Silence is Golden: Volume 3 (Storm and Silence Saga)

by Robert Thier

  ‘Twelve, actually.’

  ‘Of course.’ My eyes were drawn back down there, enamoured by the way the cotton was stretched tightly over hard muscles and…other things. ‘And I bet you haven’t grown a bit since then.’

  ‘Not significantly enough to warrant a new purchase. Why are we discussing my underwear, Mr Linton?’

  ‘The real question,’ I murmured, taking a step closer, ‘is why we’re still discussing, and not exploring.’

  Our eyes met, and for the first time he seemed to realise what I had noticed quite some time ago - that we both were alone, hot, sweaty and very nearly naked. I watched the realisation enter his eyes, spread through his body and settle in his bones. I watched as a dark storm started to whirl in the depths of his eyes, and a muscle just over his jaw began to twitch.

  ‘Well?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I can’t!’ he ground out from between clenched teeth. ‘I shouldn’t…’

  ‘Don’t waste time with should or shouldn’t.’ Taking another step forward, I stood up on my tiptoes and, caressing his chest with one dirty hand, whispered into his ear, ‘As a very intelligent man once said to me…I hate time-wasters.’

  His arms were up and around me faster than I could blink. His bare arms, hard, smooth and unspeakably strong. Even if I’d wanted to, there wouldn’t have been a hope of resisting as he crushed me up against his bare chest, devouring my mouth.

  ‘Let up a bit!’ I growled against his mouth, then kissed him back voraciously.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to feel you!’

  A deep sound came from back in his throat, almost like…a chuckle? No!

  ‘Find something else to feel! I’m not letting go of you!’

  ‘Bastard!’

  I tried to squeeze my hand in between him and me, tried to find my way to his chest, but you couldn’t have squeezed a knife blade in there. He was clutching me so tight it was almost hard to breathe, and - damn him! - I loved every minute of it.

  Well, I’d simply have to find something else to touch.

  With a slap, my hands came down on his derriere. I felt a jerk go through his whole body, smiled to myself, and squeezed.

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  ‘What?’ I enquired innocently. Well, as innocently as I could, under the circumstances.

  ‘Your hands-’

  Was it my imagination or did his voice sound a little bit rougher than usual?

  ‘What about my hands?’ I squeezed again. Hm…nice. One thing was for sure: Mr Rikkard Ambrose didn’t eat solid chocolate. Not one ounce. I should have despised him for being such a philistine, but at that moment, my hands were loving it.

  Still…there was the problem of that annoying bit of cloth between me and my fun. Time to travel on, to the wide open spaces. Squeezing one last time, my hands started to move up the broad expanse of his back, claiming, exploring, pressing him even tighter against me (and leaving a few claw marks in the process). All the barriers were gone for once. I could feel his muscles flexing, could feel his blood pulsing under my fingertips. All the barriers were gone.

  Or were they?

  True, his skin was heated, his breath was hot, his lips burning on mine - but his eyes? They still were cold and calculating, filled with the same barrier of ice and stone that he build up between himself and everything else.

  And part of you loves that, don’t you? You want to climb that wall, and stand on top of it, shouting your victory to the world!

  On top of it?

  Scratch that! On top of him!

  Grabbing his shoulders, I pushed him back, trying to get him down to the ground. I might as well have pushed at the foundations of a mountain. Only - a mountain wouldn’t have pushed back. With the ease of infinite power, he captured my arms and pulled me down, bestowing another earth-shattering kiss on me. My knees buckled, as much from his kiss as his powerful hands. Slowly, I slid down to the soft ground, and he loomed above me, a granite monument to masculinity.

  His hands still gripping my arms, he lowered himself until he hovered over me, his arms and legs caging me in as effectively as iron fetters. I watched, mesmerised, as he slowly, inexorably, sank down towards me. The moment his body touched mine, a jolt of heat surged through me, so intense I thought I’d be incinerated.

  How the hell could this be? How could Rikkard Ambrose, coldest block of ice in all of Britain, make me feel like this? Like I was burning? Like I was ready to explode?

  I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I simply grabbed him, and pulled him down on top of me. Leaves rustled. Skin slid against bare skin. And a little time later, the world did indeed explode. And when the shards came back together again, it didn’t look the same as before. Not in the slightest.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Question: a man makes you feel two different ways. When he is fully dressed, he makes you climb up walls and evokes a strong desire for manslaughter. When he is undressed, he makes you want to climb up on top of him and evokes desires that are much more desirous than homicide. What do you do?

  The simple answer would be: see to it that he never has clothes on. But this, I thought gloomily while watching the erect figure of Mr Rikkard Ambrose marching along before me in his tight black tailcoat, was something he wasn’t likely to go along with. Right now, maybe he would. But right now wasn’t the problem. Here in the wilderness, far away from the watchful eyes and wagging tongues of London society, everything was easy. March. Eat. Drink. Enjoy wicked delicious moments in the depths of the jungle. The big question was: what would I do once we returned to England? What would we do?

  I had never been a procrastinator. If something needed doing, I did it. No questions asked. But this? I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know if something could be done.

  So I procrastinated. Every time thoughts of England crept into my head, I told myself: It’s far too soon! We’ll be stuck in the jungle for ages. After all, we’ve still got an incredibly long way to go!

  But the days drifted by, and the incredibly long way became a long way. The long way became a longish sort of way. The longish short of way became a rather short way. And the rather short way…

  Well, you get the idea.

  Snow-covered peaks appeared out of the jungle in front of us. I was terrified of what that would mean, and after I saw Chandresh and Mr Ambrose exchange a significant look, I knew for certain. In no time at all, we were ascending into the mountains that, according to the ancient manuscript, held the great treasure we were seeking.

  Not fair! So totally not fair! Treasure hunts should be more difficult than this. We should have at least a few more hundred miles of jungle to cross before we find the gold. Before we have to go back to Eng-

  But I couldn’t even think it. England meant a world in which Mr Rikkard Ambrose couldn’t pull me into his arms and plunder my mouth whenever he wanted to. England meant a world with rules and regulations, and hundreds of other people watching our every move.

  We would have to end it! Whatever ‘it’ was, exactly, we would have to stop. That was the only way. If we didn’t, if someone caught us at ‘it’, we would have to…

  At this point, my already exhausted imagination wheezed its last breath and collapsed in a crumpled heap. It was simply too much! Too much to contemplate, and most certainly too much to do. If only something, anything were to happen, to distract me from this torture!

  Did you ever hear the saying ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it?’

  I perfectly understood the wisdom of this saying one second later. We had just turned into a path leading high up into the mountains, when, from behind us, a commanding voice called out in Portuguese:

  ‘Halt! In the name of His Majesty the Emperor.’

  I whirled - but already before I looked, I knew what I would see. And my fears were not disappointed. There, only a few dozen yards below us, stood Colonel Alberto Silveira, his soldiers behind him, weapons raised and aimed
straight at us.

  The Ambrosian Knot

  For a moment, I was frozen. Incredible, right? I mean, it was hot enough in the jungle to melt an iceberg. But where ice crystals failed, the muzzle of a gun seemed to be wonderfully effective. I felt a chill go down my spine - and I was not as grateful for the relief from the heat as I probably should have been.

  How did this happen? How did they catch up to us?

  The question answered itself almost as soon as it was posed. Of course, they didn’t catch up! They must have been able to decipher enough of the manuscript to figure out it led into these mountains. And then, they had simply moved on the swiftest path, and lain in wait for us. No wonder we had taken longer, with all the roundabout paths we had taken to avoid detection.

  ‘Well?’ Colonel Silveira raised an eyebrow. ‘Surrender!’

  Mr Ambrose? Surrender?

  Yes, of course! And elephants could walk on water.

  Mr Ambrose, Karim and Chandresh shared a brief look. One of those ‘We’re men! We can do this!’ looks that only the most infuriating, chauvinistic males on this earth have mastered to perfection.

  ‘Go, Sahib!’ Karim called out, whipping a rifle off his back and aiming in a blink. ‘Get out of the line of fire! We’ll take care of this!’

  I wanted to growl: ‘Not bloody likely!’ No way in hell was I leaving someone else to fight my battles for me. But Mr Ambrose apparently had a more practical, less heroic approach to matters. Grabbing me by the arm, he pulled me behind a rock and off up the mountain as the bullets started flying.

  ‘Let go!’ I demanded, struggling against his hold. ‘They need our help!’

  ‘They’re doing their job,’ he told me coolly. His grip did not relax, and neither did his stride slow down for an instant. ‘We’re doing ours. Where is the treasure, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Who cares about the stupid treasure?’

  ‘I do. And since I pay your wages, mine is the only opinion that matters.’ He spoke perfectly calmly, as if the barrage of gunfire behind us wasn’t hammering on our ears, deafeningly loud. ‘Now, and I am not going to ask this again, where is the treasure?’

  Grinding my teeth, I pointed up one of the paths ahead.

  ‘Adequate.’

  He made a slight course correction, and started pulling me up that way.

  ‘You really are a ruthless son of a bachelor, aren’t you?’ Without the slightest intention on my part, the words came out sounding almost admiring.

  ‘Eloquently put, Mr Linton. And correctly.’

  ‘What if Karim dies?’

  His grip on my arm twitched. ‘Then I will have difficulties finding an adequate replacement.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  His fingers twitched again. ‘Yes.’

  Liar!

  But I didn’t say it out loud. If there was one thing I had learned from Mr Ambrose it was that, sometimes, silence was golden. Especially when there were bullets flying and you had to run.

  Running wasn’t easy. The path was rocky, every step a dangerous experiment. But no matter how tough it was, Mr Ambrose never let go of my arm. Eventually, the ground became smoother. The path opened up in front of us and, a moment later, we were standing on the edge of a cliff, staring at a gorge spanned only by a single, rickety rope bridge.

  We dashed forward, but had hardly reached the bridge when footsteps came thudding up the path behind us. Mr Ambrose whirled around, shoving me behind him with an air of masculine superiority which I deeply resented. I probably would have resented it even more if the people behind us hadn’t had guns.

  ‘Stay behind me!’ In a flash, Mr Ambrose had his revolver drawn and cocked. His hand was as steady as a rock as he took aim at the opening of the path.

  Shrugging, I slid my hand into my pocket and pulled out my own gun. He had said to stay behind him. He had mentioned nothing about not shooting the sons of bitches that were after us!

  But when the first figure burst out from between the rocks, it wasn’t Colonel Silveira or one of his men. It was a mountainous man with a big beard and a turban on his head.

  Karim looked even grimmer than usual. He was bleeding out of a gash on his forehead, and there was more blood scattered over his clothes which I guessed probably wasn’t his. Mr Ambrose lowered his firearm a few inches as the Mohammedan came hurtling towards us.

  ‘There are too many, Sahib! They’re coming up other paths to the side! We can’t hold them! Run! Run!’

  Mr Ambrose wasn’t one to ever take commands. But I guess he chose to view this as a friendly recommendation, because he turned and, grabbing my hand again, started to dash across the bridge, Karim hot on our heels. We were halfway across when the sneering voice of Colonel Silveira stopped us in our tracks.

  ‘Halt! Halt or you’ll all die!’

  We whirled around, the bridge swaying precariously underneath us. My eyes zeroed in on Colonel Silveira. He was standing at the edge of the bridge, holding something shiny to one of the ropes. I squinted. It was difficult to make out at this distance, but that almost looked like a…

  ‘Oh crap!’

  Beside me, I saw a muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitch. ‘My sentiments exactly, Mr Linton.’

  The colonel was holding a knife.

  ‘One step farther,’ he shouted, ‘and I’ll cut this rope! All of you will plummet to your death!’

  ‘Then you’ll never find the treasure!’ Mr Ambrose called back, his voice as cool as a cucumber on ice. ‘Without the manuscript, nobody can!’

  Even at this distance, I saw the colonel’s eyes glitter. ‘I’ll find it eventually. There are only so many peaks in these mountains. The only reason you are still alive is that I don’t want to waste time with an unnecessary search.’

  His eyes met those of Mr Ambrose. For a few moments the two men just stared at each other, locked in a silent battle that needed no swords or fists or guns.

  ‘Throw away your weapons,’ the colonel commanded. ‘Come back and surrender, or I will cut through this rope, and you will plunge to your death!’

  It all felt a bit like one of the scenes from my favourite adventure novels: the manic villain, the beautiful heroine with her hero sidekick in deadly danger - only in real life, it wasn’t quite as enjoyable.

  ‘Last warning!’ the colonel shouted. ‘Throw away your weapons, or I will cut through the rope.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ With an ice-cold stare at Colonel Silveira, Mr Ambrose raised his gun, pointing it straight at the rope next to him. ‘Leave now, or I will sever the rope!’

  ‘What?’ the colonel demanded.

  ‘What?’ I demanded. This hadn’t happened in any of my adventure novels!

  Mr Ambrose cocked his head, like a schoolmaster glancing down at an ignorant pupil. ‘Didn’t you know? This bridge is the only way to the treasure. If I destroy it, you will never get to your goal. Leave. Now.’ He rested the muzzle of the revolver against the old, fraying rope. ‘Or I shoot.’

  ‘If you shoot, you will all die,’ the colonel pointed out with what I thought was admirable logic. I had been about to make that point myself.

  ‘Maybe.’ Mr Ambrose gave a barely perceptible shrug, glancing down at the chasm beneath us. ‘Maybe not. I have been told my head is quite hard. It might withstand the impact.’

  That might actually be true. But that didn’t exactly make me feel more comfortable about what would happen to the rest of us.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at him. ‘Haven’t you read any adventure novels? He’s the villain! He’s supposed to be the one threatening to plunge us into a deadly chasm, not you!’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Mr Linton,’ he said, his tone, or rather the lack of it, making it clear he wasn’t sorry at all. He directed his gaze at the colonel, hard. ‘Well, colonel? I am waiting.’

  An immeasurably long second passed. A second in which anything was possible. The colonel’s aristocratic face was completely unreadable. There was no telling what he might have don
e if not, at that very moment, from the other end of the gorge, a familiar voice had shouted: ‘Everyone drop their weapons, or I will cut the ropes!’

  I whirled around, just in time to see Lieutenant de Alvarez step up to the rope on the other side of the bridge, raising his knife. Behind him, his men fanned out, covering the edge of the gorge, a mirror of the Imperialist troops on the other side.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ Mr Ambrose hissed out from between clenched teeth, his gaze still fixed on Colonel Silveira. The two of us were standing back-to-back now, with Karim standing beside us, looking exceedingly unhappy at being unsure whom to shoot first.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I whispered back. ‘What should we do?’

  But before either of us could do anything, the decision was taken out of our hands.

  ‘He lied!’ I heard the triumph in Colonel Silveira’s voice, and, whirling back to face him, saw the gleam in his eyes. ‘There must be another way across, and those rebel rats found it! His threat is empty! Charge, men! Charge!’

  The Brazilian troops raised their weapons, bellowed a battle cry and charged onto the bridge. Lieutenant de Alvarez, who was not about to be outdone by an imperialist pig, shouted: ‘Kill the royalist scum! Charge!’

  Both groups rushed onto the bridge, bayonets, raised, ready for the kill. They had apparently forgotten that sweet little me and company still stood in the middle of the bridge, right in their way. Or maybe, they just didn’t care.

  I looked at Mr Ambrose. Mr Ambrose looked at me. We both looked at the bloodthirsty hordes of charging soldiers. I saw the resolution form in his eyes a moment before his fingers squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out, rope tore, and then we were falling, falling, falling, and I was thinking: Bloody stinking hell! I’ll never read adventure novels again!

  *~*~**~*~*

  Did you know that Brazil is one of the largest countries on the planet, and most of its provinces are landlocked, far away from large bodies of water? I had never paid much attention to this fact before, but when I came up sputtering on the shore of whatever river I had plunged into, I had reason to be thankful for it. I was sopping wet, and aching and dirty, but - Yay! - I had managed to hit a river and not be smashed to death on the rocks.