Page 253 of Storm over the Caribbean
“What the hell…!”
She gave me a big, innocent smile. “Wakey wakey, you sleep-fakey. It’s time for breakfast!”
Groaning, I reached up and massaged my temples. I would never have thought that, one day, I of all people would say this, but…it was too early in the day for this.
“My, my, Mr Ambrose…” Her teasing voice met my ears and, slowly, I opened my eyes to see her grin floating above me. “Sleeping in? How scandalous! Don’t you know that knowledge is power is time is money?”
“I,” my voice came, somehow calm despite my urge to strangle her, “wasdrugged.”
“…by drugs you consumed yourself.” With an astonishingly convincing sad expression on her face, she shook her head. “How deplorable. I married an addict. I should really have listened to my aunt and married that nice, steady accountant.”
The growl erupted from my throat before I could stop myself.
“Which accountant?”
My wife, may Mammon curse her, chose this moment to widen her grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I sent her a look that told her exactly what I thought of that response and opened my mouth to start giving orders—only to close it again when I realised I had no means to enforce said orders. I was still flat on my back, with no power in my muscles whatsoever.
Swear words were a waste of time, but sometimes, they truly were so very tempting.
Something that was confirmed for me a second later when Lillian grabbed me by the lapels and dragged me into a sitting position like a sack of potatoes.
“What the—! Mrs Ambrose, what are you doing?”
She gifted me with another big, beaming smile. Recent experiences considered, I would have preferred a scowl. My instincts honed through countless years of business negotiations sent me blaring warning signals.
“Why, helping you sit, of course. It’s breakfast time!” And, reaching down, she picked up a stone platter covered in the food she had prepared for me. “Here you go! Scrambled fish!”
Did I ever mention that my instincts were always right?
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Dicky Darling?”
“There isno such thingas scrambled fish.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment—then beamed at him again. “There is now! Aren’t you glad your wife is such an amazingly inventive cook?”
Inventive? I would use another word for it.
Cautiously, I reached for one of the tiny pieces of fish. Understandably, I had grown rather cautious in regard to potentially poisonous things as of late.
But…this was the food my wife had prepared. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?
Tentatively, I put the piece of fish in my mouth, and…
I retract my previous statement.
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes?”
“Once we are home, remind me tonever everorder you to cook for me.”
Her grin only widened at my words, and suddenly I realised: I just commanded her to refrain from housework. Did I perhaps fall into her trap?
“Gladly, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Now, why don’t you take another bite? You look really hungry.”
