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‘What? You went to the expense of buying an entirely new shirt?’ My other eyebrow shot up to join the first. ‘Not just needle and thread to sew the buttons back on? You must be in a hurry!’
That earned me another dark look. Picking up the second, larger parcel, Mr Ambrose threw it to me, and I caught it in mid-air. My heart beat faster as I undid the string that held the wrapping together. From underneath the brown paper, I pulled not a shirt, nor a tailcoat, nor any other kind of men’s clothes. Instead, I held a dress in my hands.
So… He wants you to continue to be a female - at least for now.
Slowly, I let the smooth material glide through my hands. With another shiver, I remembered his words to me, spoken in a moment of pretended passion.
While we are here, you’re mine. Do you understand? Mine!
Apparently, he had meant what he said.
I heard a soft thud as Youssef stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Mr Ambrose rose, the new shirt in one hand, and before I realized what he meant to do, he pulled the torn one over his head. My mouth dropped open. He stood above me, gazing down at me with cool, sea-coloured eyes.
‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get dressed.’
‘Err… um…’
‘Is something wrong, my love?’
‘Well… err… I… um… err…’
Just in case I wasn’t clear enough before, I’m going to repeat myself and make it explicit: he had pulled the torn shirt over his head - without leaving the room, stepping behind a screen, shrou
ding himself in magical mist or otherwise concealing himself - a shirt, I must emphasize at this point, under which there was nothing else. Absolutely nothing. Nix. Nada. At least nothing resembling clothing. But there was himself. A lot of himself, very firm, and hard, and there.
He cocked his head. It made certain parts of his neck and chest shift in an interesting way.
‘Are you quite well, my love? There seems to be something wrong with your facial muscles.’
‘I… um… err…’
‘If you’re ill you had better tell me right now. Once I start after the bandits I’ll need to travel quickly, and I can’t have you tagging along if you’re going to hold me back.’
‘I, um… no. I’m fine. Quite fine. Actually, I feel excellent. There’s nothing wrong with me whatsoever.’
‘Well, then get dressed.’
I took a deep breath.
Gather your eyeballs up off the floor and get your head straight! Just because he’s so very… himself, that doesn’t mean you have to act like a stupid damsel. You’re a feminist and a suffragist!
Only, it was a lot harder to be a feminist with Mr Ambrose standing over me half-naked.
He made an impatient gesture. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Get a move on!’
‘Certainly.’ Raising my chin, I did the impossible and met his gaze. ‘Just as soon as you get out.’
He blinked. Just once, like a lizard that saw a fly make a surprising twitch, but that still knew the fly was going to be eaten. ‘Excuse me?’
I met his gaze head-on. ‘You heard me. Get out!’
Stay strong, Lilly! Just because you were ready to rip his clothes off a little time ago doesn’t mean he gets to stay to watch you take off yours! That was part of the job - this isn’t! Stay strong!
We gazed at each other for one long minute, neither of us willing to break the staring contest. An impressively long time, considering how much Mr Ambrose despised all kinds of time-wasters. Finally, he jerked his head in a movement that could be seen as a nod, or maybe a headshake, turned on his heels, and marched out of the door, his upper body still conspicuously lacking in the clothing department.
That was close!
Letting out a breath of relief, I quickly slipped out of my old dress and into the new one. Already under normal circumstances I hardly ever noticed what colour or pattern a dress was, and right at the moment I had no attention to spare for fashion whatsoever. But what I did notice as I pushed my hands through the sleeves was the thing glinting golden on my finger. One of the rings Mr Ambrose had given me. The wedding ring of Mrs Richard Thomson.
