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PART SEVEN

Veronica looked uneasily at Marguerite. The elder woman was always an enigma to her, but never more so than now. She sat huddled up by the campfire, a blanket draped over her shoulders. With her dark hair hanging down loose around her, she resembled an Indian squaw. Every so often, she would stare at her wrist - almost as though something were missing.

"Here, let me."

Veronica crouched beside her, gently taking her hand. She unwound the filthy handkerchief and gave a small gasp of dismay. Marguerite's wrist was red and raw, the tissue badly abraded.

"Oh, Marguerite. Why didn't you say something?" Veronica bit her lip.

The other woman shrugged disinterestedly. "It’s not important in the scheme of things.”

Veronica paused in her ministrations, glancing involuntarily across the clearing to where Challenger knelt beside Roxton; she knew what the Heiress meant.

“Even so, it’s a nasty wound. You know better than to leave anything untended in the jungle, there’s always the danger of infection.” She began to clean it gently, surprised by the lack of complaint. Marguerite sat there passively, staring blankly off into the night.

“These leaves are yarrow, they’ll help the inflammation . . .” Veronica applied a clean bandage, picking up the blood-stained handkerchief with a grimace of distaste. “I’ll put this on the fire . . .”

“No.” Marguerite came to life suddenly and snatched the dirty rag out of her hand. “That’s John’s handkerchief . . .” She began to laugh hysterically. “Did you know his nanny made him carry it? A gentleman is never without one.”

“Marguerite, are you all right?” Veronica was deeply concerned now. Apart from anything else, she couldn't ever recall hearing Marguerite refer to Roxton as John before. “Perhaps you ought to lie down for a little while; I’ll call Challenger across in a minute.”

“No, don’t . . .” Marguerite sobered abruptly. “Roxton needs him far more than I do. I’m fine - I’ll be fine in just a second. God, I could do with a drink.”

Veronica looked at her uncertainly, but the other woman’s words made sense. Roxton needed Challenger badly; it was up to her to care for Marguerite. She sighed slightly. Marguerite wasn’t exactly her favourite person, in fact, out of all her new-found companions, it was the Heiress she liked the least. But this was no time for selfishness, it was quite obvious Marguerite had suffered enormously during her ordeal with the slavers. Her behaviour was most disconcerting - never since her arrival on the Plateau had Veronica seen her so distraught.

"Here, have some of this - it was Challenger's idea to bring it."

Veronica rummaged inside the kit-bag and withdrew a small silver flask. She hesitated a moment before handing it over, but Marguerite almost grabbed it out of her hands. The Heiress reached for it eagerly and took a long draught of brandy. And thank goodness, it seemed to help her a bit. Veronica watched as a faint touch of colour returned to her pallid cheeks.

"Thanks, just what the doctor ordered."

"You'd better not have too much of it." Veronica took it away from her and waited for the inevitable fireworks. To her surprise, there were none forthcoming.

Marguerite was watching Challenger, her eyes huge in the firelight as the Scientist lifted his head to bark a brief order at Malone. Her stricken look had returned again, and Veronica was at a loss to know how to help her.

"Why did he do it?" Marguerite's voice was low. "I didn't ask the bloody man to be a hero . . ."

It took Veronica a moment to work out it was Roxton the other woman was talking about. Some of her original scorn returned. "It's who he is, Marguerite. Roxton's a good man. No one forced him to risk helping Summerlee, no one asked him to save you from that T-Rex. Not everyone has an ulterior motive for doing things - they just do them from the goodness of their hearts."

“Do they?” Marguerite’s lips twisted sourly. “Not in my experience, they don’t.”

“Then your experience has been unfortunate,” replied Veronica steadily. “No one had to coerce the Zanga to help us rescue you and Roxton - they came because it was the right thing to do.”

The other woman was silent for a moment, staring broodingly into the fire. She shivered. "I don't know which is worse; being stuck here, where it's openly barbaric, or back home where it's hidden under the skin."

"Marguerite?" Challenger's voice was insistent. "Over here please, if you will."

Veronica saw Marguerite tense. Her knuckles clenched tightly on the edges of the blanket and the transient flush of alcohol-induced colour faded instantly. She was so pale, Veronica grew alarmed. Jumping up in time to assist the other woman to her feet as she swayed for a second, and nearly fell.

"I'm fine . . ." Marguerite pushed her brusquely away and stumbled across to the men.

Veronica followed her more slowly, trying to fight her own feeling of dread as she looked towards Malone for reassurance. She found it singularly lacking in the young American's eyes. It was dark now, and the moon was rising. They were camped not far from the cave. The sun was already setting when they'd finally tracked down Pym and his men, defeating them with the Zanga's help, in a brief but bloody altercation. It was immediately obvious that neither Roxton nor Marguerite were in any condition to travel. The Englishman was unconscious and badly wounded, Marguerite, clearly in a state of shock.

Saving Roxton had been Challenger’s priority. They needed to stop the bleeding and get him fit enough for the difficult journey home. The bullet was lodged too deeply for field surgery, Arthur Summerlee was his only real hope.

“Ned?” Her voice was soft and questioning. “How is he?”

Malone got to his feet with a sigh and walked her away a little. “It’s not looking very good, I’m afraid. He’s in shock and raging with fever . . . God, I wish Summerlee was here!”

“We’ll get him back home tomorrow. He’ll be fine, just you see.”

“If he survives the journey,” said Malone dispiritedly.

“Roxton’s strong.” Veronica didn’t know who she was trying to convince. “He’s physically and mentally strong. He hasn’t come this far to give up now - he’ll make it back home and recover.”

Malone smiled down at her gratefully. “He isn’t the only one who’s strong around here . . .” he nodded across at Marguerite and frowned. “How is our resident heiress?”

Veronica raised a baffled eyebrow. “Your guess is as good as mine. At first, I could swear she was terrified for Roxton - but now it’s almost as if she’s angry with him. After everything they went through together . . .”

Malone shook his head with perplexity. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand how that woman thinks. Why Roxton even tries is quite beyond me, it's pretty obvious she’s cold as ice.”

Veronica remembered the handkerchief and bit her lip. She was suddenly assailed by doubt. Malone might think Marguerite straight-forward, but in her own opinion, the Englishwoman was the most complicated person she’d ever met. She seriously doubted if Marguerite was who or what she appeared to be, but was anyone after all?

She wisely refrained from comment, patting Malone comfortingly on the arm. She hoped Roxton really would make it, for Ned’s sake as well as his own, but the odds weren’t looking too good and she knew from bitter experience, the jungle could be a harsh domain. Only the strongest survived here and tough as Roxton was, he’d been badly wounded. They still had a long and dangerous trip home.

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Marguerite knelt down awkwardly and found her knees were shaking. She hadn’t felt this drained in a long time, and part of her strongly resented it. A combination of things, she told herself, shock and mental trauma, exhaustion and lack of food. But she knew in her heart it was more than that, though her soul pushed it fearfully away.

The truth was, she was afraid. During the last couple of weeks she'd undergone some sort of revelation. First Summerlee and now Roxton - she was scared of the sense of dependence. Of the feeling that her well-being was contingent on the presence of others. She would rather face a thousand Pym's than be forced to admit she was vulnerable. Physical fear could be conquered but emotional fear made you weak.

“Marguerite . . .” Roxton’s voice was terrifyingly frail. “Marguerite . . .”

“He’s been asking for you,” said Challenger abruptly. “If you could say something reassuring, it might help him settle.”

And there it was, she thought bitterly, the inference she might not. That she didn’t give a damn about the idiotic man . . . the bloody, brave fool that he was . . .

Her eyes hardened. “Does he know where he is?”

Challenger frowned. “I'm not sure. He doesn’t seem to recognise any of us, he just keeps asking for you.”

She bent down lower and took Roxton’s hand, clasping it tightly between her own. His skin felt hot and dry as paper, the fever had really taken hold.

“Fly . . .” his parched lips were moving restlessly. “Fly, and protect her with your life . . .”

“Roxton,” she spoke his name soothingly. “It’s all right, Roxton, I’m here.”

He stared up at her frantically with glassy eyes. “Marguerite, is that you?”

“It’s me,” she affirmed gently. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry anymore. Challenger’s here and we’re safe, we even managed to rescue your blessed guns.”

Challenger cleared his throat and turned discreetly away. Marguerite watched him with a pang in her heart. She drew her cloak of cynicism around her, even closer in self-defence.

“Pym . . .” Roxton’s grip tightened painfully. “Pym was in the cave . . . I couldn’t stay awake, I couldn’t help you . . .”

A wave of coldness ran through her as she remembered the time in the cave. Part of her wanted to block it all out, but her mind resurrected the nightmare. What had happened was her little secret - she would never tell the truth about Pym. Her fingers twitched convulsively as she clung to Roxton’s hand. For a moment, it seemed they were still chained together, and perhaps, she thought, they always would be. Linked by their common experience, by the horrors they’d been forced to undergo. Marguerite was suddenly frightened, lost and emotionally confused. She was floundering alone in deep water, drowning and out of her depth.

“But you did help me, John,” her voice faltered alarmingly. “You saved my life. You can’t give up on me, Roxton, I’ve been thinking of that penthouse suite at Claridges, don’t you dare try to renege on our deal.”

His body drained of tension, a hint of lucidity stealing into his eyes as her words sank in. “A table for two . . . at the Cafe de Paris . . .”

“And you’ll pick up the tab, of course.” She smiled down at him, her own eyes bright with unexpected tears.

“Of course . . .”

Roxton was quieter now, lashes falling softly on his cheeks as he began to drift off. Marguerite sat beside him in silence, waiting until his fingers uncurled and he released his grip on her hand. She didn’t move for a long time after that, watching his face as the lines relaxed and he slipped away from her, into his dreams.

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Night blurred on into day. The hours passed slowly in a nightmare of twisted images, until Marguerite could barely remember the journey home. It was just one more thing to add to her litany of misery, each footstep a painful reminder of the circumstances which had brought her here in the first place. Veronica had obviously been assigned to help her, the younger woman taking her arm for most of the way whilst the men took it in turns to carry Roxton. Marguerite was too weary to protest. She walked for miles in silence, just willing the trek to be over.

They reached the Tree House in late afternoon, but Marguerite didn’t feel much like rejoicing. Stepping tiredly out of the lift, she was pulled into a swift embrace by Arthur Summerlee. The botanist was overcome with relief to see her - he had begun to fear the worst. She stiffened immediately, unable to stop herself pushing him away, despite being inordinately touched. Summerlee, dear man, was worried about her - someone had actually been concerned about her safety.

“Don’t waste your time on me, Arthur.” She gestured over her shoulder. “Roxton’s badly hurt, he needs your expertise.”

She had suddenly become superfluous, slumping into a chair by herself as the Tree House sprang to action in a flurry of activity. She felt strange and oddly disconnected, as though something vital was missing. Marguerite picked at the bandage on her wrist; for a moment, she had almost expected the manacle to be there. The manacle which had linked her to Roxton in many more ways than just one. Her face twisted laconically. What the hell was she playing at?

A few weeks away from civilisation and she was turning into a needy, little woman. Well, not her, not Marguerite Krux. That was one thing not on her agenda. And yet, she'd been genuinely moved by Summerlee’s greeting, she realised she had actually missed him. As for the man who, even now, lay in another room fighting for his life . . .

She would not . . . she refused to think about Roxton. He was probably dying, anyway. Even though he was strong, he would need the constitution of an ox to survive a wound like that, along with the subsequent infection and lack of proper, medical care.

Marguerite choked back a strangled laugh. Even injured, Roxton was a thorn in her side. For someone she refused to think of, he occupied her every waking moment. She had never met anyone like him before, an attractive man, so fundamentally decent. Oh, he knew he was easy on the eye all right, but somehow, it had not spoiled his character. It was his bloody kindness which threw her, the innate nobility of spirit that hid behind the twinkle in his eye.

He was hers for the asking - she knew it. She only had to crook her little finger . . .

Which was the one reason why she couldn’t do it, and the basis of all her fears. She was used to the cads and the bounders, the users and abusers of women. She could exploit and manoeuvre them like pieces on a chess board - play them at their own twisted games. Men were always easier to deal with if she could heartily despise them all. There were one or two exceptions, of course, but they had usually been much older, in positions of power. Men like Winston Churchill*¹ and Edward Grey*².

There was a cold, tight pain in her chest. A knot of hard discomfort. Marguerite knew with a flash of insight, she was building her emotional defences up again. The thought should have been reassuring - wasn't it the way she lived her life?

Instead, a part of her found it terrifying. The deep water beckoned once more. She knew then with a fragile certainty, that if John Roxton died, she might never have the courage to lower those defences again.

END OF PART SEVEN
Lisa Paris - 2004.

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THE SILVER LINK
PART EIGHT

Something important was missing - he knew with conviction it was gone. Roxton fought hard to remember, but his mind roved relentlessly through fever-filled dreams, and his memories proved vague and incomplete.

He was cold, he was bloody freezing, why would nobody help him get warm? He plucked at the blanket which covered him, his fingers slipping ineffectually on the elusive material as it slithered down out of his grasp. A spasm of shivers racked through him. Dear God, he was so damned cold.

The room he was in, was dark like a cave. A cave . . . why did that seem familiar? He tried to think, to concentrate, but his mind slid away from him like silk. All he was left with were distorted images - images of fear and pain. Of the knowledge he wasn’t good enough, that he had failed and let someone down.

He reached for the blanket again, breath hitching in his throat as the movement caused a ripple of pure agony. His back had been sliced in two, or at least it seemed that way. The waves of pain engulfed him, until he feared he might be drowning. Roxton lay as still as he could, fists clenched and knuckles white. He kept his eyes screwed tightly closed, like a small child awakening from a nightmare. Beads of sweat began to track down his face and he didn’t feel cold any longer. Now he burned with a rage of fire, as his body became an inferno.

“Easy, John.”

The voice was comforting and vaguely familiar, but he still wasn’t sure where he was. Someone was bathing him with cool, scented water, and he sighed in grateful relief. After a while he began to feel better as the fever released him from its grip. He eased his eyes open cautiously, waiting for the pain to go away.

“That’s better.” The voice spoke once more.

Roxton could hear the low murmur of conversation in the room behind him. He strained his ears to listen, terrified to move in case the knife sliced through him again. Things gradually swung into focus. The palm-thatch roof above him and muslin hangings at the open window. He hazily remembered the Tree House; of course, that was where he was.

“Summerlee?” he tried out the name experimentally. Part of him wondered with a sense of detachment, if he’d cheated fate one, last time.

“Roxton!”

There was a quick, rustle of movement from the other side of the bed, and he became aware of the other person in the room. “Must . . . say, Arthur,” he croaked, “your voice has changed somewhat . . .”

Marguerite’s face seemed abnormally white, or perhaps it was the just the candlelight. Her eyes were as eldritch and beautiful as ever, but looked anxious and overly huge. Roxton frowned with confusion - why should she look like that for him?

“About time,” her tone was subdued. “Roxton, do you know who I am?”

Not such a stupid question , he thought wearily. He still wasn’t sure what had happened to him, let alone what was causing the pain. He stared into her face with a trace of light-headedness - as if he could ever forget her.

“Of course,” he murmured dreamily. “A woman of fire and steel. The thorn in my side, the pain in my . . .”

“He’s obviously still delirious.” Marguerite interrupted him hurriedly, but a small smile hovered round her lips.

“Um . . . quite,” said Summerlee hastily, placing his hand on Roxton’s brow. “ But he is a trifle cooler, at long last. Roxton, my dear fellow, you’ve been fighting a severe fever for the past three days, how are you feeling now?”

Roxton thought long and hard about it. Truth to tell, he wasn’t all that sure. “So, so,” he ventured cautiously. “Summerlee, what happened to me?”

A quick look passed between Summerlee and Marguerite, but instead of answering his question straight away, the botanist got to his feet and gave a nod of satisfaction.

“I’ll leave you in Marguerite’s capable hands, John, she can fill you in on everything that’s happened,” he paused and turned to the doorway.   “Meanwhile, there are three people waiting upstairs who will be very relieved you decided to rejoin us.” He gave Marguerite a last look. “Call me whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

Since when had Summerlee called Marguerite, ‘my dear?’ Roxton decided it was too complicated for him to worry about now. He was tired, so very tired, and still felt uncomfortably sore. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he woke up again, it was morning.

Marguerite dozed in a chair at his bedside, dark hair swept back off her face in a simple plait. He lay quietly for a while, just watching her. It was an immeasurably, comforting sight. She looked small and surprisingly fragile - the seemingly invulnerable, Miss Krux. Devoid of her usual defences and to his eyes, more beautiful than ever.

Roxton frowned suddenly, noticing her bandaged wrist. Something about jewellery, his handkerchief . . . an onslaught of images assailed him. He raised his own arm up off the bed, surprised at the ridiculous effort it cost him. But there it was, a strip of white linen, the dressing corresponded to hers. The memories came back with a vengeance as he pieced it all together in his head. How the hell had she managed to get him back here? Somehow the others must have known. The pain in his back was getting worse again, hardly remarkable now he knew what had caused it. A bullet from his own bloody gun.

“Roxton?” She was awake and watching him closely. “Do you need something for the pain?”

“No,” he shook his head determinedly. He was confused enough as it was. “Some water . . . God, I’m thirsty.”

She held a cup to his lips and helped him to drink. It tasted like absolute nectar and he swiftly finished the lot. “Thank you,” he leaned back against the pillows, feeling a little better. “Pym - what happened to Pym?”

She gave a tired little smile. “Your idea worked. The fat bastard fell down the fissure,” she paused and lowered her eyes. “Not before I managed to get the keys from him, though.”

She told him the rest of the story, of how the others had found them in the cave. Keeping it concise and simple, glossing over any part she might have played.

He got the distinct impression she was keeping something from him, that she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. The thought filled him with unexpected bitterness, nothing new there, then. He doubted whether Miss Krux knew the definition of the word truth - and yet, there was something about her, or perhaps it was something about him, which sensed her intrinsic worth. He knew in his heart, he could trust her with his life. Hell, wasn’t that what he had done?  

"And you're all right?" He couldn't help asking the question, still worried by the shadows which lurked in her eyes.

Marguerite looked up at him wordlessly, barely managing to shake her head. After a moment, she regained her composure and leaned slightly closer to the bed. "How can you even ask me that, Roxton? Who gave you the right to save everyone but yourself?"

He took refuge in discomfort to avoid her question, the pain was worsening, so he allowed it to swamp him. He was no bloody martyr. Good Lord, anything but. The answer was easy, really. The thought of letting anyone down a second time was simply, more than he could stand.

“Roxton?” Her voice was considerably softer. “Please don’t ever do it again.” She put out a tentative hand to push the hair back off his brow. “Please don’t die on my account.”

He caught hold of her wrist very gently and looked down at the swathe of white bandage. Time hovered briefly between them and he knew at that moment, he couldn’t make a promise he might be unable to keep. He gave her a weary smile and closed his eyes instead.

“I pledge to do no more for you, than you would do for me.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but for once, she didn’t withdraw her hand. The darkness crept in and claimed him again. Roxton let it steal him softly away.

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Three weeks later . . .

Marguerite was running . . . running . . . but the chains kept pulling her back. She turned to Roxton with a surge of anger as he fell to his knees on the ground. She held out her hands in front of her, aghast as they dripped red with blood . . . his blood . . .

She woke-up with a jolt, her mouth dry and heart thumping, left hand reaching automatically for the manacle around her wrist. It was gone, of course. There was nothing there apart from the drying skin of her nearly   healed wound. She lay in the darkness until her heart-rate eased, and then took a deep breath before swinging her legs around to the floor and getting out of bed.

She didn’t bother lighting a candle. The room was filled with streams of silver moonlight, shining in through the open window and cracks in the palm-thatching. Marguerite padded quietly through the Tree House, smiling with brief amusement to herself, as the sound of Challenger’s thunderous snoring resonated up from the floor below.

She made her way out to the balcony, as she had done so many times before. Since being forced to exist in such close proximity with people who had until recently, been total strangers, it was the one place she could conjure an illusion of solitude in the magical hours before the dawn.

Someone had beaten her to it. She didn’t have to see the familiar silhouette to know it was Roxton sitting motionless at the railing. Marguerite watched him in silence for a minute - taking advantage of the fact he hadn’t seen her, to study him closely without his knowledge.

The aftermath of his ordeal had left him leaner, trimming down some of the evidence of his previous life of excess. It was still a little bit early for him to be out here alone, but she wouldn’t be the one to rat on him. The moonlight gleamed silver on the object in his hand, and she saw with a sudden lurch of her stomach, it was one of his precious Webley’s.

“Won’t you join me, Marguerite?” There was the briefest hint of humour in his voice.

She gave a reluctant smile. The bloody man had probably known she was there all along. Trust the ‘Great White Hunter.’ The thought made her feel unaccountably happy, he was truly getting better at last.

She raised an eyebrow and sauntered forward. “What, no more Miss Krux?”

“No,” he answered after a moment. “With your permission, of course?”

“Hmm . . .” She pretended to consider. “I think Marguerite will do just fine.”

“Talking of names,” he placed the Webley down on the table in front of him. “I seem to remember you calling me John back there in the cave - or perhaps it was just a hallucination?”

“Definitely a hallucination,” she countered quickly. “You were pretty delirious by then.”

“I thought it must be,” he looked straight into her eyes and sighed. “As hallucinations go, it was very nice, although the one in which you kissed me was far nicer. In fact, I wouldn’t mind having it again one day.”

Marguerite placed her elbows on the table and matched him look for look. “Perhaps in your dreams, Lord Roxton.”

He didn’t back away for a second. “In dreams, anything can happen.”

“And then you wake-up,” she said with a sigh.

Damn it, why was the man so sinfully attractive? It was getting hard to keep a sense of perspective, especially when he stared at her like that. As though he could melt all the clothes off her body with a quirk of those mobile eyebrows . . . make her hormones respond so outrageously, with a single, roguish glance . . .

"Ah, well," he said regretfully, "there's always Claridges. Now don’t deny you promised me that, Marguerite. Didn’t I say I’d honour the tab?”

Her breath exhaled on a reluctant laugh, she simply couldn't help it. She had to admire his audacity, and it was a relief to spar with him again. There was a time when she'd thought he was dying - when she'd been forced to face the brutal truth of a future without him. It had seemed uncommonly bleak. She cast him a teasing look from beneath her eyelashes - two could play at this game.

"I'll tell you what, My Lord, you get us both back safely to London, and I promise to consider the penthouse at Claridges . . . I hear they have very comfortable couches . . ."

He reached across suddenly and caught hold of her wrist, caressing the nearly healed scars with his thumb, as he continued to stare into her eyes. "Let’s just get something very clear - if you and I spend the night at Claridges, I won't be sleeping on the couch."

There it was, that husky timbre. She felt her insides melting.

"You and I will be sharing a bed, Marguerite, and hopefully, much, much more. I told you before, and I meant it. A woman like you comes along once in a blue moon . . . I have no intention of losing you.”

“You haven’t found me yet,” she said in a low voice. “Perhaps you never will.”

“I’m a hunter, Marguerite,” he said simply, “and I don‘t give up the chase because of the odd set back or two. Especially when the prize is so valuable, when it’s worth more than its weight in gold.”

She allowed herself be swept along by the dream for a moment, by the hope which shone so sweetly in his eyes. It was easy out here, just the two of them, in the ethereal light before dawn. The moonlight shifted shadows of illusion and Marguerite felt her breath catch. It seemed as though the chains still tied them - that they were bound by an invisible, silver link.

Reality flooded back with a vengeance and she quickly snatched her wrist out of his grasp. It was a lethal combination - an attractive man and the moonlight, she was experienced enough to know better. Life had taught her   people couldn’t be trusted, this was not the time to forget that lesson now. The wizened face of the crone intruded into her thoughts, and Marguerite was reminded of her own personal mission. She had come to the plateau for a salient reason, a quest which she intended to carry out. If all went well, she would have everything she’d ever wanted . . .

Except that now, a part of her wanted more.

“I can see you’re feeling much better,” she took refuge in her old, sarcastic tone. “Just as presumptuous as ever.”

“Not quite,” his voice was still sober. “Everyone can change, Marguerite. Even you.”

She stiffened uncomfortably. “Yes, well, the only change I’m planning on right now, is a change of location. I’m going back to bed - alone.”

He smiled wryly and got to his feet, picking up the Webley from the table. “Well, much as I hate to disappoint you, I’m afraid I really couldn’t oblige with anything else at the moment, in any case.”

He gave a slight wince of pain, and she immediately felt guilty. Damn the man. What was he, her conscience? Her moral guardian?

But she still found herself offering him an arm, inordinately touched by his gratitude as his body relaxed up against her. She guided him back through the silent Tree House, down the stairs to his bed. To her surprise, he didn’t try to detain her, easing under the sheet with a grunt of discomfort as his still-healing wound pulled sharply. There were no jokes or suggestive innuendo, no comments about her joining him there. Perhaps his back was aching more than he cared to admit, but Marguerite didn’t think that was the case. Something had changed between them - whether she liked it or not.

Her own room was bathed in silver, the pearly opalescence of dawn. To her amazement, there was no trace of her notorious insomnia. For once, she actually felt sleepy, relaxed and at peace. Marguerite lay back on her pillows with a small sigh of pleasure and let her mind drift slowly away. Her thoughts took flight like an invisible link, winging their way through the dimly lit Tree House to the man in the room down below her. The chains which had bound her so tightly, might one day, set her free . . .

THE END

Lisa Paris - 2004.

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NOTES

1. Winston Churchill - Hopefully this man needs no real introduction. Soldier and Statesman, politician and painter, wordsmith and wit- extraordinaire. Churchill is, of course, best known for his foresight and dogged determination in the fight against Nazi Germany. We know Marguerite encountered him on several occasions during the Great War in his role as First Lord of the Admiralty 1911-1915, Munitions Minister in 1917 and subsequently War Minister in 1918. Churchill was by no means perfect, but he was vigorous and imaginative, eloquent, fore-sighted and brave. After the failure of the Dardanelles expedition, he was dismissed from his post at the Admiralty and went to fight in an infantry regiment on the Western Front until his reinstatement in 1917. Thank goodness, fate kept him safe. In my honest and humble opinion, one of the greatest men that ever lived. His wonderful books are a fascinating insight on the Statesmen and cataclysmic events of the Twentieth Century, which irrevocably shaped all our lives today.

2. Sir Edward Grey - (1862-1933) British foreign minister from 1905-1916. Grey sought peaceful growth as a means of trade expansion, encouraging friendship with Russia and France as a way of ending imperial differences. Never actively hostile to Germany, he nevertheless regarded the prospect of German hegemony over Northern Europe as dangerous to Great Britain. Grey argued for the defence of France in British interest during the July Crisis of 1914 - his key speech in the House of Commons on 2nd August successfully uniting political opinion that Great Britain should go to the defence of Belgium. He was the author of the famous and prophetic statement; ‘The lights are going out all over Europe - we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime . . .’

Thank you for reading this story - I hope you enjoyed it. As usual, any constructive feedback will be gratefully received at; lisaparis25@hotmail.com

Lisa Paris - 2004.

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