"So, Mrs Ambrose...you love screwing Britons, do you?"
Turning around to face that all-too-familiar cold voice, I hoped against hope that I would see something nice and harmless, like a cuddly talking snow rabbit. Instead, I found myself only inches away from an irate Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
"Um..." Clearing my throat, I gave him a nervous smile. "Would it help if I said I like doing it with one of them in particular?"
The answer to that came in the form of an inarticulate growl. A moment later, I found my horse being led off the path and into the dense jungle.
"Wh-what are you doing?" I hissed, glancing over my shoulder. Had anyone noticed? Was anyone following? What if our three new friends saw us abscond? "Hey, didn't you hear? What do you think you are doing?"
He didn't answer me. Instead, he pulled me deeper into the trees. A moment later, I found myself pulled off my horse and onto his, my face only inches away from him.
"Which?" he demanded.
"Huh?"
Pulling off his fake beard with another growl, Mr Ambrose threw it over his shoulder and grabbed hold of my face, his icy eyes boring into mine.
"Which Briton?"
My cheeks flushed. Suddenly, I felt glad that I was still wearing a fake beard so he couldn't see my face—and yet, some part of me wished I wasn't wearing the blasted ugly thing.
"Y-you should know," I mumbled, trying to avoid his eyes. "You were there."
He seemed to have read my mind because, the very next moment, my fake beard suffered the same fate as his when he tore it off and flung it into the bushes. An instant later, his lips slammed down on mine. And then...he didn't just kiss me. He devoured me. Sitting on the same saddle as him without a hair's breadth between us, I could feel every rock-hard inch of his body press into mine. With every move, every single little shift of the horse below us, sparks were ignited in my body, dancing everywhere till they set my heart on fire.
"W-we really shouldn't!" I somehow managed to squeeze a few words past his voracious lips. "If the others realise we're gone—"
"The others?" Pressed against him as I was, I could feel the deep rumble of his voice throughout my whole body. "Thinking about other men again?"
"No, of course not, I—"
I was silenced by a single finger pressed against my lips. Two dark, sea-coloured eyes bored straight into me.
"Let's get one thing clear, Mrs Ambrose. You're mine. You don't ever hint at being interested in other men. Not even in jest. Understood?"
I swallowed. At any other time, I might have responded with a joke or jab, but...that look in his eyes. Not cold. Not even commanding. Just deadly serious, like this was the most important thing in the world to him. No...like I was the most important thing in the world to him.
Without hesitation, I nodded.
His eyes flashed. "Adequate."
Pulling me into his arms again, he claimed my mouth for another long, lingering kiss. When we finally broke apart, my heart was hammering like an industrial forge. Swallowing hard, I distanced myself as far as the saddle would allow, lest I succumb to the temptation that was right in front of me.
"We...we should probably go. Catch up before they get suspicious."
"Indeed." His fierce, dark eyes didn't move away from mine for an instant. "But before we go, there is one thing we must do."
My heart leapt, and I felt my lips tingle in anticipation.
"A-and that is?"
Reaching behind him, he grabbed hold of something and, a moment later, thrust a familiar fake beard in my face. "Put this on again."
One corner of my mouth twitched. Good to know that, deep down, my dear husband still was the same unfeeling ice block as ever.
Soon, the two of us were once more clad in our facial regalia and, together, we returned to the winding jungle path and caught up with the others. None of them seemed to have noticed our absence. Karim was deep in discussion with one of his countrymen on the merits of various methods of exterminating Englishmen. Adaira was pining for her man despite the distinct lack of pines in this tropical forest. And as for the last two Indians... Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the other pair of them—only to find that they seemed to be discussing something.
"They don't seem to have noticed our absence," Mr Ambrose murmured, making sure to keep his voice low.
"True. Want to take another trip into the jungle?" I winked at him. "I could show you that Briton-screwing isn't so bad after all."
The intense gaze he shot my way sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "Don't tempt me, Mrs Ambrose."
"Shh!" Placing a finger on his lips, I gave him an innocent look from beneath lowered eyelashes. "No British names allowed around here, remember, Satish?"
A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Do not call me that."
Grinning, I patted his magnificent facial adornment. "As you wish, Mr Fuzzybeard, Sir!"
His gaze bored into me like two drills made out of ice. However, it didn't have quite the same intimidating effect as usual while he was wearing a humongous fake beard. "Sometimes, Mrs Ambrose, sometimes..."
"...you don't know whether to kiss or kill me?"
"Indeed."
My grin widened. "Then it's a good thing that, right now, you can't do either. After all, you can't very well hurt a fellow rebel against British tyranny. And as for kissing me...I don't think our new companions are ready for the sight of two bearded men's passionate love."
That muscle in Mr Ambrose's cheek twitched. "Neither am I, Mrs Ambrose. Neither am I."
There was a moment of silence between us. Finally, I reached out and inconspicuously placed one of my hands on his.
"Now...can you tell me what is really bothering you? You seem rather testy. More so than usual."
Silence.
"Because I'm pretty sure it's not the prospect of locking lips with me. You never really minded before."
More silence, except for the sounds of the jungle in the background.
"And I know it's not because you are peeved about the beard you have to wear. If you disliked beards that much, you would have sacked poor Karim years ago."
Some more silence. Ah, this reminded me of the good old days of being an underpaid office drone.
...except that we are in the middle of the jungle, heading right into a warzone.
So, all in all, not too different from his office then.
Still...the degree of danger here undeniably was slightly higher. No matter what, in Mr Rikkard Ambrose's office, there was at least no danger of being skewered by a pitchfork, right?
Probably.
Anyway, this was not a simple journey. It was the kind of journey the two of us might never come back from. If ever the two of us should have a good talk, it was now.
I tightened my grip on my husband's hand. "Please, tell me. What's wrong?"
For a moment longer, no answer came. Then...
"I am scared."
Ah, so that was it! He was just sca—wait, what?
What did he just say? Surely, I must have misheard!
I opened my mouth to ask...but when, a moment later, he turned his head towards me and met my eyes, I was struck dumb. Over the years, I had seen many looks in Mr Ambrose's eyes. Icy cold. Impatient. Murderous. Every now and again, I had even seen love. But fear? Even when he had faced danger after deadly danger by my side, he had never been truly afraid.
But now...
There was a kind of dread in his eyes I had never seen before.
I didn't try to comfort him. I didn't say any unnecessary things. Instead, I just held his gaze and spoke one word: "Why?"
For a moment, his eyes closed.
"I'm not afraid for myself. I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't come back."
Ah.
Suddenly, I understood. I understood only too well. An image of the most beautiful toothless smile in the world flashed past my inner eye, and for a moment, I thought I could feel a familiar weight in my arms, held tightly against my chest.
Then the feeling disappeared, and only my husband and I remained.
One corner of my mouth quirked up. "Responsibility is a heavy thing, isn't it?"
He stared at the surrounding trees, as if he could see straight through them and past the distant horizon, all the way to a certain little someone. "Indeed. I never thought twice about putting myself in danger before. And when it wasn't just me anymore, but the two of us, I didn't want to put you in danger, but you were, well..."
"...a little bit pig-headed?"
"...determined and well-armed." He threw me a cool look that clearly said Only I have the right to insult my wife! "So I was never particularly worried, or at least I was able to deal with it. But now..."
He went silent again. Yet it didn't matter. I knew what he meant.
"Now we have Berty."
He gave a grim nod. "When I was young and roaming around the world, I never gave a second thought to my own life. Or a first one fór that matter. If I died, so what? It wasn't like there was anyone who would miss me. Anyone who needed me." His hand tightened into a fist around mine so fiercely it felt like my fingers were about to break. Yet I didn't try to escape his grip. Instead, I tightened my own in response.
"But now you're a father," I said softly.
"Indeed." His grip loosened, and suddenly, he was staring at me, and there was a lost look in his eyes. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who had always been my rock, turned into a ship tossed about by the storm. "What is going to happen if we don't come back?"
I felt a sudden tug at my heart. That confused, apprehensive look in his eyes... Was it really such a strange thing for him to have someone to care for besides myself? Someone who not just loved, but also needed him?
An image of his bastard father flashed past my inner eye. The father who had thrown him out of the house at fifteen.
Yes. Yes, it probably was.
"We will come back," I told him, my voice firmer than bedrock. "Come hell or high water."
"And what if neither hell nor high water comes," he enquired, his eyes dark, "but war?"
That silenced me for a minute. He was right. There were no guarantees in war, and we were heading straight towards one. For a moment, I hesitated.
"If...if you don't want to do this..."
My voice trailed off.
For a time, there was no sound but the low noise of the jungle in the background. Then, finally, his eyes hardened, his spine straightened, and the temperature went down about fifty degrees. Instantly, I knew: My Mr Ambrose was back!
"No." The word came hard. Fast. Firm. "We've already come this far. I won't back down now. I will do this. I have to do this."
"Not that I'm going to argue, but...why? I doubt it's because you have a sudden, intense desire to save Captain James Carter."
"Hardly." He snorted. Then his gaze fixed firmly on the lonely figure of his sister riding further ahead. "Lillian...are you happy? With me, I mean?"
In response, I simply gave his hand a gentle squeeze. One lesson I had learned from my husband: sometimes, silence said so much more than words.
He nodded, a ferocious glint deep within his dark eyes. "That's what I thought. My life with you...I wouldn't exchange it for the greatest treasures of the world. Now, Adaira has a chance to have that kind of life as well. Can I really stand in the way of that? And besides..." His jaw tightened. "I do not wish to be like my father. I will not dictate my family's lives, thinking I know what is best for them. I will not tell them what to be and what not to be, and will most certainly not tell them whom to marry."
I blinked, taken aback. "Really?"
"—regardless of how much I may want to."
"Ah."
"And regardless of how much I want to slice any prospective marriage candidates into pieces and slowly cook them in boiling oil."
I smiled. Now that sounded more like Mr Rikkard Ambrose. "Indeed."
"In particular a certain British Army captain, whom I would like to beat within an inch of his life for daring to look at my sister, and then beat a few inches more just to be sure he won't make a nuisance of himself again."
"All right. I think I get the point."
"But...I'm not going to do it." He met my gaze, and for once, there was no coldness whatsoever in those deep, dark, sea-coloured eyes of his. "I am going to be a good brother. A good father. A good husband."
Oh.
I swallowed.
He...he used the word "good". Good. Not adequate.
Leaning forward, I pressed a fleeting kiss on his scruffy, fake beard. To hell with anyone who saw!
"I love you."
"And I will respond to that once my wife is not wearing a beard."
I grinned. "Then let's not waste any time, shall we? Let's get things done here and head back. Yee-ha!" Slapping my horse on its hindquarters, I urged it on to catch up with the others.
"Agreed. Onwards, to Delhi!"
***
"Onward, brothers! Onward, for a free Delhi! A free India! Kill those British bastards!"
Wham!
An improvised battering ram slammed against the warehouse door from outside. Captain James Carter looked around at the poor saps who had followed him into this place as a last refuge. A place with only one door and no windows.
"Well now," he said cheerfully. "Does anyone have any suggestions?"
Deafening silence answered him.
"I see." Sighing, he surveyed the troops under his command. Three English soldiers who had been unlucky enough to be on leave when their army had left the city. Two fat men who were unfortunate enough to be too rich, and thus prime targets for plundering. One Indian fellow who had dressed in red this morning and was probably really regretting it after being chased through the streets by crowds shouting "Kill the redcoat! Kill the redcoat!"
All in all, an amazing army. Captain Carter felt confident that with this vast host under his command, he could conquer all of Asia.
Oh, and Captain Carter also had a habit of being sarcastic when he was in mortal danger.
Wham!
"Again! We're almost through!"
He should probably hurry up and come up with a plan.
Wham! Wham! Crack!
Wait a minute. That last sound, was that a—
Crash!
The lock gave way, and the door to the warehouse slammed open, revealing a prime specimen of an angry mob.
"Congratulations!" Giving the two fat merchants and the unfortunate man in red each an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Captain Carter pulled out his sabre with one hand, and his gun with the other. "You have been drafted. Welcome to the British Army."
"We're not British!"
"Details, schmetails."
The mob in the doorway seemed to think so as well, because, the very next second, they gave a roar and charged into the warehouse, weapons raised. Carter didn't waste a single instant and took aim.
"Bam!"
One man went down with a bullet in his leg. There was no time to reload. Throwing the useless gun aside, he gripped his sabre in both hands, just in time to meet a butcher's cleaver aiming for his throat in mid-air.
Clang!
The butcher snarled, his bearded face far too close for comfort. "Mī tulā māraṇāra āhē, tū briṭiśa bāsṭarḍa!"
"Apologies," the captain grunted. "I don't speak Marathi."
Although, on second thought, briṭiśa bāsṭarḍa probably didn't require translation.
Shoving the cleaver aside, Carter punched his opponent in the face hard, eliciting a satisfying crunching sound from the man's nose. With a grunt, the butcher fell backwards.
Great. One down. Just a few hundred more to go.
"Everyone, charge together!" someone roared—and immediately, the entire crowd rushed towards Captain Carter. Such team spirit! Such conviction! As a professional soldier, Carter couldn't help but feel admiration. He might have felt even more if they weren't aiming for his—Duck!
"Agh!"
Unable to dodge in time, Carter winced as a blade scraped over his cheekbone, barely missing his eye and leaving a long, bloody gash in its wake.
"Well," he grunted, "since you're so generous with your bits of sharp metal, let me reciprocate!"
Three people came rushing at him at once, while the rest of the mob rushed towards the others who had taken refuge in the warehouse. But Carter couldn't afford the luxury of worrying about them right now. Blocking two sabres with his own, Captain Carter grabbed the wrist of the third attacker with his free hand. One twist of the wrist and voilà, he had a second weapon in his hand. Much to the detriment of his now disarmed foe, who went down after one swift stab.
"Aaaagh!"
Carter's relief was short-lived, however. Another attacker jumped over the prone body, taking the place of his fallen companion. Then came another, then another. The captain had long lost sight of the rest of his "army recruits", and was being pushed into a corner.
"How...how about a truce?" he panted, while frantically trying to block three, then four, then five attackers with only two hands.
In response, someone shot at him.
"No!" A voice from the back of the crowd shouted. "Don't shoot!"
"Thank you, kind sir!" Captain Carter nodded happily. Finally, someone peaceful around here.
"There are too many of us in the way. Stab him to death instead!"
The happy expression on Carter's face evaporated. "I officially retract my thanks!"
His opponents, however, didn't seem to particularly care. The foes kept coming. Whenever one fell, two took his place. Carter's vision seemed to be filled by nothing but flashing blades. He parried one. Two. Three. Four. Soon, he lost count, sweat and blood dripping down his aching body, until—
"Aaargh!"
A sabre stabbed into his arm, forcing him to drop one of his weapons. Blood sprayed into his eyes, and instinctively, he reached up to wipe it away—only to discover what a bad mistake that had been when he saw a cudgel heading straight for his now unprotected face.
"Bloody hell!"
Those were the last two words he got out before something struck his temple and the world went dark.
***
Abruptly, Adaira jerked awake. Sitting up, she glanced around, trying to find what had awoken her at this hour—but the only thing she found was the camp they had made for the night, with the glowing embers of the dying fire in the centre, and the lone figure of Karim standing guard some way away.
Strange. I could have sworn I felt something off just now. Like a sudden bad premonition. What in the world...?
Again, she glanced around, only to be met with the darkness of the nocturnal jungle. There was nothing there. No tiger, no jaguar, not even a bat. But then...why did she feel a looming sense of danger? Even a hint of pain in her heart?
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My dear Readers,
Uh-oh... keep your fingers crossed for Captain Carter, everyone!
Regarding the meaning of the word "redcoat" in the above chapter—in case you were not aware, the British Army used to wear bright red uniforms in the past. Therefore, they were generally known as redcoats by their enemies, especially the the Americans during the American War of Independence and the Irish. While I can't be 100% sure the Indians used it as well, I still thought it would be the most appropriate informal term for British soldiers.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Mī tulā māraṇāra āhē, tūbriṭiśa bāsṭarḍa! - I'm going to kill you, you British Bastard!