Never had I seen anyone push a wheelbarrow with such grim determination as Mr Rikkard Ambrose did at this very moment. As we descended down the ramp into the subterranean levels of Empire House, both of us remained utterly silent and completely ignored the ongoing muffled protests coming from within the crate on the wheelbarrow. I clearly remembered, years ago, walking down this very same ramp, trying to convince the stubborn son of a bachelor called Rikkard Ambrose that, no, kidnapping a man and delivering death-threats was not an appropriate response to dealing with someone who crossed you.

This time, I had no such reservations.

It was then I realised how very much I had changed over the years. How very much I had grown. Back then, I had been a young and idealistic girl, determined to find my own way in the world. Now, I was a (still young!) woman, who had found her way in the world, and someone to walk beside her.

Reaching out, I offered a hand to Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Without a word, he took it, and gently squeezed.

And together, we'll make sure tomorrow's world will be a better one. For our children. My eyes flicked back to the rattling crate. No matter what it takes.

My children would get their chances to be young and idealistic. After all, I would have to find some way to drive Mr Ambrose up the wall when I was too busy with other things.

For now, though, I had work to do.

"Look."

I pointed ahead to where, out of the shadows, a set of reinforced double doors had appeared.

Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod. "Almost there."

Without another word, he swept through the double doors and around a corner. He finally halted in front of a door made out of solid steel.

Yep, this was totally a normal cellar. Not a dungeon at all, not in the least.

"Let's show our guest his new home for the foreseeable future, shall we?"

I smiled. Mr Rikkard Ambrose never spoke superfluous words. The look in his eyes told me quite clearly those words were not meant for me.

"Yes," I agreed, making sure to speak loud enough for our confined friend to hear. "Let's. It should prove...entertaining."

The muffled protests from inside the crate abruptly ceased.

Ignoring our dear guest, Mr Ambrose pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. It opened with an ominous creak that was either an ingenious ploy to scare prisoners, or evidence of Mr Ambrose's unwillingness to spend money on oil. Probably both.

Not wasting another moment, Mr Ambrose once more took hold of the wheelbarrow and strode into the room. I followed on his heels and found myself in a low, dingy chamber without any windows in the bare stone walls. All that was missing were flickering torches on the walls and some rusty manacles.

Well...that can be arranged.

With anticipation, I turned towards the wheelbarrow and cracked my knuckles.

"May I, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

My dear husband inclined his head. "Ladies first."

What a nice man I had married.

In two steps, I was beside the wheelbarrow and, grabbing the edge of the crate, I gave it a hearty shove. The thing toppled over onto the floor with a crash, and a rather scruffy-looking Frenchman rolled out onto the stone floor.

"Why, hello there!" I beamed down at him. "Welcome to your new home. How do you like it?"

"Mmmh!" the Frenchman oh-so-eloquently replied. "Crétnnn! Flll dd ptt!"

Ah, yes. Silly me, how could I have forgotten about the gag? I couldn't even understand his insults correctly.

"That will have to go." I strode towards the man and, leisurely reaching out, plucked the gag from his mouth. "We will need you to answer questions, after all."

The man's head hit the stone floor with a thunk.

"Ow! Merde!"

"So, how are we going to do this?" I asked my dear husband who, unsurprisingly, had stayed quiet thus far. Fixing my eyes on the man on the ground, I gifted him with a smile. "I'm sure you know various...methods?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then...

"I do indeed. For now, though..." Next to a cabinet in the corner, there stood a chair. Mr Ambrose grabbed hold of it and sat down, one leg crossed deceptively leisurely over the other. His eyes glittered in the shadows, like ice crystals on a blade. "Let's talk."

"Just talk?" The man whose name we still didn't know snorted. "You think you can get me to open my mouth so easily?"

Reaching back, Mr Ambrose grabbed hold of one of the cabinet doors and pulled it open in one swift motion. This revealed an interior filled with screws, blades, and various other torture implements.

"Yes. I do."

The Frenchman blanched.

"First..." My dear husband leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "What is your name?"

All we got in answer was...silence.

Behind the prisoner, unseen by him, I smirked. Oh my. Our guest wanted to give us the silent treatment? To Mr Rikkard Ambrose? This was going to be hilarious.

I pulled up a chair for myself and sat down, determined to enjoy the show.

Mr Ambrose returned his full attention to his prisoner, pinning him to the spot with his icy gaze.

"What. Is. Your. Name?"

Again, no answer.

"You think you can resist?" Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "That I cannot get the truth out of you?"

The Frenchman gave him an arrogant smirk. "I have been tortured before. Unless you break me, Monsieur, what can you do? How could you possibly get information out of me?"

In answer, Mr Ambrose simply leaned forward, reached into the man's pocket and plucked out a handkerchief. A monogrammed handkerchief. The bound man's eyes widened. Utterly ignoring him, Mr Ambrose unfolded the handkerchief and studied it for a moment.

"So, Mister...FDM? Would you be inclined to share more information?"

The Frenchman clamped his lips together.

Mr Ambrose didn't bother asking any more questions. He just turned towards the door and clapped his hands. A moment later, a man with a forgettable face dressed in simple grey clothes appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

"Send telegrams to my agents at all English and French ports. Have them enquire after anyone on the various passenger lists with a French name and the initials FDM. Inform the port officials that I would appreciate their cooperation. And if they don't cooperate..."

He let his voice trail off, his meaning clear.

"Yes, Sir! Right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"

Then Mr Ambrose turned back to the pale man on the floor, giving him a long, calm, almost friendly look.

I had never seen anything so scary.

"Now, shall we continue?"

Things proceeded apace. I had to admit, sometimes I had wondered how Mr Ambrose had risen from nothing to a man who possessed astronomical wealth. But if this was how he conducted his business negotiations, I understood. I understood, and I felt pity for anyone who had ever gotten in his way.

Well...

Except Monsieur FDM, that is.

Question after question, manipulation after manipulation, Mr Ambrose dragged more and more answers out of the man. His name. Where he lived. Who his neighbour's were. What he ate for breakfast. What shoe size he wore. What the number to his bank account was.

The only thing the Frenchman didn't reveal, no matter how much Mr Ambrose stared holes into his head, was the name of his employer—which, in itself, was a rather telling fact. Whoever the man was, Monsieur FDM seemed to fear him more than Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

One corner of my mouth quirked up.

Fool.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose was talking to him. Mr Ambrose was taking his time. If the man had any brain cells, or any knowledge of my husband, he would know what that meant. And he would be pissing his French silk pantaloons.

As if on cue, the door to the dungeon swung open, and reinforcements for our merry little band of tortu...ehem, interrogators, stepped into the room.

"Karim?" Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "What are you doing here? I thought you were looking after the girl."

"It proved unnecessary, Sahib." Karim sent his employer a rather untypically broad smile. "Apparently, your esteemed lady mother sent several attendants capable of caring for children because she heard the Sahiba was pregnant and thought that someone would not provide a sufficient budget for child care."

"Well, you're just in time," I told him brightly, before my dear husband could point out that babies had better work and pay for their own care, or something equally Ambrosian. "I think we've finished the preliminary stage of our little talk with Monsieur FDM here. Would you like to take over stage two? I'm sure under your gentle ministrations, our dear guest would become much more...cooperative."

Karim glanced between the open cabinet of torture instruments and the tied-up Frenchman, whose eyes widened abruptly. In response, the bodyguard smiled and cracked his knuckles. It sounded suspiciously like small cannon shots.

I smirked. Apparently, Karim's short stint as nanny had built up some frustration that needed to be vented. Violently.

"With pleasure, Sahiba."

Colour drained from the Frenchman's face.

I smiled.

Ah, yes. The only possible way for Mr Ambrose to be the good cop in any scenario: a bloodthirsty giant with a sabre being in the room.

"Adequate." With a curt nod, Mr Rikkard Ambrose rose from his seat and strode to the door. He completely ignored the desperate looks thrown his way by Monsieur FDM. I hadn't really bothered to remember his full name. Judging by the look on Karim's face, the fellow wouldn't need a name for much longer. Or a head, for that matter.

"M-Monsieur Ambrose! Wait, I can—"

...be ignored completely, apparently. Mr Ambrose didn't even bother throwing a glance at the other man. Instead, he stepped through the doorway and gestured for me to follow.

"Mrs Ambrose? Let's go!"

"Coming, Darling." Skipping after him with an entirely too innocent smile, I quickly reached the exit. In the doorway, I stopped for a moment and glanced over my shoulder to send a last wave at the desperate man still lying on the floor. "Toodeloo. I hope you enjoy your time with your new caretaker. If you miss us and want to chat, just let us know."

"Wait! Maybe we can come to an arrangement! We could—"

Wham!

The door closed firmly behind us.

"How long do you think he'll need to be convinced?" I enquired.

A high-pitched squeal issued from within the chamber.

"Not long," Mr Ambrose stated with absolute certainty.

Another squeal.

"Ah. Yes. You're probably right."

"Indeed."

"We'll still need to give our favourite bristly beard some time. What shall we do in the interim?" Sidling up to him, I batted my eyelashes like an innocent young girl. Or at least an innocent young girl who'd gotten knocked up after getting sex-advice from her prostitute friend. "We could go back home and make sure everything in the nursery is ready. And while we're at it, we could also inspect the bedroom." I placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Thoroughly."

Mr Ambrose stiffened under my touch. His icy eyes fixed themselves upon me. They didn't heat up. They didn't fill with the fire of passion. They became even colder, like the eyes of a Siberian tiger on the prowl.

"You," he squeezed out between clenched teeth, "are a temptress."

"Guilty as charged." I grinned up at him, unrepentant. "But then...you like me that way, don't you?"

"The word, Mrs Ambrose," he growled as he grabbed hold of the back of my neck, "is love."

And he slammed his lips down on mine.

Ahh...how nice it was to have my terminology corrected.

"But, unfortunately, now is not the time."

Wait, what?

Taking a deep breath, he stepped back. I was about to protest, when his words stopped me in my tracks.

"I've found a suitable place for the girl."

A surge of warmth rose in my heart. It was me and my new mama bear instincts that had insisted on bringing the miniature pirate-queen-to-be along. My dear husband had been about as pleased about her presence as he would have been about a kleptomaniac magpie living in his wallet. Yet still, he had brought her along. For my sake. And now he was going the extra mile and finding her a home. An actual, permanent, good home.

He had changed as well, hadn't he? I had married a good man.

Or rather, an adequate one.

"What are you smirking about, Mrs Ambrose?"

"Me?" I widened my eyes in sweet guilelessness. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Except..."

Standing up on tiptoes, I pressed a long, hard kiss onto his lips. When I broke away, he blinked rapidly, twice.

"What was that for?"

"Nothing." I repeated and linked my arm with his. "Let's go get Leah before she hoists a pirate flag atop Empire House, shall we?"

Maybe it was just my imagination, but after those words, Mr Ambrose seemed to walk just a little bit faster than before.

Unlike I had half feared (and half hoped), Leah wasn't busy turning Empire House into her own personal pirate HQ. Instead, we found her on the top floor, gazing out of a window, cuddled up on a sofa.

Yes, Mr Ambrose owned padded furniture. With cushions. Shocking, I know.

But right now, there were even more important things to focus on—like the way the little girl was staring out at the city, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. Was she afraid?

What stupid question! Of course she was afraid! She was all alone in a strange city after basically being kidnapped from the life she had known and loved. The fact that what she'd known and loved was shooting and robbing people was beside the point.

I was at her side in three steps.

"Don't you worry!" I hugged her close. "It's all right. You'll be all right. You'll...huh?"

She wasn't paying any attention to my words. In fact, she wasn't even looking at me. From the moment we entered the room, she had been staring avidly at Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

"Y-you own all this?" She gestured at Empire House and the courtyard visible through the window, bustling with office workers and cargo wagons. "Everything?"

Like a mountain king from on high, Mr Rikkard Ambrose gazed down at the little girl. "Indeed."

"How did you do it?" she demanded. "Where did you steal all that from? How did you steal it?"

"I did not." His stony face was implacable. "I earned it."

I watched with amusement as Leah's mouth formed a little "O".

"R-really?"

"Yes. Really." Extending his hand, he cocked his head at her. "Would you like to learn more?"

"Yay! Can I?" Like an eager puppy, Leah leapt out of my grip and into my husband's arms. "Can I really?"

I blinked, staring. Mr Rikkard Ambrose was...good with children?

Had pigs learned to fly?

Well, little yellow ones, maybe.

"Shall we, Mrs Ambrose?"

My eyes re-focused to see my husband extending a hand towards me. Unable to keep a smile from my face, I grabbed hold of it and squeezed. "We shall."

And together, the three of us headed down the hallway and stepped into the elevator. The moment we reached the bottom of the shaft, we stepped out into the entrance hall, and...

A hush fell over the cavernous room.

Complete and utter silence.

Apparently, I had underestimated what the reaction to our appearance would be. Mr Ambrose with a gagged man imprisoned in a wooden crate? No problem. An everyday occurrence. But Mr Ambrose with a happily smiling little girl in his arms?

The horror!

From all around, people stared at us with eyes as wide as saucers. Leah waved. Somewhere at the back of the hall, someone dropped a stack of papers.

Mwahahaha!

This was gold! If they were reacting like this because of a scruffy little ex-pirate, what would they do once I'd actually given birth, and Mr Ambrose came in here with a chubby, rosy-cheeked baby in his arms?

I giggled.

"Something amusing, Mrs Ambrose?"

"What? N-no, nothing at all."

Do not smirk. Do not smirk.

"Then let's go. We have wasted enough time."

And, side by side, we strode through the hall and out the door. A carriage was already waiting outside and, with a shiver, I quickly strode towards it. After several weeks spent on a Caribbean island, the English autumn air was just a teensy-weensy bit too chilly. Soon, we were warmly bundled up inside, and Mr Ambrose thumped his cane against the roof.

"Drive!"

The coach jerked forward and rattled down the road.

I cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't even tell him where we are going."

"No."

"Let me guess...he was already informed beforehand because it is more efficient?"

He blinked. "How did you know?"

Smiling, I leaned over and snuggled up against him. "Oh...just a wild guess. So, where are we going?"

All I got in response was...

You guessed it. Silence.

Hm...so, he wants to keep secrets? From his dear wife of all people?

Fine. Let him be all secretive for now. I could have fun imagining what kind of home he had picked out for Leah. Maybe a childless, wealthy merchant who owed him a favour had offered to adopt her? Or a noble lady too old to have children of her own? Ah, this was going to be good! I loved surprises!

Or at least that was what I thought until the carriage turned around a corner, and the smell of smoke drifted in through a gap in the window.

Not wood smoke from a chimney fire warming a nice house during the chilly autumn. No. Factory smoke.

What. The. Heck.

No. No, surely, I was mistaken. Surely, not even Mr Rikkard Ambrose would send a child to a—

"Chop, chop, you lazy brats!" I heard a rough voice from outside the carriage. "Work faster!"

Scratch that. He apparently would.

Slowly, very, very slowly, I turned to stare at Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I opened my mouth—then spotted Leah on his lap, still with a happy smile on her face.

Calm, Lilly. Calm. Don't explode. At least until all innocents are out of the blast radius.

"Mr Ambrose?" I asked, very calmly, politely, and hopefully low enough for Leah not to hear.

"Yes, Mrs Ambrose?"

"I thought we were here because of Leah?"

"We are."

"Then, pray, why are we driving into the industrial district?"

Cold eyes met mine. His answer came swift and ruthlessly. "Because we are heading to a factory."

----------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

I bet you three virtual cookies that you can't guess what'll happen in the next chapter... ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob