In the Eye of the Storm

22. Wedding Night a la Ambrose

I never learned where we spent the next night. After depositing the old lady at a suitable hotel with less chance of rooms exploding, Mr Ambrose muttered some unintelligible destination to the driver, and soon afterward we stopped in front of a dark building.

It was a large house, but considering that it had nearly no windows and most of it was filled with barrels that smelled strongly of fish, I didn't think it was usually meant for the purposes of habitation. There was a room in the back that had a fireplace, though, and a few blankets on the floor that served well enough for a bed, as tired as I was.

Youssef and the others never left. They took turns standing guard outside the door and in front of the small barred window.

'Won't the fellow who owns this place object to our being here?' I asked drowsily, my eyes already half-closed.

'I doubt it,' I heard Mr Ambrose's voice out of the darkness. 'It happens to belong to me – as do the four blocks of buildings around it.'

A smile tugged at my lips.

'Of course...'

And I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I was awakened by a rat nibbling on my shoe.

'Piss off,' I yawned, and kicked. Squeaking indignantly, the rodent scurried back.

'That is not a very polite greeting,' came a cool voice from the other side of the room. Rolling over, I saw Mr Ambrose standing near the small window, looking out between the bars into the street.

'I, um, wasn't talking to you.' I yawned again. It was astonishingly warm and comfortable in my little nest of blankets. Looking down, I saw that not just blankets were spread over me, but Mr Ambrose's cloak and tailcoat, too. He stood in the cold morning air wearing nothing but a shirt. A shirt, I noticed with some embarrassment, on which most of the buttons were missing.

'I see.' He still hadn't turned around, but kept looking out into the street.

Silence filled the room. Heavy silence. The knowledge of last night's events hung heavy in the air between us. Not the explosion, or the gunfire, no. They were insignificant compared to what had come before.

Hot skin on skin... mouths melding... whispered words in the darkness... a disguise carried a little too far. Far too far, in fact.

A ray of early morning sunlight jumped over the horizon, down through the iron bars into our little room. It made the dust motes dance a glittering jig in the air. Still, there was silence.

Finally, I cleared my throat.

'What now?'

The question had more than one meaning.

'Now?' At last, he turned to look at me. His cold, dark eyes regarded me as I half-sat, half-lay on the floor, the sheets draped around me. 'Now our cover is gone. Now we have only one choice. We go hunting for bandits!'

The steel in his voice sent a cold shiver down my back.

'That wasn't all I was asking,' I whispered, pulling the blankets more tightly around me. I couldn't help but be very conscious of the slivers of bare chest that peeked out through the gaps in his torn shirt. Even in the dim light that filtered in through the small window, his muscles seemed to gleam, smooth like stone.

Am I still 'married' to him? When I leave this room, will it be as Mrs Thomson, or will I be Mr Linton again? What fake identity will he make me use this time? And was what happened between us last night just as fake?

He regarded me for a moment, not saying a word. He might have said more, might have explained – but at that moment, someone knocked at the door.

Mr Ambrose turned away from me.