man. Then he glanced over at De La Fuente farther back in the carriage. “Do you have anything to add?”
“N-no. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Adequate.”
And, veering away from the carriage, he sped up his camel until he was riding beside me.
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”
“Wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face.”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir!”
And I did indeed wipe it off my face—not off my heart, though. No matter how much of a feminist I might be, watching my husband punching an asshole for insulting me was a spiffing experience. Not quite as spiffing as punching said asshole myself, but still.
All too soon, however, my sweet daydreams of punching idiots in the face were interrupted by a familiar voice. Familiar, yet not at all happy.
“Mr Ambrose, I must disagree with this course of action!” Gesturing back at the desperados with disgust, Marshal Angus Angleton brought up his horse beside my husband. “Using these men to transport prisoners? Most of those individuals, probably all, have bounties on their heads themselves!”
“Oh, trust me,” Mr Rikkard Ambrose said, patting his wallet. “I know.”
I frowned. Something about his tone…
Leaning towards him, I made certain to speak out of the corner of my mouth. “What are you up to?”
“I?” Mr Ambrose sent me a cool gaze, his stony face expressionless. “Do I look as if I am up to anything?”
“No.” I peered at his sculpted visage for a long moment. “Which in your case means you probably are.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, Mrs Ambrose.”
I sent him another suspicious look—but for now decided to let it rest. Because whatever devious plan Mr Rikkard Ambrose was cooking up in that head of his, I was very much looking forward to experiencing it.
Without bloodthirsty hounds constantly nipping at our heels, our progress through the desert was far speedier than before. It was only a few more days before the landscape around us began to change again, and soon we were racing through lush green hills, followed by foggy marshes. For someone from jolly old rainy England, the number of different landscapes in this place was really weird.
“It won’t be long now,” Mr Ambrose announced, glancing between the surroundings and the map. “We’ll soon be reaching Pittsburgh.”
“Oh, goodie!” Grinning, I rubbed my hands in anticipation—only to be severely disappointed a few minutes later.
“Thisis Pittsburgh?” I complained, gesturing down at the beautiful river valley bisected by a river with an island in the centre. “Oh, come on! With an awesome name like that, I was at least expecting some burning pits of hell.”
“You, Mrs Ambrose, have an overactive imagination.”
“And you, Sir, need to think a little more creatively. What are we going to do with the prisoners if wedon’thave burning pits?”
“We are going to wait until we reach New York, as originally planned. I am certain that the judge there can think of something.”
“Something interesting?”
Silence.
I pouted. Pittsburgh was going to be really boring. Unless…
With renewed hope, I lifted my head. “Do you think there’ll be mustard and ice cream in this town?”
