Page 234 of Storm over the Caribbean
With a small smile playing around my lips, I snuggled into his chest.
“You’re welcome,” I told him, meaning it in more than just one sense.
“I know.” I felt the rumble of his sleepy voice through my entire body. “Now…let’s just sleep, shall we? And let’s hope my father doesn’t do something stupid before we arrive.”
As if on cue, we heard the ringing of a distant bell.
Bloody. Frigging. Hell.
In my arms, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stiffened. I didn’t blame him, either.
Someone wasringing the bellof Empire House.
Peopleneverrang the doorbell of Empire House—mostly because of what happened last time someone had come looking for charitable donations. From what I’d heard, the horror stories were now commonly used by London mothers to get their children to eat their vegetables.
And yet, here was someone ringing the doorbell of Mr Ambrose’s infamous lair. In the middle of the night, no less.
The two of us exchanged a glance. A moment later, Mr Rikkard Ambrose was out of bed on his feet.
“Wait here. I’ll find out what this is about.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
He was already moving. With a firm gait, he strode towards the door and left the room. I nearly didn’t catch the way he swayed and stumbled the moment he thought he was out of my sight.
Dammit!
Whoever was down there at the door, they had better run fast. Because if I got my hands on them—
I didn’t get the chance to further indulge in my homicidal fantasies. Hardly half a minute after Mr Ambrose had left, I heard a thunderous crash from downstairs, as if Hades had just smashed shut the gates of the Underworld. Which, taking into account Mr Ambrose’s current mood, was not such a bad analogy. Moments later, heavy footsteps thundered back up the stairs. No…not just heavy. Angry.
What happened down there?
I wasn’t left long to wonder. I’d hardly had the chance to turn to the door when it flew open and Mr Rikkard Ambrose marched in, his eyes blazing with icy fury. There was a crumpled telegram clenched in his hands.
“What is it?” I demanded.
Dragging in a breath, Mr Ambrose shoved the missive in my face. “Read.”
Back to one-word commands, are we?
He was in business mode. Bad business mode, at that.
Without hesitation, I grabbed hold of the crumpled piece of paper and started to read.
Happy news – STOP – Agreement reached between me and the vicomte – STOP – Come to Battlewood to celebrate Adaira’s engagement immediately – STOP
William Alexander Ambrose, Fifteenth Marquess Ambrose
Crap.
Triple crap with a turd on top.
“Remember when I said we are leaving at sunrise?” Mr Ambrose enquired.
I nodded—then looked up at him and saw his eyes. Eyes that were raging with the force of an arctic storm.
“I have changed my mind. We are leavingbeforesunrise. Go to sleep now.”
