New Storm Rising

16. You Can't Make a Spanish Omelette Without Breaking Eggs

I had seen people pissed before. Mostly in the UK, where alcohol was abundant and pissed meant drunk. Here in America, alcohol would be of no help in that regard. But I had to admit, compared to watching drunkards, looking at people who were pissed from being filled with raging, fuming fury caused by my humble self and my darling husband was far, far more entertaining.

The sight of Señor Maximo Emilio Reyes Espiridion Victor De La Fuente and Señor Francisco Enrico Ronaldo Damian De Ravera climbing out of a dusty stagecoach in scruffy, torn silks, with deep shadows under their eyes certainly counted as entertainment. Marvellous entertainment, in fact.

Though some others might perhaps not agree.

"S-Señores!" Navarro exclaimed, staring at his two employers from under the colourful welcome banner that hung over the once-again-erected podium. Now that we knew De Ravera and De La Fuente were arriving for real, Mr Ambrose and I had naturally accompanied Navarro to welcome the newcomers. For some reason, he did not seem very happy about this. "S-Señores, what happened to you?"

"Not a word, Navarro," De Ravera hissed, raising a finger as he clambered out of the rackety stagecoach with trembling legs. Legs that just so happened to be spattered in something that smelled suspiciously like rat piss. "Not. One. Word."

"How about two instead?" I suggested.

As if he were a snake on the hunt, De Ravera's head whipped around, intent on finding the source of the one who had dared to speak. His gaze landed on me, boring into me—that is, until he noticed the man beside me.

"You!"

"Now, now." Mr Ambrose shook his head disapprovingly. "Is that any way to greet the witness for your prosecution?"

"Oh..." I glanced over at him. "I was wondering what you were doing that one time you went out back in New York."

He shrugged. "A man needs his hobbies."

I raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"

He narrowed his eyes infinitesimally. "Since I got married."

"Tut-tut..." I shook my head disapprovingly. "Only married a few weeks, and already my husband is forsaking me. Freeing slaves, suing corrupt imperialist noblemen...next thing I know, you'll be drinking and gambling all your money away."

To judge by the way the Spaniard's face was twitching, he was getting slightly irritated with the two of us. Well, screw him. We were having an important moment here. Nothing was going to interrupt what might very well turn out to be our first official, public marital spat.

"Excuse me, Mrs Ambrose." Eyes glittering dangerously, Mr Ambrose stepped towards me. "I'll be doing what?"

"You heard me." I nodded wisely. "I've talked with your mother, you know. I know how things go when men get past the honeymoon phase."

"My mother?" Mr Ambrose suddenly stiffened. "When did you talk with my mother?"

"None of your business."

A sense of doom seemed to fall over my husband. "Are you secretly communicating with my sister as well?"

I grinned. "What do you think?"

I was eagerly anticipating his reaction when, apparently, those two bloody Spanish buggers decided to butt in.

"You...if you wish to live, you estop dis right dis instance!" Eyes glimmering like burning coals, De La Fuente stepped forward. "How dare you ignore us?"

In answer, Mr Ambrose ignored him.

You had to admit it, my man had class.

"You...do you have any idea who we are? What kind of estatus we have?"