Page 213 of Storm over the Caribbean
Cliffs. To be precisely, the White Cliffs of Dover.
Land! Finally, land!
I felt an urge to dash ashore the moment we reached land and do my best pope imitation.42 Unfortunately, right now, I doubted I could bend over far enough to tie my shoes, never mind kissing the ground.
Hm…I wonder how fat popes did it? Do popes have a mandatory diet?
Yet before I could solve that deep philosophical question, I heard the shout from the crow’s nest. “Lighthouse ahead! I see the lighthouse!”
“Does that mean we’re nearly there?” I demanded, turning my hopeful eyes on Mr Ambrose
“Yes,Sahib,” Karim pitched in, his tone filled with utter desperation. That had probably something to do with the little brat currently tugging at his beard and trying to get her hands on his sabre. Leah—as we’d found out she was named—had turned out to be a rather…lively little girl. “Are we nearly there,Sahib?”
Though I was fairly certain what he was really saying was:Please tell me we’re nearly there! Please! Please! Please!
I had to admit, the sight of Karim doing puppy-dog eyes did wonders to improve my mood.
“Don’t you worry, little one.” Reaching over, I patted the struggling girl’s head. “You won’t have to deal with the big, scary man for much longer. We’ll find you a nice, homey place to stay soon.”
“I’ll rip your guts out and string you up by the mizzenmast! Take me back to the pirates right now unless you want me to scatter your innards across the deck of this miserable little excuse for a ship!”43
“You know, I have to agree with what theSahibsaid before,” Karim told me, his face unmoving. “You’ll make awonderfulmother one day. I can already see your amazing talent in action.”
I sent him a wide smile. “Why, thank you, Karim. And I can already tell you’ll make a fantastic nanny as well. You can start by taking care of Leah here while we disembark and find a nice hotel.”
Then, before he had the chance to retort or stab me with his sabre in revenge, I made my way to where the gangplank was soon to be lowered. People were already assembling there with crates and chests that contained Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s various plundered treasures, as well as a certain rather important captive. My husband stepped up beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, dark satisfaction shining in his fathomless, sea-coloured eyes. Satisfaction that, as soon as we’d found a nice, cosy bedroom, I was planning to amplify. Greatly. Ah, it was good to be home!
I could already feel the romantic tension building in the air between us. The moment we’d get to our bedroom, I would rip off his shirt and—
“Squawk!” my fantasies were abruptly cut off by a screech from one of the nearby crates. “Polly wants a cookie! Polly wants a cookie!”
Crap!
Beside me, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stiffened. All romantic tension evaporated, and the look in his eyes suddenly seemed a lot less satisfied.
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes?”
“What wasthat?”
“What?” I asked, innocently blinking up at him. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Woof! Woof!”
“Cookie! Polly wants a cookie!”
Double crap.
***
A carriage rattled across the cobblestones, rapidly rolling along a London street in the better parts of town. I was intently watching the metropolitan scenery. It was a beautiful view. Especially since it allowed me to avoid the icy gaze of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who was currently sitting beside me with a bird cage in his hand.
“I have only one question,” he stated. “Why?”
“Well…”
“Squawk! Polly wants a cookie!”
