The room was small and homely: a single window looking out over the cliffs, a gently flickering lamp on the nightstand, pictures of sailing ships on the wall and a four-poster bed with velvet hangings that had seen better days. But I didn't really take in any of that. I didn't even see the beautiful view of the cliffs and the sunset over the sea through window. Because in the bed, clothed in the tattered remnants of his black tailcoat, and with a bandage around his right leg, lay Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

He was not looking at me, but staring the other way, at the flowered wallpaper. This gave me a prime opportunity to study his profile to my heart's content. It was just as I remembered it: rock-hard, immovable and with power etched into every inch.

'Whoever you are,' he said to the wall, 'get on with what you've come here for and get out. I have no patience for time-wasters.'

'I know, Sir.'

My voice was nothing but a whisper – still, his head whipped around the moment I spoke. His facial expression didn't change when he saw me, but there was the slightest widening of his eyes.

'It's you!'

'Yes, Sir.'

Silence sank over the room. Mr Ambrose dark, sea-coloured eyes bored into mine, but his lips didn't move.

Blast you, why can't you say anything? You had no problem yelling at me on the ship, during the storm! You didn't even have a problem with kissing me, for heaven's sake!

'It's really you.'

'Yes, Sir.'

Silence. More bloody silence!

Why can't you say something, damn you? And I mean more than just 'It's you!' You can! I know you can! Remember last time? Last time we spoke. Last time you held me. Last time your lips touched mine! Remember that? Why don't you say anything about that?

'I thought you were dead,' he told me. My breath caught. The words themselves were as cold and curt as any you could think of, but the tone... Had I really heard emotion there? Surely not.

'Well... I'm not, Sir.' Whatever was in his voice, there was emotion in mine sure enough. Blast it!

'I can see that. What took you so long?'

The corner of my mouth twitched up. 'I'm glad to see you too.'

My feet suddenly started to move. Before I knew it, stood beside his bed. My fingers reached out, and I took his right hand in mine. Closing my eyes, I squeezed, gently, letting the feel of him, smooth and hard, fill me up.

'What, pray,' came his cool voice from down on the bed, 'are you doing?'

'I'm holding your hand,' I murmured, basking in the feeling. He was real! He was real, and alive, and with me!

'I realize that. To what purpose have you initiated this superfluous form of physical contact?'

'Oh, shut up!'

There was a momentary silence.

'I beg your pardon?' His voice lowered to a dangerous level – but right now I didn't care. 'I am your employer! You will address me with respect!'

'Fine. Shut up, Sir!'

'That is not what I was referring to and you—'

'Blast you!' Wrenching my eyes open, I glared down at him. 'I thought you were dead, too!' And I would have bloody missed you! Really missed you!

He glared back just as fiercely. 'In that case, you should have ceased searching. No point in chasing something that is already lost. It would be a waste of mon–'

Quickly raising his hand in mine, I drew it to my lips and placed one, swift, almost imperceptible kiss on the inside of his palm. His voice cut off as if severed with a welding torch.

'I said shut up, Sir!'

Our eyes met, and there was silence again. But it was a different kind of silence. One I didn't mind at all. One that wasn't the least bit cold.

'It must really be you.' Shaking his head, he gazed up at me with those dark eyes of his. 'No figment of my imagination would dare to speak to me like that.'

Cautiously, I raised my free hand, and let it join the other one, enclosing his strong masculine fingers with my smaller ones.

'I'm always real for you.'

'More than just real. You're always you.'

'Glad to be of service, Sir.'

Raising his free hand, he crooked one finger. 'Come here.'

'For what?' I raised an eyebrow. 'Do you want to initiate a bit more superfluous physical contact?'

'Miss Linton?

My eyebrow rose even higher. 'What, not "Mr Linton?" I thought I have to pretend to be a man while I work for you. I thought it would cause too big a scandal, otherwise.'

'Miss Linton? Close your mouth and come here. Now.'

'Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!'

The springs of the matrass creaked as I sank down on it. All of a sudden, Mr Ambrose's face was very close, the planes of his perfectly sculpted cheekbones standing out sharply, his dark eyes like the sea itself. I felt something squeeze my heart, almost painfully.

'When I stepped on land, I thought I was safe from drowning,' I rasped. 'But when I look into your eyes, I'm not sure anymore.'

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally – the closest he ever came to looking confused. 'Is that supposed to make sense?'

'Not really. It's supposed to make you feel something.'

'Ah.' He gave a curt nod, and gently squeezed my hand. 'You will be pleased to hear, then, that the method seems to be effective.'

There was silence again. We looked at each other, I at him as if I had found everything I wanted, he at me as if he were lost. Lost in me.

Or... maybe just lost.

'You're supposed to say something, too, you know,' I pointed out, just managing to keep from smiling.

'Something like what?'

'Maybe something about what you feel.'

If I thought his eyes had been boring into me powerfully before, I was mistaken. It was nothing to what they now did, capturing me, holding me prisoner, drawing me closer.

'I would have thought that required no words. Is it not obvious?'

'Maybe. But I would like you to tell me anyway.'

'A waste of breath and time!'

'Yes. But a wonderful one. Please?' Cocking my head, I raised his hand to my lips again, not kissing this time, just skimming over the tops of his knuckles. 'Please, Sir?'

I heard his breath hitch, and saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.

'What,' he asked, his voice raw as a split iceberg, 'If I don't have the words? There are no words for how I feel right now. None that I know.'

Bloody hell.

I closed my eyes, letting joy flood through me. 'Those,' I told him. 'Those were exactly the right ones.'

'But I told you I had nothing to say!'

'Yes, and you did it spectacularly. They were the best non-words ever not said.'

'You are not making any sense, Miss Linton.'

One corner of my mouth twitched again. 'It's not supposed to make sense. It's supposed to make you feel.'

Suddenly sitting up straighter, he gave a derisive snort. 'You want to know what I feel? I feel exceedingly aggravated. I have been forced to remain idle, lying in this infernal bed and simply wasting time by doing nothing, for the better part of the last two days. I could have been back to London by now, back to my business. I do not even want to think of the losses I incurred due to this inexcusable procrastination.'

Mr Ambrose lying down doing nothing? That didn't sound like the semi-human machine I knew.

'Why didn't you simply get up and leave if you felt like it?'

His eyes turned a shake darker. 'Because the wretched female who owns this establishment went behind my back and secured the services of a doctor. This medical gentleman told me that, apparently, wasting time by lying in a bed is an essential element in my convalescence.'

Doubtfully, I looked at his figure, lying as stiffly on the sheets as if the bed were a board with nails jutting out of it.

'I think when the doctor said you should stay abed, he meant stay abed and relax.'

'I cannot relax. I do not like beds.'

Idle banter. Are you truly making idle banter with Mr Do Not Waste Time Ambrose, Lilly? Well, well. Miracles do happen.

'Oh really? You don't like beds? Then where do you sleep?'

Derisively, he looked down at the object he was lying on. 'On a bed. Cannot stand it. Get out of it as quickly as I can every morning. Wouldn't waste my time with it if I didn't have to.'

I hid my smirk behind my hand. 'Why do you have to? After all, if sleeping is such a waste of time, why not go without it?'

A muscle in his face twitched. If Mr Ambrose had been someone else, he would have scowled. 'I can't.'

He looked very displeased with the fact.

'Why not... Oh, Blimey! Don't tell me you've tried!'

'Once. After four very productive days and nights without any sleep, I collapsed at one of my factories and nearly fell into a vat of boiling wax.'

I shook my head. 'Such a shame you missed. You'd have made a charming addition to Madame Toussaud's.'

Judging from the look he gave me, Mr Rikkard Ambrose didn't appreciate sarcasm.

'This is not a joking matter, Miss Linton. Neither is my having to stay in this infernal bed! This place is as close to hell on earth as you can get. Besides the inactivity gnawing at my sanity, there's the mother, who keeps forcing a most disgusting hot broth down my throat. And she is nothing compared to the daughter. I believe that young female is not quite right in the head. She keeps asking me if 'we' are feeling well—although it is perfectly evident that, besides her, I am the only person in the room. And she keeps making these strange, disturbing faces at me.'

I cleared my throat. 'I believe she's smiling at you.'

'Whatever for?'

'She likes you.'

He gave a sharp, derisive snort. 'Hardly. If the female had any positive feelings towards me, she would let me get up and leave, not keep me here and insist on my wasting time sleeping.'

Uncertainly, my eyes wandered to the bandage on his leg. I wanted nothing more than to have him out of this house and out of Miss Fotheringay's claws, but...

'Are you sure you should leave yet? Your leg–'

'Is of no significance. Now that you are here, I am determined to leave this place at the earliest possible moment.'

'But...'

'No buts, Miss Linton! Go and inform Mrs Fotheringay of our imminent departure. Find out when the next suitable transport leaves this place.'

Out of reflex, I opened my mouth to protest again. But on this subject, I didn't really need much convincing. Springing to my feet, I gave a mock salute.

'Yes, Sir! Right away Sir!'

Before he could devour me alive or freeze me to a block of ice with his cold stare, I was out the door and down the corridor. I found Mrs Fotheringay in the living room, busy embroidering pretty birds on white linen.

'Mrs Fotheringay?'

'Ah, there you are, dear! Did you find the gentleman? Was he the one you were looking for?'

'Yes.' I felt relief flood through me as I said the word aloud. He really was alive, and save. 'Yes, he was. He is.'

A smile spread over the old lady's face. 'That's wonderful, dear! I'm so happy for you.'

'Mrs Fotheringay, I'm terribly grateful for everything you've done for my, um... cousin. You probably saved his life. Now that we've found each other again, he shouldn't impose on your hospitality any longer. Do you know if a coach comes through this village?'

Mrs Fotheringay's hand slipped, and she almost stitched the beak of her pretty little embroidered bird shut. Staring up at me in surprise, she put the needlework aside.

'You mean you want to leave? But is he well enough?'

'Oh, yes, I think so. And a bit of exercise would do him a world of good, believe me.'

Besides, I won't rest easy until he's miles away from your charming beast of a daughter.

'Well, if you really think so, my dear, there's a coach leaving in two hours. It leaves every day this time for Dover. And I'm sure from Dover you can catch a carriage to... where is it your cousin lives?'

'In London.'

'Ah, the Metropolis.' Mrs Fotheringay gave a nostalgic sigh. 'I haven't been in London since I was a little girl. Does he have a house there?'

An image flashed through my mind of the monumental complex of stone and concrete with its great central hall, countless offices, and impressive view of the City of London that was called 'Empire House' – the headquarters of Mr Ambrose's business empire.

'In a manner of speaking.'

'A nice place?'

'Um... you could say that, yes.'

She might have asked more questions, but at that moment, the door opened and her daughter entered the room. Mrs Fotheringay turned to her with a bright smile on her face.

'Violet, My dear! Our guest is indeed the one the young lady has been looking for! They're happily reunited, and he feels well enough to return home to London! Isn't that wonderful news?'

Violet muttered something affirmative, but to judge by the way she was staring daggers at me, I didn't think 'wonderful news' were the words she would have chosen. I allowed myself a little self-satisfied smile at her, then turned and headed back to Mr Ambrose.

When I told him that we had to wait two hours for the coach... Well, let's just say he was not best pleased.

'Read an improving book for a change,' I advised.

'What would you suggest?' he demanded, glaring at the narrow shelf on the wall. 'Mrs McPherson's Book of Advice for Housewives? Dangerous Creatures of the Cold Sea? Cartwright's Collected Nursery Rhymes?'

'Why not?' Shrugging, and giving him a meaningful smile, I picked Dangerous Creatures of the Cold Sea off the shelf. 'You never know where you might pick up a useful tip or two.'

I cuddled into a chair near the window and opened the volume in question. He remained lying on the bed, stiff as a board. Soon, we settled into a silence which was, to my intense surprise, quite companionable. Still, whenever I glanced up from descriptions of see lions or whales, Mr Ambrose seemed tenser than the last time. Something was clearly on his mind – something besides wasted time.

The minutes passed by. I left behind whales and went on to sharks. More time passed, and nothing whatsoever happened. When the outburst finally came, it was out of the blue.

'You want to know what I felt?'

My head eyes snapped up from the book to stare at Mr Ambrose. It took me a moment to connect his words to our earlier conversation. He had picked it up as if no time had passed in between.

'Well?' he demanded. 'Do you?'

I was just about to make some teasing reply about him not having any words for feelings – but I caught sight of his face in time and stopped myself. Right now was not the time for flippancy. Instead, I just nodded.

'Yes.'

He looked away from me, shaking his head. 'I'm not talking about just now. I'm talking about back on the ship, when the storm hit.'

For a moment, I forgot to breathe. I remembered all too well what he had said and done – well, almost done – back on the ship. And Mr Ambrose was just like an iceberg: cold, hard, and only a tenth of him visible. The rest he kept well hidden. To imagine what feelings must have been raging inside him to make him act like that...

'I still want to know, Sir – if you want to tell me.'

He raised his eyes to mine again, his gaze iron-hard. 'I felt... desperate. I've faced death many times before, Miss Linton. But never once have I felt desperate before. Not once in my entire life.'

Desperate? That didn't make any sense. He hadn't seemed desperate to save himself at all, back on the ship. Quite the contrary. His only thought was getting me off that sinking death trap...

My thoughts tapered off into nothing, and my lips opened slightly.

Oh.

Maybe it wasn't himself he was desperate for.

The thought came out of nowhere, sweet, singing seductively to me, like a siren. It was too good to be true. But... what if it was?

'Why did you it?' I asked, quietly. 'You're one of the richest men in the world, and strong. You could have tried to buy yourself a place in the lifeboat, or fought for one. Why did you make me go, and stayed behind yourself?'

His left little finger twitched, the equivalent of an angry growl for Mr Rikkard Ambrose. 'I did a cost-benefit analysis.'

'A what?'

'A cost-benefit analysis. I weighed the cost of risking my life against the benefit of saving yours. To my not inconsiderable incredulity, the benefit outweighed the cost.'

Now it was really hard to keep the smirk off my face. 'Unbelievable.'

'I know! You are only a relatively insignificant young female with a bad temper, unpleasant relatives and an income so low you have to pose as a male to earn a living!'

'You really know how to give a girl compliments.'

'I, on the other hand, am one of the most influential and powerful public figures in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in the Empire, maybe in the entire world! I am clearly a much more important personage than you, ergo my life should be the more valuable thing to safe.' His little finger twitched again. 'But... I found that that other factors entered into the equation.'

Leaning towards him, I put my right hand over one of his. 'We'll have to talk about those other factors, sooner or later.'

Underneath my hand, I felt his little finger twitch twice more. Dear me! He was practically an emotional wreck tonight!

Meeting my eyes again, he nodded, curtly. 'I know.' He held my gaze for a moment, and in his look lay a thousand unspoken words.

Or maybe there's not a single word in it, and you just have a much too overactive imagination.

All right, maybe.

'How long do we still have to wait?'

For a wild moment, I thought he meant until we could have our talk. Then I realized he wanted to know how long it would be until the coach left for Dover. Of course!

'Doesn't your pocket watch work anymore? Or did you lose it when the ship went down?'

'No. That harpy took it.'

'Miss Fotheringay?'

'Yes. She said it was bad for me, checking my watch every five minutes. She thought it caused overanxiety.'

'Don't worry. I'll get it back for you.' Patting his hand, I rose and made my way towards the door. At the door I paused and looked back with a grin on my face. 'Will you be all right while I'm gone? I mean, you're going to have to waste at least two and a half minutes waiting for me.'

Mr Ambrose gave me a cool stare. 'On the contrary. I shall not be wasting time.' He picked up an issue of The Spectator that was lying on the night stand. 'I shall be finishing this. There are a few articles that I have not read yet. It is time to check up on what is happening in the Metropolis.'

'Have fun.'

He ruffled the pages. 'Fun has nothing to do with it. This is information acquisition, Miss Linton.'

'Of course it is, Sir. I'll be back soon.'

Glancing back at him as I closed the door behind me, I caught a last look of him, lying in the bed, reading the magazine. It was a brief look, so I might have been mistaken, of course. But I could have sworn he was looking after me with something almost akin to a smile on his granite face.

It didn't take me nearly as long to retrieve the watch as I'd feared. Miss Fotheringay had intrusted it to her mother, and the kind old lady had not only wiped it meticulously clean, but even taken it to the local watchmaker to have the mechanism inside cleaned, too. She didn't even mention money, for this or for the room Mr Ambrose had slept in. I would gladly have paid her out of my own purse – only, I had no purse, and certainly no money to put in one.

Letting the pocket watch snap open to check the time, I re-entered Mr Ambrose's room. 'Good news!' I announced. 'It's only half an hour now until the coach leaves. We should get going if we want to be there in ti–'

That was when I lifted my head and caught sight of Mr Ambrose's face. My voice abruptly cut off.

There wasn't even the hint of a trace of a fraction of a smile on his face now. It was as hard and cold as I had ever seen it. No, actually, it was a lot harder. He was holding The Spectator clenched in his fists as if it were a pamphlet demanding a pay rise for his employees. His eyes were boring into the paper with deadly, ice-cold wrath.

At the sound of my voice, he lifted his head and focused this look on me.

'You...' The word was spoken with so icy a threat, so chilling a power, that it made a shiver run down my back. 'You did this!'

'D-did what?'

You're stuttering! He's just staring at you, and you're stuttering! Get a grip, Lilly!

'You did this.' Seeming not to have heard me, he flung back the blanket over his legs and rose with a sinuous grace that you would never have suspected from so stiff a man. He stalked towards me – that was the only word for it, stalked – without paying the slightest attention to his injured leg. His eyes remained trained on his prey – sweet little me! 'You did this! Oh... I'll make you pay for this!'

'Did what?' Was it only my imagination, or did my voice sound suspiciously like a squeak? I took a step back. And another. I was a feminist, I was all for standing up to men – but not this man, and not while he was in this mood! I took another step back, and my derrière bumped into the doorframe. 'What did I do?'

'Read this!' Giving me one more vengeful, dark glare, he shoved the magazine under my nose. I took it, and the heading jumped right out at me:

Scandal around Financial Magnate

I tried to lift my hands, tried to take the magazine to read, but my arm wouldn't move. I was frozen in place by the ice in his eyes.

'Don't want to read it, do you?' he inquired, with an alarmingly soft voice. 'Don't feel like delving into the details? Don't worry. I'll read it for you.'

And he lifted the crumpled magazine to read, hiding his face. Part of me was glad I could no longer see him. But that just meant I had more attention to spare for the ice of his voice when he started to speak.

'Scandalous events often shake the newspapers these days, but seldom has the press of London had to report such an outrage as the writer of this article has now to reveal. Not long ago, at Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park, London, at a meeting of the esteemed Anti-Suffragist League of London, numerous important personages and a crowd of supporters came together to fight against those unnatural creatures who call themselves suffragettes and feminists and deny the fact that a woman's God-given place is in the home.'

The shiver that had run down my back earlier realized that its work wasn't done yet. Taking a run-up, it raced up my back again, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

Oh no...

'Among the gentleman present,' Mr Ambrose continued without mercy, 'was Rikkard Ambrose, renowned financial magnate. However, Mr Ambrose's performance at the meeting did not at all reflect the power and position of his social rank.'

Blast, No! A curse on all newspapers and magazines! Please, let this not be what I think it is!

'Not that it was Mr Ambrose himself who caused an outrage: no, it was the behaviour of his secretary, whom he had brought along to the meeting, that was beyond all bounds of decorum – a young and still beardless young fellow people heard Mr Ambrose refer to as "Mr Linton".'

Blast!

Lowering the magazine an inch or two, Mr Ambrose's deadly stare burrowed into me. I swallowed, surprised I didn't drop dead on the spot.

'At this event,' Mr Ambrose continued reading, somehow managing to keep me pinned with his gaze while simultaneously looking at the pages in front of him, 'a rally held officially against the absurd notions of feminists and suffragettes, this Mr Linton dared to speak out in favour of such nonsense. His speech is re-printed in the section for jokes.'

His eyes fully focused on me now, and he cocked his head. 'There is an amusing caricature of the two of us, too. Do you wish to see it?'

I cleared my throat. 'Err... not particularly, no.'

'I see. Well, then let us relish the rest of this journalistic masterpiece, shall we?' With a hiss, he dived behind the magazine again.

Please God! Let me die now!

'Somehow, the impetuous youth managed to enthral the simple-minded people in the crowd. In the end, Mr Linton had to be forcibly removed from the stage to shouts of "Long live suffragism!"', Mr Ambrose ominous voice reached me from behind the veil of paper. 'There is little doubt that he is a violent, unstable young man. And as for his employer...'

Please, God! Just kill me right now! It can't be that difficult! I don't need anything fancy. One lightning bolt will do!

'The writer of this article cannot but wonder how Mr Ambrose proposes to run a vast business Empire if he cannot even control his own secretary. Also, if Mr Ambrose's staff is that unstable, what about himself? Are mental difficulties widespread in his circle? This casts a dark shadow of doubt on Mr Ambrose's abilities and the future of his business.'

Lowering the magazine once more, Rikkard Ambrose raised his eyes to me and when I saw the expression in their bottomless depths, I had to swallow.

Oops...

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The great countdown has started! Storm & Silence, the first book of this series, shall very soon be posted both as a paperback and an ebook! The publishing date is tentatively set for May 19, 2016, since Lilly is 19 years old & May is such a fantastic month! ;-)

The ebook is already available for preorder via the most important online ebook vendors like Amazon & iBooks, and with luck, the preorders for printed books shall follow suit soon!

Why preorders, you may ask?

For a quite simple reason: all ebooks and printed books ordered during the preorder period before the actual publication date will be counted as sales on the official publication date, thus helping to push the book in question high up in the book lists - maybe even high enough to make it a bestseller!

So, my fabulous fans and spiffing readers, do you want to help Lilly & Mr Ambrose climb up onto the bestseller lists? Volunteers please come to Empire House, 322 Leadenhall Street with your ebook purchases to be approvingly glared at by Mr Rikkard Ambrose! ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob 

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GLOSSARY:

Stopping to sleep: This was actually tried once, and not by a curious scientist, but really by a man who thought that sleep was a complete waste of time. Frederick the Great, King of Prussia in the eighteenth century, was a renowned workaholic who only slept four hours a day, and once tried to stop sleeping completely. The experiment ended when he collapsed with colics after four days.