Page 183 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Pffft!” I sent a spurt of my drink into the fire and started coughing. “Cough, cough…ehem, yes, that’s it. I just can’t stop eating my own food. It’s almost addictive. That’s definitely why I’m gaining weight, no other reason.”
“Well, can’t say I disagree.” Grabbing a nearby bowl, he filled it from the pot bubbling over the fire and started devouring the contents. “Though I’d be careful if I were you. I noticed the captain’s benched you for the last few raids. You should cut back a bit if you wanna go with us the next time.”
One corner of my mouth quirked as I glanced over at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who just so happened to choose that moment to look up and send an intense stare at my belly.
“Thanks for the advice, but I think there’s little chance of that.”
My pregnancy was now well and truly showing, and Mr Rikkard Ambrose had informed me in no uncertain terms that I would be going on further pirate raids over his cold, dead body. And even then, his zombie self would probably try dragging me to safety. And the worst thing? I couldn’t really bring myself to disagree with him. Back in my London office, I would be thefirst to proclaim that any pregnant woman could do the work of a man perfectly fine, thank you very much. But if that “work” involved storming enemy ships, swinging a sabre and evading pistol shots?
Even my optimism had its limits. And so did Mr Ambrose’s restraint. I was aware that “ball and chain” was a phrase for someone’s spouse, but if I decided to join in on a raid in my current condition, I wouldn’t put it past Mr Ambrose to take the expression a little too literally.
Suffice it to say that my new inactivity was not very much to my liking. With every passing day, my impatience grew, because, every day spent hunting those “merchant ships”, we were not hunting the true culprit behind all of this.
That is, till the tenth night after we left.
We were just coming back from a resupply trip, one of the few recent trips I had been able to convince Mr Ambrose to let me join. Night had already fallen. I was about to make my way to my cabin—which just so happened to have a connecting door to the captain’s cabin—when I noticed a tall, dark figure at the railing, silhouetted against the moonlight. I stared for a moment, not quite believing what I was seeing. Stepping closer, I confirmed that, yes, it was indeed Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who was apparently spending his time just…enjoying the view?
“Stargazing, Dicky Darling?” I whispered as I sidled up to him from behind.
“Not quite. Although I am looking at the pretty lights.”
If I’d looked at him oddly before, it was nothing compared to now. I was just about to peek into his ear to check if he had lost his marbles when I noticed it: the light flashing in the distance. Rhythmically.
I stiffened. “What’s that?”
In answer, I only received a silent look. What did that mean? Why would lights be flashing in the middle of the night, as if…
Then it clicked.
“That’s…a signal.”
“Adequate, Mr Linton.”
I felt a tingle travel down my spine. “What for?”
“I left orders back at the bank to send someone to the shore every night who would send signals that I could spot when sailing past this island.”
My eyes narrowed at the distant light. I swallowed. “And what does the message say?”
He turned around. Icy eyes glittered at me in the darkness. “They found him.”
***
A line of men strode onto the pier in a certain city’s harbour. A line led by a massive figure with an even more massive beard.
“Um…Mr Karim, Sir? Are you sure about this?” a suicidal sailor asked.
All the others instantly took a step away from him. The huge bodyguard slowly turned around, his slightly reddened and swollen nose becoming visible.
“What. Did. You. Say?”
“I, um…asked if this was a good idea?” the sailor mumbled, taking a step back. “I mean, we went out to catch pirates, and all we caught was a cold, right? We—”
“I didnotcatch a cold!” Karim growled. “And I most certainly did not—achoo!”
Poignant silence descended over the pier.
The bodyguard slowly pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his nose, put the handkerchief away, and fixed the sailor with a glare that could make milk curdle.
