"Bluuurgh! Gurgh! Gnaargh!"

I really, really, really had to stop putting my foot in my mouth.

"Relax," a cool voice ordered from behind me. "Breathe."

"What," I croaked, "through the vomit?"

"If you are capable of growing gills, by all means."

Oh yes. I definitely had to stop putting my foot in my mouth. Especially since there were so much better places for it. Like, for instance, up Mr Rikkard Ambrose's backside!

Reaching out with a napkin, he gently wiped the unmentionable substance off my mouth, then exchanged the full bucket in front of me for a fresh one.

All right, maybe his backside will be spared.

"Blargh! Gargh!"

I was normally not a girl to take long with her morning routine. This fine frigging morning, however, I took the teensiest-weensiest bit longer than normal. Like three bloody hours!

"Honestly!" I gasped and pushed myself upwards when the faucet that was my mouth had finally stopped running. "This is getting ridiculous! I'm not on a ship! I'm not riding a carriage, either! For heaven's sake, I haven't even gotten out of bed yet! What is going on with me?"

Mr Ambrose gazed out of the window, seeming suddenly very interested in the tweeting songbirds outside. "I couldn't possibly say."

"Well, neither could I." Sighing, I sagged back against his oh-so-solid, dependable chest. "I'm beginning to think I should try out Fizzlewiz Fabulous Fitness Serum."

"Do not. Not under any circumstances."

"Yeah, I know. I shouldn't touch that stuff. Instead, I should...I probably should..."

"Yes?"

"Drink a bottle full of tree sap."

"That," Mr Rikkard Ambrose stated, "was not what I thought you were going to say."

"I know." I cocked my head, licking my lips. "Wasn't what I thought I was gonna say either. But suddenly, tree sap seems really delicious. Can I go outside? There are lots of trees outside, and if I scrape the bark off—"

"No."

"Please, just a taste—"

"No." Mr Ambrose's grip on me tightened. Under normal circumstances, I'd be delighted. But now? Didn't he understand? I needed sap! I needed tree bark!

And, pray, why do you suddenly need that?

Oh, who cares! My kingdom for my fix!

"Please..." Snuggling up against him, I batted my eyelashes up at him. "I'm your darling little wife. We're on our honeymoon. You wouldn't want to starve me, would you?"

"I would not. However, I would also not consider feeding you tree sap."

"Some grass, maybe?" I suggested hopefully.

A little voice in the back of my mind was telling me that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a good idea to be munching grass and tree bark. On the other hand, a brand new, much louder voice that I had never heard before was yelling at me that, hell yeah, it was a bloody brilliant idea! And why had I never thought of it before? I was getting a whole lot of brilliant gastronomical ideas lately.

"No. No grass. No clover. No daisies." Grabbing my arm, my ruthless, stingy husband pulled me up and, throwing one of his shirts over my head, started manoeuvring me towards the dining room. "Eggs. Bacon. Now."

"Cruel man! Do you want me to puke again?"

Was I acting a tiny bit irrationally?

"Come along. I will even cook."

"Tree sap! Tree sap! I wanna have my tasty tree sap!"

Nah. Definitely not irrational in any way.

Although, I had to admit while Mr Ambrose was working away at the stove (his unbelted trousers sagging in a most interesting way at the back) that, recently, I had developed some odd habits and urges that I would, most likely, not have considered before. What could possibly be responsible for such sudden mood changes? Was I...

Yes! Eyes widening, I took a deep breath. That had to be it! How had I not seen this before?

I was growing into my own.

After all, before, I still had been a girl, living with her aunt and uncle. Now I was a woman grown, married even, with a home of her own, and a bootylicious husband. Was it any wonder that my tastes would change? Surely, sipping tree sap wasn't such a strange thing to do.

Well...probably.

Maybe.

"Here we go." A plate of steaming eggs and bacon landed in front of me. Glancing up, I caught sight of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, bare-chested and dressed in a chef's apron. Seems like I wasn't the only one who had gone through some changes. And suddenly, my mouth was watering.

Hm...maybe eggs and bacon weren't so bad after all.

Particularly bacon. Nice, juicy bacon that I could just reach out and tou—

With supreme effort, I averted my gaze from Mr Rikkard Ambrose's derriere.

Breakfast, Lilly. Breakfast.

I glanced at Mr Ambrose again.

And then, maybe desert.

I smiled as I dug into my bacon. Yes, recurring nausea aside, this honeymoon might turn out to be very interesting after all.

***

Several days later...

"Now, tell me again," Señor Maximo Emilio Reyes Espiridion Victor De La Fuente said, tapping the armrest of his chair, while his gaze bored into the man cowering in front of him. "During de last sree days, what have you observed in regard to se mine in sis town?"

The man in front of the nobleman wrung his hands, glancing from left to right.

"Um...nothing, Sir."

"Nothing? As in 'nothing whatsoever has been happening'?"

"Err...no, Sir. Nothing as in nothing has changed. The operation is running normally."

"Normally?" De La Fuente's eyebrows twitched, and his friend De Ravera didn't seem to feel much happier. "Normally?"

"Y-yes, Sir. The shipments are still leaving the mine."

Wood creaked under the immense pressure of a tight grip. "You know, I usually try to estay calm, to follow se philosophy of estoicism," the Spanish nobleman stated, nearly ripping the armrest off his chair. "But sis is beginning to strain my patience. Do you have eyes, pendejo, or are dere rotten eggs estuck in your head instead?"

"N-no, Sir. I'm telling the truth. The mine has been operating normally."

Crash!

The ornamented crystal wine glass smashed into the wall, splattering wine in every direction. Red dripped down like blood, filled with dark promise.

"So...you are trying to tell me sat we have removed every single worker from his mine, and yet, somehow, wagon loads of ore are still being brought out se tunnel?"

"Y-yes."

A fist slammed down onto the armrest. "By whom? Damn espectros? Fantasmas?"

"Well, no, Sir. We, ehem, did not...not..."

"Did not what?"

"We...did not exactly see anyone." The man swallowed. "All we saw were the stacks of crates filled with ore at the entrance of the mine, ready to be transported."

Another thud sounded as, once again, De La Fuente's fist hit the armrest. "Bastardos incompetentes! I should just hang se lot of you!"

"And if you did sat, who would slave away for us?" Out of the shadows in the corner of the room stepped De Ravera, his intense gaze fixed on the messenger. The young man gulped, his face clearly betraying the hope that the phrase "don't shoot the messenger" applied here.

"What good are slaves and servants when se lot of sem cannot even perform se simplest tasks?" growled De La Fuente. "We might as well spare ourselves se expenses and get rid of sem!"

Reaching out, De Ravera placed a hand on his countryman's shoulder. "Calm, my friend. Calm. Consider for a moment—what would be se simplest reason why, even wisout a single worker, ore is estill being transported out of se mine?"

"I don't know! Maldita sea! How would I know how such a sing could be accomplished? It's not as if he could just—"

His voice cut off abruptly.

"Ah." De Ravera nodded wisely. "You noticed it, too, did you not?"

"You mean he...that sneaky bastard actually..."

"Si. It's quite obvious really." De Ravera grinned. "There are no workers. No new ore is being produced. Sere is only one possible explanation: sey are simply transporting out se last few reserves of gold ore stashed away in some secret corner of se mine, using what few men sey have left. Most likely sey're pretending dese ores are freshly mined in order to srow us off. All we have to do is wait for sem to run out, and seir bluff will be revealed. Won't sat be amusing?"

"Ha!" De La Fuente barked. "Ha, ha, hahahaha! How right you are, mi amigo, how right you are. Sis is going to be fun." Eyes glittering, the Spaniard rubbed his hands. "Just a few days...a few more days...I cannot wait to see se expression on seir faces!"

***

Several more days later...

"Ah...mmm...ahh...yes...yes...yes!" Bonelessly, I sank back into the mattress, grinning up at Mr Ambrose, filled with the kind of bliss that only one thing in a woman's life could provide. "That was amazing. I think I'm enjoying this honeymoon."

"I should hope so," Mr Ambrose told me, narrowing his eyes infinitesimally. "Do you have any idea how expensive chocolate is out here in the West?"

My grin widened, licking my lips, treasuring the last traces of tasty goodness. "No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me.

"Fifteen dollars and ninety-nine cents, Mrs Ambrose. Fifteen dollars and ninety-nine cents."

"Which is totally beyond your budget, considering that, you know, you own a bloody gold mine and all that."

"That," Mr Ambrose stated as he folded up the remaining chocolate in its wrapping paper and quickly hid it away, "is completely beside the point."

"How about another bar?" I enquired, hopefully.

"No."

"A piece? Just one tiny little piece?"

"No."

"You're no fun."

Before I could blink, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had put aside the chocolate and was on the bed, hovering above me. Idly I noted that, in addition to the chocolate, he had also put aside his hat, cane, bow tie, tailcoat and shirt.

Holy moly, he's fast!

"Want to bet on that?" he breathed, bending down until his face was only inches away from mine.

I swallowed.

"Since when are you a betting man? I thought you'd never do anything so frivolous as to risk money?"

In an instant, he'd grabbed hold of the back of my head, keeping me steady, unable to escape.

"Who says there'll be a risk of me losing?"

And his lips came down on mine.

I had thought there was nothing more delicious than chocolate in this world. I had been absolutely, completely sure.

So why, tasting his lips, did I suddenly have doubts?

"Open up for me," Mr Rikkard Ambrose whispered against my lips. "Let me show you how a real man wins a bet."

Ah. That's why.

I opened my mouth—to plead, to protest, I did not know—but before I could get out a single syllable, he took advantage of my parted lips. Ruthlessly. In a blink, my breath was stolen and my will to resist sold to Mr Rikkard Ambrose's pawn shop. I would not be getting it back any time soon.

"Now..." Mr Ambrose growled, his hands trailing over my collarbone until they reached the top button of my blouse. "I think it's time for me to get something sweet, don't you?"

Rrrrrip!

I felt a blissful smile spreading across my face. Interesting? Forget interesting! This was going to be the best bloody honeymoon ever!

***

"So...sey will be giving up se farce any day now, won't sey?" asked De Ravera.

De La Fuente reached out to pull a watch out of his pocket. The fancy kind, that allowed him to see the date as well as the time of day. It showed that, since last they discussed this subject, three days had already passed.

"Si," De La Fuente confirmed, nodding hurriedly. "Any day now."

Two days later...

"De La Fuente?"

"Any day now!"

Three days later...

"De La Fuente!"

"I said any day now!

And another three days later...

"De. La. Fuente!"

"I know, maldita sea! I know! It won't be long now! Sey won't be able to hold out for much longer!"

***

"Say..." I panted, gazing up at Mr Rikkard Ambrose hovering above me. Naked. More than a week later. A very interesting week. "How come we haven't heard anything from those two dagos? Aren't they doing anything?"

"Apparently not." He cocked his head. "Should we stop doing what we are doing and find out why?"

I considered this for a moment. A moment during which I let my gaze rake over his naked form. Once more, a grin spread across my face.

"Nah. Now, come here. Honeymoon time!"

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Some of you probably noticed my use of the term "Bootylicious", which is definitely not a 19th-century word. Unfortunately, I was not able to find a historical synonym. Not surprising, really, considering that, during the Victorian era, not very many women would write or talk about how attractive a man's derriere was.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Spanish translations:

Espectros? Fantasmas?—Specters? Ghosts?

Maldita sea—dammit.