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Title - The Silver Link

Author - Lisa Paris - 2004

Feedback - All constructive f/b gratefully received at lisaparis25@hotmail.com

Disclaimer - Just to reiterate that none of the characters belong to me and I make no profit from anything I write about them. I am however, always open to negotiation . . .

Category - M/R. Angst/Adventure. Some mild profanity and references to sex. Violence and a little H/C.

Summary/Spoilers - References to earlier episodes in the 1st Season - nothing too specific. A little early days, very early days/Season One tale of a wilful Lady and her not-so-patient Knight, a band of cutthroats and a pair of handcuffs. It seems that fate is determined to bind Marguerite and Roxton together under any circumstances . . .

Reference - The piece of poetry comes from Scott's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel’ Canto v. Stanza 13.

THE SILVER LINK

THE SILVER LINK
PART ONE

Roxton turned around with sigh and tried to control his exasperation. To all intents and purposes, it should have been a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. He was surrounded by some of the most spectacular terrain he'd ever seen, with a singularly, beautiful female companion at his side.

The only problem was, 'said' female companion was in a particularly bad temper, and in his wearied opinion, acting rather like a petulant child.

Marguerite had done nothing but moan since they'd left the Tree House. 'It was too hot and she didn’t feel like walking . . . the harsh sunlight would burn her delicate skin . . .'

When Roxton had pointed out how bored she'd been the previous day, stuck in the lab with Summerlee and Challenger as they'd bickered over the various categories of plant sub-genera, it had only made her worse. Apparently, yesterday had been different, and besides, she could think of a million better things to do than; ‘traipse all over the bloody jungle with an over-sized, boy scout.’

Roxton’s natural good-humour had begun to evaporate after an hour or two of this. In the rare moments Marguerite wasn’t complaining, she treated him to an acid, frozen silence. He wasn’t sure which was worse. It was his own fault, of course. If he was honest, his motives for volunteering them both onto this little expedition hadn’t been without design.

When Summerlee had produced a list of the various, medicinal plants he needed to build up a basic pharmacy, Roxton had been more than happy to capitalise on the lovely Marguerite’s unexpected knowledge of botany. It was a jolly good excuse to spend a day or two alone with her. The opportunity had seemed too fortunate to miss. Malone and Veronica were at the Zanga village and the trek was far too arduous for Summerlee who was still recovering from his encounter with the giant bee.

It had appeared perfect. The intriguing Miss Krux had been playing on his mind since they’d originally left London, but being marooned with her on this bloody plateau had whetted his appetite even more. The woman was undeniably beautiful but her allure went far deeper than that. Roxton had known lots of beautiful women in his time, many of them intimately, in the biblical sense. He was not what you might call inexperienced, but there was a mysterious, certain something about the delectable Miss Krux. His Lordship was on fire to find out more.

Well, put it this way, he had been, before the lady in question had begun to behave like a royal pain in the rear. She was lagging behind him now, a sulky look on her face. Apart from anything else, it was dangerous to drift too far apart from one another. These jungles might be exotic, but their beauty was deceptive. They were crammed to the teeth with all manner of plants and animals, each of them filled with an enthusiastic desire to either eat you or poison you. Ape-men and cannibals quite happy to pop you into the pot before you had time to blink, bands of marauding tribesmen keen on bashing your brains out . . . and that was not to mention the dinosaurs!

“Keep-up please, Miss Krux.” He was aware his voice was sharper than usual, but it was hot and he was fed-up.

“Yes, Sir!”

Roxton grit his teeth at her sarcasm and strode on through the straggling trees. The jungle had thinned out over the last few, hundred yards as they climbed steadily uphill. He stopped at the top of the escarpment and caught his breath at the magnificence of the view. They overlooked a rift valley stretching far into the distance, its lush, green plains rolling out like a carpet before them. A meandering river curved through the centre of the bowl before the jungle reclaimed it on the other side.

A heat haze shimmered over the water and the air was sharp with the scent of wild thyme. Roxton inhaled appreciatively, the beauty improving his mood. He smiled at Marguerite as she caught up with him at last, dumping her pack in irritated emphasis on the ground between his feet.

“You have to admit it’s a wonderful view.”

A Tyrannosaurus Rex roared across the valley and she gave him an incredulous look. “Right,” her lips twisted into a sneer. “As wonderful perhaps, as your worst ever nightmare. Beautiful but deadly.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Rather like something else I know, not a million miles away from here.”

A hard, little smile spread over her face. “Don’t ever presume to know me, Lord Roxton.”

He regarded her enigmatically, balancing his rifle in his arms. “Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Krux. What makes you think I meant you?”

He watched with a measure of enjoyment as the surprise on her face changed to outrage. A trifle petty or not, it was fun to pull the metaphorical rug out from under her feet. She tossed her head disdainfully and sat down on a nearby log.

“Are we permitted a rest, Lord Roxton? Or does it give you some strange sort of pleasure to drive me into the ground?”

He pretended to consider. “Oh, I should think we could afford a five minute break. After all, we’ll get plenty of rest later on when we pitch our tent for the night.”

“Tent?” She looked at him with suspicious horror. “As in only one tent?”

“Tent,” he nodded affirmatively. “As in singular, not plural - solitary and alone. Almost exclusive, one might say.”

She gave a dramatic shudder and rolled her eyes at him. “There’s nothing remotely exclusive about being forced to share a tent with you. Exclusive is a penthouse suite at Claridges*¹ or a table for two at The Cafe de Paris. Neither seems very likely at this present moment in time."

Roxton relented slightly and smiled quizzically. “When we get back to London, I could arrange for us to have both if you liked. Some cocktails and then dinner, take in a West-End show . . .”

“And then what, dear Lord Roxton?” She tilted her head mockingly at him. “Back to our suite at Claridges? Only in your dreams.”

His smile hardened and he shrugged. “Why, Miss Krux, I do believe I mistook you for someone else I know. Please accept my sincerest apologies - the woman I have in mind is clearly far more mercenary.”

Roxton regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them, mentally cursing his own cruelty. Marguerite was paler than ever, two heated red spots on her cheeks. He stretched out his hand in appeasement but she wrenched away with anger.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed furiously. “You couldn’t afford the price!”

“I’m sorry, Marguerite,” he stumbled over the words. “I didn’t mean to imply you were a . . .” He took a step towards her. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Do I?” Her voice shook slightly. “I don’t know anything of the sort - why should I? I know as little about you as you do about me. Just because we’re forced to live in each other’s pockets here, in this bloody place, doesn’t give you the right to pry into my life . . .”

“Shhh!” He held his hand up suddenly. “Be quiet, Marguerite!”

She stared at him incredulously, her mouth falling open with rage. “How dare you? Of all the rude, arrogant . . .”

Roxton took a swift step forward and covered her mouth with his hand. She fought in his arms like a wildcat, biting down hard on his palm. He flinched and gave a grunt of pain, bending his lips to her ear.

“Quiet! There’s something watching us. Over in those bushes to your left.”

To her credit, she stopped struggling immediately. He felt her body go rigid against him, their argument momentarily forgotten. He released her and reached for one of his Webley's, the pearl handle comforting in his grasp.

“What is it?” Marguerite had already drawn her own gun. “Raptors?”

He moved round to stand in front of her, straining his ears to listen. “I don’t think so. Vantu, perhaps - it looked like a man.”

“As in singular, not plural?” she asked satirically, mocking him for their earlier conversation. "Solitary and alone?"

He raised a laconic eyebrow, smiling in spite of the tension. “Let’s hope he at least, is totally exclusive.”

For a moment, she smiled back at him, in tacit acknowledgment of a truce. She had already re-shouldered her back-pack and was prepared for fight or flight. The way before them was open and scrubby, a steep route down into the valley ahead without much cover or places to hide. Roxton knew there was no going backwards, there might be more natives watching them. He cursed himself briefly for his lack of attention, privately conceding his mind had been somewhat preoccupied with another, far more interesting topic. But it was no good fantasising about the lovely Miss Krux with a stone axe buried in your skull.

“Start edging slowly away from the trees,” he instructed. “Whatever you do, don’t show any fear.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” she said scornfully, beginning to back away. Her grip on her pistol didn’t waver and her spine was ramrod straight. Perhaps the natives had realised enough about them by now to know these peculiar strangers to the plateau carried weapons far more deadly than their own. She fervently hoped so.

They’d made it approximately ten paces before Roxton realised they were in even more trouble than he’d originally thought. The second they took their first step backwards, he spied more men on either side of them. They were being out-flanked by superior numbers, he counted at least eight.

“Do you see them?” Her voice was tight.

“I see them,” he responded grimly. “I think we’ll have to make a break for it. There’s an outcrop of rocks fifty yards to my right . . .”

“I’ll make it.” Marguerite anticipated his next question. “Will it give us enough cover?”

Roxton didn‘t insult her by lying. “Let’s hope so - it’s all we’ve got. On my word - go!”

He waited a second until she made her break, letting her run in front of him to shield her from inevitable attack. She was wearing her boots and breeches and he was surprised by the speed of her movements. He wasted no time sprinting after her as their assailants gave up all pretence of secrecy, pouring out of the edge of the jungle in hot pursuit.

He fired two shots across his left shoulder and watched as both hit their mark. He’d been wrong in his first assumption; the men chasing them were not natives. They looked more like a band of pirates or cutthroats, descendants of white men and raggedly dressed. He didn’t know if that was good or bad but had no intention of hanging around to find out. They had almost reached the sanctuary of the rocks when everything went drastically pear-shaped and Roxton knew the game was up.

A man stepped out from behind the outcrop with what resembled an ancient blunderbuss in his hand. Roxton had seen its like before. There were some hanging on the walls of the Gun Room back at his home in Avebury, belonging no doubt, to some worthy ancestor, but purely ornamental now.

The newcomer moved quickly in spite of his size, grasping hold of Marguerite’s arm and wrenching it up round her neck. He shook the gun from her hand like a terrier, ignoring her sharp cry of pain.

Roxton froze, his heart in his mouth. He pivoted quickly towards the semi-circle of men facing him, then looked back across to Marguerite. The fat man bowed sarcastically and tightened his grip round her throat. With an over-exaggerated gesture, he placed the blunderbuss up to her brow. It was then Roxton realised he was going nowhere, straightening up slowly with a gesture of surrender as he let the Webley’s fall to the ground.

They were on him in a second, like a pack of wild dogs. He lifted his arms to protect himself, barely aware of Marguerite’s voice raised in fear and outrage behind him, as he tried to ward off a hail of vicious blows. A man’s fist struck him on the temple and the world hazed out into black. Bizarrely, his last thought was of Claridges. He had a brief, tantalising vision of the alluring and mysterious Miss Krux, draped in oyster satin, reclining on the penthouse bed . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marguerite shifted uncomfortably and strained against her bonds. Her cheek lay pressed on the floor of the wagon, it was not an experience she relished. The wooden planks were filthy and smelled of sweat and worse; a few, filthy piles of straw the only concession to anything resembling comfort. She wrinkled her nose distastefully. It was pretty obvious she wasn’t the first unfortunate captive to be treated to this form of indignity. Whatever this indignity was.

The wagon trundled over a stone on the track and she scowled as her whole body rattled. It was typical this should happen to her - she hadn’t even wanted to be dragged along on Roxton’s bloody, little expedition. Damn the man!

In spite of her expletive, the anger which had kept her going was replaced with a knot of apprehension. Roxton had remained unconscious for the entire journey so far. She could barely make him out in the gloom beside her, but every time the wagon hit a bump in the road, his skull beat a tattoo on the floor. If she’d been able to reach him, she might have been able to cushion his head, to have provided a buffer at least. But she was firmly roped to a metal ring and hardly able to move, there was little she could do on Lord Roxton’s behalf beyond wishing for his speedy recovery. Marguerite hoped it would be soon. She could do with some support in this hell-hole, especially when it was entirely his fault in the first place.

There was a shout and a rumble of voices. Marguerite strained her ears to listen. Their captors spoke a sort-of pigeon English, filled with curious old inflections and archaic terminology. She’d heard something like it once before on a trip to the Pacific before the war. The Polynesian sailors had talked in a similar vein.

Thank goodness they were stopping. She needed to flex her aching muscles and find a convenient bush. It would also be quite nice to check-up on Roxton. Irritating as the man undoubtedly was, she found herself wishing fervently for the rumble of his baritone voice.

She heard the sound of footsteps and a couple of seconds later, the piece of filthy rag which served as a curtain was flung aside, flooding the interior with light. Marguerite blinked as her eyes adjusted and glared up sourly at her captor. It was the fat man who had taken her gun. He grinned down at her unrepentantly and looked long and hard at her chest.

“Nice. Very nice, Missy. Be tempted to keep ye for himself, Pym would, if ye weren’t sure to fetch a good price.”

So, it appeared these scum were slavers. Veronica had warned them of the   rogue bands which existed all over the plateau. Marguerite thought rapidly, her mind running through limited options. She forced a smile to her lips and arched her back ever so slightly, thrusting her breasts up tightly against the cotton of her blouse. She watched as it had the desired effect, and a bead of perspiration broke out on the fat man’s top lip. He could barely wrench his gaze from her body, as he ran his tongue lasciviously around his mouth.

“But there’s no reason for you to sell me,” her tone was soft as velvet. “I’m sure we could reach some agreement. It was awfully clever of you to catch me, it took him far longer . . .” She gestured contemptuously over her shoulder at Roxton’s inert form, fluttering her eyelashes coyly as she gazed up through them at Pym. “He may not be all that intelligent, but you can see he’s big and strong. Why not just sell him - then you and I can have some fun?”

For a moment, she could see the man was tempted. Desire waged war with profit in his eyes, but profit apparently won. Pym shook his head reluctantly and glanced back at Roxton.

"He don't look so good to me, perhaps he’s already dead. He's no use where we’re bound, unless he can work. Not much money in troublemakers like him. I was thinking of slitting his throat."

He reached down to his sagging waistband and pulled out a wicked looking knife. Marguerite was flooded with anger, her attempt at coquettishness gone. However annoying she found Roxton, the man did not deserve to die. To be killed like a dog as though he were worthless, by a fat piece of scum like this. Well, not if she could help it!

“But I can tell you’re far too clever to do that,” she spoke quickly to forestall Pym from carrying out his threat. “No doubt you realise this man is special?”

Pym paused and studied her consideringly. “In what way is he special? He don’t look that special to me.”

Marguerite shrugged and feigned indifference, difficult considering her circumstances. "I'm amazed you didn't recognise him - I only hope you haven't hurt him too badly. It would be a terrible shame if he couldn't fight . . ."

"Fight?" Pym looked up sharply and stared past her at Roxton. “What do ye mean, fight?”

“Don’t you know?” she asked with surprise. “Roxton’s a renowned fighter where we come from. Oh, perhaps you wouldn’t think so to look at

him - but he’s really much stronger than he seems. He’s, er . . . known as the Knight of Newcastle.”

For the first time since the start of this whole debacle, Marguerite prayed Roxton was still unconscious. Before she’d embarked on the Challenger expedition, she’d made it her business to do a little research on her travelling companions*². A thorough background check on each of them had yielded pretty much what she’d expected. All of them apart from Roxton, that was. The information she’d uncovered on the ‘Great White Hunter,' had surprised her and placed her on guard. This was no pampered son of the nobility, no typical English Lord. The man had his fair share of secrets, some of them impenetrable even to her. There was a period of several months at the end of the war when she’d failed to trace him at all. Perhaps if she’d had some more time, but it had been imperative she leave London quickly, her own life had been on the line. There were those who had sought to stop her flight by any means at their disposal.

Marguerite twisted her face into a grimace. Talk about out of the frying pan . . . She didn’t know which was worse. Wheeling and dealing for her life back in London, or trapped here on the Lost World, with a host of flesh-eating monsters, reptilian and otherwise. At least back in London, she was in her own element.

Pym tucked the knife back into his sash, his eyes filled with crafty intelligence. “He’s a gladiator then, this Roxton? A good one, ye say?”

“He’s the best,” agreed Marguerite, gritting her teeth. When she got them safely out of this mess, His Lordship was going to owe her big-time and she would never let him forget it. Oh boy, would he never forget it!

They were taken out of the wagon and left under guard by a tree. Pym had obviously decided to spare Roxton for the time being. From the little Marguerite had seen of the primitive cultures on the plateau, it had seemed like a good bet to bid for his life with his fighting skills. Thank goodness, it appeared she was right.

The slavers began to make camp for the night, lighting fires and setting a perimeter. Marguerite was taken to perform her ablutions by an ancient, leering hag, as wizened as she was toothless and dressed in a filthy old dress. When they got back from the stream, Marguerite saw Roxton hadn’t moved. He was still dead to the world, in exactly the same position as Pym’s men had dumped him.

Anxiety flared all over again, and this time she was able to ease his head into her lap. His skin was unnaturally pale and there was a nasty bump on his temple. She ran her fingers gently through his hair in search of other injuries; to her relief, there was nothing obvious to be found.

She studied his face in the fading light, feeling ridiculously guilty for taking advantage of him in such an unguarded moment. It was astonishing how naked and vulnerable he looked, perhaps the first time she’d ever seen him so relaxed. Her throat closed over unexpectedly and Marguerite found herself wishing it hadn’t happened under such a desperate set of circumstances. That it didn’t have to be this way. There was no doubt Lord Roxton was a most attractive man. When awake, he was so masculine and vital that everything about him screamed of sex. So far, she had managed just about, to keep her distance. Her life was far too complicated as it was.

Her hand hovered tenderly over his cheek for a fraction of a second, then she snatched it guiltily away. No, she was right to steer clear of involvement, however bloody difficult it might be. Maybe when they got back to London and she could run things on her own terms, it might be interesting to explore a physical relationship with him a little further. To take him up on his offer of that penthouse suite at Claridges . . .

But for now, she just wished he’d wake-up!

END OF PART ONE
Lisa Paris - 2004

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE SILVER LINK
PART TWO

Roxton was having a familiar dream. This specific dream was particularly delightful, involving as it did, a certain dark-headed lady and a comfortable king-sized bed. The pillows were soft and smelled of her skin, fragrant and wonderfully feminine. He gave a small grunt of pleasure and nuzzled his face deeper into them, his hand reaching over to stroke her . . .

“Oh, no you don’t, buster!”

Someone slapped his roving hand away. He mumbled with protest, this wasn’t supposed to happen. In his dreams she had always responded eagerly, had matched his desire with an appetite as hungry and keen as his own. He gradually became aware that the agreeably soft ‘pillow’ his face was nearly buried in, was in-fact, Marguerite’s cleavage.

“I take it you’re feeling better?” There was a touch of acid in her tone.

Was he? Roxton wasn’t too sure about that. His head, let alone the rest of him, felt like the victim of a train disaster. He pushed himself gingerly upwards, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sky began to spin again and his stomach started heaving in a most ungentlemanly fashion.

“Whoa . . . a!” He only just managed to turn away in time, retching horribly as he vomited the remains of his breakfast into the grass on the other side.

Instead of the disgust he’d anticipated, Marguerite took him by surprise. Her fingers were cool against his skin, smoothing the flopping hair back from his brow, and bracing his body with her free arm, until the nausea and dizziness subsided.

“Have you finished?” Her voice was briskly efficient.

He nodded weakly, still shivering uncontrollably as she eased him gently round onto his back again. “Thank you,” he muttered raspily, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh, do shut-up, Roxton,” she mocked him dryly. “I’m hardly a milk and water Miss. I doubt if you could anything to shock me, and besides, it was rather a nasty blow you took back there. I thought you might sleep through the entire adventure.”

She held a cup of water to his lips and Roxton drank long and thirstily. The water was warm and slightly brackish, but it made him feel inordinately better. His head was clearing rapidly now, as the events of the morning came back to him. He wondered just how long he’d been unconscious.

“Where the bloody hell are we?” He reached automatically for his guns, knowing all the while it was a forlorn hope. Force of habit, he thought with a sigh, but he hated the fact he had lost them.

Marguerite made a face and gestured around her. “Remember the slavers Veronica warned us about? We’re only alive because they plan to sell us. Me, for obvious reasons, and you because they think you’re a gladiator . . .”

“A what!” Roxton sat up with a sharp jerk, forgetting about his headache for a moment. “And what could have possibly given them that impression, Marguerite - or should I perhaps say, who?”

“You can always thank me later,” she responded sarcastically. “For your information, the only reason you’re not lying in a ditch back there with your throat cut, is because I lied. I told them you were a famous fighter. Thank goodness, they’ve never seen you in action!”

“And why’s that?” He asked furiously. “Because someone not too far away, was foolish enough to get caught. If the fat man hadn’t threatened to blow your brains out, I could have probably taken on his band of rabble.”

The glared at each other angrily for a second, then Marguerite lowered her eyelids. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“Yes,” agreed Roxton truculently. “I rather suppose you should.” His ire began to evaporate and his voice softened slightly. “Just I suppose, as I should thank you for saving my life. There’s no point fighting between ourselves now, we have to figure a way out of this mess.”

“I’m open to any suggestions,” she said wryly, glancing over her shoulder. “Their leader’s name is Pym - the fat man. He’s by no means as stupid as he looks. Apparently, we’re travelling to the north side of the plateau, we’ll be on the road for at least four more days. They have our guns in the second wagon, but that’s all I’ve found out so far.”

Roxton regarded her with open admiration, a reluctant smile lacing his lips. “All? I should say that’s pretty, good going. You were busy whilst I was still napping.”

She relaxed and smiled back at him, a teasing light in her eye. “It was a bloody miracle I could concentrate on anything, what with all the racket from your snoring.”

Roxton drew himself up with dignity. “I have it on very good authority, I don’t snore. Well . . .” he qualified that with a wicked glint. “Perhaps only when I’ve completely over-exerted myself, but in most cases, my sleeping partners have been far too exhausted to notice.”

“Poor, old things,” retorted Marguerite crushingly, and then she stiffened in warning. "It’s Pym - you're a famous gladiator, remember."

Roxton pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in his head. He watched as the fat man ambled over the clearing towards them. Marguerite was right, he thought appraisingly, Pym might look simple, but there was a decidedly sharp gleam in his piggy eyes. Those eyes were openly assessing him now, no doubt trying to evaluate whether Marguerite had told the truth or not. Roxton lifted his head and tried his best to resemble a famous fighter, meeting Pym’s stare head-on, with a challenging look of his own. Evidently, he’d been successful, as Pym gave a satisfied half-nod and treated them both to a grin. Roxton would have been happier to defer the honour, repulsed by the slaver’s blackened teeth. The man was carrying a hessian sack which he placed on the ground at their feet.

“I see ye be awake at last - took your own sweet time about it. Thought mebbe I’d have to leave ye for the lizards, back along.”

“Not a very good idea,” said Roxton coldly. “You’ve made a big mistake taking us prisoner. There’ll be men coming after us, many men with guns. You might save yourself a lot of bother and let us go whilst you still can.”

Pym regarded him thoughtfully and shook his head in mock regret. “I’ll take my chances, Mister. Ye be worth an awful lot of gold to Pym, both ye and your comely wench . . .”

Marguerite gave a gasp of wrath as Roxton dug her sharply in the ribs. She glared at him with daggers in her eyes, shoulders tensing as he draped a casual arm across them. He'd pay dearly for this later, he thought wryly, but for now, she'd play along with the charade. It would be disastrous for them to be separated at this stage, far better to be thought of as a couple. If Pym truly believed that he, Roxton, was a fighter of renown, the slaver might consider it more advantageous to sell them as an item rather than individually. With any luck, he thought fervently.

His ‘comely wench’ was smiling sweetly at him, a deadly glitter sparkling in her eyes. Roxton ignored it and pulled her closer, frowning up at Pym and attempting one last bluff.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Free us now, and I give you my word there’ll be no more trouble. My men will spare you. Keep us prisoner . . .” he raised an indifferent eyebrow, “and there are no such guarantees.”

Pym was clearly having none of it. The slaver’s smile grew even wider; he thrust his face down close to Roxton's, who recoiled in disgust from the rank smell of onions.

“Pym don’t need no guarantees. I’ll sell ye to the Lizard Men on the far side of the plateau, or perhaps to the Hikari by the sea. Pay handsome they will if ye really be a fighter, if not . . .” He shrugged dispassionately. “Pym’ll always make a profit on the wench. It don’t make no odds to sell ye or kill ye. Either way, Pym comes out quits.”

He reached down into the sack and drew forth a length of clanking chain. Roxton’s heart sank quickly as he recognised what it was.

“There’s no need for this, surely?”

Pym‘s smile was cold with knowing. “Just a little safety precaution. There be something about ye, Mister, something Pym doesn’t trust. This way, ye won’t try nothing stupid.”

He fastened one of the manacles around Roxton’s brawny wrist, and the Englishman held out the other one with a sense of resignation. Pym ignored it totally. Instead, he leaned across and reached for Marguerite, his hand deliberately brushing against her breast. Roxton suddenly saw red, reacting with a blind rush of fury, as he barged the slaver away from her, and jumped to his feet. The chain hung loosely at his side, so he gathered it and swung it like a weapon, feeling it curl round the fat man’s face and connect with a satisfying ‘clunk.’ Pym recoiled with a grunt of pain, staggering backwards and yelling for help, as he clutched at his damaged cheek.

“Look out!” Marguerite screamed like a harpy.

Roxton spun on his heel, watching with brief admiration as she delivered a lethal uppercut to some hapless slaver’s jaw. The man collapsed as if pole-axed and Roxton quickly punched-out his companion. It was a brave but futile effort and he knew it, Pym’s men were on them in a moment. They rapidly overwhelmed Marguerite and barrelled him backwards into a tree. His head hit the trunk with a mighty crack and Roxton saw stars again. He cursed his weakness as the sky reeled alarmingly, the world hazing out into black. It was over in pitiful seconds; they were simply too outnumbered.

He was forced onto his knees, arms wrenched un-gently behind his back. Pym tottered over to regard him, looking down at him with darkness in his eyes. There was an altogether different expression on the fat slaver’s face now. It was twisted in vengeful hatred, as he raised a podgy fist. Roxton could see where the chain had struck him, the clear imprint of several links already bruising his fleshy jowls. The Englishman turned his head in anticipation of the blow he knew was coming, but it still rattled the teeth in his skull. Much more of this, he thought ruefully, and he wouldn’t be of any use to Marguerite at all.

“Try that again and I won’t bother selling either one of ye.” Pym leant up close to him. “I’ll have me some fun with your wench, and ye can enjoy the show. Then I’ll kill ye, nice and slow. Take my time about it, so she can see what’ll happen to her.”

Roxton forced himself to keep calm. His fists clenched from wanting to hit out. He smiled coldly and stared implacably at Pym. “You touch her, you do anything to hurt her,” his voice lowered a complete notch, “I swear you'll pay for it with your fat hide.”

Their eyes locked for a second - it was Pym who looked away first. He gestured behind him to Marguerite’s captors and they dragged her to Roxton’s side. Pym held her arm out brutally, forcing a cry of pain from her lips as he squeezed the fine bones in her wrist. He clamped the shackle around it triumphantly, locking the manacle with a flourish before he pocketed the key.

“She be yours for now, Mister Roxton. Better make the most of it.” He glanced up quickly at the darkening sky. “Seems like a cold night a-coming. Mebbe do your hot blood good to cool down some . . . spend some time thinking things over.” The slaver paused and delivered a parting shot. “Oh, and neither one of ye gets no supper. There’s a price to be paid if ye raise a hand to Pym.”

Roxton watched soberly as the fat man walked away. The ache in his head was back with a vengeance and the future looked suddenly bleak. A guard sat down under the tree opposite them and leered nastily at Marguerite. Judging by the bleeding split in his lip, it was the man she’d punched during the tussle. No, it was decidedly not good. He wondered how the hell they were going to get out of this mess.

Marguerite tugged savagely on her end of the shackle. “Well done, My Lord. Another batch of bruises to add to my collection. Not to mention a cosy night out in the cold -   with no supper. What do you do for an encore?”

Roxton was too tired to be exasperated. “It was your virtue I was trying to protect. Forgive me for being presumptuous, Marguerite. Next time, I won’t be so rash.”

Her voice softened slightly. “What is it about you, Roxton? Who appointed you to be my guardian angel?”

He looked away a trifle uncomfortably. “From what I’ve seen so-far, you have need of one. The post appeared to be vacant, it seemed the gentlemanly thing to step-on in.”

There was a brief pause. “Don’t make me your personal project,” she said steadily. “I warn you now, you won’t be the first to have tried.”

“What happened to the others?” he turned to face her, the red glow from the fire reflected in his eyes.

She laughed harshly. “Oh, they all gave up, to a man. Didn’t take any of them long to realise I was a lost cause.”

He couldn’t help placing his hand on her shoulder and for once, she didn’t pull away. In spite of her bravado, there was bitterness inside her. Bitterness, and something else he’d rarely seen. Roxton knew that her hurt ran deep; so deep, it had hardened into stone. For once, he was seeing the real Miss Krux. The one whom she kept hidden from the world.

“You know," he mused thoughtfully, "I’ve always been told I'm an obstinate man. If there’s something I want badly, then I get it. In other words, I don’t give up easily. Consider yourself fairly warned, Miss Krux.”

Her lashes trembled for a second and then she looked up at him. Roxton lost himself in the beauty of her eyes. It was an indulgence he’d dreamt of since the first time back in London. Green and silver like stars on pellucid water - like the dreamy shimmer of moonlight on a stretch of tropical sea . . .

It was a little like falling under a spell. For a moment he could almost believe she was an enchantress. He reached out to draw her closer to him, intent on taking her in his arms. But the rattle of chains dispersed all the magic and brought them down to earth with a bump. She pushed him quickly away from her, eyes filled with their old mocking scorn. Roxton watched with deep regret as the barriers clamped back into place.

“There’s always a first time for everything, Lord Roxton.” Marguerite smiled at him tauntingly. “Take my advice and give up the hunt. I’m the one prey you’ll never capture.”

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Arthur Summerlee took an appreciate sniff and stirred some more nutmeg into the bowl. If he wasn’t down in the lab or out on the balcony with his beloved plants, there was really no place he would rather be than here in the Tree House kitchen. It was a shame John and Marguerite would miss out on this treat but it was good to be up and around once more.

Marguerite, his hand paused for a moment as he thought about the dark-haired woman. What an enigma she was turning out to be. If he was being strictly honest, he’d been rather frightened of her at first. She was nothing like the females he was used to, nothing like his dear wife or his daughters. It was the terrible war, he supposed. It seemed to have changed everything in England - and not for the better, either. Young women working in factories, clipping tickets on the omnibuses, wearing trousers and driving cars . . .

Summerlee sighed somewhat wistfully, harking back to the days of his own youth. It had all been so different then, in the twilight of the old Queen’s reign*³.

The pulley started running above his head. Someone was coming up in the lift. Veronica and Ned, he supposed, back from the Zanga village. He hoped they’d remembered those mushrooms he’d asked for. Now Veronica, he mused, going slightly pink, her attire was another thing. The outfit she insisted on wearing was quite shocking. Enough to raise an old man’s blood pressure right out through the Tree House roof.

“Where’s Challenger?” Malone’s tone was uncommonly terse, forestalling the welcome on Summerlee’s tongue. “There’s been some trouble.”

Summerlee’s heart began to sink. This wretched plateau, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. There always seemed to be trouble of some kind, how he longed for just a single, peaceful day.

“He’s down in the lab, of course. What on earth’s happened? Are you both all right?”

“We’re fine,” said Veronica, as Malone headed immediately for the stairs. “We have bad news from the Zanga village. It’s Roxton and Marguerite who are in danger.”

For the first time since their arrival, Summerlee noticed the slender figure waiting next to the lift. The Chieftain’s daughter nodded, her dark eyes unusually grave. “There’s a band of slavers in the area, led by a man called Pym. He’s notorious for his cruelty, we’ve come across him many times before when he‘s stolen young girls from the village. Luckily for us, a party of our warriors tracked his band of cutthroats into the area, we were able to keep all our people in the compound.”

“What about Roxton and Marguerite?” It was Challenger’s voice, the Scientist had overheard the last part of the conversation as he came up the stairs with Malone.

“They were overpowered and captured,” answered Assai soberly. “Our scouts were unable to help them without being taken or killed. They came back to the village to warn us.”

“They’re headed north,” said Veronica. “Shouldn’t be too hard to track, they have mules and wagons with them.”

“We’ll need guns and ammunition.” Challenger began to make plans. “Medical supplies and provisions. Summerlee, can I leave that up to you?”

“Yes, of course . . .” Summerlee nodded in distress. “Although, I sincerely hope no one’s injured. I really don’t think I can go with you; I’d only slow you all down. It appears that time is of the essence.”

Veronica took a step across to him, her eyes softening at once. “No, Arthur, of course you can’t come. You’ve only just recovered. Assai will leave two warriors here to protect you and we’ll back in no time - all of us.”

Summerlee’s thoughts flashed back to Marguerite again. He had grown rather fond of the mysterious heiress; she had treated him so kindly when he’d been ill. He realised he was very concerned about her. He was the only one here, perhaps, who understood the vulnerability she kept so well hidden. No, Summerlee added a caveat to that. It was fortunate she was out there with Roxton, for despite his Lordship’s reputation as a lothario, it was hard to miss the growing softness in his eyes when they rested on the beautiful Marguerite. If the chips were down, Summerlee had a feeling John Roxton would protect her with everything he had - and that included his life!

END OF PART TWO
Lisa Paris - 2004.

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NOTES

1. Claridges Hotel - Claridges of Brook Street, Mayfair, was originally opened in 1812 by James Mivart. During the 19th Century it gained a distinguished reputation and became the venue of choice for visiting royalty and aristocracy from all over Europe. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert themselves attended the Empress Eugenie of France there. It was re-vamped at the end of the 19th century and again in the 1920’s, when many beautiful Art Deco features were added to the decor. Claridges has retained its reputation for discretion and luxury to the present day.

2. Background Check - Marguerite running a background check is purely my own invention. It just strikes me that a spy of Marguerite’s experience and ability would not travel halfway across the world in close quarters with a group of people she knew nothing about. Our Marguerite is far too canny for that!

3. Queen Victoria - (1819 - 1901) Monarch during the height of the British Empire and age of industrial enlightenment. During her reign (1837 - 1901,) Britain was indeed the most powerful country in the world. She married her cousin, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha in 1840 and he was truly the love of her life. They had nine children and were very happy until his death from typhus in 1861. Victoria went into mourning for 10 whole years, emerging when her popularity began to wane as a result. She eased herself back into the public eye and in 1886, was crowned Empress of India by Benjamin Disraeli - then British Prime Minister. During her lengthy reign, Great Britain underwent a multitude of social, legal and political reforms.

Lisa Paris - 2004.

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