Page 223 of Storm over the Caribbean
The poor girl. I couldn’t bring myself to answer her. Because what answer could I really give? That I’d torn her from her lifelong dream forthis? To be forced to slave away in a factory for the rest of her life? Bymy own husband?
No! No, this could not be allowed! I would stop this! Ihad tostop this! Straightening my back, I turned towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose, opened my mouth and…
…ended up staring at an empty seat and an open carriage door.
The two of them were already gone.
Crap, crap, crap!
Cursing under my breath, I clambered out of the carriage and raced towards the spiky, wrought-iron gate of the factory. The gate that was already closed behind Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
Bloody son of a bachelor! Just you wait until I get my hands on you!
“Good Sir…” With effort, I forced a bright smile onto my face as I turned towards the guard at the gate. “Would you be so kind as to let me in?”
“And why would I do dat, eh?” Snorting, the man spat a chunk of chewing tobacco onto the street—then glanced down at my bulging abdomen. “If you wanna make some money for that brat in your belly, I’m sure there would be enough men willing to pay if you’re nice to dem.”
My smile flickered. “Why should you help me, you ask?” Cracking my knuckles, I stepped forward. “Well, let me explain exactly why…”
Five minutes and a repentant gate guard later, I hurried onto the factory grounds. I was just in time to see Mr Ambrose enter the main building, Leah right beside him.
Well…let’s hope this is a meat processing plant. That would make it so much easier to turn Mr Rikkard Ambrose into mincemeat.
Full of determination, I quickly strode towards the factory entrance. The fact that, from the outside, my confident stride might have looked like a slow waddle was totally beside the point.
The inside of the factory, unfortunately, did not in any way resemble a meat processing plant. Apparently, I would have to turn my dear husband into mincemeat with my bare hands. Instead of dangling slabs of meat and numerous butchers with knives, the large hall was filled with work tables where peoplefrantically worked on…wooden blocks? And…heads? And piles of what looked like horse hair?
What the heck?
Later, Lilly. Right now, you have a husband to eviscerate.
Eyes fixed on the distant back of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I stalked forward. He had come to a halt at the other end of the hall, in front of what looked like a supervisor’s office. Without bothering to knock on the door, he pushed it open.
“Oy!” a gruff shout came from inside. “Didn’t I say nobody should disturb me while I’m worki—ehem. Umm…oh. Mr Ambrose. T-to what do I owe the pleasure?
“I have found someone to fill the empty post I was informed about.”
“I-is that so?”
Before Mr Ambrose could answer, I came up from behind him. “Stop right there!” My voice was a low hiss, venomous as a snake. “Are you seriously planning on doing this?”
He glanced back over his shoulders coolly. “There is no such thing as a free meal in this life, Mrs Ambrose. I work hard, and expect everyone else to do the same. Did you really expect me to simply support a leech for years to come?”
A…leech?
I looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. His cold eyes. His hard, emotionless expression. His chiselled, magnificently beautiful face.
“Yes,” I told him. “Yes, I really did.”
He turned away again. “Then I suppose you do not know me as well as you thought you did.”
“No.” Swallowing, I clenched my fists. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
What to say next? What to do? What could a woman do when she discovered that the man she had married was not who she thought he was?
Kick his arse, that’s what!
Before I could execute that excellent idea, the factory supervisor appeared in the door of his office and decided to butt in. “So, Mr Ambrose, where is the man you’ve found for the job? Must be an extraordinary individual for such, ehem…strenuous work.”
