Storm over the Caribbean

45. Don't Mind Us, We're Just Kidnapping People!

"Bluuurgh!"

I really was unable to stop putting my foot in my mouth, wasn't I? Completely and utterly incapable. Did I like the taste of my own toes so much?

"Urgh!"

Well, it would probably be preferable to the taste that was currently pervading my mouth.

"Grk! Bleeargh!"

"Enjoying the view, Mrs Ambrose?"

Pushing myself up from the railing that I had been bending over, I wiped my mouth and sent my dear husband a baleful glare.

"I hate you, you know that?"

"No. In fact, I am quite certain of the contrary."

Damn and blast! The son of a bachelor didn't bat an eye as he casually contradicted my very reasonable declaration. And do you know what the worst thing was? I couldn't even argue with him! Not when, at this very moment, he was gently wiping the sweat off my face with his precious, mint-condition, ten year old handkerchief.

"Why the heck is it," I groaned, "that the whole time I was part of a pirate crew I had perfect sea legs, and the instant we start heading home I begin barfing again?"

"I am uncertain. I am, however, quite glad that you restrained yourself from 'barfing' until now, Mrs Ship's Cook."

A choked laugh escaped my throat, and then...

I whirled back towards the railing.

"Bluurgh!"

More stuff escaped my throat. Lots more.

Blast, blast, blast! Goddamn morning sickness!

Why was it even called that? The time wasn't anywhere near morning! It was the middle of the afternoon, for heaven's sake!

"Bleeeargh!"

Apparently, my stomach didn't care. Oh joy!

"How much farther to England?" I enquired weakly.

"About half a nautical mile less than when you last asked, Mrs Ambrose."

"That was not very comforting, Mr Ambrose."

"Indeed?"

"Bluurgh!"

I bent forward, and his hands clasped my shoulders once again, supporting me.

"I-indeed, Mr Ambrose, Sir. But you still haven't answered my question. How. Much. Farther. To. England?"

"Not far."

"Mr Ambrose!"

A pause. Until...

"Two thousand nine hundred and fifty seven nautical miles."

"Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"I hate you."

"I love you too, Mrs Ambrose."

"Are we sailing at full speed? Can you tell Karim to go faster?"

Just then, a tiny blur whizzed past behind us, followed by a panting, bearded behemoth.

"Nooo! I don't want to eat pickled vegetables! Don't wanna! Don't wanna!"

"Come back here you little Śaitāna! You shall do as the Sahib commands, or suffer my wrath!"

"Noo! I'm gonna go back to the pirates!"

"Foolish child! How could you possibly go back to—hey! Don't you dare touch that lifeboat! I forbid it! Do you hear? I forbid it!"