Great for your pregnancy. The words echoed in my mind, getting louder and louder every time they resounded. Great. For. Your. Pregnancy!

There was only one way to react in a situation like this. As much as I preferred traditional British expletives to those crass American ones, at a time like this, there was only one thing to say:

What. The. Fuck?!

Well, my dear inner voice chose that moment to pipe up, many fucks, consecutively. That's how things like this usually work. When a boy likes a girl and sticks his—

Fortunately, at this point, my good sense jumped my inner voice and started to strangle her. This left the interior of my head a cavernous, empty hole. Except for the large, blinking word that, every now and again, lit up my mind with bright lights.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

PREGNANT.

Oh my God. It couldn't be true, could it? I couldn't really be pregnant, right?

Of course you are, my good sense spoke up, its hands still wrapped around my inner voice's throat. Are you bloody stupid? How the heck haven't you noticed it before?

Images flashed through my mind. Me, vomiting over the side of a ship. Me, puking out of the window of a coach. A tasty toast with ice cream and mustard, and my craving for the supreme deliciousness that was a tree dripping with fresh tree sap.

That should probably have tipped me off.

Heck, yes, I was pregnant! As in swelling up with a little terror in my belly that I would have to squeeze out through my...

Gnrx. Argh. Grg.

It was really true. I was pregnant. Expectant. In the family way. How had I not seen it before?

And immediately, the answer presented itself: I hadn't seen it because I hadn't really wanted to see it. My whole life, I had wanted to be strong and independent, to stand on my own two feet. Finding myself married to the richest business mogul of the British Empire, who just so happened to also be the most stubborn, hard-headed, domineering man in said Empire, was definitely not what I had expected from my life. But expecting a child on top of that?

No wonder my mind had shied away from it instinctively.

I had no idea how to be a mother! Crap, I didn't even know the first thing about being pregnant! How many months did that kind of stuff take again? Seven? Twelve? And, more importantly, what the heck happened at the end of those months? I just didn't know! And...and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

And then, suddenly, something occurred to my frazzled mind. I might not have been aware of my current state. But there was one person who most certainly had been. A person who had not told me.

Slowly, dangerously slowly, I turned my gaze on my victim.

"Mister. Rikkard. Ambrose."

When my vengeful eyes landed on my dear husband, he wasn't looking at me. Oh no, he was currently sending an icy death-stare at Marshal Angus Angleton, who currently looked more like a panicked deer than a brave defender of the law.

"Um...ehem..." Slipping off his chair, the lawman took a few hurried steps backwards. "I think...I think I suddenly remember I've got something very important to deal with. Yes, there's a...a very dangerous individual on the loose." He threw a glance between me and Mr Ambrose. "Maybe even two. And if I don't leave right now, an innocent person might be severely injured. In fact, I'm pretty sure he will be."

With that, he turned around and ran.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose did his very best to kill him by impaling his back with the icy set of spears that was his gaze. Unfortunately for him, that meant he did not see the hand of vengeance coming to grab him by the lapels.

"Mister. Rikkard. Ambrose!"

Finally seeming to realize what was happening, he slowly tore his eyes away from the fleeing marshal and turned towards me.

"Now, Mrs Ambrose, don't do anything rash—"

"Rash? Rash? Rash? Don't talk to me about rash!"

"We will have to, sooner or later. According to my information, rashes are a common symptom of pregnancy."

He leaned aside just in time to avoid the half-eaten slice of toast aimed at his head.

"You! You knew from the very beginning! After your wedding night, you suddenly feel sick and begin regurgitating. I wonder why that is. You knew that I was pregnant all this time! You practically told me to my face, and I still didn't realize! I can't believe I didn't realize...! How stupid am I, exactly?"

"Do you truly wish me to answer that?"

"Shut up!"

"I shall take that as a no, then."

Suddenly, I couldn't sit still anymore. Jumping up from my seat, I dashed down the street, a distant part of my mind taking wicked satisfaction in the shouts of the waiter who immediately jumped on the last person left to pay the bill.

It wasn't really my focus right now, however.

"Pregnant! I'm bloody pregnant! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Patsy and the girls are gonna kill me!"

Getting hitched was bad enough, but getting knocked up by the world's biggest chauvinist? They were going to murder me!

Halting abruptly, I placed my hands protectively over my stomach. No! They were going to have to wait a few months. Only then could they kill me—but not before!

Oh crap, crap, crap! It's already happening! Is this what being a mother feels like?

Well, the murderous friends probably weren't normally part of it. But, heck, even without them...this was too much! Simply too much! I was going to turn into a waddling mother hen! I would have to stop going to work as Mr Victor Linton, and...oh God! Didn't pregnant women have to go into confinement?

Oh, hell no! I was not going to let myself be locked up for months!

God, why did this have to happen to me? I needed to get away! I needed to find some place where I could think and be by myself and—

It might have been in my imagination but, just then, I thought I felt the tiniest of movements inside of me. Abruptly, I froze.

I can't be by myself. I won't ever be by myself again.

That fact was emphasized a moment later when fast-paced footsteps came up from behind me and strong arms encircled me, drawing me against a familiar, rock-hard chest.

"I...no..." In vain, I tried to struggle free. "I've got to go...what am I going to do, what...what am I..."

"Shh! Shh. Everything is all right. You're going to be all right." His hand slid down, coming to a rest over my stomach. "We are all going to be all right."

"But what am I going to do? I don't know how to be a mother! I'm not even sure I want to know! It's bound to involve all kinds of swelling and squeezing and icky, nauseating bloodiness—and not the fun kind involving weapons! And then...and then..."

Whatever I was going to say next, I never got the chance to. In a blink, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had whirled me around, his lips crashing down on mine, silencing me.

"Everything will be all right," he murmured against my lips. "Everything will be all right."

"Y-you really think so?"

"Of course. You will be an adequa—ehem, wonderful mother."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" I whispered, staring up at him imploringly. "Why didn't you say a single word?"

He simply gazed back at me, and silently cocked his head.

And I felt like banging mine against the wall. Stupid question. Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he open his mouth to have a nice, long talk with me? This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose we were talking about!

"You...you...I'm going to beat you into a pulp!"

"Strenuous exercise during pregnancy is inadvisable."

"Oh, is that a fact?" Eyes sparking dangerously, I slipped out of his grip and reached for my gun holster. "Well, then let's go for a less strenuous method, shall we?"

His hand shot out, capturing my wrist. "Let's not."

Before I could retort, he pulled me into another embrace, conveniently trapping my arms at my sides.

"Why?" I demanded, burying my face in his chest. "Why me?"

"Because you engaged in sexual congress with me?"

I slammed a fist into his pectorals. "Not helping!"

"Indeed?"

"That word is not a cure-all for situations in which you have no frigging clue what to say!"

"Indeed."

"One more time! One more time, Mister, and you'll be sleeping in the doghouse tonight! And I'm not speaking metaphorically!"

"In...fact, Mrs Ambrose?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir." Fixing my gaze on him, I stared straight into his eyes. "Why?" I demanded. "Why didn't you tell me before? I know that you barely manage to pull your teeth apart more than twice a day, but somehow I don't think that's quite good enough of a reason to not tell your own wife that she's bloody pregnant!"

Silence.

I narrowed my eyes at him, searching his face. It was stony, totally unmoving, and yet...and yet...

"You had a bet on with Karim on how long it would take me to notice, didn't you?"

"As the inhabitants of this land are wont to say, Mrs Ambrose, I plead the fifth."

"You—!"

Drawing back my arm, I prepared myself to slap him six ways to Sunday—only to have my hand captured in his. Pinning me in place with his gaze, he leaned forward until I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"And..." he began.

I felt my heart make a leap. "Yes?"

His face remained as hard as granite. But I could have sworn his fathomless eyes softened just the tiniest bit. "I didn't speak because I knew it would be better to wait. To give you time to realize what was happening and come to terms with it on your own."

Warmth spread through my chest. Warmth that I desperately, sorely needed. Warmth that only he could give.

"You...you bloody son of a bachelor!"

"And you," he told me, capturing my cheek in his free hand, "are my little ifrit."

I sagged and let myself melt into his embrace, somehow, for some reason, suddenly feeling as if things would be all right.

***

The dark figure watched from the shadows as, out on the sunny street, the couple held each other in a tight embrace. It was an incredibly romantic picture. One that could touch the heart of the coldest of men. And yet, the dark figure's eyes remained as cold and hard as steel.

As hard as the steel of the weapon in his hands, to be precise.

In the middle of the street, the couple slowly seemed to realize that there was still a world around them and moved off the street. Still staying close to each other, they wandered off, their eyes not even bothering to glance at the busy city life around them. Thus, they didn't see the man slipping out of the shadows behind them. Mixing with innocent passers-by, the man easily kept up with the two, taking a mental note of every turn they took. Soon enough, they arrived in front of a certain hotel. The pursuer halted, staring intently at the sign above the door, committing it to memory.

The shadowy figure clenched his fist.

"Señor De Ravera, Señor De La Fuente...you shall be avenged!"

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Would you like to read about Mr Ambrose's and Lilly's wedding from Mr Ambrose's POV? Then you're in luck!

In case you haven't heard yet, Storm of Bells, book 6 of this series, is now available for preorder as an ebook via Amazon and Smashwords. You can find the links on my Wattpad message board.

The official release date is December 10. The paperback version will follow shortly! I hope you enjoy the extra chapters, and a great big thank you to everyone who decides to support my writing by purchasing a copy! :)

Now, a few notes regarding the above chapter...

Lilly's ignorance regarding all pregnancy-related matters might seem strange or overdone, but you have to take into account that this was the nineteenth century, the time when it was considered scandalous to use the word "legs" in polite company. In those times, there were no sex ed classes, there was no information readily available about intercourse and the results of it. Any information young women might receive about matters such as these they would only get from their mothers on the night before they consummated their marriage. Something which, for obvious reasons, Lilly would be unable to receive.

Well, she can always rely on Mr Ambrose to "educate" her, right? ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Confinement—During the Victorian Era, it was a common practice to confine women to their rooms as soon as their pregnancy became visually apparent. This confinement lasted all the way through pregnancy and often stretched till a month after birth. Quite often, they were even forbidden to leave their beds for prolonged periods of time. It's quite evident why Lilly might not be inclined to follow such a tradition.