In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll start sweating any minute now, I warn you! Not even you can stay cold as an iceberg in this heat!’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, indeed!’

A hot breeze picked up, blowing sand our way. I coughed, and buried my face in my camel’s foul-smelling neck to avoid the worst of the dust. Mr Ambrose just sat straight in the saddle, ignoring the stinging grains of sand as if they didn’t exist. When the breeze died down, he carefully removed his top hat, and began dusting sand off it. The sun now hit his perfect, sculptured face full-on, and he still didn’t even blink.

‘The heatstroke is coming!’ I warned. ‘Just you wait! In a few minutes you’ll be dead on the ground. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

‘If I am dead, I will not be likely to say much.’

‘More than when you’re alive, that’s for sure!’

Silence. What a big surprise!

‘Won’t you at least try on a headscarf to protect you from the worst of the sun?’ I grumbled.

‘I don’t think so. On the contrary, I think you should rid yourself of that bathrobe and the remainder of your current attire.’ He sent a cold look at my form, bundled up in white linen. ‘It is thoroughly un-English.’

‘So is being a miserable skinflint,’ I shot back. ‘Are you sure you don’t have Scottish blood in you?’

If it was possible at all for something already rock-hard to stiffen, then his posture did. ‘Quite sure.’

His tone roused my interest from its siesta, providing the first distraction from the heat for hours. ‘So… where do you come from, exactly?’

Somehow, I didn’t know how, he managed to lower the temperature of his gaze below the freezing point - even here. ‘That is none of your business.’

‘It is Scotland, isn’t it? I knew it!’

‘No!’

The corner of my mouth twitched. ‘Why would you want to hide it, unless it’s really Scotland? Come on, admit it!’

‘It is not Scotland,’ he told me, his voice even stiffer and colder than before.

‘Oh, really? Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. My home lies nowhere near Scotland!’

‘Hm… how far away is it, exactly?’

The thin line of his mouth thinned into an even thinner line. ‘Quite far!’

‘Come on! How far, exactly?’

His left little finger twitched. ‘If you have to know, three miles and one thousand and thirty-five yards from the southern Scottish border.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I tried to keep my face expressionless while I nodded solemnly. It wasn’t easy. ‘That’s incredibly far away, of course. Nobody could ever take you for anything resembling a Scotsman under those circumstances.’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘I’m still wearing your wedding ring. I don’t think you want to call me “Mister” in public - not unless you want to have some interesting explaining to do when we return to England.’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Fine. Mrs Thomson?’

‘Yes, Sir! Right here, Sir!’