"What," Mr Rikkard Ambrose demanded, "is his name?"

The Frenchman stared straight at him, his eyes bleak. "Armand... Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste."

A moment of silence. Then...

A hiss escaped from between Mr Ambrose's clenched teeth. "DeMordaunt!"

I turned towards him sharply. The name meant nothing to me, but the way he'd said that... "You know him?"

"There isn't anyone in the business world who doesn't know him." A muscle in my husband's cheek twitched. "At least among the people who think making more money is worth the trouble of dealing with the French Empire."

"Of whom you are one, I gather."

"Obviously." Dragging in a deep breath, he stalked out of the room, a look on his face that clearly said he wished to punch something. Naturally, he didn't do anything so horrifically superfluous. But the way he glared at the wall made it clear he sure as hell wanted to.

"Mr Ambrose?" Cautiously, I stepped up from behind and placed a gentle but very determined hand on his shoulder. "Tell me."

For a moment, he didn't respond. But then...

"Do you know what Imperial Preference is, Mrs Ambrose?"

"Um...politicians preferring their country to be an empire instead of a tiny flyspeck nobody knows the name of?"

"Not quite. Though I am quite certain that is also the case. No, Imperial Preference is a term used to describe a political practice that is very well known throughout the business world. This practice stipulates that imported goods from outside one's native empire, in our case the British Empire, should be heavily taxed to keep foreigners from invading one's market and stealing one's profit. The political rationale behind it is simple. If you have large businesses from other empires within your own, what would happen if that empire tried to use this to exert influence over your homeland? Worse, what if, one day, you would have to go to war against that foreign empire?"

I swallowed. "That would be...bad."

"Indeed." He gave a curt nod, as if catastrophic war and economic collapse was nothing more than an afterthought. For him, it probably was. "The important point here, however, is that this policy of Imperial Preference has caused several unintentional side-effects. Chief among them being that, in every empire, local industrial overlords possess all the power and wealth. And above them all, in every empire, there is an uncrowned emperor who rules the business world with an iron fist."

Turning to face me, he fixed me with an icy stare. "In the French Empire, that position is held by Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste."

"So...he's you, basically. French version."

That made that muscle in his cheek twitch again.

"My wealth outstrips his by a significant margin."

"How significant?"

In answer, I received only silence—which, by itself, was answer enough. This Frenchman, whoever he was, was powerful, and not to be underestimated.

Well, neither am I!

I took a deep breath, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms. It told me I was still alive and able to exact vengeance! "I see. So, our French friend wanted to expand his British business interests and, seeing our family as competition, decided we were better off as collateral damage, did he?"

"Indeed." Mr Ambrose gave a grim nod. "This fight is not going to be easy. He is an enemy of the same calibre as Dalgliesh—which is probably the only reason he dared to use Dalgliesh as a front. We will have to prepare. When we go after him, we will have to do it with full force."

I smiled, noting his word choice. When. When, not if.

That's my man.

I extended a hand to him. He took it.

"How long?" I asked. "How long do you think you need to prepare?"

"Hm..." He stroked his chin. "A week or two to assemble my forces and gather information, another week to gather ships to escort us to France...all in all, a month or so." His gaze lowered to my belly. "We should probably wait till a certain important event has passed."

"True." Grinning, I cracked my knuckles. "I want to be in top condition to punch whatshisname in the bollocks!"

"DeMordaunt," Mr Ambrose reminded me. "His name is Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de—"

Abruptly, he cut off.

And then his face went pale.

This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose. The man had been shipwrecked, shot at, punched, threatened, blackmailed and almost blown up—and none of it had fazed him. Yet now, all of a sudden, he went pale as a ghost.

"Mr Ambrose? Is everything all right?"

He didn't answer. Without a word, he whirled around and dashed off, away from the cell and up the stone ramp.

"Mr Ambrose!" Cursing, I rushed after him—or at least did the best imitation of rushing I was currently capable of. After only a few steps, I was already huffing and puffing.

Darn extra pounds! Haven't babies ever heard of dieting?

By the time I reached the entrance hall, no trace of my dear husband was to be seen. Hurrying over to the receptionist's desk, I gestured at the man behind it. "Hey, Sallowfa—ehem, I mean Mr Pearson! Did you see Mr Ambrose anywhere?"

The sour-faced man sent me a look that quite clearly said, Maybe I did, but I most certainly don't wish to tell you!

"Yes," he stated, showing that, despite his personal preferences, he did have some self-preservation instincts. "He went up to his office, Madam."

"Thank you."

With a curt nod, I marched straight to the elevator.

Never would I have thought that there would come a day when I'd want the monstrously rapid murder machine also known as Mr Ambrose's elevator to go faster than it already did. But here I was, impatiently tapping my foot as I waited for the elevator to reach the top floor. When I finally arrived, I still didn't find Mr Rikkard Ambrose—but, what I did find was the door to his office at the other end of the corridor standing wide open.

Worry rose inside me. Mr Ambrose never let his office door stand open.

...unless someone was trying to throw money into his office. Something which, right now, was most definitely not the case.

"Mr Ambrose? Mr Ambrose!"

I threw open the door and stormed into his office—only to come to an abrupt halt as I spotted my husband, standing at his desk with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

"Mr Ambrose?" My voice was no more than a whisper. Yet it echoed eerily in the large stone room. "What is it?"

"I knew it." Looking up, he stared straight at me. Yet I didn't think he truly saw me. Not really. He was looking through me, far into the distance. "I knew I'd heard that name somewhere recently. Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste. I knew! And now I just remembered where."

"Where?" I demanded.

Wordlessly, he held up the piece of paper. I stepped forward, intending to grab and read it—when I abruptly froze in place.

Even though it had been several weeks since I'd last seen it, I recognized that piece of paper. That letter. It was the letter from Mr Ambrose's father.

I felt a shiver travel down my spine. Suddenly, I didn't feel so eager to read it anymore.

"Is that...?"

I didn't get an answer to my unfinished question. All I received was a silence so icy that frost formed on the windows of the room.

"What does it say?"

Again, no answer. Unless you counted him crumpling up the paper with a grip hard enough to make his bones creak and tossing it into a corner of the room.

Oh boy. This was bad.

I swallowed. Slowly, hesitantly, I moved forward until I stood in front of the crumpled paper ball. Supporting myself against the wall, I managed to bend down just far enough to snatch it with my fingertips and unfold it.

To Mr Rikkard Ambrose—

What the heck! This was a letter from his father, and it started with "to Mr Rikkard Ambrose"?

Of course it did.

—I am severely disappointed that, in spite of repeated reminders, you have thus far neglected to respond to my letters. I thought that, last time we met face to face, I already made it clear that I would expect you to abandon your foolish flights of fancy and finally perform your duty—

"Duty?" I whispered, glancing up at Mr Ambrose. "What duty? What is he talking about?"

He very pointedly did not answer.

In search of answers, I once more lowered my eyes to the letter.

—duty. Especially now that you have entered into a marriage and I have received news of your wife expecting your heir. Your mother and sister were very disappointed that you neglected to inform them of this fact. They are very eager for you to visit again.

Oh my. Ambrose senior was an amazing manipulator, wasn't he?

Still, while I was curious to find out what all this talk of duty was about, I didn't see what any of the letter's contents had to do with the current situation. Our enemy was a Frenchman! What did he have to do with Mr Ambrose's father, or his home in Northern England?

Plus, it's not as if Ambrose Senior's manipulations would even work. Using Mr Ambrose's sister and mother to lure him north? Ha! My dear husband would just wait till the two ladies' patience wore thin and both of them came south. So why was he wasting time with this letter now of all times? Why would he—?

That question was answered the moment the next paragraph caught my eye.

As an aside, a guest recently arrived at Battlewood that you might be interested in meeting. He informed me that the two of you had met in the past, during one of your visits to France, and thus I decided to invite him to stay for the time being to ameliorate your mother's and sister's loneliness. The Vicomte de Saint-Celeste, despite his lack of Anglo-Saxon ancestry, is a respectable gentleman. In the time since his arrival, Adaira and he have become quite close and it is my hope that—

At that point, the letter dropped from my hands.

"Oh crap," I stated.

Glancing over at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I saw him staring at the letter with a ferocious glare that should have frozen and shattered it on the spot.

There was a moment of silence. Then...

"We're leaving for Battlewood Hall. Tomorrow at sunrise."

I just nodded.

Taking a step forward, he infolded me in my arms and held me for a long, long moment. In any other situation I might have made a joke about him wasting time or something like that...but now?

This was no time for jokes.

Mr Ambrose seemed to agree. Abruptly, he let go of me. Striding over to the letter, he stamped his foot down on it, flattening the thing to the floor. "Karim!"

It only took three seconds for the bodyguard to appear.

"Yes, Sahib?"

"Prepare everything for our departure to the north tomorrow. Full complement of guards. Arms and supplies, as well as spare horses. We'll be heading to Battlewood."

"To Battlewood?" Karim frowned. "I do not mean to question you, Sahib, but...now of all times?"

"I plan to have words with my father," Mr Ambrose stated, the words, coming from him, sounding like the world's worst threat. "And with a certain Frenchman."

Karim's eyes widened. Then he sprang to attention, his face hardening. "At once, Sahib!"

In a single stride, he was out of the room, and all that was left of him was the sound of heavy footsteps receding down the corridor. I didn't pay any attention to them.

Why?

Because I was far too focused on the granite statue that was my husband. A granite statue that, any moment now, was likely to come alive and go on a bloody rampage. Tense, rock-hard muscles were twitching and convulsing, not just in his cheek, not just in his neck, but all over his powerful body. He looked like he wanted to beat the stone wall in front of him to death with his bare hands, and then tear it down and continue with the city beyond. Never mind little details like architecture being unable to die. By the look of him, I was fairly certain he would succeed. Somehow.

But as to what condition he would be in when it was all over...?

I didn't really want to see that.

Almost instinctively, my feet carried me forward. My hand touched Mr Ambrose's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

It felt like nothing more than a feather touching the side of a mountain. Unnoticeable. Unimportant.

"Mr Ambrose?"

No answer.

"Dick?"

No answer.

"Dicky-Darling? Dicky-Dum-Dums?"

Still no answer. Oh crap. This was bad.

Swallowing, I took a step closer to his tensed back, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of his face to read the emotion in his eyes—but he remained turned away from me, his fists clenched at his sides.

Until he moved.

In a blink, he'd whirled around and caught me in an iron grasp. Fiercely, almost frantically, his lips came crashing down on mine. Before I could move a muscle or get a single word out, he had swept me off my feet and was racing out of the room. A moment later, I found myself being carried up a stairway I'd never even known existed into the uppermost reaches of Empire House, his arms firmly around me.

Why, you may ask? Why did I, Lillian Ambrose, renowned feminist and stubborn mule extraordinaire, let myself be manhandled like this?

Simple.

His eyes.

Once upon a time, when my sister Ella and I had still been little girls, I had read her fairy tales to chase away her nightmares. Tales of brave knights and ladies locked in towers, of beauties and of beasts. And in Mr Rikkard Ambrose's eyes, I could see that beast, and it was roaring in need and agony.

Bang!

With a single kick, he sent the door at the top of the stairs flying open. It crashed against the wall, revealing the very last thing I had expected.

A bed.

In an actual bedroom.

The sight was a revelation. It made me realise something incredible. Something unbelievable. Mr Rikkard Ambrose actually...stopped working to sleep sometimes?

At any other time, I would have stopped to marvel at this shocking discovery. Right now, however, I was more focused on the fact that there was a bed right in front of me, and I was in the arms of a man who had utterly and completely lost any semblance of control. In two swift steps, he was at the bed and I landed on my back, his icy eyes pinning me in place. An instant later, he was upon me, his hands tearing at my clothes like a savage.

And I let him. I let him devour my mouth. I let him claim every inch of my skin he could reach. I let him vent all the feelings that were rampaging in his heart and that he was unable to voice. I let him because I needed him just as much as he needed me. And because, throughout his rampage, he somehow remained inexplicably, unbelievably gentle.

"Lillian..." Wild torrents raged in those deep, dark, sea-coloured eyes of his as he gazed down at me. "My little ifrit..."

I could feel his chiselled granite body tremble, as if barely suppressed rage might break it apart any moment. It wasn't hard to understand why. Not for me, anyway. If Mr Ambrose had it his way, I'd wager he would already be running northward, outpacing any race horse in the process. But he was rational enough to realise that whatever was waiting for him at Battlewood, he wouldn't be able to face it alone. He would have to wait until his men were assembled, armed and ready.

Mr Rikkard Ambrose had to wait.

Wait to save his family.

Honestly, I was rather surprised he hadn't unleashed his wrath on the innocent, unsuspecting architecture yet. But by the looks of him, it was only a matter of time. Unless...

Well, unless he was able to unleash his pent-up emotions on something else. Or someone.

"Lillian...!"

The word from his lips was a bestial growl. A plea for help.

"Come here." Reaching out, I gently touched his cheek. Yet the look in my eyes was anything but gentle. They were burning with fiery need. "Come to me!"

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

After this one, there is one last chapter, and then this book will be concluded! :)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob