Out of the corner of my eye, I kept peeking at the implacable profile of Rikkard Ambrose. There wasn't a single little twitch on his chiselled face. Nothing whatsoever betrayed the little fact that he had just plunged the entire City of New York into chaos.

Unfolding the paper in my hand, I glanced down at the headline.

INTERNATIONAL SCANDAL UNFOLDS

Relative of the King of Spain Arrested for Illegal Slave Trade

Notable Personage calls it "Outrageous Act of Villainy" and demands their long-term imprisonment, along with confiscation of their property

"I wonder," I said, cocking my head at my dear employer, "who this 'notable personage' might be?"

"I couldn't say, Mr Linton."

"I bet." I felt one corner of my mouth twitch. "After all, this lovely country has this law that allows you to refuse incriminating yourself, right?"

"Indeed."

There was a pause.

"Are you seriously going to try and keep that ship?"

"What do you think, Mr Linton?"

"But...but that ship belongs to the Spanish Crown!"

"Do you think the Spanish crown is on board?"

"No!"

"Pity. Crown jewels tend to be worth quite a bit."

"Yes." Eyes narrowing, I lowered my gaze to Mr Ambrose' groin area. "I suspect most people do value their crown jewels rather highly. It would be a pity if something were to happen to them, wouldn't it, Sir?"

Shifting, Mr Ambrose directed a cool gaze my way. "Why do I get the feeling that you are less than pleased with me, Mr Linton?"

"Perhaps because your dick is in imminent danger?"

"We're married," he reminded me. "And on our honeymoon."

Dang it! He was right! What was a girl to do? He was being an unreasonable arse, and deserved a good kick in the bollocks, but...

Ehem.

Suffice it to say I still had a use for them.

Blast.

Oh well, I might as well make the best of it. Tonight, once we were settled in a nice, comfy inn and had found a room to be alone...

Images started flashing past my mind's eye, and warm feelings started rising up inside me. Ah, honeymoon, sweet honeymoon.

Abruptly, the coach we were sitting in swerved, and the feelings rising up inside me were replaced by other, much less pleasant ones, rising fast inside my throat. Desperately, I threw open the coach window and leaned outside.

"Bleeeargh!"

Correction: puke-flavoured honeymoon.

"I hope you are enjoying the view, Mr Linton?"

"Sh-shut up!"

Reaching back into the coach, I made some less than complimentary gestures at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, only to realize I had let go of the window frame and nearly toppled headfirst out of the carriage. Crap! Why was this happening? Why was I still seasick? I was on land, wasn't I? Or was I still on the ocean, riding in Poseidon's personal carriage?

In that case, Poseidon could go frig himself!

"Say," I groaned, clutching my protesting stomach. "Is there such a thing as landsickness?"

"Not to my knowledge, no," came Mr Ambrose's infuriatingly calm and non-nauseous voice from inside the coach.

"Then what the hell is this? Did I catch some sort of bug? Maybe we shouldn't sleep in the same room tonight. I don't want to infect you..."

Suddenly, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulders.

"I do not think that will be necessary."

"But if I make you sick—"

Before I could get another word out, the hand that held me suddenly became a pair of hands and turned me around. Coming face-to-face with Mr Ambrose, I glanced down and away, avoiding his gaze. Not because I was feeling shy, of course! No, definitely not! This had nothing to do with the fact that I was a brand-new bride on her honeymoon.

"Hey!" I mumbled. "Don't pull me so close. What if I'm really ill and—"

"I know the perfect cure," he cut me off and, a moment later, his lips pressed onto my forehead, sending a surge of warmth through me. Warmth that rapidly turned into heat as his mouth wandered down my temple, leaving a searing trail in its wake. Slowly but surely, he approached my mouth, causing the flames inside me to grow into an inferno that—

Wait just a minute! My mouth?!

But I just...well...!

"Don't!" I squeaked. "My mouth, I...I just..."

"I know," Mr Ambrose said, capturing my chin in his hand, forcing me to look straight at him. "I don't care."

Then his lips descended.

That was the thing about Mr Rikkard Ambrose. He could give his own wife a pay cut without blinking an eye. But he could also do things like this, and really mean it.

As his rock-hard arms came around me, I felt my body relax and the queasy feeling in my stomach recede. The corners of my mouth curling up, I leaned into him.

"You know," I whispered, giggling, "I'm aware you don't like to spend a lot on food and drink, but I didn't think you had become that desperate."

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"If you dare to start regurgitating right now, your pay shall be halved for the next six months."

Suddenly, the urge to puke had completely vanished. Will you look at that? He really did have a cure!

Didn't I have an amazing husband?

***

"Blaaargh!"

It was confirmed. Landsickness was a thing. As the coach rolled to a stop, I managed to leap out just in time to avoid decorating the inside of the carriage in lovely vomit-beige.

"Can you threaten to cut my salary again?" I enquired weakly, clutching the side of the coach for support.

"Gladly. But I very much doubt it will have the desired effect."

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, for the sake of my wallet—I had to agree.

"Could you maybe support your dear wife a little?"

Mr Ambrose cast a glance around at the workers and stable hands scattered through the courtyard. "You mean the dear wife that is walking around in men's trousers and a tailcoat?"

I groaned. "Never mind."

"I thought as much."

Taking a few deep breaths to settle my stomach, I glanced around. A shoddy wooden house built in a U-shape surrounded a muddy courtyard with wheel tracks criss-crossing in the dirt. Panting horses that looked like they'd just come back from a nice little express trip to Timbuktu stood here and there. People with bags of fodder and suitcases were hurrying around.

"Where are we, anyway? What is this place?"

Mr Ambrose cocked his head. "What do you think? You didn't expect to travel the entire way to our destination in a privately rented coach, did you? Do you even have any idea how expensive those are?"

"So instead...?" I enquired, starting to get a bad feeling about this.

"Instead, we'll go for the tried and trusted alternative!" Striding forward, he stepped up beside one of the panting horses, standing next to a rickety carriage. "Stagecoaches. The very best way to travel in this country of vast possibilities."

Just then, the horse's eyes rolled up in its head, and it collapsed to the ground with a thump.

I met Mr Rikkard Ambrose's gaze and raised an eyebrow.

"It's cheap," he stated, managing to completely ignore the fainted horse beside him.

"Fancy that."

Just then, a rotund man came rushing out into the courtyard, rubbing his hands and beaming like a house on fire. I supposed it wasn't every day that an upstanding gentleman wealthy enough to afford a private carriage randomly decided to ditch his fancy ride and come to this place.

"Welcome! Welcome to my humble establishment, gentlemen! What can I do for ya?"

"What you do for anybody else here." Dusting off some dirt from his mint-condition ten-year-old tailcoat, Mr Ambrose stepped forward. "Provide speedy transportation. My name is Mr Rikkard Ambrose. We need passage for three to Harrisburg, and farther southwest from there. This is Karim, my bodyguard, and that is Mr Linton, my private secretary."

"Right ya are, right ya are, boss! At your service!" the portly man bowed, extending a hand first to Mr Ambrose, then to me. "My name's Burk. Jeremiah Burk. Delighted to meet ya, gentlemen."

Giving him a broad smile, I stepped forward and grabbed his hand. "Delighted to meet you too, Mr B—luuurgh!"

Needless to say that, after that little incident, he wasn't quite so delighted to meet me anymore. Judging by the volume of the station master's curses, travelling by stage coach wasn't going to be quite as inexpensive as my dear husband had been planning. Oh heck, so what? Mr Blurgh would still have to give us a room for the night, right?

***

Correction: he had to give us two rooms.

"Blasted social conventions!" I punched my pillow. "This is ridiculous! Why can't two men snuggle together?"

As I lay in my lonesome, solitary bed, for the first time I sincerely regretted that I had come on this journey in my male outfit.

"Seriously?" I punched my pillow. "When I get back, I'm gonna start a new campaign. Same-sex love for the win!"

Never mind such little details as my lack of actual equipment under the trousers. Details, shmetails!

I probably really should not have come on this journey in this outfit. Earlier, down in the station's common room, I had already seen several women throw lusty glances at my man, without my being able to do a thing about it! If only I weren't wearing trousers! But what choice did I really have?

Darn Rikkard bloody Ambrose! Only he would turn his honeymoon into a bloody business trip!

And only I would be stupid enough to come along.

Stupid enough, and...in love enough.

Damn and blast!

But then again...a business trip?

I snorted.

If this was a normal business trip, my name was Olga G. Gogglesworth!

Images of the smouldering ship, the cursing Spaniards and the newspaper headlines flitted past my inner eye. Darn bloody Mr Ambrose! It was all his fault! Dragging me into this mess! Giving me permanent seasickness! Even making my nose itch! It was all his fault, and...and...

And he wasn't here.

It was my honeymoon, I was in my bed, alone, and he wasn't here.

And I missed him

Bloody son of a bachelor! Once I got my hands on him, I would give him a good slap upside the head, and...and...

And the door creaked open.

Stiffening, I sucked in a breath. Someone was sneaking into my room?

Who was feeling suicidal tonight?

Making sure to use the arm that was well-hidden under the blankets, I slid my hand underneath the pillow, reaching for my favourite cuddle toy. The one with six bullets in it. My ears listened intently for any sound, and thus the swift, almost silent footsteps approaching the bed didn't escape me. My grip tightened on the handle of the gun, and—

"That won't be necessary, Mrs Ambrose."

I froze.

That voice. That cool, composed, powerful voice.

He was here! He had come for me!

Suddenly, I felt moisture at the corner of my eyes.

Heck! Why the blazes am I crying all of a sudden? Why am I feeling this bloody strange? This isn't me! It's as if some bloody parasite took me over! What on earth is going on?

Before I could follow up on that question, I felt the mattress sink beneath me and a certain someone climb into bed beside me. An arm of granite-hard muscle slid around my waist, pulling me back against his warm, chiselled chest. Back into his embrace.

"Sleep, Mrs Ambrose," a commanding voice whispered into my ear. "Sleep."

"Screw you!" I muttered, sniffling. And nevertheless smiled. Darn!

"Gladly. But right now, you require rest."

"Let me guess. The rest of the honeymoon won't be particularly restful."

Silence.

Big surprise.

"What exactly," I demanded, "are we walking into here?"

"Well..." I felt a finger stroke the back of my neck.

"Yes?"

"I heard that women love surprises from their husbands."

Bastard! You are a rock-headed, black-hearted, niggardly bastard!

But before I could tell him that, I felt my eyelids grow heavy, and sank into the darkness, wondering what kind of surprise awaited me.

-----------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Today I have an interesting bit of trivia for you. Olga G. Gogglesworth is just a random, crazy sounding name. But invented craziness can never keep up with the craziness of real life. The person with the longest ever recorded name would be Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff Sr.—this being the abbreviated version of the name. The full version is...**takes deep breath**:

Adolph Blaine Charles David Earl Frederick Gerald Hubert Irvin John Kenneth Lloyd Martin Nero Oliver Paul Quincy Randolph Sherman Thomas Uncas Victor William Xerxes Yancy Zeus Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorffwelchevoralternwarengewissenhaftschaferswessenschafewarenwohlgepflegeundsorgfaltigkeitbeschutzenvorangreifendurchihrraubgierigfeindewelchevoralternzwolfhunderttausendjahresvorandieerscheinenvonderersteerdemenschderraumschiffgenachtmittungsteinundsiebeniridiumelektrischmotorsgebrauchlichtalsseinursprungvonkraftgestartseinlangefahrthinzwischensternartigraumaufdersuchennachbarschaftdersternwelchegehabtbewohnbarplanetenkreisedrehensichundwohinderneuerassevonverstandigmenschlichkeitkonntefortpflanzenundsicherfreuenanlebenslanglichfreudeundruhemitnichteinfurchtvorangreifenvorandererintelligentgeschopfsvonhinzwischensternartigraum Sr.

Purportedly, the last name originated in the nineteenth century when Jews in Germany were forced by law to choose a new name to set them apart from the rest of the population. Apparently, Mr Wolfe-et-cetera, with ingenuity that has to be admired, decided to take the law literally enough to drive German bureaucrats up the wall.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob