Page 167 of Storm over the Caribbean
Mr Ambrose answered by taking a stiff pose worthy of a deserter waiting for his firing squad. Before I could comment on that, the door to the store room opened again, and the two burly pirates stepped out, looking distinctly uncomfortable in grey tailcoats and bowler hats. Pity that I didn’t have a camera to commemorate the occasion.
“Ready?” Mr Ambrose demanded.
The two pirates shifted uncomfortably. “Err, well…”
“Are. You. Ready?”
“Yes, Captain, Sir! Ready as can be, Captain, Sir!”
Without another word, Mr Ambrose gestured to another sailor, who dashed over to the side of the ship and lowered the gangplank. With athunk, it hit the dock, and, a moment later, our little procession strode off the ship.
As I walked beside my husband, I couldn’t help but swagger ever so slightly. I hadn’t noticed back in the captain’s cabin while my mind had been, ehem…otherwise occupied. But now I was very well aware of the clothes I was wearing. The clothes he had laid out for me. They consisted of a comfortable tailcoat, a pair of trousers and bowler hat, along with a pocket watch and last, but certainly not least…
A vest.
A vest decorated with peacocks. Bright, purple peacocks, exactly like the ones on my favourite vest that was now irrevocably lost. Where the heck had Mr Ambrose found an actual, honest-to-god, amazingly fancy, big-enough-for-a-pregnant-lady-to-fit-in peacock vest? I couldn’t help but send a long gaze at my husband’s back. How many ships did he have to plunder to find that, I wondered?
Probably a lot. Yet he did it anyway and didn’t even say a word. He’s a keeper.
For once, I didn’t disagree with my inner voice.
“Captain? Ah, Captain, there you are!” The moment we stepped onto the dock, Woolridge strode towards us, a beaming smile on his face. Either he was really happy to see us, or he was really, really happy to get away from us bloodthirsty pirates now that his job would soon be over. Somehow, I had a feeling it was the latter. “My employer is waiting. Shall we go?”
All that Mr Ambrose gave in answer was a silent nod.
“Excellent! Follow me, please!”
And he was off, striding down the main street with determination. The four of us followed, trying our very best to look normal and non-piraty. With varying levels of success, incidentally.
“How are you doing this, Captain?” one of our bodyguards whispered from behind, glancing at Mr Ambrose striding confidently through the street. “You look like some rich toff out for a walk on the lemonade.”
“Promenade. That’s promenade.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Captain! I mean…” Lowering his voice and nervously glancing around, the man leaned towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose. “…you’re doing this stuff like it’snormalto walk through a town andnotburn and plunder everything in sight! How do you do it?”
“It is a mandatory skill to acquire if you wish to become a successful captain in…our line of business,” my dear husband said with a completely straight face. “Blending in with the wealthy and powerful is necessary to acquire information on suitable targets.”
The two pirates stared at him with star-struck eyes, while I pretended to gag on air.
Blending in with the wealthy my juicy derrière! Do beans need to blend in with vegetables?
I didn’t know whether to give my husband a round of applause or a kick in the bollocks for his supreme shamelessness. But before I could decide, we reached the end of the street we were walking down and stepped out onto a large square somewhere in the centre of town. From said square, streets led in all directions, and people were bustling everywhere, buying, selling, enjoying the fresh morning air before the tropical heat set in.
“Where to now?” Mr Ambrose demanded.
“This way.” With a gesture, Woolridge led us down one of the streets.
Most certainly not one I had been expecting, though.
I had thought we’d be heading into the dingier parts of town. We were heading to see the secret instigator of a band of pirates, right? It was only right to expect some sort of secret underground villain hideout.
Don’t judge me. I’d actually been in one of those.
But no. We weren’t heading to a secret hideout, or a gothic dungeon, or even a dingy cave. We were heading to the suburbs.
“Is he for real?” I whispered to Mr Ambrose, while staring at the back of the man who was leading us.
My hubby’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Apparently.”
