We anchored in a picturesque Argentinian harbour that would have made a wonderful motif for any postcard. It was attached to a small town with little stone houses overgrown by ivy – the sort of place that didn't look as if it got visitors often. The people cheered and greeted us with warm smiles when we went ashore, and they eagerly perused the list of goods Mr Ambrose had brought from faraway England. Their smiles quickly disappeared, however, when they heard the prices Mr Ambrose was asking.
Fortunately, I didn't speak a single word of Spanish and didn't have to participate in the haggling. Instead, I could lie in the sun and watch as Mr Ambrose waged a fierce battle around every single peso. Of course, he won most of them.
'If you keep this up all the way, we're not going to be very popular in Argentina by the time we leave the country.'
He sent me a cool look, which was actually quite welcome in the blistering heat. I would have to get him to give me cool looks more often. 'What gave you the notion that I desire to be popular, Mr Linton?'
A smile quirked up one corner of my mouth. 'No idea. Forget I said anything.'
We didn't stay long in the harbour. When we left again, the townspeople clearly expected us to take the route down the coast. It was quite a lot of fun to watch their flabbergasted faces when we fired up the steam engine and, with steam puffing out of the Mammon's steel smokestack, started up the nearby river into the interior of the country.
Even more amusing to see were the faces of the crews of the boats we passed on our way upriver. With the river overflowing with water, and the current too strong to fight with oars or sails, every single vessel, except ours, was sailing with the current, down the river. I soon started to make a hobby out of sitting on deck and waving to the startled captains as we puffed our way past them, towards the jungle and the mountains. Unfortunately, I could never engage in this amusing pastime for long: every time Mr Ambrose caught me at it, he chased me back to work.
Finally, we arrived at a large city situated at the junction of two rivers. I was a city girl at heart, and breathed easier at the sight of tall, elegant stone houses and paved streets.
'At last! I was getting really tired of those endless hours spent below deck trying to decipher that bloody manuscript!'
'It is your job. It doesn't matter if you get tired of it.'
'You can't make me work all the time, you know! A person could get daft from trying to work all day.'
'Which would differ from your current level of intelligence how, exactly?'
I threw him a dark look, which he completely ignored.
We were standing at the pointy end of the ship, which by now I had learned was called 'prow'. I was gazing admiringly at the beautiful city that stretched out in front of us. Mr Ambrose was staring coldly at his crew, directing our landing with curt gestures of his hands. A small crowd was already gathering at the docks.
'What is this place called?' I wanted to know.
'Santa Fe de la Vera Cruz. It's the provincial capital.'
Capital, eh? Even in such a large, important city, it appeared, people weren't expecting much traffic to come up the strong-flowing river, and they were delighted to see us. Some people in the waiting crowd even cheered or threw their hats into the air. I let them have their happy delusions. They'd stop cheering soon enough, when Mr Ambrose pulled out his price list.
Behind the docks and the cheering crowd, a palatial building rose, the Argentinian flag fluttering from its highest pinnacle. I saw Mr Ambrose eyeing it with cool calculation.
'Forget about it,' I told him.
He threw me a look. One of those looks. 'How can you know what I was thinking, Mr Linton?'
'I don't know. I just know that whatever you're thinking is a bad idea from the look in your eyes.'
'Indeed, Mr Linton?'
'Indeed, Sir.'
Silence.
'Well?'
'Well, what, Mr Linton?'
'Well, what were you thinking about?'
'If you must know, Mr Linton, I was considering charging the Argentinian government for the damage done to the Mammon's sails by their Navy's cannons.'
I almost choked. 'You can't be serious!'
'You would advise against it, Mr Linton?'
'Considering that you are in Argentina, and the damage to your sails was incurred because you fired on Argentinian ships? Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir, I would.'
'Hm. You may be correct, Mr Linton. States can be strangely sensitive when it comes to attacking their army or navy.'
It wasn't long before we had landed, and the cheers of the crowd, as I had suspected, ceased rather abruptly. In no time at all, Mr Ambrose had set up an impromptu stall beside the gangway and, from behind a collapsible table, was haggling with the natives like nobody's business. Or like Rikkard Ambrose's business, to be exact. I didn't understand a single word of the half-heated (the natives) half ice-cold (Mr Ambrose) business proceedings. But a few expressions like 'Avaro!' or 'Maleducado!' were muttered in a tone that left little doubt about their meaning. Still, I noticed that people always waited until they were well away from Mr Ambrose and the giant figure of Karim towering behind him before muttering such words.
The day wore on. I continued working on deciphering the manuscript for some time, but my head could only deal with so many illegible scribbles, and I soon returned to watching Mr Ambrose more or less legally rob the inhabitants of Santa Fe. If I had ever wondered before about how he got so abominably stinking rich, now I knew. He could haggle the kilt off a Scotsman. I continued to watch, a smile playing around my lips each time one of the Argentinians walked by me, muttering expletives.
When one of Mr Ambrose's sailors came down the gangplank, balancing a small barrel on one shoulder, I leaned towards him.
'What does 'Avaro' mean?'
'Skinflint. Why?'
'Oh, nothing. I'm just improving my Spanish.'
Within another hour, I had learned the Spanish words for 'bastard', 'blaggard' and 'monkey's arse'. I was watching the crowd, keeping an eye open for new and interesting sources to expand my vocabulary, when I first saw him.
At first I only noticed him because his skin tone was lighter than that of the natives. Not pale by any means, no, but not the same gleaming, polished bronze that generally prevailed here, either. His was a white face, although darkened by continued exposure to sunlight. The man to whom the face belonged was moving through the crowd like a shark through water, heading straight towards us.
I could see his face more clearly now. Rather dark for a white man, dark and angular. I frowned. Where had I seen that face before? I could swear that I...
The man reached into his pocket. Suddenly, I remembered – just a moment before the man withdrew his hand from his pocket and I saw the harsh glint of sunlight on metal. Pushing away from the ship, I jerked upright.
'Mr Ambrose! Look out!'
The words had hardly left my lips when a massive dark shadow streaked past me. With a guttural battle cry, Karim hurled himself onto the stranger, grabbing the arm that held the gun and twisting it skyward. There was a thunderous report, and the flash of a gun sent people staggering backwards, terrified. Cries in Spanish rose up all around, and everyone fought to get away as fast as their legs would carry them.
No. Not everyone. Two men were moving forward, out of the crowd, straight towards us, also pulling guns.
'Look! There! Get them!'
But my shout went unheard. There was no one to get them. All the sailors were on board the ship and Karim was still wrestling with the first shooter. Mr Ambrose was alone. The first of the two men raised his weapon.
In a move so fast I could hardly follow it, Mr Ambrose gripped the table and pushed. The heavy monstrosity turned over, crashing to the cobblestones with a unhealthy crack. Mr Ambrose flung himself down, and a moment later, a bullet whizzed through the air where he had just stood. The next one thudded into the table with a dull crunch.
Not wasting a moment, Mr Ambrose leapt over the table. He was on the first shooter in the blink of an eye, and in the next blink, his fist made contact with the man's eye. The bastard went down like a felled tree. But the other one was finished reloading. He raised his gun and–
–and stumbled backwards as I threw my arms around his neck from behind, jumping onto his back.
'Grrgl!'
'Take that, you blighter!'
Now, I'd be the first to admit that I wasn't exactly a wrestling champion, or a professional streetfighter. But I had managed to stay alive in a household with five female siblings and an aunt for over ten years. You can't do something like that without learning a few tricks.
Grabbing a pencil from my pocket, I jabbed it into the shooter's midriff. When he opened his mouth to yelp, I stuffed a dirty, ink-stained rag inside and gave him a good whack on the head. He gurgled and collapsed to his knees, which I took as an invitation to tighten my stranglehold.
'There! How does that feel you bastard?'
He groaned in reply, and I jammed my pencil into his side again.
Hey, nobody said growing up with five sisters is easy.
But apparently, the guy I was clinging onto had had some pretty tough siblings, too. Whirling around with me still clutching his neck, he staggered backwards into a wall. Unfortunately, the wall was not made out of rubber or soft satin cushions. The breath was knocked out of me brutally, and my ribs protested in a flare of pain. My grip loosened, and with a violent jerk, the shooter shook me off, sending me flying. Landing face-first in a puddle of mud-water, I rolled around to come nose to nose with the barrel of a gun.
'Say goodbye, lad!' the shooter growled, taking aim.
My eyes widened. I stared at the man – and then my eyes slowly moved further, behind him, to the fast-approaching shadow.
'Goodbye,' Mr Ambrose hissed, and whacked the man over the head with his cane so hard that I heard the crunch of bones. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, and then there was silence.
Well, except for the distant cries of Argentinians running from the crazy Englishmen, and the gurgling sound made by the man still in Karim's clutches. Growling some guttural expletive into his beard, the Mohammedan rose, holding up his prize with one hand by the scruff of the neck.
'Here, Sahib. I thought maybe you might want him alive.'
Bending to pick up one of the fallen guns, Mr Ambrose checked to see if it was loaded. Then, without even blinking, he raised it to eye level and shot the assassin through the head.
'You were wrong,' he informed Karim. 'Let's go. I don't think the people here want to purchase any more of our goods.'
'As you wish, Sahib.' With a half-bow, the mountainous bodyguard chucked the corpse into the harbour. It disappeared into the water with an ominous splash. Then he turned, picked up the fallen table and the bag of money as if they weighed no more than a feather, and followed Mr Ambrose aboard the ship.
'Mr Linton?' Mr Ambrose's voice came down from the deck. 'What are you waiting for? Don't stand there, gawking! Move!'
I blinked, then stared up at him. 'Well, excuse me if I'm not used to seeing people get shot in the head!'
'You are excused,' Mr Ambrose granted graciously. 'But only this once. See that you control yourself better in the future.'
And with that, he turned and marched away.
'You're welcome!' I shouted after him. 'For saving your life, you know! I'm so glad you're still as alive and chipper as ever!'
'Get moving, Mr Linton!
*~*~**~*~*
We continued up the river at a quick pace. If there were any pursuers on our metaphorical heels, they had no chance of catching us. The river was a raging torrent, and even with the steam engine, we sometimes had trouble making our way.
One night, a few days after the fight on the docks at Santa Fe, I was just about to cuddle up under the blanket on my bunk, when I heard a creak from overhead. Who would still be up at this hour? We were anchoring at the shore for the night, and while there were guards posted, they were on land, and not on the deck above me. Curious, I went up to investigate.
When I stuck my head out of the door, I saw a dark figure standing on the poop deck, black coat tails fluttering in the wind. Sighing, I stepped out and closed the door behind me.
'Trying to repeat your no-sleep-experiment, Sir?'
He didn't turn.
'No, Mr Linton. I'm thinking.'
'At this hour? It's barely twenty minutes to midnight.'
'You don't say.'
I climbed up on the deck and positioned myself beside him, leaning on the railing. He threw me a cool look.
'I prefer to think alone, Mr Linton.'
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. 'You don't say.'
A pause. Then:
'You know those men were sent by Dalgliesh, don't you, Sir?'
'Yes, I know.' Cocking his head, he regarded me shrewdly. 'What I want to know is how you know, Mr Linton.'
I smiled winningly at him. 'Female intuition?'
My winning smile didn't quite seem to work, to judge by the look he sent back at me out of the corner of his eyes. 'Mr Linton...!'
I shrugged. 'Or I might have seen one of those goons and Dalgliesh at a ball together.'
His head whipped around, his dark eyes boring into me with unsettling intensity. 'You met Dalgliesh at a ball? When?'
'Oh, a few weeks ago, back in London.'
At the ball where my engagement was announced.
I didn't mention the last part to Mr Ambrose, though. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed to be rather easily aggravated when it came to any suitors I might have. He probably thought I would slack off at work if someone managed to wrestle a ring on my finger. Not that that would ever happen!
'Weeks ago?'
Oh-oh...I could practically hear the frost growing on Mr Ambrose's voice. He fully turned to face me, concentrating all the considerable force of his dark, penetrating eyes on me. 'And you didn't see fit to mention this to me until now?'
Actually, I hoped I could avoid telling you altogether...
'Well, you know, you're a busy man, and I thought–'
I didn't get any farther than that. To my utter shock, I was suddenly engulfed in a vice-like grip, clutching me to a chest as hard as stone.
'I do not pay you to think, Mr Linton!' I heard his ice-cold voice at my ear. 'Understood?'
'Yes, Sir. I only wanted to–'
The rest of the sentence ended in a wheeze as his grip tightened even more. Then, before I could really grasp what happening, he was gone, and I could breathe again. Panting, I grabbed the railing to steady myself, and stared up at the dark, towering figure beside me gazing out onto the river as if I didn't exist.
Had this really just happened? Had Mr Ambrose, Mr Rikkard Ambrose, just hugged me?
After weighing all the scientific evidence and making a careful probability calculation, I decided that, no, on the whole, it hadn't happened. It was simply incredible. Things like that didn't happen in real life.
But they might happen on a romantic journey into the interior of South America, a little voice in my head said.
I snorted. Sure! Next thing, I'd be taken captive by a rakishly handsome pirate lord! Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I returned to my own cabin to get a good night's sleep.
About two hours later, the river pirates attacked.
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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
I have bad news and good news today! The bad news first: we didn't win the Goodreads Choice Awards...
BUT:
The good news: We got 2nd Place, with over 44,000 votes! Thank you so much for your fantabulous support! If, next year, we enter in a category less contested than "Romance", we'll be sure to win! What do you say? Shall we bide our time till next year and get a gold medal for "Silence is Golden" ? ;-)
And MORE GOOD NEWS: I have started a new story, as a special Christmas surprise. You'll find "WARNING: Fairy Tales" both on my Wattpad and my Radish profile. Do give it a go, if you have the time. I'd love to hear your thoughts on my latest piece of writing! :)
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
P.S.: Peso is the currency of Argentina, by the way.