Storm over the Caribbean

18. Mrs Ambrose, the Caring Cave-Wife

Splash!

"Wrrg! Gk! What the hell...!"

"Wakey wakey, you sleep-fakey. It's time for breakfast!"

Groaning, Mr Rikkard Ambrose blinked up at me. He looked almost unbelievably scrumptious, staring up at me through half-lidded eyes, his chiselled face spattered with glistening droplets of water, his wet shirt clinging tightly to his pectorals.

But all of these things paled in comparison to the most important, incredibly amusing fact: I had woken him up.

"My, my, Mr Ambrose..." I grinned down at him. "Sleeping in? How scandalous! Don't you know that knowledge is power is time is money?"

"I," he stated, icy eyes boring into me, "was drugged."

"...by drugs you consumed yourself." I shook my head. "How deplorable. I married an addict. I should really have listened to my aunt and married that nice, steady accountant."

The growl that erupted from his throat was very gratifying.

"Which accountant?"

My grin widened. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He sent me a look that told me, yes, he most definitely wanted to know, and was prepared to go to quite some lengths to find out. His mouth opened, probably to give some order from on high—then he seemed to notice he was still lying flat on his back.

Let's help him out with that, shall we?

I bent forward. Before he got a single word out, I grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him up into a sitting position.

"What the—! Mrs Ambrose, what are you doing?"

Leaning him against the cave wall, I sent him another beaming smile. "Why, helping you sit, of course. It's breakfast time!" And, reaching down, I picked up the previously prepared platter of stone, and held out my lovingly prepared mess of dissected fish bits. "Here you go! Scrambled fish!"

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes, Dicky Darling?"

"There is no such thing as scrambled fish."

I considered that for a moment—then beamed at him again. "There is now! Aren't you glad your wife is such an amazingly inventive cook?"

Cautiously, he reached out, picked up a tiny piece of fish and plopped it into his mouth. To give credit where credit was due: he did not make a face. He did not move so much as a single facial muscle. He chewed. He swallowed. Then he looked up at me.

"Mrs Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"Once we are home, remind me to never ever order you to cook for me."

If I'd smiled before, my grin now nearly split my face apart. At least getting shipwrecked had been good for something!

"Gladly, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Now, why don't you take another bite? You look really hungry."

"Appearances can be deceptive, Mrs Ambrose."

"You haven't eaten in days."

"Biological facts can be deceptive, too."

I gave him my most endearing, innocent puppy-dog eyes. Oh, and what eyes they were! After all, by now, I'd had plenty of opportunity to study the art of the puppy dog with my great teacher, Professor Fence.

"For me? Please?"

He held my lethal puppy-dog gaze for about three whole seconds—then slowly, inexorably, lowered his hand, picked up another scrap of fish, and plopped it into his mouth.