‘As long as it takes to find out the truth,’ was the curt reply. ‘Or until we’re found out. It’s only a matter of time until Dalgliesh’s agents discover who we really are.’
A matter of a very short bit of time, apparently. Mr Ambrose’s lips had hardly closed when a man stepped out from a doorway in front of us. He was wearing a cloth on his head that was twisted so it covered half his face, and his hand was clutching a dagger.
I stopped in my tracks.
Two more men stepped out of other doorways. All of them had their faces covered and were wearing weapons. Wickedly sharp weapons.
Blast! They’re blocking the exit to the alley!
And did I mention yet that the alley we were in happened to be of the blind variety?
The men pulled down the cloths from their faces. All of them were smiling. I personally didn’t feel a great inclination towards amusement.
‘You have been asking a lot of questions around here,’ the man who had revealed himself first said. He had the biggest dagger and the nastiest smile of the three - so he probably was the leader. ‘Our master would like to know why, exactly.’
‘Let us pass!’ Mr Ambrose’s voice wasn’t cold as ice now - it was cold as iron, which meant it was far harder. I only wished he had a gun of iron as well as a voice. The sight of those daggers didn’t appeal to me. ‘Whoever your master is, we want nothing to do with him. Step aside!’
The leader shook his head. ‘Not before you tell me who you are.’
‘My name is Richard Thomson, and this is my wife-’
‘Don’t give me that Thomson nonsense!’ The leader spat on the ground. ‘Your name is not Thomson, and whatever you are here for, it is no honeymoon!’ Lazily twirling his knife, the man took a step closer, his nasty smile wider than ever. ‘Speak! And what you say had better be the truth, or I am going to make this charming lady squeal.’
He raised an eyebrow expectantly. But I didn’t answer, and neither did Mr Ambrose. We weren’t even watching the three men with knives anymore.
No, our concentration was focused on the man who stood on the roof behind them. There was a movement and a soft thump. More movement came, and more thumps. The leader of the knife-wielding ruffians narrowed his eyes impatiently, waiting for an answer. He hadn’t noticed anything, and didn’t look behind him. That was why he didn’t see the mountainous figure of Karim straightening from where he had landed on the street.
‘Well?’ The leader raised his knife. ‘Speak! Tell me exactly who you are and who you are working for, or I warn you, things will go very badly for you!’
There was a soft hiss as Karim drew his sabre. He stepped forward, and his huge shadow moved with him, falling into plain sight of the knife-wielder. So did the shadows of the men who followed him. There were quite a lot of them.
‘How interesting,’ Mr Ambrose remarked to the three ruffians, who suddenly weren’t smiling anymore. ‘I was just about to say the same thing to you.’
True Fake Love
‘They’re getting close,’ Mr Ambrose said, the moment he arrived at our dinner table in the hotel dining room. I had waited in vain for over half an hour before finally ordering my dinner without him. And the knowledge of what he was doing, somewhere in a secluded space with Karim, his other faithful minions and the three ruffians they had captured last night, hadn’t exactly improved my appetite.
All of which explained why, when Mr Ambrose said, ‘They’re getting closer’, I snapped in a rather tart voice:
‘Oh, are they?’
He didn’t even lift an eyebrow. ‘Yes. Karim and I questioned them, and it turns out they are indeed in the employ of a certain British lord, just as we suspected.’
‘Gosh! What a surprise.’
‘Yes. I do not think they’ve realized who we really are yet, but, to judge by what Karim and I have managed to make the three tell us, they suspect that we are not who we claim to be - which means that we have to put more effort than ever into our disguise.’
‘Oh, do we?’
‘Yes. We have to be the perfect image of two young and foolish people in the grip of a mixture of the following irrational emotions: devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation and attachment.’
Good God! He sounds as if he were compiling a shopping list!
‘Didn’t you forget amorousness?’ I suggested sweetly. ‘Also known as “lust”?’
‘By all means, add it to the list.’
Bloody hell! Doesn’t he even realize that was meant to be sarcastic?
Ignoring the glare I was shooting at him, he took me by the hand and pointed to my still half-filled plate. I had spent the last five minutes shoving the food on it from left to right in a listless manner.
‘Are you finished with your dinner, my love?’
‘It went cold long before you arrived!’ I said, with another meaningful glare.
He apparently was impervious to those. ‘I see. How convenient. Then I assume you do not need to eat it. Let’s dance. And do your best to arrange your features in a way that suggests ardent devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation, attachment and amorousness.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘In that order? Or may I rearrange them alphabetically?’
His dark eyes swept over me, coolly. ‘If you wish.’
Gah! He was impossible!
‘And what about you?’ I asked sweetly, as we rose to our feet and he more or less dragged me to the dance floor that was set up in the next room, accessible through three wide arches. ‘Will you, too, be displaying feelings of devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation, attachment and amorousness?’
‘No. But then, you’re the female, so everybody expects you to be the emotional one.’
Oh really? Well, I was certainly feeling quite emotional at the moment! My emotions, however, little resembled devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation, attachment or amorousness.
The music started playing, and we started to move. Or rather, he started to move me. After a few moments, he said, so low only I could hear:
‘This isn’t working.’
‘Really? Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘The fact that you’ve stamped on my feet three times already points rather strongly in that direction.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, indeed. Also, you’re glowering at me like a vengeful fury from hell.’
‘Ah, you’ve finally noticed that, have you?’
Shooting me a cold glare, he leaned closer.
‘Remember,’ he growled, ‘we are in love, you and I!’
Something painful tugged at my heart. I clamped down on the feeling, hard.
‘No, we aren’t!’
‘Oh yes, we are, my darling.’ Spinning me around in time with the music, he pulled me close. His dark, sea-coloured eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and before I could prevent it, his lips met mine. There, in public, on the dance floor!
Dash it all! What is he up to?
I didn’t know, not in the least.
And you don’t really care, as long as he doesn’t stop kissing you, do you? Lilly, what is happening to you?
Ineffectually, I struggled to get out of his hold, but it was no use. His arms held me tightly, preventing my escape. And then I felt something delicious and wet tickle my lips.
Oh no! He isn’t going to… No, not here, in public! He can’t!
Apparently, he could. Half a second later, his powerful tongue parted my lips, invading my mouth. For one moment, just one moment, I surrendered myself to the blissful sensation. For that moment, I was dancing threefold. I was dancing with my feet, hardly noticing it anymore. I was dancing in my mouth, a delicious dance that sent my blood roaring through my veins. And I was dancing in my soul, more gracefully than I ever had in real life.
Then I heard the giggles. They came from all around us - nasty, female giggles that made it clear what they all thought of me. I gathered all my strength and, finding that it was just about enough, wrenched my m
outh away from that of Rikkard Ambrose. Slowly opening eyes that had slid shut during the kiss, I stared into his perfect face, only an inch away.
‘Just relax,’ he murmured against my lips. ‘Remember, we’re in love. People who are in love kiss each other all the time.’
‘I don’t want to kiss you!’ I lied, my teeth gritted. ‘I don’t love you! I hate you!’
Something flashed in his dark eyes. ‘Then I’d suggest you start pretending better!’
*~*~**~*~*
They didn’t have solid chocolate in Egypt! Why? Probably because it melted too easily, or because that ingenious invention hadn’t yet reached this distant corner of the earth. Sullenly, I slumped down on one of the chairs beside the refreshment tables and picked up a date from one of the plates. My gaze turned to the dance floor, where Mr Ambrose was waltzing away with the daughter of the French ambassador, who stayed here as part of an excursion up the Nile Delta. Pointing out to me that my way of dancing with him was likely to break his toes sooner or later, Mr Ambrose had suggested I sit down for a dance or two. So, now I was sitting and staring at the dancing pair, morosely.
‘Blast!’ I murmured. ‘Why do the French have to have an ambassador in Egypt, anyway? It’s not as though they import frogs or snails from here!’
Viciously, I bit down on the date, and winced. Not exactly my taste. What I needed to give me comfort right now was chocolate, massive amounts of chocolate, dark and sweet. But there was none to be had. I grabbed another date.
The music ended, and on the dance floor Mr Ambrose and the French girl parted. She smiled. He bowed to kiss her hand. She smiled more widely.
‘Oh, sure,’ I grumbled, stuffing another date into my mouth. ‘You go ahead and leer at him! He’s only married to me, so no problem. No, actually he isn’t even married to me! But you don’t know that, you little vixen, do you?’
Even from this distance I could see that the girl was very pretty. A small, delicate nose, dimples in her cheeks, the kind of eyelashes that seemed to have nothing to do but to flutter all day and a waist so slender Mr Ambrose could probably have reached around it with one hand.
Not that he had tried so far.
Good for him! So far, I had only been watching in silence, but that could change at a moment’s notice.
Stepping away from the ambassador’s daughter, he sat down at a distant table and ordered a glass of water - the only drink on the menu that didn’t cost a single penny. His drink arrived. He took a sip. Then, as if sensing my gaze, he slowly raised his head to look over at me. Our eyes met. The meeting was quite a long one - at least long enough to sit down and have a nice discussion about recent politics and the weather. However, neither his or my eyes seemed seemed to be focused on such tame subjects.
‘Ah! Bon Dieu, young amour is such a wonderful thing!’
My head snapped around. Sitting beside me was the Comtesse Somethingorother, a French noblewoman who was also staying at the hotel and to whom I had been briefly introduced the night before.
‘I… I beg your pardon?’ I stammered. My knowledge of French was a little shaky - all right, maybe ‘non-existent’ would be the better word - but still, I thought even I knew what that particular word meant. ‘Amour?’
The comtesse gave me a smile as warm as a pot full of cooked snails, and considerably more appealing.
‘Certainement, ma chérie. How do you say again en anglaise…? “Love”, is it not? Yes, that it is! Young love!’
I stared at her in perplexed amazement. ‘Um… love?’
‘But yes, ma chérie! It is blindingly obvious how much you are in love with your young man.’
As you all know, my cheeks weren’t given to blushing. There was not much on this planet that could embarrass me, and two weeks in Egypt had given me an even healthier tan than usual. But right then, my cheeks ignored all commands of character and colouring and flushed a deep, burning red.
I, in love? And more than that, in love with Rikkard Ambrose? She had to be joking! It was all acting, and so far, I appeared to have made a miserable job of it!
‘And he with you,’ The comtesse added with a wink.
My jaw dropped.
That did it! I was decided - the old lady was off her rocker! The French government should really pay more attention to its foreign policy! First they allow their ambassadors to have daughters that are too pretty by half, and then they let crazy comtesses loose all across the world! That was simply irresponsible!
Mr Ambrose, in love with me? Yes, of course, he was madly in love with me! That was why he treated me with such kindness and respect! Ha! I might just as well believe that an iceberg could fall in love with a volcano.
Really? whispered a little voice in my head. Cast your mind back a little to the tender feeling of his lips on yours, to the way he held you while you were dancing in the candlelight, and you weren’t busy treading on his toes. Remember how he looked at you.
He was acting! Of course he was acting!
Indeed? Do you think anyone could be that good an actor?
Yes! No! Oh… blast! I didn’t know!
My eyes were drawn over to Mr Ambrose again. His dark, sea-coloured eyes had never left me.
The comtesse beside me chuckled and winked. ‘What did I tell you, ma chérie? Amour…’
With that, she got to her feet and bustled off.
Unbelievable! There really should be an export embargo on crazy French aristocrats!
Mr Ambrose had nearly drained his glass by now. Taking a last swig, he placed it down on the table with a distinct clink I could hear even from where I was sitting, halfway across the room. Getting to his feet, he started towards me, his eyes full of… what?
Devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation, attachment and amorousness, maybe?
Ha! Not hardly!
He walked in a dead straight line, not deviating an inch from his course at any time. Somehow he managed to walk at just the right pace to not collide with a single couple on the dance floor. Not once did he slow down. I straightened in my chair and hurriedly swallowed my last date.
‘My dear Lillian.’ Stopping in front of me, he bowed as coldly and precisely as a metal man driven by clockwork. ‘Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’
My eyes met his cold, hard ones. I? In love with him? Ha! Never! That old crone was off her rocker! I would show her!
‘No, thank you.’ I told him with a dignified inclination of the head.
The little finger on his left hand twitched. And twitched again. Oh dear, twice in a row? I must have really gotten his dander up.
Putting one hand on either arm of my chair, he leaned down towards me. He didn’t stop moving when he invaded my personal space. I leaned backwards until I was pressed up against the backrest, but still he kept coming. He didn’t stop until his face was only inches from mine. Then he unclenched his teeth and, in a very low, controlled voice, said:
‘You are my loving wife, remember? That is not exactly compatible with you turning down my invitation to dance in front of the entire ballroom. May I enquire after your reasons?’
I met this old hag who propounded the most ludicrous theory - and I’ll do my bloody best to prove her wrong! I’m not in love with you, do you hear? No, I’m definitely not!
‘I, um… just don’t feel like it.’
Mr Ambrose’s voice lowered, to a level so dangerous it should have had a warning label on it. ‘You don’t feel like it?’
‘Err… yep.’
‘We are in a ballroom full of people, any number of whom could be Dalgliesh’s spies, and you don’t feel like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get up and get on the dance floor - now!’
In love? Ha! And double ha! Who could ever be in love with such an insufferable tyrant!
I met his cold stare head-on.
‘I’m not in the mood to dance right now. Thank you for the offer. Maybe later.’
‘There is no later. You will not ruin our di
sguise because of some senseless, irrational female mood!’
It isn’t senseless, you granite-headed brute! I’ve just had someone tell me that I am in love with you! I need some time to recover from the shock! I mean… you? You are the most arrogant, opinionated, chauvinistic son of a bachelor south of the North Pole! That’s like being told you love being hit over the head with a hammer and having your toes doused in boiling oil!
I raised my chin. ‘One dance won’t make a bloody bit of differen-’
I cut off in a yelp as Mr Ambrose snatched my hand and with one powerful tug tore me up out of my chair. His arm came around my waist like a snake, and in a moment we were whirling off, moving towards the dance floor.
Oh God… that feels wonderful…!
‘Let go!’
Struggling against him, I tried to jam my heels into the floor - only to realize my feet were no longer touching the ground. Mr Ambrose was holding me up, effortlessly whirling me through the air. His face betrayed not the least exertion - as if he danced on air every day!
‘I do not know what is the matter with you,’ he growled into my ear, ‘but get it under control now! I will not have this operation ruined. Not by you, and not by anyone!’
*~*~**~*~*
The next days showed me how serious he was. Occasional forays into the city were fitted in between hours of dancing, dining and hand-holding. I tried to do my best, I really did! Heck, I was being paid for this, after all! But…
But I couldn’t banish that word from my head.
Fake. Fake. Fake. All of this was fake.
Yes it is. And why the dickens do you care that much?
That was a very good question. One I asked myself again and again over the next few days, but never found an answer to. My frustration grew, along with my tendency to act like a stubborn mule on union strike.
‘This isn’t working.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was low and cold, like morning mist creeping over the ground on a winter morning. We were at dinner, and I had spent half my time stabbing at my food, the other half glowering at his impossibly perfect face. This was the first time the silence between us had been broken. ‘At least try to be convincing.’