Page 194 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Ha!”
With a shout, Mr Ambrose leapt out into the road. The horses that were just about to come around the corner reared up, nearly stumbling over themselves in an effort to avoid the brand-new obstacle. Before the coachman could react, my dear husband was already at his side and, grabbing hold of him, hurled the man across the street like a football. In the blink of an eye, my dear hubby was on top of the box and was extending his hand down towards me.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “The law that makes stealing coaches legal?”
“I shall suggest it to the Queen when we are back in England.” He grabbed me by the arm and tugged. “Now come!”
Suddenly, I found myself up on the box, right beside him. There was a whip crack and, a moment later, the coach jerked forward into motion.
A distinctly female squeal erupted from within the carriage, followed by a thud of a body hitting a wooden wall.
“Please sit down and hold on tight!” I shouted back at whoever was unfortunate enough to be in there. “Thank you for driving with the Kidnapper Coach Service. We hope you’ll enjoy the trip!”
“What in God’s name are you blathering about, you villains!” came an answer in the form of a female shriek. “Blaggards! Stop this instant and get off my carriage!”
Mr Ambrose’s response to this was as unique as it was novel: silence.
I decided to emulate this excellent strategy.
“You out there, whoever you are! Are you listening to me? I said stop this at once!” A middle-aged, rather voluminous lady leaned out of the coach window, clutching a feathery hat to her head. “Stop at once or…or…” That was when she spotted the tall, ravishingly handsome figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose on top of the box. She stared at him for a long moment, open-mouthed—then closed her mouth and swallowed. “…um, never mind.” Her eyes sparkled as she practically devoured my husband with her gaze. Leaning a little farther forward, she batted her mascara-covered eyelashes. “Oh my. Please forget what I said just now. Do continue with the kidnapping, good Sir. To think that I would encounter a handsome highwayman out here. It must be fate! Do you by any chance plan on ravishing me?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She looked despondent for a moment—then perked up and tugged at her neckline. “Are you sure?”
I felt my eyebrows twitch. “You know,” I muttered, leaning over towards Mr Rikkard Ambrose, “the coach would bemuchfaster without so much dead weight.”
“Correct. We should really remove the heaviest person from the coach.” And then he turned towards me, and glanced at me meaningfully.
That son of a…!
I was so going to get back at him for that! That was completely uncalled for! That was—
—a completely true statement?
Dang.
Why on earth did I have to weigh myself at our hotel room back in town? Right here and now, I made a firm resolution to never do it again until I had given birth.
“Sir?” enquired the old hag—and no, I was definitelynotbeing petty by calling her that. “May I enquire what your name is?” Then she batted her eyelashes again.
“No.”
Bless Mr Ambrose’s lack of manners.
“Oh, a nameless bandit!” she exclaimed. “How mysterious and romantic! Say, just out of curiosity…do you prefer older women? If so, I—”
“Can wepleaseget back to the carriage chase here?” I cut in, trying my best to sound sweet and utterly failing. “That bloody sod is getting away!”
“Acknowledged.”
An instant later, I regretted my words. Mr Ambrose cracked the whip once more, and the carriage shot forward, rushing down the street at breakneck speed. And that wasnota euphemism. Only the rock-hard arm around my waist kept me from flying off the swaying carriage and breaking every bone in my body.
Wait, arm?
How the heck was he holding me with one arm, swinging the whip with another, and holding the reins with another?
