Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘He…good at…getting what he wants,’ I grudgingly admitted in halting Portuguese. ‘No matter what.’

‘Then why the two of you not make small things yet?’

I looked at her, nonplussed. ‘Small things?’

‘You know.’ Letting go of her stick with one hand, she mimed the shape of a round, extended belly in front of her own, and winked.

Good God! She wasn’t asking why we hadn’t made ‘small things’! She was asking why we hadn’t made ‘little ones’, as in…

I felt heat rush to my face.

‘I…we…well…um…’

‘Yes?’

The old lady regarded me like an owl, her head cocked to the side, her wide, wise old eyes looking disturbingly deep inside me. I tried to think of a way to explain the intricacies of feminism, women’s rights and the men who denied them to this little old Indian lady - and couldn’t. All those things seemed suddenly very far away.

‘He arrogant!’

She waited - then, when I didn’t say anything else, she prompted: ‘Yes?’

‘And stubborn! And greedy, and merciless and convinced he is always in the right!’

‘Yes?’ She was still watching me as if waiting for the important part of my explanation.

‘Umm…that’s it.’

‘Girl, you just describe every great hunter.’

I blinked, desperately searching for more arguments, desperately trying to express what was my problem with Mr Ambrose.

‘Um…he not…’ I struggled, trying to find the right words. ‘He not believe women as good as men.’

The old lady didn’t seem very impressed. Instead, she just winked at me again. ‘Well, then someone had better teach him differently, eh?’

*~*~**~*~*

The words of the old lady stayed with me, and over the next few days, I found myself watching Mr Ambrose again and again.

That was nothing new in a way - I’d had my eyes on him often enough in the past, to glare at him or glower or make sure he wasn’t doing anything chauvinistic. But now I wasn’t doing any of those things. I was simply…looking. Not at my employer. Not at the chauvinist, or even the businessman, but at the man beneath.

Rikkard Ambrose.

What kind of a man was he?

It startled me to realise how little I still knew about him. I had no idea where he came from, if he had family, what he had done before he had started dominating the world trade, and what had driven him to become the most powerful man in the British Empire. I had no idea who he really was.

And yet…

And yet, in another way, I knew exactly who he was. I knew he was hard and strong and unforgiving. I knew that he would take whatever he wanted and protect what was his to his last breath, and possibly beyond. I knew that he expected the best of himself and others, and did not forgive failure. I knew he breathed power like other people breathed air. And I knew that he had spectacularly firm pectorals. Oh yes, in a way, I knew Rikkard Ambrose. I knew him very well.

Well enough to help him change?

Good question, Lilly. But here’s an even better one: do you want him to change at all?

Of course I did! He was a bloody chauvinistic son of a bachelor!

And you like him just the way he is, don’t you?