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‘I doubt it,’ I heard Mr Ambrose’s voice out of the darkness. ‘It happens to belong to me - as do the four blocks of buildings around it.’
A smile tugged at my lips.
‘Of course…’
And I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I was awakened by a rat nibbling on my shoe.
‘Piss off,’ I yawned, and kicked. Squeaking indignantly, the rodent scurried back.
‘That is not a very polite greeting,’ came a cool voice from the other side of the room. Rolling over, I saw Mr Ambrose standing near the small window, looking out between the bars into the street.
‘I, um, wasn’t talking to you.’ I yawned again. It was astonishingly warm and comfortable in my little nest of blankets. Looking down, I saw that not just blankets were spread over me, but Mr Ambrose’s cloak and tailcoat, too. He stood in the cold morning air wearing nothing but a shirt. A shirt, I noticed with some embarrassment, on which most of the buttons were missing.
‘I see.’ He still hadn’t turned around, but kept looking out into the street.
Silence filled the room. Heavy silence. The knowledge of last night’s events hung heavy in the air between us. Not the explosion, or the gunfire, no. They were insignificant compared to what had come before.
Hot skin on skin… mouths melding… whispered words in the darkness… a disguise carried a little too far. Far too far, in fact.
A ray of early morning sunlight jumped over the horizon, down through the iron bars into our little room. It made the dust motes dance a glittering jig in the air. Still, there was silence.
Finally, I cleared my throat.
‘What now?’
The question had more than one meaning.
‘Now?’ At last, he turned to look at me. His cold, dark eyes regarded me as I half-sat, half-lay on the floor, the sheets draped around me. ‘Now our cover is gone. Now we have only one choice. We go hunting for bandits!’
The steel in his voice sent a cold shiver down my back.
‘That wasn’t all I was asking,’ I whispered, pulling the blankets more tightly around me. I couldn’t help but be very conscious of the slivers of bare chest that peeked out through the gaps in his torn shirt. Even in the dim light that filtered in through the small window, his muscles seemed to gleam, smooth like stone.
Am I still ‘married’ to him? When I leave this room, will it be as Mrs Thomson, or will I be Mr Linton again? What fake identity will he make me use this time? And was what happened between us last night just as fake?
He regarded me for a moment, not saying a word. He might have said more, might have explained - but at that moment, someone knocked at the door.
Mr Ambrose turned away from me.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Youssef, Effendi,’ came a voice from outside. ‘I’ve brought the clothes you requested.’
Instead of unbolting the door at once, Mr Ambrose first pulled his revolver and cocked it. Only then did he push the bolt on the door back. ‘Come in.’
The Egyptian entered - only to find his head once more being touched by the barrel of a gun.
‘I am alone, Effendi,’ he said, perfectly unconcerned. I had to admire his composure. I knew that I would have been somewhat miffed if my employer went around waving guns at me! But Youssef seemed to consider it all part of the job.
‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose threw a look out of the open door, then gave a curt nod and put the gun away. ‘I had to make sure. After last night…’
‘No need to apologize, Effendi,’ Youssef said with a bow. ‘I quite understand.’
‘He didn’t actually apologize,’ I pointed out, raising an eyebrow. ‘Nor is he likely to, I fancy.’
Mr Ambrose shot me a dark look and, without saying anything, grabbed the packages Youssef was carrying. The smaller one contained a new shirt.
