by Robert Thier
‘No, wait-’ Lady Samantha reached out, but too late. He was already gone. She slumped in her chair.
Adaira stared after him. ‘He called me Lady Adaira. What has he been feeding on since he left home? Ice cubes and starch?’
‘Mostly,’ I sighed. ‘But currently, he’s on a diet of gravel and cobblestones.’
Adaira, who had just taken a sip out of her glass, nearly sprayed its contents all over the table.
‘Don’t you laugh!’ Lady Samantha admonished her daughter. ‘This is no laughing matter!’
Coughing, Adaira shook her head. ‘I disagree. Because you have just two options: you can either laugh or cry about it. I mean, honestly! The two are behaving like children! And over what? Only-’
Lady Samantha shook her head. ‘You were too young back then. You don’t remember how it was.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. If only…’
By this time, I was quite ready to grab someone by the throat and start squeezing, yelling: ‘Just tell me already! Tell me what is going oooon!’
But I was a gentleman - or at least dressed up as one. So, instead, I said: ‘Some more tea, Lady Samantha?’
‘No, thank you.’
She looked so despondent, the words slipped out of my mouth before I could help it: ‘Isn’t there anything I could do?’
Abruptly, her head rose. ‘Well…yes, there is, actually.’
‘Oh?’ I hadn’t reckoned on this.
‘I know I’ll be able to talk my husband around eventually. I just need time - but I’m afraid I don’t have it. Rikkard…when he was younger, he was such a sweet, patient boy.’
Oh he was, was he?
‘But the man who has come back today…I hardly recognised him. I don’t think he would wait. Not for me. Not for his father. Not for anyone.’ She threw me a pleading look. ‘I just need a little bit of time. Could you distract him? Come up with something - papers to sign, news to read, anything - that would keep him distracted for a few days so he doesn’t think about leaving?’
‘Well…I don’t know…’
‘Please. I just want my family back together again.’
Her blue eyes looked so helpless, so pleading…
Damn!
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Linton!’ Reaching over, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re the best of men!’
‘Trust me, I am many things - but not that.’
And with a small smile at the two women, I rose and left the room, on the tracks of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I found him, or rather the sound of his marching feet, in his room. Every step hit the floor like the crack of a whip. I sat in my room and listened while he punished the floor for things he couldn’t punish anyone else for, dark things in the past that I didn’t know anything about. What an unusually unproductive waste of his time. Especially when I could think of much better things for the two of us to do.
He was stuffed full to the brim with tension right now - and I knew just the way to release it. Besides…I had official permission, didn’t I? His mother had asked me to distract him. So distract him I would. Only, maybe not quite the way she’d had in mind.
Smiling to myself, I sat by the window and watched the sun go down while I waited. Finally, the footsteps in the other room subsided, and silence reigned. He had gone to bed.
It was time.
Rising to my feet, I crept over to the door and, like any upstanding rake bent on despoiling his innocent victim, peered through the keyhole. It was dark on the other side. I could just make out a shadowy figure standing beside the bed, then raising the covers and sliding in.
Oh yes. Relax. Close your eyes. Say goodbye to your innocence. Tonight is the night.
I waited, listening until his breathing had calmed. Slowly, my hand wandered over the wood until it found the knob and twisted.
Click.
Biting my lip, I waited with bated breath for a reaction - but none came. I breathed out. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I began to push the door open. It slid open silently, as if on the wings of dark angels. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room.
As soon as I entered, I felt the cold. Not metaphorical cold from Mr Ambrose - oh no, this was real and tangible. The window was thrown open, letting in gusts of arctic air. Cold moonlight spilled across the room. And there, right in the middle of the bed, his back to me, lay Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his hands opening and closing convulsively as if he were dreaming of strangling someone. But he wasn’t dreaming. He was still very much awake.
‘Damn him!’ he growled. ‘Damn him to hell!’
Stepping up to the bed and slipping in behind him, I pressed close. ‘Who?’
‘What the-!’
He moved so fast I didn’t even have time to blink. In an instant, he had thrown himself around, one of his hands suddenly encasing both my wrists in a tight grip, his free arm above my throat, about to crush down, his heavy body pressing me in the mattress.
I had to say, apart from the imminent throat-crushing, I wasn’t at all averse to the situation.
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Hello to you, too, Sir,’ I croaked.
The pressure on my throat eased. ‘What are you doing here?’
I smiled up at him, sweetly. ‘It seemed wasteful for us to be using two such big beds when we would both fit easily into one. So I thought I’d do a bit of economizing.’ Leaning up, I brushed my cheek against his. ‘It’s much more comfortable like this. Don’t you agree, Sir?’
A muscle in his rock-hard jaw twitched. ‘Mr Linton! Be serious. This isn’t about economy.’
‘True. It’s also about warmth. For some reason,’ I glanced at the wide-open window, ‘It seems to be unseasonably cold in here. We could share a little warmth, just like in the coach. There’s no harm in that, surely.’
His sea-coloured eyes flared. ‘More harm than you might think. You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr Linton.’
‘No, Sir.’ I let the smile slide from my face and bared myself. Looking straight into his eyes, I let him see everything. Who I was, why I had come here, and what I wanted. ‘I’m not playing at all. I…I need warmth. I’ve needed it for a long, long time. And I think you need it, too.’
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
‘Well, Sir?’
‘If…’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you need warmth, I’ll light you a fire.’
Stretching up, I once more brushed my face against his, letting my lips slide in a gentle caress over his cheek. ‘A fire won’t warm me. A furnace won’t warm me. But you will.’
And instantly, his eyes, cold as the ocean floor a moment ago, burned with blue-green fire. Heat flooded over me. Then cold. Then heat again. I shivered, and it was not from the long-forgotten open window. His face began to lower towards mine.
‘Mr Linton…’
Tearing my arms free of his grip, I placed a gentle finger on his lips, cutting him off.
‘For the next few hours,’ I told him, my voice low and demanding, ‘you are not allowed to call me “Mister”.’
And, taking hold of him, I pulled him down to claim his mouth with mine.
The Not So Silent Storm
I did it.
I kissed him.
I kissed Mr Rikkard Ambrose. And the moment my lips touched his, all the fantabulous advice Amy had given me about how to do it well, how to draw a man in, just flew right out of my mind. It felt like our very first time - like a first kiss was supposed to feel. Soft, and hesitant, and you still can’t quite believe that this is happening, that he wants this as much as you do, but he does, and he’s here with you, and he’s kissing you, kissing you, kissing you until all the breath is gone from your lungs.
His arms wrapped around me like irons and he lowered himself down, pinning me to the mattress, answering my kiss in a silent shout of Yes! Yes! that roared out the window and echoed from the snow-clad hills. For a few precious, blissful moments,
we weren’t two people desperately searching for something, we were one, and we were warm inside.
Then, suddenly, his mouth was torn from mine. Panting, and blinking into the suddenly empty darkness above me, I was, for a moment, unable to move or even think.
‘Why?’ Rolling around, I saw Mr Ambrose at the utmost end of the bed, crouching like a predator, ready to spring. But…away from me, or towards me?
‘Why? You really have to ask me that?’ His eyes were in shadow, but I could see them glitter, see them burn. Fire and ice mixed together, each as deadly as the other. ‘After what you just did? God! If you touch me one more time, I won’t be able to stop myself!’
Slowly rising on my hands and feet, I scooted towards him. ‘Who says you have to stop?’
That muscle in his jaw was beating a staccato rhythm. He was close to the edge. ‘I do!’
I was almost there. Almost with him. ‘Why? It’s not as if we haven’t done much more than this before.’
Suddenly, the cold mask of his face cracked, and through the gap, I could see the naked truth underneath. ‘Yes! Yes, we have. But…’
But.
I knew exactly which ‘but’ he meant.
But that had been on another continent, a world away from England, with its rules, regulations and gossiping mouths. But that had been in wild exotic places, so far away, so very unreal.
This, on the other hand, was very real. As real as it could get. We were in the middle of civilisation, in a palatial mansion, surrounded by people who knew our names. We were in his parents’ home, for heaven’s sake! If we did this, was there a way back for us?
I didn’t think so.
So there was only one thing to do.
I lunged forward. Grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of his head, I pulled him towards me and kissed him. Kissed him hard. Kissed him until there was no tomorrow.
And he?
He kissed me back with ten times the force, a hundred times the need! Kissed me as if he lived for me instead of money. It was a nice thought to have, no matter how unlikely. When we finally broke apart and lay there, staring into each other’s eyes, I didn’t know what to say. But he did.
‘My little ifrit…’
A grin spread across my face. ‘Have my flaming wings impressed you?’
Reaching out, he stroked my cheek with the tips of his fingers. ‘They have, nearly as much as the fire inside you.’
How could it be that here, in the cold and the dark, suddenly, poetry flowed from the lips of the master of silence?
Because he’s never been silent for you, Lilly.
My fingers tightened in his hair, and I moved towards him. ‘Well then…prepare to be burned!’
His eyes held mine with an iron grip. ‘So, you have plans for me, Mr Linton?’
I froze.
Mister Linton?
I had warned him about that.
You want to know whether I have plans for you? Well…right up until now, I had. But after what you just said, there’s been a little plan change.
Tightening my grip even more, I pulled his face down towards me. ‘I told you,’ I whispered, ‘Tonight, you are not allowed to call me that!’
‘Indeed?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, Sir.’ Closing the distance between us, I brushed my lips against his in the lightest, most terribly teasing of kisses. He groaned. ‘You know what? I think it’s time I gave you a little lesson.’
He cocked his head. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. Nothing difficult, don’t worry. I won’t overtax your talents.’
Iron and ice flashed in his beautiful eyes, and I felt his grip tighten on me. ‘There’s nothing you can teach me!’
‘Really? How about a little onomastics?’
He froze, blinking up at me. ‘Pardon?’
‘Onomastics. The science of names.’ Moving my mouth to his ear, I whispered, ‘Say my name, Sir. Go on.’
‘Y-your name?’
Had Mr Rikkard Ambrose just stuttered?
‘Yes. My name. And I don’t mean “Victor”.’ My lips caressed his earlobe, making him tremble. ‘Say my real name.’
Silence. That was all I heard from him. Utter, unbreakable silence.
‘Say it,’ I encouraged. ‘Say my name.’
Again - silence.
‘What?’ I baited, gently biting his earlobe. ‘Afraid?’
His muscles hardened, his hands clenching around me. His lips moved - but still, no sound came out.
‘Lillian,’ I whispered into his ear. ‘Try it. It’s easy. Just three syllables.’
He was breathing heavily. I could feel him tremble above me. To anyone else, it might seem laughable. Ridiculous even. Why be this upset about a bloody name?
But I understood. This was about reality. About the real me - which, up until now, he had never allowed himself to see. If he did this, if he truly acknowledged who and what I really was - a girl in his arms - and, more importantly, what I was to him, then there would be consequences. Rikkard Ambrose was a real man. A man who dealt in cold, hard facts and unshakable decisions. Once he acknowledged me, acknowledged us, there would be no turning back.
In the moonlight, I saw him wet his lips. He swallowed once, hard. Then he parted his lips.
‘Lillian.’
The word was a whisper, a cool breath against my skin.
Sighing, I pressed myself into him, feeling a tug in my chest. ‘Again.’
‘Lillian.’ His arms tightened, and he pulled me so hard against him it was almost painful. But I would rather have died than protested. ‘Lillian!’
Suddenly, he pulled back far enough so he could see me. His eyes were searing into me with cold fire. ‘Now you! Say my name!’
‘Of course…’ Grabbing his face, I pulled him back towards me until his ear was once more beside my lips - and smiled, wickedly. ‘…Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
A half-growl, half-laugh erupted from his chest. In an instant, he had rolled me over and claimed my mouth, saying with silence what he was not yet ready to say with words.
*~*~**~*~*
I didn’t need to use any ‘glove finger’ that night. We were too busy kissing, too busy revelling in the newness of it all, whispering our names to each other and lying in the darkness, to think of the possibilities beyond.
Sometime during the night, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, until…
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Mr Linton?’ Mr Ambrose mumbled.
‘Err…’ I blinked in the morning sunlight flooding in through the open window. ‘That wasn’t me. I didn’t say anything.’
‘What?’
Knock, knock, knock.
Both our heads snapped around to the door, where the sound was coming from. ‘Sir?’ called a female voice from outside. ‘The marchioness thought you would be exhausted after a day like yesterday. She asked me to bring you breakfast in bed. May I come in?’
‘No!’ Mr Ambrose barked. Swiftly, he threw a blanket over me and shoved me off the bed. I landed on the thick carpet with a thud.
‘Oomph!’
‘Sir?’ The voice from outside sounded worried now. ‘What was that noise?’
‘Nothing,’ Mr Ambrose stated, as cool as a cucumber, and shoved me under the bed. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Thank you so much for the compliment!
‘May I come in now, Sir?’
‘Yes, you may. What is for breakfast?’
From inside my white cocoon, I heard footsteps enter the room. Then followed a scrape, as if from the lid of a breakfast tray being lifted. ‘Bacon, eggs, kippers, sausage, baked beans, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, black pudding, toast and pork chops, Sir.’
‘I see. And for whom did the marchioness intend that breakfast, me, or a starved regiment of the British Army?’
‘I believe Her Ladyship’s exact words were “He’s a growing boy and needs to eat”, Sir.’
‘Indeed?’
‘
Yes, Sir.’
‘Tell the marchioness that I ravenously devoured every single morsel. You’re dismissed.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
I waited with bated breath until the door had slid shut with a click, and I heard footsteps receding down the corridor. I waited, and waited - then they were gone. Finally! Struggling free of the blanket, I stuck my head out from under the bed and gazed up at Mr Ambrose, who was just busy buttering a small piece of toast.
‘You know,’ I panted, ‘now that we finally agree on my gender, I think it’s time we work on your gentlemanly behaviour towards ladies.’
He placed a slice of kipper on his toast. ‘Indeed?’
‘Oh yes, indeed, Sir!’
I didn’t have a chance to instruct him, however - because, at that very moment, I heard a noise through the connecting door. And not just any kind of noise: a knock. Apparently, Mr Ambrose wasn’t the only one who the marchioness thought deserved a breakfast in bed this morning. Crap!
Jumping to my feet, I nearly fell flat on my nose because I’d forgotten my feet were still wrapped in the sheet. Struggling and cursing, I hopped to the connecting door and pulled it open.
‘Um…is something the matter, Sir?’ came the hesitant voice of a maid from outside.
‘Nothing! Nothing whatsoever! Wait just a minute, I’m… I’m…well, just wait!’
‘Certainly, Sir.’
I struggled free of the sheet and hurled it behind a screen in the corner. Slipping into bed, I pulled up the blanket far enough to cover the fact that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
Or at least most of them.
‘Come in.’
*~*~**~*~*
I had to admit, breakfast in bed was a treat. But as for the rest of the day…
Did it go any better than the last one? Did it lead to a big, happy family reunion?
Well, not exactly.
Imagine the biblical story of the prodigal son: the son, who has broken with his father and foolishly ventured out into the world, returns, and the father prepares to hear his son’s desperate pleas for help - only to discover that his son has come back with a buttload of cash, is now richer and more important than his father ever was, and knows it, too.
This, apparently, was a rough description of the problem that existed between Mr Ambrose and his father. The marquess was waiting for his son to ask for forgiveness, and Mr Ambrose - well, he wasn’t in the habit of asking for anything. If anyone wanted him, they had better come to him, or get stuffed.
