Parts 1 and 2 Parts 3 and 4 Parts 5 and 6 Parts 7 and 8 Return Home
Marguerite woke with a jump. Her dreams had been scattered and verging on nightmarish, fragments of a turbulent past. God, she was freezing. So cold, her very marrow felt frozen, in-spite of the man curled around her. The man lying next to her . . . Roxton!
Her thoughts coalesced into some sort of clarity and she lay still for a moment, as the disastrous events of the previous day caught up with her. It was entirely his fault they were stuck in this mess. No - if she was being honest, that wasn’t strictly fair. In-fact, it wasn’t really Roxton's fault at all. As usual, it was the rotten, bloody plateau. Yet again, they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She wriggled slightly, aware of his breath in her ear. Because his left hand was chained to her right, they were forced to lie facing one another. Marguerite’s head was tucked in close to Roxton's chest, her nose just grazing the vee of bare skin at the base of his throat. His chest hair tickled the end of it, and she was forced to admit, His Lordship smelled nice. Salty, and very, very masculine. He reminded her somehow of fresh air and sunlight, his brown skin undeniably warm.
He grunted something unintelligible and pulled her even closer, his free hand cupping her bottom with familiar ease. Marguerite stiffened with outrage; His Lordship was clearly no stranger to the act of sharing his bed with a woman. She took a deep breath and reached round behind her in order to remove the offending object, but Roxton was having none of it. Marguerite sighed, gritting her teeth with irritation. Even asleep, he was truly one of the most difficult, exasperating men she’d ever met. But he was warm, so very warm and safe. It would be the easiest thing in the whole, wide world to relax up snugly against him, to allow herself to melt in his embrace . . .
What the hell was wrong with her? The bloody man drove her crazy. He was arrogant and overbearing, too bossy and conceited by far. He was all the things she generally avoided, he was . . . awake!
She had never realised how dark green his eyes were before, like the dampness of moss in a shady forest. His pupils contracted slightly and the illusion of colour was gone. She watched as they filled with rueful awareness and a slight glint of mischief instead.
"Well, I must say this is cosy - even the darkest cloud has a silver lining."
She pushed him savagely away from her and attempted to roll to one side. The chain brought her up short with an abrupt jolt and he jerked her back into his arms.
"Steady-on, Marguerite. I think it best if we stick together for now, don't want any nasty accidents, do we?"
"Don't we?" She glared at him with daggers in her eyes. "The thought of a nasty accident or two is very tempting right at this moment."
Roxton grinned in appreciation and released her carefully, sitting up gingerly to allow her some room. It was barely dawn. The light on the horizon cast a pearly cloak across the distant hills. The moon still sailed pale and dim in the sky and the birds had just started singing. Marguerite watched as His Lordship looked around the campsite with sudden interest; apart from their sleepy-eyed guard, there didn’t appear to be anyone else awake.
Damn!
She was forced to revise that thought as the withered crone came out of the trees towards them. The old woman ignored Roxton totally, heading straight for Marguerite and peering down intently into her face.
“Friend of yours?” Roxton asked curiously.
Marguerite recoiled slightly, the old woman’s scrutiny making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. “No,” she said shortly. “Unless you count sharing a bush together.”
Roxton’s throaty chuckle grated. “Well, you obviously made your usual impression. I’d say she was fairly taken with you.”
Marguerite ignored him coldly and looked instead at the old woman. “If you think for one minute, I intend to use the bathroom in front of him, you are sadly mistaken. I demand you unlock these shackles at once and allow me a little privacy.”
Roxton’s smirk grew even bigger and Marguerite twitched with annoyance. She longed to wipe it right off his silly face. The man was clearly enjoying every second of this - bloody typical of him. She added it to his list of transgressions, a list that was growing longer by the hour. She hadn’t forgotten the ‘comely wench’; she would not let him forget either. When they got back to the Tree House, Lord ‘Smug’ Roxton was going to pay!
The thought sobered her instantly. There was no guarantee they’d get out of this one. Things looked pretty bleak for both of them and it was indeed likely, Roxton would end up paying. The thought made her heart turn cold with confusion, but she didn’t have the chance to analyse it further. The old woman reached for her suddenly and wrenched down the shoulder of her blouse.
“Hey - get your filthy hands off me!” Marguerite twisted away from her, but the crone was surprisingly strong.
Roxton leaned over instantaneously, grasping the old woman’s wrist with his free hand. “I don’t think the lady likes it,” he said firmly. “She asked you to let her go.”
The old woman paid him no heed, her eyes fixed to Marguerite’s shoulder-blade in awe. She sat back on her heels and let go of the blouse, clasping her hands together as Roxton relaxed his grip and released her.
“What was all that about?” asked Marguerite furiously. “You stupid old woman, this is one of my favourite blouses.”
But even as she said it, she knew what the woman had been looking for. The thought made her inordinately afraid. Since childhood, she had wondered about her birthmark*1. The same uncanny intuition which had guided her footsteps through life so-far, had always told her that one day, she would discover its significance. That she would, eventually, find out what it meant. The idea of it being here on the plateau came as no great shock - somehow she had always known it, deep down in the recesses of her heart.
Marguerite drew the edges of her blouse back together and took a ragged breath. She sensed Roxton watching her curiously, but the last thing she wanted at this moment, was to have to explain things to him. The crone took her hand very gently, and this time, Marguerite didn’t attempt to pull away as the old woman placed a reverent kiss in the centre of her palm.
“What’s going on there?” The guard was awake now, lurching to his feet as he stared at them suspiciously.
“Nothing to worry about, handsome,” the old woman turned to him quickly and reached into the pocket of her voluminous shift.
“What ye got there, you filthy old hag?” The guard took another step closer and lifted the blunderbuss slightly.
Marguerite felt Roxton tense, her own nerves completely on edge. She didn’t have a clue which way this was going, but she knew Roxton was ready to step in at any time. She placed a restraining hand on his arm and waited to see what would happen. He looked at her with slight surprise, but she shook her head imperceptibly. Something told her the crone was on their side.
The old woman gave the guard a toothless grin. “See? There be nothing but dust. A pinch of old dust, blown away in the wind . . .”
She uncurled her fingers and gave a sharp puff, the dust flying straight into the guard’s unprotected face. His eyes glazed and he sank to his knees immediately, the blunderbuss falling nervelessly from his grip.
Roxton blinked with amazement but wasted no more than a second. He gestured down at the shackles. “The keys - do you have the keys to these things?”
The old woman shook her head. “Fly, ye must fly. Only Pym has the keys.” She pointed off into the trees. “Do not waste any time, even now he awakes. Fly, and protect her with your life!”
Roxton was already on his feet, pulling Marguerite up beside him. Her eyes lingered on the other woman’s face for a second; there was so much she wanted to ask her, but already they were out of time. A shout of alarm rang out behind them, and Roxton who had been headed across the clearing for the gun, was reluctantly forced to abandon it.
They plunged off into the trees, dodging awkwardly round obstacles together, as Marguerite took one last look over her shoulder at the old woman’s diminishing figure. The only chance she’d ever had of discovering her birthright and now it was nearly gone. Marguerite gave a sob of frustration and stumbled on after Roxton, the manacle's unwieldy bracelet cutting cruelly into her wrist.
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For the life of him, Roxton couldn’t fathom out what had just happened, but he didn’t have the luxury to stop and work out puzzles. Plenty of time to ask Marguerite about it later - he hoped. For now, he just thanked heaven for small mercies. They had made it away from the campsite safely, but there were still sounds of pursuit behind them. Any expectations he cherished of Pym writing them off as a bad loss, had been quickly and thoroughly dashed.
Marguerite was strangely silent during their wild flight into the jungle. Roxton was so used to her bitter complaints about everything, that her behaviour was beginning to worry him. Up ahead, he heard the sound of running water, a fast, flowing creek if not a river. If they could make it that far, he might be able to get some sort of bearing. He remembered Pym saying they were travelling northwards. Roxton had a feeling they were somewhere down in the rift valley he’d admired from the escarpment yesterday.
His wrist yanked hard with a sudden jolt, as Marguerite stumbled badly. He turned just in time to catch her as she tripped headlong over a root. Roxton took temporary shelter behind a tree, pulling her bodily against him, as they used the opportunity to catch their breath. Marguerite leaned into him silently, her head nestling down on his chest. Roxton was surprised by the stir of emotion that rippled through him; by the quick rush of tenderness which surged through his veins. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce urge to protect her, the desire to keep her safe against all odds. He tightened his arms around her slender waist, and in-spite of the absurdity of the moment, felt inexplicably and foolishly happy.
“What do we do now, Roxton?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt-front.
“We’ll head for the river and take a bearing. If I’m right, we can follow it down-stream and re-trace our steps. The only trouble is, Pym will almost certainly anticipate our movements."
"What alternative do we have?"
"We don't," his voice was grim. "It would be foolish to double back, tempting as it might seem. I hate to leave the bastard with my guns - but he won't have left that camp of his unguarded. No . . . we're just over a day's quick march from the Tree House. It's still the best hope we have."
She was pensive and silent, digesting his words. He could feel her very tension vibrating through the links in the chain. It wasn’t much of a choice to offer her, and he knew it, but perhaps they stood a chance if they were careful. Anything was better than being held prisoner. He hadn't liked the way Pym's eyes had rested on Marguerite.
She straightened her shoulders determinedly and looked up into his face. “When we get back, remind me never to go on any botanical expeditions with you again. Or any expeditions whatsoever. In the future, I’m sticking to Paris or Rome - maybe New York at a pinch.”
He grinned back down at her, responding in kind. “I’d settle for the penthouse at Claridges right now. These shackles could make it rather interesting.”
“Why, Lord Roxton,” she opened her eyes wide at him. “I had no idea. Didn’t your nanny spank you enough? Or was it all those years at boarding school?”
He smiled laconically, running his hand down over her rump. “Talking of spanking, my dear Marguerite, it seems to me you were never spanked at all. That of course, can be remedied. Spare the rod and spoil the child, as they say.”
He realised at once, he’d gone too far. Marguerite wrenched away from him sharply, and raised her free hand to his face. Roxton was much too quick for her. He grasped hold of her wrist and imprisoned it tightly, poised only inches from his cheek.
“Let me go!” Her voice was laced with venom. “You know nothing about my childhood, it’s none of your bloody business.”
Roxton regarded her expressionlessly, he wasn’t quite as gullible as that. She resembled a cobra getting ready to strike, all poison and sinuous power. And then suddenly, a new and deadlier danger presented itself. Roxton heard a shout from a few hundred yards to their right and realised their trail had been discovered.
“Damn it.” He released her hand immediately. “They’re onto us. Come on!”
They left the shelter of the tree and turned in the direction of the river. Pym was acting exactly as Roxton had anticipated. No - the fat man certainly wasn’t dumb. The going was tough and uneven, through dense scrub and prickly brambles. Roxton led the way at first, in a meagre effort to make things a little easier for Marguerite. The thorns clawed spitefully at his exposed flesh, ripping through his shirt and leaving long, red rents and ugly scratches.
“Ugh!”
He heard her exclamation of distress behind him, pausing briefly to help untangle her hair from a particularly tenacious bramble runner. They were wasting precious seconds, seconds they did not have. Looking over his shoulder, Roxton saw the first of their pursuers. Predictably, it was Pym himself, and the fat man had seen him too.
“Come on!” Roxton tore the last strands away regardless, ruthlessly ignoring her outraged yelp of pain.
The river was fifty yards in front of them, fast-moving and swollen with flood waters. There had been several days of heavy rain the previous week which had delayed their plant-gathering until yesterday. The swiftly flowing water was clearly a result of the extreme weather, opaque with silt and potentially lethal.
Roxton felt Marguerite’s hesitation and turned to her determinedly. “No time to linger, Miss Krux. You and I are going for a swim.”
“In that? You must be crazier than I thought!”
His teeth flashed white for the briefest of seconds as they skidded down the muddy bank on their backsides. “Crazy enough to give it a try - besides, what alternative do we have?”
That might well be true, but the waters were swirling and treacherous. Normally, he was a strong, confident swimmer, but the shackles were going to pose an enormous problem. Fate however, seemed to be on their side for once. As they strode forward into the shallows, Roxton spied a large, uprooted tree moving directly towards them, twisting and turning disjointedly, in the malevolent grip of the current.
He tapped Marguerite on the shoulder. “Quickly - that’s our ride.”
She stared across with comprehension and nodded her head, teeth already chattering with cold or shock. Perhaps with both, thought Roxton sympathetically as the river eddied swiftly round his waist. A shot rang out from behind them and the water sprayed up at his side.
“Damnation, that was far too close for comfort. Get a move on, Marguerite! We miss this tree and we’ve had it!”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” she retorted, the river nearly up to her chin.
Another shot skimmed the surface like a pebble. Pym and his men had almost reached the bank.
The tree was upon them now and Roxton felt a surge of relief. He heaved Marguerite up, out of the water, and onto the fallen trunk. “Ease yourself over the other side, it’ll give you some cover from their bullets.”
“I’m trying . . .”
For a heart-stopping moment she lost her grip, nearly pulling them both back into the water. Roxton grit his teeth and held on, guiding her knee to his shoulder, so she could use his body as a boost. She scrambled up him like a ladder, hitching her leg across the tree and sliding into the swirl on the other side. The current dragged them quickly downstream, their arms joined uncomfortably by the length of chain, across the width of the trunk.
Roxton craned his neck to look behind him. Pym and his men were making no attempt to enter the river. As he watched, he saw the fat man raise his gun, resting it on his forearm to steady the barrel as he pulled the trigger one last time. With a burst of dismay, Roxton recognised one of his own Webleys. So much for Pym not being able to fire it. Something struck him with a thump in the small of his back, jerking his legs out from under him as he sank down for a paralysing second, swallowing and choking helplessly, on a mouthful of muddy water.
Roxton struggled to the surface again as the tree finally swept them out of range. He was grateful for the sense of deadening cold, it numbed the wound and helped to dull any pain.
“Roxton?” Marguerite’s voice was shrill with worry. “You’re pulling me back over the bloody tree!”
He closed his eyes and leant his cheek against the sodden bark, knowing she had no way of seeing him from the other side of the log. “Sorry . . . lost my footing briefly.”
“Well, watch your step,” she said peevishly. “I have no desire to ever see that disgusting, fat creep again.”
Roxton watched dully as Pym and his band of cutthroats grew smaller, gradually diminishing into toy-sized figures and fading out of sight. Fortuitous as it had been, they could not stay on the tree indefinitely. The water had helped them in the short term, in the long run, the cold would prove lethal. He judged they could manage a mile at the most before hypothermia took over. At least they could land on the opposite bank; it might buy them a little more time.
Some deeply ingrained, hunter’s instinct, told him Pym would not give up pursuing them. Their escape had thrown down a gauntlet and the slaver would not rest until he had recaptured them both. Roxton was under no illusion - it was Marguerite the fat man really wanted. His own fate would be final and damned brutal if they fell back into Pym’s clutches. Escape was his only chance of staying alive.
His lower back began to throb with a sullen, aching beat. Curiously, there was no real pain at the moment, but the temperature of the water saw to that. He couldn’t even let go of the tree trunk to investigate the wound. With any luck, it wasn’t all that serious; he hoped the bloody bullet had gone straight through.
Roxton closed his eyes and hung on grimly, profoundly glad Marguerite couldn’t see his face. The words of the old woman came back to him suddenly and pounded like a prophecy in his head:
<<‘Fly, and protect her with your life!’>>
As if there was ever any question of it, he thought ruefully. He would lay his life down for her if necessary. The brown, silt-filled water swept them along, and he clung-on in a sort of torpor. When they eventually reached the opposite shore of the river, Roxton knew what had to be done.
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Veronica looked down thoughtfully at the valley, brushing the rich, red dirt off her hands as Malone helped her back to her feet. She jingled a couple of spent, bullet-casings thoughtfully in her palm and turned to him with a nod.
“This is definitely where they were taken prisoner, I would say by eight or ten men.”
A shout was raised behind them, and one of Zanga warriors dragged a khaki-coloured backpack out of a clump of bushes. Challenger took it from him, recognising it at once.
“It’s Roxton’s tent amongst other things. No sign of the guns, of course.”
“Of course not.” Malone echoed wryly. “That would be way too easy.”
Veronica was examining the ground again, following the tracks across a stretch of open terrain as far as a rocky outcrop. “See this?” She pointed down to a small, semi-circular indentation. “It’s Marguerite’s boot heel. There’s another one here . . . and here.” She frowned as she spied some longer scuff marks, a worry-line crinkling her forehead. “Somebody large was being dragged here. By the size of his feet, I’d say Roxton.”
Challenger looked up sharply. “Dragged, you say? That’s not good. John Roxton’s not the kind of man to give up without a fight. It means he was probably injured.”
At the edge of the plain, they soon found evidence of a small caravan of wagons and horses, moving down into the valley along a barely, discernable trail. It was just as the Zanga scouts had said. The slavers were heading north, towards the plateau’s uncharted regions. It was an area Veronica hardly knew, although she was reasonably familiar with the rift valley which lay stretched out below them. There was a swiftly moving river through the middle of it, and she hazarded a guess the trail would follow its banks fairly closely.
Challenger shaded his eyes against the sun, turning to her with yet another question. “Just how far ahead of us do you think they are? These wagons can’t be moving all that rapidly.”
“Not far,” she said with grim satisfaction. “They had to make camp for the night. It's too dangerous to drive the wagons after dark, which means we’re only half a day behind them. A whole day at the most, if they’re travelling fast.”
“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Challenger was already marching off before them, down the slope.
Malone looked at Veronica and smiled reluctantly, amused by the Scientist’s gung-ho determination. There was no doubt Challenger had changed since their arrival on the plateau. He had grown wiry and filled with more vigour. Malone privately surmised it had something to do with the vindication of his theories, and that maybe, the scientist had regained self-credibility after enduring years of ridicule from his fellows. The journalist wasn’t really sure, but whatever the answer, Challenger was thriving. So much so, Malone sometimes wondered if he wanted to return to London for any other reason, than to prove his discreditors wrong.
“I agree,” he said, shouldering his rifle. “What are we waiting for, indeed?”
END OF PART THREE
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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THE SILVER LINK
PART FOUR
Marguerite looked down in disgust at her sodden attire. Her breeches stuck clammily to each leg and her boots were filled with half the bloody river. She made a face and turned to her silent companion. They'd made such a good lead on their pursuers that with any luck, he might let them rest for a while.
Roxton was looking particularly grim. His face was pale and streaked with mud, pretty much as her own must be. Marguerite had seen him in this kind of mood before and her hopes of a respite began to fade.
"How long do you think it will take them to cross the river?" She wrung out the hem of her jacket as she spoke.
"A good while," he replied shortly. "The current's too fast and dangerous - they'll be forced to go further upstream. Either that, or they could try and rig a crossing line, but it would be a mighty, risky thing to do."
"It depends how much Pym still wants us,” she frowned. “With any luck, he’s given up by now.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Roxton tersely. “I have a nasty feeling we haven’t seen the last of our friend Pym.”
“Really?”
She was unable to help the edge of anxiety which crept into her voice and knew he must have heard it. In all honesty, his words merely echoed her own, intuitive feelings about the slaver, but she’d been seeking a reassurance he couldn’t give.
Marguerite looked at Roxton a little more closely. For the first time, she really noticed the deep lines of worry around his eyes. He seemed tired and unusually sombre and she felt herself soften towards him. In spite of his list of many faults, there was no one she would rather have beside her in a crisis. His presence alone gave her heart - he seemed so incredibly strong. Perhaps it was something to do with his size, she pondered. Or maybe the man’s innate, self-belief in his own abilities.
It wouldn‘t do any harm to forgive him for the incident back at the tree. After all, she had goaded him too, and he had just rescued them from inevitable recapture. She placed her free hand on his arm, surprised at how cold his skin felt.
“By the way, thank you, Roxton. It wasn’t a bad idea using the fallen tree as a raft. Not quite the form of cruising I’ve been used to, but beggars can’t be choosers, so I’m told.”
“Why, Marguerite,” his voice dropped a timbre. “I do believe you just paid me a compliment. A compliment, and a vote of thanks - now don’t go getting sentimental on me.”
She snatched her hand away quickly, annoyed and a little afraid of her reaction to that particular tone of his. There was something about its gravelly depths which sent shivers running up and down her spine.
She looked at him archly and rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, don’t get too carried away. I haven’t forgiven you for bringing me along on this wretched expedition yet. It’s all your fault we’re stuck here in this mess.”
To her surprise, he flashed her a tired smile. “Ah, now there’s the Marguerite I know and love. Come on, let’s not waste our advantage. By my estimation, we have a long climb ahead of us. Once we reach the top of the valley, we’ll be back on more familiar turf. Ladies first.”
She started off in front of him with a sense of resignation. So much for hoping he was human enough to let her have a rest. It had been something, she thought sarcastically, to have been allowed a bathroom break. A tree trunk had proved handy yet again. She smiled slightly, she couldn’t help it. For all Roxton’s ‘man of the world’ airs, His Lordship had been more embarrassed than she was, as they’d stood back-to-back with the tree between them, to do what was natural and necessary.
They walked steadily for nearly two hours and the terrain began changing, just as Roxton had said. Marguerite trudged on ahead of him, becoming more miserable with each step. Her wet clothes felt supremely uncomfortable, they chafed her and rubbed her skin raw. To cap it all, her boots seemed to have shrunken a whole foot size, judging by how cramped her toes felt. Her flash of good humour was rapidly fading, temper worsening as every second passed.
As companions went, Roxton wasn’t exactly laugh a minute. The man was unnaturally quiet. Normally, she would have welcomed such unexpected conduct from him, but the silence was starting to grate on her frazzled nerves.
“Roxton, I’ve had enough. I need five minutes rest.”
She turned to face him prepared for a battle, but to her surprise, he acquiesced. He looked just as miserable as she felt. Stony-faced and distinctly uncomfortable. Good, she thought with a spark of vindictiveness. Serves him right for being such a hard, taskmaster.
There was a small pile of boulders which looked perfect for sitting on. Marguerite gave a sigh of relief as she towed Roxton across the clearing, momentarily forgetting the shackles, bound like a clamp around her wrist. They reminded her all too cruelly, as the manacle cut into her skin.
“Hell!” The expletive escaped from her lips and much to her fury, her eyes filled with sudden, hot tears. Try as she might, she was unable to blink them away this time and knew to her chagrin, he had seen them.
“Let me look at that.” Roxton’s voice was kind, his free hand reaching round to examine her wrist.
“It’s nothing.” She snatched her arm away.
His unasked for sympathy made her feel worse. The last thing she needed was to come over all weak and feminine. She had survived tougher trials during the war. She would get through this as she had always done, by drawing on her customary reserves of strength and self-sufficiency. But she had reckoned without Lord Roxton. The man could be as obstinate as she was.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” his voice sounded strained. He caught hold of her arm once again, mouth tightening as he saw the ugly sore underneath the manacle. “Here . . .”
The mood lightened for a second as he reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a damp, white handkerchief. He smiled slightly ruefully at her look of incredulous derision.
“A gentleman never goes anywhere without his handkerchief. You never know when it will come in useful.”
“Did they teach you that in the Boy Scouts?” A small smile lifted the edges of her mouth as he doubled it gently around her wrist.
“No,” there was the tiniest pause as he looked up and caught her eye. “My nanny always insisted - and she never spanked me once.”
Her smile widened with appreciation - both at his kindness and his wit. As ruffled as he undoubtedly made her at times, there was no denying she ever found him boring. In fact, since arriving on the plateau, she had often wondered how on earth she would pass the time if he wasn’t there. Challenger and Summerlee were typical men of science, absorbed and obsessed with their various theories and discoveries. Ned Malone was little more than a naive boy and Veronica . . . Veronica, for all her survival savvy, knew nothing of real life.
No, aggravating as Roxton most certainly was, she had always found his company challenging. Of course, she would rather die than admit it, especially to the man himself. He didn’t need her to pander to his conceit, he had a high enough opinion of himself, as it was.
"This should make it a little easier," he tied off the ends of his handkerchief and tucked them in under the makeshift bandage. "It's not too tight?"
"No," she flexed her wrist experimentally and tugged disconsolately at the wide, iron manacle. "I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but I finally found a piece of jewellery I didn't like.”
He looked at her oddly and nodded. “Not exactly Aspreys*2 is it? You should only ever wear the finest jewellery. Rubies perhaps, or maybe emeralds - emeralds to match those remarkable eyes.”
She stared up at him with a touch of astonishment. Roxton had spoken with a hint of wistfulness, something she had never heard in his voice before. There was something . . . an air of latent tenderness about him as he regarded her, an unfathomable expression on his face. Marguerite looked a little bit harder. Was it just her imagination, or did his eyes seemed a trifle over-bright?
The last thing she wanted was an amorous Roxton. Dear God, there was a time and a place for this. The time was very definitely not now. Not when they were shackled together and on the run for their lives. As for the place, well, that was certainly not here. They were stuck in the middle of the bloody jungle, surrounded by a pack of murderous beasts.
She jumped up as if stung, the chain stretching tautly between them. “I think it’s time we got moving again. You’re the one who said we haven’t seen the last of that disgusting, fat slaver.”
He got to his feet immediately, but still seemed rather disorientated. Marguerite watched him out of the corner of her eye, a hard knot of worry growing tighter in her chest. Damn - it suddenly occurred to her, he might have a head injury. He’d been struck pretty viciously, and it was only yesterday. Perhaps he was still suffering from the after-effects of the blow. Trust Roxton - it would be just like the silly man to hide it. She opened her mouth to say something, but uncannily, he reverted back to type in the space of a second.
“I sincerely hope I’m proved wrong about Pym. It would be nice to think our only problem, was getting home in one piece," he grimaced down at the iron around his wrist. "In-spite of these bloody shackles.”
Marguerite sighed exasperatedly, so much for worrying about him. He’d obviously just been flirting after all. Why waste her precious time on him? She had enough on her plate right now without trying to puzzle-out Roxton.
The climb became more punishing as the temperature started to soar. The heat caused steam to rise up off their clothes, adding to the general discomfort. The damp cloth was attracting biting midges and soon Marguerite had been stung all over, her fair skin acting like a magnet. She itched and scratched and grumbled out loud, muttering curses under her breath as they continued to trudge uphill. Roxton let her take the lead again, giving her the odd push from behind whenever she faltered. It meant she could dictate the pace, and she knew he was covering her back. But it would be nice if he bothered to pull me up the slope now and then, she groused to herself. Her misery came flooding back with a giant vengeance. When would this awful nightmare ever end?
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Roxton tried his best to keep his mind blank. He found it made things slightly easier. All the same, it was getting more difficult to ignore the pain which pulsed consistently in the small of his back. Now the numbing cold from the river had worn-off, he was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. It was the kind of hot, dry heat which usually accompanied a fever. The light-headedness he felt, only served to confirm it. He was sick and he was going to get sicker.
Any hope the bullet might have gone straight through, had long since been dispelled. He'd been able to determine there was no exit wound the minute they’d staggered from the water. It was a blessing as well as a curse. As long as he kept his back turned away from Marguerite, there was a chance she wouldn’t realise he was wounded. On the other hand, an embedded bullet meant inevitable infection. Years of experience had taught him that, and soldiering in Flanders had merely compounded it. The wound had received a liberal douching of river water. Roxton knew he’d be lucky to escape without some nasty complication.
They continued to trek uphill, through the densely, forested terrain. As the sides of the valley got steeper, they were forced to negotiate some awkward, rocky outcrops. It gave him an excuse to stay behind her, boosting her over the more difficult parts. The limited slack from the manacles made things tricky, and on more than one occasion, Roxton had to brace himself and catch Marguerite as she fell. They barely spoke to one another, but Roxton was glad of the silence. The higher they climbed, the harder it became to catch his breath. He was afraid his voice would give the game away.
Every now and then he would stop and cast a glance across his shoulder. There was no sign of anyone behind them, but Roxton didn’t let the loneliness fool him. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they were still being hunted. His sixth sense told him Pym was out there somewhere, probably a damn sight closer than they thought.
“Damn it!” Marguerite swore and missed her footing, falling hard on her rump.
The chain wrenched sharply between them, catching him unawares. He was dragged forwards by the impetus of her slip, fighting hard not to lose his balance as he strove not to land on top of her. Roxton felt his back jar unpleasantly, it hurt like the force from a knife thrust. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and he stuck out his free hand like an anchor. Somehow, he managed to save them both, his body-weight breaking their fall. The sky lurched and swung like a whirligig. His vision started to darken.
He took a dogged breath and fought the pain, sliding down beside her to ease the tension from their bindings. The agony nearly threatened to overwhelm him, he knew how close he’d come to passing out.
“Bloody Hell!” Marguerite was complaining bitterly, a picture of abject unhappiness. She rubbed at her bandaged wrist. “As if this day could get any better.”
Roxton waited until he could trust himself to speak. “It doesn’t help when you don’t look where you’re going.”
“Then perhaps you should try leading the way,” she snapped back at him, goaded beyond all endurance. “I’ve just about had enough of this. When in God’s name do we reach the top?”
"We . . ." began Roxton with acerbity, then he paused, his senses prickling.
"We, what?" demanded Marguerite.
"Quiet!" He raised his hand and listened hard, with a sense of deja vu. "There's something behind us. Over to your right, in those bushes."
“Not again . . .” Marguerite was on her feet before he'd finished speaking, her attack of pique forgotten at once. "Pym?"
"No." Roxton shook his head decisively. "It's making far too much noise. I have a nasty feeling about this. Let's get up above those rocks - quick as you can, Marguerite!"
To be fair, she didn’t need telling twice. Whatever faults one might level at Miss Krux, she was never stubborn to the point of stupidity. Especially when there was someone’s life at stake. In this case it was her own, her own and his, of course. For a second, Roxton wondered bleakly if the latter mattered to her at all, but the only conclusion he could muster was not particularly hopeful.
The brief stop had not helped his back. In-fact, it had made it worse. The few minutes of inactivity had stiffened-up the muscles and movement was distinctly more uncomfortable, if that were at all possible. He tried his best to ignore it, but that particular, tired tactic, was failing him singularly now.
They made a further twenty yards before disaster struck. There was a sibilant hiss behind them and Roxton's worst fears were realised. A raptor shouldered its way out of the undergrowth, pointed head weaving from side to side as it regarded them with an implacable stare. Roxton's heart sank, the monster had probably been tracking them for awhile now, drawn by the scent of blood from his wound. He scouted around desperately for cover. He had no intention of ending up in the belly of a raptor after everything they’d endured escaping from Pym.
“What now?” Marguerite tugged at her end of the chain. “Wake-up, Roxton!”
Over to their left, the days of heavy rainfall had caused a subsequent mudslide. A deep scar had been slashed into the hillside, tumbling and loosening boulders and up-rooting a number of trees. It wasn’t much in the way of shelter, but their options were pitifully few. If they could make it that far without getting rushed, there was a chance of finding refuge in the pile of overhanging rocks and debris.
“There,” he indicated to her. “Run, now!”
She nodded briefly and took to her heels, slipping, and nearly stumbling on the already difficult ground. The mudslide had loosened the whole of the hillside and it crumbled underfoot as they ran. The raptor sprang after them with a hungry roar and Roxton realised they had no way in hell of out-running it. The beast was simply too fast.
Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath him. Roxton fought hard to stay on his feet, but a combination of the treacherous terrain and his own weakness finally conspired against him. He barely had time to shout a desperate warning before losing his balance totally. Marguerite was wrenched after him with a bone-jarring jerk of the chain.
He plummeted headlong down the hillside, his heavier weight pulling them onwards. Marguerite thudded into him and Roxton heard her cry out in shock. They continued to roll uncontrollably, in a tangle of arms and legs, building-up speed and momentum, before smashing into the root-ball of a mighty, torn out tree.
“Ouff!”
The breath left his lungs in a violent explosion as Marguerite landed on top of him. Roxton tried to raise himself upwards, but his body refused to obey. Time and abuse took its toll at last - he had finally given up the ghost. He continued to struggle ineffectually, trapped and helpless as a stranded fish. But they were firmly wedged in the tangle of roots and Marguerite lay limply against him. For all he knew, she was seriously injured. Perhaps she was already dead.
In his last, few seconds of remaining consciousness, Roxton thought with despair of the raptor. They were as good as a ready-made dinner now, all served up on a silver platter. The dinosaur had merely to stroll down and eat them at its leisure. Hell, there was even time for the beast to invite all its friends along. An entree and a main course no less, and there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it.
END OF PART FOUR
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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NOTES
1. Marguerite’s birthmark - (SPOILER ALERT) The famous birthmark was first seen in the Season One Episode, ‘Out Of Time’. Consisting of a small disc-shaped mole flanked on either side by the impression of two S-shaped uncoiling serpents, its significance is further revealed in the Season Three Episode, ‘Trapped’.
2. Aspreys - Now called Asprey and Garrard ltd, Asprey was founded in 1781 in Mitcham, England, a village then famous for lavender growing. From this modest start William Asprey’s son Charles and his son, also Charles, developed the family business. In 1847 they moved to premises at 166, Bond Street, in Mayfair, London, describing their products as ‘articles of exclusive design and high quality for people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey’s was granted a Royal Warrant by Queen Victoria, and has remained the Royal Crown jewellers ever since.
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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