STORY SUBMISSION FOR THE SECOND TLW FIX FANFIX CHALLENGE
TITLE: Monsoon
AUTHOR: Susan Zell
DISCLAIMER: All characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" series are the property of John Landis, Coote/Hayes, New Line Television, and The Over The Hill Gang. No profit has been made by this venture. I've only again borrowed the explorers to tell a long Lost Tale, this time of passion and love.
SUMMARY: Roxton and Marguerite try desperately to find some privacy on the plateau.
SPOILERS: None.
RATINGS: R
TYPE: Romance, Roxton and Marguerite style, stormy all the way.
WARNINGS: Sexual situations
NOTES: Takes place around the third season when the explorers are still all together, including Malone and Veronica. Pre-Finn.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To my faithful beta and to the inspiration of Luka Bloom.
COMMENTS: I finally join the ranks of those people that needed something more from these two.
MONSOON
By Susan Zell
The rainy season was upon them and the thriving jungle in which they lived dripped wet with water. The green of the foliage blossomed into a shade that no metropolitan person could ever imagine. The air, so heavy with moisture, could be felt with each intake of breath and it caressed one's skin like a thick shroud. The sky continually rumbled with new storms, burdened with thick clouds that sometimes dropped their loads of torrential rains, and sometimes merely passed by with a teasing hint of a midday shower.
Clothes hung on Lord John Roxton as if they were a second skin. He had been again caught in another passing storm as he raced for the treehouse. As the elevator deposited him in the shelter of his home for the last three years, he noted that no one had yet returned from their various excursions. For the first time in months, the abode was his alone. It sent a ripple of pleasure through him. He had forgotten what it was like to be alone. A quiet peace permeated the treehouse, no voices raised in consternation, no whine of mechanical equipment from down in the lab, and no whirlwind of pedestrian traffic crowding the house.
It was his to enjoy.
Drawing in a deep relaxing sigh, he shrugged off his braces, letting them flop at his hips as he peeled off his soaked shirt. Since he was alone, he allowed himself to be brazen by undressing in the kitchen rather than in his room. He had left Challenger with Veronica at the balloon site; and Marguerite was with Malone at the windmill. None of them would make it back in the next half hour at least, even if the storm had caught them. He grabbed a towel from the rack by the sink and dried his face and dripping hair, scrubbing at it harshly, filling his ears with the sound of a new thunder, rough cotton against tender skin.
So vigorous was his treatment that he failed to notice the rumble of the elevator descending and then rising once more. It brought with it Marguerite Krux. The heiress quietly exited and then stopped suddenly as she saw the hunter before her, primitively displayed and completely unaware of her as he continued with his ministrations. Even though she too was dripping wet, her own discomfort was forgotten, her eyes unable to draw away from the broad back and corded muscles working beneath the flesh so wondrously displayed for her.
A chill rushed over her skin that had nothing to do with the outside temperature. Her breath sounded loud and throaty, but he still didn't hear her as the towel dropped to scrub at his chest and brawny arms. Marguerite knew that it was shameful and brash to stare and lust, but such a scene as the one before her had played many times in her dreams, and so rarely in reality. For a moment, she wasn't sure she was awake. The corners of her eyes seemed to lift as her long eyelashes lowered almost like a feline's, a quick gentle tongue flicked at her dry lips. He was magnificent.
The cotton scratched at Roxton's chest in a nice way and warmed his skin. Then on a drifting breeze he caught the fresh wild scent of lavender and jasmine. Only one person carried that aroma, and a rush of goose bumps all around his skin heralded the presence of Marguerite. It happened whenever she walked into the room. He straightened and then turned his head to find her with his questing green eyes.
Their gazes locked on each other. The desire that filled each of them was marked distinctly there. Far too often and with maddening frequency their blossoming passion had been interrupted. So much so that it never left them far from each other's thoughts, their souls only marginally sated and pleading for more. Immediately, both minds quickly calculated the time left to them and what could be done in that small span.
Roxton crossed the room in two large strides and gathered her up so swiftly in his embrace that Marguerite never had a chance to move forward. His bruising lips captured hers, sucking and searching for the exquisite nectar that he knew existed there. He drank deeply of it and it went straight to his head like sweet champagne on an empty stomach. It was always like that with her. He took her cheeks in his large hands and licked the rain streaming down her face.
Whatever breath was left in Marguerite's lungs vanished, and she fell against him as her flesh was consumed by the intensity of his desire. The heat of his palms seared her chilled skin and traveled a quicksilver path to her core. Her arms wrapped around him to hold herself upright as much as to embrace him.
A desperate whisper in her ear brought reality back with a resounding crash. "Where's Malone?"
She choked back a sob. "Not far. The goat…"
"I assume you don't mean Challenger."
Her sob turned to a strained laugh. "No…no, damn it." How many times had their embraces been disrupted by their friends? It was making Marguerite insane, infuriatingly so. She swore that she was going to break down and drug everyone just for a small smattering of solitude with the hunter. "John, I can't stand this."
"I know," he returned, his face nuzzling her hair.
"Then when?"
"I don't know. I'll think of something."
The elevator rumbled behind them and Marguerite pulled herself from his grip; and her heart broke with the effort. She wiped her face of the emotions and rain still left behind and smoothed over the rush of anger at the person returning to the safety of the treehouse.
Roxton reached for his shirt and shrugged back into it, grateful now for the cold grip of the wet cloth. It helped ease the tempestuous fire within him.
Poor bedraggled Ned Malone jumped out of the elevator. He acknowledged Roxton with a nod, clueless as always as to what he had just interrupted…yet again. One of these days, Roxton swore, he was going to have to talk to that lad about the facts of life and when to recognize an awkward moment when he stumbled into one. Sighing, he tossed a towel to a grateful Ned and then brought another one to Marguerite.
She stared at the outstretched hand, large and tanned, carefully taking the towel from him, unable to resist running a long, delicate finger across the back of his thick knuckle. Roxton's eyes closed for a moment as if willing himself not to club Malone over the head with the nearby frying pan. An hour, that's all he was asking for. Malone's skull was thick as a brick, always was. He'd eventually recover.
He pushed that wild thought from his brain and opened his eyes. Marguerite had moved away from him, already toweling her long tresses. God, he wanted to reach out and do that for her. But that would be wrong, improper in the presence of another.
The hell with improper! He wanted to take Marguerite in his arms and ravage her. To devil with etiquette and present company!
Roxton scrubbed at his face again with the towel far too roughly. It burned but he took no notice.
Unmerciful heaven! What possessed him to think such things?
He retreated quickly downstairs to his quarters intending to change his clothes and forget Marguerite Krux for a while. But he heard soft footfalls following down the stairs. After so long and in such close quarters, he knew everyone's step. He knew immediately whose trailed after him now. Marguerite paused outside his room for a moment though Roxton hadn't turned around to acknowledge her. He badly wanted her to come in and this time finish what they started. Who cared if they were so bold?
But then she wisely turned aside and slipped into her own room, her footsteps fading away, leaving Roxton's breathing a rough and tortuous thing to hear. He gripped his headboard manically, the rough branch of the wood biting into his hands as he willed his erratic heartbeat to subside, hanging his head in both desperation and dismay.
He couldn't stand it a moment longer. Throwing the drenched towel in the corner, he thundered out of his room, and for a split second he almost stormed into hers and took what he needed, right then and there. But then with a willpower drawn from the heavens above, he whirled aside and ran up the stairs to the elevator.
Ned regarded him curiously as he took in the intensity of the hunter's visage. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," growled Roxton as he again gathered his pack and his rifle.
"Where you going?" Confusion etched Malone's face. Hadn't Roxton just gotten here?
"Out," snapped the hunter. "To find Challenger." His voice was edgy and clipped. He couldn't help it. Anger flared at the lad, even though logically Roxton knew Malone held no responsibility for anything that had just happened. It was just bad timing. That's all. It was always bad timing.
"You think there's trouble? Want me to come along?"
Roxton sighed. "No, stay here with Marguerite. I'll be back soon. I just need to … I just need some air."
Realization hit Ned and he nodded sympathetically as if he understood the situation all of a sudden. "Ahh, I see. No problem. I'll run interference for you. Marguerite's a hard woman to tolerate in such close quarters. This weather…"
Roxton just shook his head, amazed that yet again the young man missed the signs of passion in the treehouse. No wonder he and Veronica had never gotten anywhere. "It's not what you think…oh hell. Just forget it. I'll be back in a while."
"Sure thing. Though, believe me, I wish I was going with you. I don't want to stay here alone with her either. That woman scares me."
For a crazy moment, Roxton contemplated shoving the rifle and pack into the reporter's hands and sending him out into the squall after Challenger and Veronica instead. But then his own moral decorum settled back onto him. The explanations afterward would be too complicated and lengthy. No, now was not the right time to deal with Marguerite and his issues. Right now, all Roxton wanted to do was to calm the rampaging inferno in his blood and tame his erratic thoughts which were becoming more and more insane with each passing second. Yes, a walk in a summer storm was ideal. That would bring him a level head.
He slapped the young man on the shoulder. "Someday, Neddy boy, you'll see that women are even scarier than you think, especially for the power they hold over you." With that he drew in a long suffering breath and departed.
Malone only stared after him. Roxton had been acting especially odd of late. Agitated almost but then sometimes he was downright morose. He rode emotional highs and lows as often as the two women. Maybe it was an illness. Looked like a dilly of one too. Poor man.
***
Roxton wandered down the path towards the balloon site. To his utter frustration the rain had abated the moment he stepped out of the treehouse. It was a test he knew. The old monk at the temple had warned him that such an untamed fire that burned within the hunter's heart would be tested and often to show his mastery over his mettle. But did it have to be so difficult and so frequent? Was it all part of Buddha's grand plan to place Marguerite Krux in his path? If so, Buddha was a devious and tasking deity.
Whatever lessons in patience and serenity Roxton had learned while at the temple in Tibet vanished whenever he stood in front of Marguerite. All aspect of reason and willpower simply fled.
Stopping on the path, Roxton tried again to collect his thoughts. Tenzin, the old monk at the Jokhang temple, where he had spent over two years, had taught him simple meditation skills, and some not so simple meditation skills. He tried one now, just a very basic one to reach a state of calm, like the gentle flowing of a river. Thoughts could no longer move him one way or the other. He wanted to abide in his state of calm, letting all the sediment settle in his mind. As Tenzin told him, if you do not stir the water, it is clear; and if you leave your mind alone, it is blissful.
Except that Marguerite kept wandering into the stream and stirring everything up when he least expected it. Like now, he fully expected her to come after him, which was most likely the true reason he had paused on the path.
He shook his head. She isn't coming, you fool, he reproached himself. His mind was a shambles and his state of serenity a lost cause. Continuing down the trail, mumbling incessantly to himself, he almost missed it.
He stopped in his tracks and looked again. What was that doing there? How could it have gotten there? He moved slowly forward and peered at it thoughtfully. "Well, what could it hurt if I took a closer look?"
In all the time he had walked this path, he had never noticed the dark patch set against the hillside. It was covered in heavy brush and obscured well from sight. Perhaps it had been the brief moment of meditation that had allowed him to see it for the first time. He crept forward, his rifle at the ready. Using the nose of the barrel, he eased some of the dense brush aside and revealed a small cave entrance. He doubted if any large animals used it since there was no distinct path leading to it and it was still well overgrown with disuse.
A glitter of sunlight as the sun broke from the clouds above cast a few beams inside and the display made Roxton's eyes widen with surprise. He edged to the side allowing more of the sun's rays to enter the small cave, the interior surface of which reflected them and caused the walls to sparkle brilliantly, making spots dance in his eyes so that he had to blink them away before continuing.
The surface inside was like glass, smooth and uniform. It felt wonderful to touch as Roxton ran his hand along the edge nearest the entrance. Now that it was lit, he could see that the cave was fairly large and went back a good ways, though he could already see the back of it. But the important thing was it could easily fit five people and a mess of supplies for a good number of days. In case of disaster, a secondary hideaway was important and this one was close enough to the treehouse to be of use to them in an emergency. The entrance itself was small but still could easily pass a man with as broad as shoulders as his inside. And it was defensible which was very appealing, high on a slope and offered a wide view of the surrounding area. In a pinch, it wouldn't be bad.
He slipped in while the sun was still shining and made a cursory examination of the cave for anything out of the ordinary, especially since the plateau seemed to be inundated with such things. Though half the time he never recognized the unusual when he saw it. Most things were too fantastic for his brain to comprehend. But as he squatted inside he could see nothing that alarmed him or managed to rattle his basic survival instincts, which he trusted most of all. He relaxed and took in the natural beauty of the place. It was most likely volcanic in nature though it gave no indication that that was still a problem. There were no vents or fissures allowing deadly gas or steam. It was solid and secure. Marguerite would be able to make a better determination of its geological history … His thoughts trailed off.
Marguerite.
A plan formed in an instant within his brain and it caused an immense smile to emerge. He slipped back outside and covered the entrance meticulously once again. Then he continued on down the path, whistling gently.
***
But five days later he and Marguerite were still apart and their frustration was mounting exponentially. It made for a very awkward situation in the treehouse. To both Marguerite and Roxton's relief no one said anything. Maybe they had been hiding their desire well. Roxton had made numerous solitary excursions to the cave to begin stocking it. Though he had yet to mention the place to anyone.
In the meantime, the close quarters of the treehouse, made even more stifling by the non-stop downpours, were maddening. Tempers flared and quality time to one's self was at a precious and elusive minimum. Everyone was feeling the strain.
None more than Roxton. Marguerite seemed better able at disguising her desire than he, but then again she was a woman. Everything was on the inside with them, not the outside.
It was his turn to cook, but for some reason Marguerite decided to help him. The kitchen in the treehouse was small and left no room to maneuver with two people within. Every nook and cranny was utilized; there was a sense of order to it that right now Roxton found intolerable for his thoughts were chaos.
Why the hell was she in here?
"Excuse me," he said as he reached around her to grab a spice off the shelf near her. The scent of her wafted up and started to fill his head. She lifted her eyes and long dark lashes waved at him.
Clenching his teeth with determination and squeezing the spice container with a death grip, he shifted aside and proceeded to shake the spice fervently into the pot, not caring about the quantity.
He moved to the fire to check on the roasting dryosaur. It was ready. Thank God. He craned his head over his shoulder to call to the others and was startled to see Marguerite standing directly behind him, so close he need only bend down to caress her lips. God, how he wanted to! But instead he gestured awkwardly to the living room. "Would you collect everyone? Dinner's ready."
Marguerite only stared at him, her expression ravenous. Roxton froze until his arm slowly dropped to his side. They breathed in unison, each one strained and helpless. But then the moment passed them by and finally Marguerite brushed past him. His eyes slipped closed. Challenger and the others would have to be blind not to notice what fools they were making of themselves.
Every part of him was so in tune with Marguerite. It had never been that way with anyone else. These past few months had been filled with sinful thoughts, rampaging desires that flared hotter than any sun-baked drought. Something had to be done.
He transferred the dryosaur roast to the serving plate with a shaky exhale and brought it to the table just as Marguerite returned with Challenger and the rest in tow. He finished bringing the rest of the feast to the table, grateful to have something to occupy his mind. "Everyone hungry?"
Ned offered an enthusiastic shout.
Challenger pulled out a chair and appraised the spread. "Indeed."
Veronica merely sat down with an appreciative smile.
Marguerite's voice, however, was low, her gray eyes riveted to his. "Yes." Her one word, just that single word, elicited a rush of shivers along the length of Roxton's spine. He tried to swallow through his suddenly parched throat. He sat abruptly in his chair and took a long draught of his wine, his eyes never leaving hers.
Arms reached around them as the others dug in, oblivious to the two individuals mesmerized at the table. Neither Roxton nor Marguerite had an appetite for physical food, their eyes devoured the other, imagining the touch, the caress, the love of the other, both of them desperate for it to be reality rather than just fantasy.
After several seconds, Challenger finally took notice in a distracted sort of way. "You two better eat before it's all gone."
It broke the spell. Roxton shook his head as if coming out of a dream. Marguerite cast her gaze downward and distractedly selected a slice of toasted bread. She merely picked at it.
"It's delicious, Roxton," Veronica offered. "As always." She coughed abruptly. "A little spicy though."
Roxton colored, knowing it was his distraction that had caused him to over spice the vegetables.
Conversation picked up again and settled finally into a normal routine, much to the hunter's relief. Marguerite may be able to hide her emotions, but he couldn't. He was just grateful he was sitting at the table. It hid his all too obvious physical reactions, though he continued to shift awkwardly in order to ease his discomfort. That is until he noticed Ned watching him. He ceased and took a voracious bite of the roast though it did little to sate his true cravings.
Marguerite watched Roxton's jaw as it worked powerfully to devour the meat. His muscles there pulsed with the effort. He ate liked he kissed, copiously and ravenously. Her lips always tingled and swelled when he sucked on them, her breath drawn out of her and into him by his enthusiastic efforts. Goosebumps lifted on her skin at just the thought of it. She wanted to kiss him right now, to rise over the table into his embrace, scatter the plates and food in their haste, and shock the hell out of everyone present.
Veronica's hand settled on her arm. "Are you all right? You look flushed."
Marguerite started and jerked her attention to the woman next to her. "I'm fine. Fine," she insisted. Her fingers brushed the burning skin of her cheek, not surprised to find it so, but annoyed that it was so noticeable.
"Well, you better eat something," Challenger instructed. "Both you and Roxton have hardly eaten anything these past few days. You're asking for trouble if you don't keep your strength up."
Roxton almost let out an exasperated laugh, but he kept it in, making it sound more like a hiccup than anything else. Challenger cast him a stern gaze and Roxton immediately sobered, reaching for another piece of the roast.
His eyes darted up for a moment at Marguerite. She concentrated on nibbling carefully around a slice of vegetable and the delicate way her tongue darted out to tentatively taste the seasoning about drove him mad. There was a sense of refinement about her that was in such contradiction to the fire and steel that defined her as a woman. One minute she was the cultured heiress, delicate and demure, and then the next minute she was a woman fighting a band of pirates with a bare bladed sword, hair flying and eyes casting daggers. Such dichotomy only made Roxton's blood blaze higher. Never had he imagined finding such a woman. Yet here she was within his reach and he couldn't touch her. It was exasperating!
When dinner concluded, Roxton immediately volunteered to do the dishes as well, anything to occupy his mind and hands. To his horror, Marguerite offered to help him.
His sharp retort of no startled her and everyone else. He hadn't meant to say it so harshly, but his control at the moment was tenuous at best, and the farther she was away from him the better.
The hurt look on her face tore into him. He tried to counteract the damage. "I just meant that you look tired. Go lay down. Rest."
Anger seeped into her gray orbs. "Tired? I look tired?"
Confused, he nodded. Maybe she was just playing along. Rather well, he thought. Her skills as an actress were quite extraordinary. "Yes, I can see some lines around your eyes." Any minute now, she'd veer off and leave him to collect himself and do the dishes in peace.
Her face darkened. "Lines? Are you implying that I have wrinkles? How dare you be so presumptuous!"
Roxton saw Malone, Challenger and Veronica slipping quietly away downstairs. Cowards. He backpedaled, wishing he were suddenly with them. He bumped up against the hearth with Marguerite menacingly advancing with his death dancing in her eyes. She hadn't been playacting. She was damn serious.
"Marguerite, really! I didn't mean to imply you look old. I was just trying to save you from doing menial labor!"
"Old! What utter gall?!" she shouted venomously as she bumped against him. His back arched nearer to the flame. Suddenly her voice lowered to a whisper. "Are they gone?"
This completely befuddled the hapless Roxton. "What?"
She spoke slower and a tad louder. "Are…they…gone?" Her face had lost all of its rage and she regarded him sweetly.
Roxton looked over her shoulder and could see no sign of the group of deserters. Challenger was most likely in his lab and Veronica and Malone in their respective rooms. He eyed Marguerite warily. "Yes. They're gone."
Relief flooded her. "Finally. Slow on the uptake, that's what they are." Her arms lifted to curl around him.
Comprehension finally dawned on him. "Great scott! You're deceitful!"
"Wickedly so," she breathed on him.
"It was all a ruse," he murmured in awe. Their fake argument had bought them some precious minutes alone.
Her eyelids lowered dangerously. "I certainly hope so! You didn't really imply that I looked old, did you?" It came out as a distinct warning.
"No!" he nearly shouted, covering as best he could. "Of course not!" Then he quieted and realized that she had just wrought a miracle. His fingers gently brushed the unmarred corner of her eye, then his lips swept against it with a sweet kiss. "Never," he breathed.
His lips caressed every inch of her face traveling farther and farther down till he captured her lips and she sank into him, clutching and grasping as if they couldn't draw the other close enough.
She pulled her face to the side and whispered in his ear. "I can't stand it anymore. We have to think of something, John."
"I have. A cave, just down the trail."
She frowned. "A cave?" It wasn't on her list of the top ten most romantic spots on the plateau.
"Beggars can't be choosers, Marguerite. Done up right, it could look quite nice. You'll see." He gave her the instructions to get there.
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Dusk."
"Done." She shoved a plate off the table and it fell with a resounding crash. Roxton's shocked expression was delightful. "For effect," she confided to him. Then she raised her voice. "Your manners are atrocious, Roxton. You're no more a genuine lord than I am the Queen of England!"
He laughed at her utter audacity and then found himself playing along. "I swear, the goat outside has more manners than you could ever muster, Marguerite!" He threw a wooden platter into the sink where it rattled around for a good couple of seconds.
As it did so, the couple crushed each other into a fierce embrace, drinking in the miniscule amount of time it allotted them. Like lost souls in a desert taking their first gulp of life giving water, they fell upon the other. Hands were everywhere, teeth tearing at the other's clothing, lips caressing the exposed skin. The rough calluses on his palms barely scratched the itch inside her.
"I'd rather marry that goat than you, John Roxton!" she shouted once again for the benefit of others.
"I hope the two of you will be deliriously happy! Be sure to send me a wedding invitation," he snapped back with an impious grin while she nibbled his ear.
With a primal growl, he shoved Marguerite back against the table and it shifted across the floor with a loud scrape. She wiggled her ass onto it and it brought her level with his face, which she grabbed with both hands, her nails digging in as she covered his face in wet kisses. He didn't seem to be in any pain for his hands were buried under her rump where it met the table and her incessant squirming nearly drove him down deeper into the depths of madness. He crushed against her and she met him full on.
Then the sound of the inevitable footsteps came and Marguerite shoved him aside as she slipped off the table and adjusted her clothing. Roxton turned abruptly around and faced the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing his face repeatedly with it.
"Here's hoping you find an old goat of your own. Be sure to check the local Zanga village." She slipped past him, sliding trailing fingers across the tight cheeks of his ass as she did. He stiffened abruptly and in more than one place.
She then headed downstairs. Challenger was just coming up.
"The man's an animal!" she exclaimed to him as he passed her.
"Of course, Marguerite," offered the professor sympathetically. He turned to look at Roxton. The man's shoulders were hunched over with obvious rage, and the chore of washing the dishes was done with all the finesse of a troglodyte. Water was splashing everywhere. The poor man did endure a lot from the heiress. If he hadn't come upstairs, heaven knows what it could have led to. After all, there were sharp objects all about the kitchen.
"Sorry, old boy. Our Marguerite certainly keeps us on our toes."
Roxton bristled at Challenger's affectionate term of our but then he shook his head at such foolishness. It was as if he was a jealous schoolboy all of a sudden. "You have no idea, George. No idea at all."
The professor patted him on his back. "I'll help you clean up this mess."
"It's all right. I've got it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Challenger regarded him peculiarly and then shrugged. "Well, have at it then and if ever you're in need of rescue again, you just let me know."
Roxton gave a weary sigh. "It wasn't Marguerite's fault. It was mine this time." He felt obligated to stick up for Marguerite. It wouldn't do for her to take all the blame on this escapade.
"You're far too much a gentleman, Roxton. Marguerite can sometimes be downright insensitive."
"So was I. Perhaps more so. I should have known better." It was true. They shouldn't have started anything knowing that there was no way to finish the matter. It was cruel to both of them.
"We men have to stick together, Roxton. We're barely holding our own here in this treehouse. Heaven forbid we males lose a member. The women would be on us like wolves."
Roxton stared at the older man, though his brain was already imagining Marguerite "coming on to him" like a wolf. His pulse raced. He shook his head free of the sinful vision. "Go back to your experiments, old boy. I think this simple routine will clear my head perfectly and the less said of the matter the better."
"I understand."
Only in your dreams, Challenger, Roxton lamented silently and turned back to his work. He only prayed tomorrow at dusk would get here with all expediency. His poor nerves and body were on the verge of a complete breakdown.
***
The weather had cleared somewhat the following day, and Challenger decided that they should use the opportunity to stock up on supplies; roof thatch and twine to be precise. The women were off collecting oil for the generator in another part of the plateau and Roxton was grateful to be separate from them.
The physical work occupied his thoughts somewhat as they tended to stray at a moment's notice to Marguerite and the coming sunset, the hint of which called to him like the rumble of a coming storm.
He labored hard at cutting the leaves and tall grasses, pushing his muscles past the point of exhaustion, anything to distract him and force his mind and body to concentrate solely on the job at hand. Challenger stood guard and left Roxton to sweep his brain of all wayward thoughts and drive him to a state of focused oblivion. His machete lifted in a steady rhythm until it became a dance of pull, whack, twist and break that even Malone envied as he struggled with his wad of reluctant grass. The hunter was positively driven in his efforts and it wasn't long before they had all the thatch they needed.
Malone and Roxton carried the load back. The women were probably long back at the treehouse by now. The sun was setting down to the horizon and another long day's labor was finished. The wind had picked up dramatically and tossed the treetops carelessly around. Roxton's pace back home was murderous and even Malone struggled to keep up. Challenger, carrying a lighter load, was huffing to keep pace nonetheless.
"Roxton," Malone called out. "What's the rush?"
The hunter looked back and saw Challenger's flushed face. "Sorry. It, um, looked like rain," he offered lamely. He slowed down, adjusting the stack upon his shoulders.
"It's looked like rain all day, man." The professor eyed him curiously. The corners of which crinkled up slightly with a touch of humor. "We won't melt."
"I just thought--." Roxton gave up. "Nothing. I'll slow the pace down."
"Thanks," Malone said sincerely. "This stuff is heavier than it looks. You have to give those Zanga women credit for carrying it on their heads." Soon the young reporter and the professor were busily discussing the physics of the matter.
The trio walked peaceably down the trail. Unfortunately, Roxton's thoughts were now left to wander where he least wanted them to because he wasn't at the helm anymore. And he knew what was.
Blast it all!
He mentally began going through what needed to be done still before tonight. But each thought only made him more and more keyed up. Thankfully he was on point, with the others trailing behind.
The treehouse finally loomed before them and the approaching sunset heralded a wonderful evening ahead of him, despite the thick scent of rain on the wind. His heartbeat raced with the possibilities and his pace picked up once again.
Malone and Challenger just let the hunter go on ahead, too worn out to warrant chasing him down.
"What's gotten into him?" Malone commented.
Challenger shrugged. "The break in the weather perhaps." The professor gazed at the darkening sky above them. "Though I don't think it will last. I dare say we're in for it later tonight."
"A storm?"
"Quite likely." He pointed out some menacing clouds to the east of them. "If the wind doesn't change, we'll most likely get a soaking."
"Great. More quality time stuck in the treehouse."
"Come now, Malone. I'm sure it can't be that bad."
"You're down in your lab, you have no idea what goes on upstairs."
"You could always come down and help me with my experiments." The professor sounded almost hopeful.
"Sorry. Though if Marguerite starts singing once more, I might be down there faster than Roxton on a raptor."
"Yes, well, I've heard that promise before," Challenger snorted. Hardly anyone popped down to visit him in his laboratory. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.
The young reporter opened the gate into the main compound beneath the treehouse. Roxton had already unloaded his burden in the small shed out back, placing it high up out of the goat's reach. Malone added his to the pile.
"I guess I know what we'll be doing this week."
"It's better than getting soaked to the skin when the roof is ripped off by the storm." Roxton hoisted the rest up into the rafters of the shed and tied them off. "You think that's high enough?"
Malone eyed it dubiously. "I don't know. That goat is devious. She'll find a way."
"Not if I see her do it. Milk or no milk, she won't be eating our hard day's work."
"It's not as if we couldn't get another from the Zanga. Though I think Veronica has grown attached to it."
"Yes, well, it hasn't bitten her yet."
"I know what you mean." Malone rubbed a tender spot on the seat of his pants. "I'll bring the equipment upstairs while you finish here." He departed before the goat made its appearance. It always liked to be in the thick of things.
Challenger handed his pack to Malone and then approached Roxton. "There's a storm coming," he informed the hunter. "Be sure to tie them off tight. Or else the goat won't have to find a way to bring the shed down. The wind will do the job for her."
"Well, if the wind is that strong, perhaps it will take the goat instead of the shed."
"One can only hope." Challenger patted his pockets and then mumbled a curse.
Roxton eyed him. "What's wrong?"
"Confound it!"
Roxton waited patiently.
"My sextant. I must have left it at the clearing. I could have sworn I placed the case back in my pocket." He investigated all the pockets along his coat and came up empty. With a heavy sigh he turned to trudge back through the jungle.
Roxton stopped him with a hand and took the rifle off the professor's shoulder. "I'll go get it. Stay here."
Challenger looked at the sky. "You'll never beat the storm."
"Yes, well, you don't want to leave that equipment in the rain all night, do you?"
"No."
"I'll be back after sundown." He frowned. "Tell Marguerite…tell her that I'll…"
Challenger eyed him expectantly.
"Tell her I haven't forgotten."
A bout of confusion crossed the professor's face, but then he just nodded. "I'll tell her."
Roxton departed quickly, doing a quick jog down the trail, fighting his frustration. It wasn't Challenger's fault and what would another hour or so matter? It didn't mean their plans were cast aside, just set awry. Marguerite would understand.
The air practically sizzled with the energy of the coming storm. The wind had picked up and was now stirring the lower branches. With any luck this storm would veer off and deposit the rain elsewhere. Marguerite hated the rain. If she had to get wet, it would certainly spoil the mood for tonight. And he wanted everything to be perfect. It had to be. He hoped he was doing the right thing. Maybe they should consider waiting, doing things properly, like he was sure his mother would want.
But there was a larger part of him that didn't doubt what they were doing. No love this strong should be denied. It couldn't be. Marguerite understood that as well as he did, if not more. And London society be damned! His mother would understand. It wasn't as if this was a quaint town in which they were vacationing. They lived life on the edge here. If they waited any longer they might never get another chance. Any one of a thousand dangers could steal either one of them away. Waiting just seemed foolish. Each day should be lived as if it were their last.
The plateau had brought them together. Every aspect of Marguerite was evident here. In the wind, he could feel her touch. In the mountain, he could see her strength. In the rain clouds, he felt her light gray gaze. In the stream beside him sang her rhythm that he loved so much. Here they would acknowledge their love. It seemed fitting and right.
An embarrassed laugh slipped from him. At times, he waxed poetic over the woman, a leftover from his days studying at the monastery. Tibetan was a lyrical language. Tenzin had always taught in such an expressive manner. Some of it must have seeped into him. He'd best keep that under his hat. He'd never live it down.
He reached the place where they had been working earlier today and hurriedly looked about for Challenger's wayward piece of equipment. Suddenly it seemed imperative to get back as quickly as possible. No longer did he want to be out here alone.
He fumbled around in the meadow looking for the piece of brass. It took far longer than necessary but he found it caught in amongst some heavy brush. Just as he picked up the sextant, the skies opened up on him. The thunder of it filled his ears.
The hiss of the wind demanded his attention, as the sky drenched him with its tears. He stood in its fierce embrace and smiled at its impatience.
"I'm coming, my love."
***
Challenger stood near the balcony, waiting. The tempest in all its glory was battering the small treehouse, which stood firm against it. He tried to see out through the sheets of rain, but to no avail. Still, he kept watch.
Therefore, it surprised him when the elevator engaged behind him. Roxton was returning and he hadn't even been able to see his approach due to the storm's intensity.
The hunter entered, bedraggled and weary, but carrying a determined smile on his face. He held up Challenger's delicate instrument triumphantly.
"Oh well done." The professor came forward and retrieved it, checking it carefully for signs of damage. To his relief it was fine.
"Where's Marguerite?" Roxton asked as he shed his pack and shook the water from his head and shoulders like a bullmastiff shaking his coat. "Did you give her my message?"
Challenger glanced over at him. "Yes. She was agitated at first, but then she just seemed to accept the situation. Oddly enough, and against my better judgement, she went out. I assumed she met up with you." Concern was building on his face.
"She out in this?" Roxton gestured to the storm.
"It wasn't storming then," he assured the hunter. "However, we best go out and look for her." He moved to collect his things and call the others, but Roxton stopped him.
"I think I know where she is. I'll take care of it. Stay here."
"You're soaked, old boy!"
"I can't get any wetter then." He gave an odd grin as he moved toward the elevator.
Challenger thought it curious that the man wasn't beside himself with worry. Lately, the man became overly distraught over the thought of Marguerite in danger. The lack of it eased some of the anxiety in himself. He inclined his head. "Are you sure, Roxton? You want to do this alone?"
"Very. I know where she is. There's a cave not too far away. I was setting it up as an emergency shelter in case the treehouse was ever compromised. She's most likely there, waiting out the storm."
"A new cave? So close? Magnificent!" His excitement of a new prospect to explore propelled him forward. "I'll accompany you! How deep is it? How many passages?"
Roxton stopped him with a firm hand. "Challenger, trust me. It can wait till this storm ends."
"But—."
"Please, Challenger."
Roxton's eyes held a plea that the professor had never seen before. "Well, if you're absolutely sure about it."
"I am." The reply came out clipped and fast. It took a monumental effort but he calmed and regarded Challenger. "It will be all right."
Challenger gave a slow nod. "As you wish, John. But be careful out there."
"I will. We'll wait out the storm at the cave and be back in the morning." He made to leave, but then Roxton paused on the elevator and turned back to his colleague. "Thank you, George."
Challenger smiled, gentle and knowing. "Tomorrow morning."
"Eight o'clock."
"On the dot," the professor warned kindly. "Good luck."
A sudden calm came over Roxton. "For the first time I don't think I'll need it." With those cryptic words, he pulled the lever and the elevator descended.
***
The cold rain was so thick that Roxton could barely see the trail ahead of him. His left hand was planted on the top of his head to keep his hat in place; he had lost it twice already. The wind tore through the trees with powerful force. This was no ordinary storm; it was a monsoon. But it also wasn't the worst one he had ever experienced. The main danger was flooding and falling trees uprooted by the ferocious wind.
He wasn't absolutely sure he was heading in the right direction, but he prayed he was. He also prayed that Marguerite had indeed made it to the cave. He had to give her spontaneity a round of applause. It seemed her sexual frustration was as bad as his own, and no piddly storm was going to keep them apart tonight.
While he raced along the path, his thoughts were only of her, waiting for him. He closed his eyes and dreamt he kissed her hand; they were alone together in some higher place. For all these years, he had only told her he loved her while he walked alone in the jungle, alone as he paced the sand, wishing she was there, but not brave enough to know when the moment was right. Never once had he told her of his all encompassing love directly to her. Only alone, he sang her praises. Alone, he'd lie in bed, longing she was with him.
But after tonight he would never have to be alone again.
Outside the roar of thunder filled his ears. Leaves dripped wet in the pouring rain. So did he. The cave was somewhere ahead of him, obscured but not lost. He quickened his pace, for inside ambrosia beckoned.
Please God let her be there.
Racing the last few feet he came to the rock wall. He fumbled for the opening. It was here somewhere. Then his hands found it and pushed aside the thatch covering he had placed there two days ago to seal the entrance better. Crawling through the narrow opening, he tumbled to the floor, twisted and tangled and soaked to the skin. Prone, he looked up.
Marguerite stood just above him, standing a few feet away, draped in her long, white nightgown. The silk cloth fell across her shoulders and over the swollen mounds of her breasts, past her rounded hips to swirl gently around her bare ankles. She held a candle in one hand and it illuminated the soft curves of her body through the delicate material. In her other hand, she held a pistol pointed at him. Roxton's mouth went dry as his entire body clenched with unmitigated desire. He could feel the cold rainwater run down his back but it did nothing to soothe him.
A relieved sigh sang through the cave as she set the pistol and candle aside to come forward. "Can't be too careful around here. You could have been a trog."
"He'd have stumbled into paradise," he whispered in amazement.
She had placed beeswax candles all around the cave, nestled into small alcoves or set onto the various rolling shelves of super heated and then super cooled lava waves. The smooth surface reflected the flames in a warm dance of low light.
The orange glow traveled across her, making her nightgown ripple as she moved, her dark hair shone with the highlights of the small flames. His breath was swept away by her sheer beauty.
He staggered to his feet, the smooth surface slick with the rainwater that sluiced off him in small rivers. She approached him and pulled off his hat, leaving his sodden hair open to her touch. Arms lifted around him while her hands stroked back the damp reams of hair on his forehead. She pressed boldly against him.
"Your shift. It will get wet," he murmured as she pushed against his soaked, chilled frame.
"It's all right," she soothed with a low laugh. "I won't be wearing it long."
Roxton's slow exhale quivered with effort as his body swiftly reacted to her bold statement. His large hands cradled her hips. The nightgown was so thin it was as if she wore nothing. He could feel every curve. She held his face and brushed her cheek against his, her tongue darting out to taste him as the water trickled down.
He literally shook in her arms, one hand lifting to caress her face with his rough palm. She pulled back and saw his lips trembling with cold and much more. "You're freezing."
"W-warming up nicely. T-trust me." But it wasn't really the cold affecting him.
His lips skimmed over hers, gentle as the very air itself, wracked with shivers, but their tremors ceased as he applied more pressure. Where his fingers were coarse, his lips were soft and firm. It was such a contrast of sensations. She swayed in his arms.
Then with an action that bordered on fanatical, she tore at his shirt. Ripped buttons went flying and scattered and bounced in a lyrical way across the smooth as glass cave floor.
"I'll need you to sew those back on," Roxton muttered as his thick fingers wormed their way under the shoulder straps of her nightgown.
"Shut up, Roxton," she commanded as she yanked the drenched material down his arms and back, frenzied to see him in his primal state.
He pulled one of her straps down over her arm, capturing it snugly. "As you command, your highness." It came out as low whisper.
A rush of shivers flooded Marguerite. He hadn't used that term of endearment in a very long time. At one time it irritated her, now it was something special between them.
One breast was free and his cold hand engulfed it, robbing Marguerite suddenly of breath. He then quickly bent and captured the peaking mound in his mouth, hot and moist, sucking and pulling. The conflicting sensations overwhelmed Marguerite. The strength in her limbs faded. A small gasp escaped her.
When he repeated the gesture on the other breast, Marguerite swayed. Then with a single flawless sweep, Roxton picked her up in his arms and carried her further into the reflecting cave. There was a gentle depression in the floor that she had lovingly laden with blankets and furs.
He laid her there with surprising gentleness and stood above her. The nightgown was saturated and fell against her skin, revealing as if through a misty veil the dark triangle between her hips. Her eyes roved up his body, drinking in the sight of his stretched pants, the hard stomach, and the intense gaze.
His body looked so different from when she had first met him; new scars and lean muscle now marked him. Such distinct changes had been wrought upon him and she was one of the privileged few that knew the stories behind the scars, knew what price they had extracted from him.
The hunter quickly shed the rest of his clothes and she saw the bare full length of him for the first time. Her breath quickened. Like everything else about him, it was masculine and hard.
He liked what he saw in her expression and crawled up over her like a tiger on the prowl, muscles bunching and bones sliding under them as he came forward. He slipped through her hands as she caressed him while he moved over her.
One of his hands crept back and dragged its way up her left leg, pulling the nightgown with it. Even tangled and captured by the folds of silky material, the hand kept its true path, and reached its destination, one he had glimpsed just moments before, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from Marguerite. Her fingers clenched deep into his arms as he continued to manipulate her, slowly, gently, building her up lovingly. He lowered himself over her on the strength of one arm, brushing his soft lips over her exposed throat. Marguerite only dimly felt the muscles bulging under her hand. She was being swept away
It was a crescendo and suddenly her world went white. In the distance, she heard her cries.
Her first sensation was John's lips upon hers, at first distant and gentle, but then they called her back, more insistent and demanding. She returned willingly, her heart already setting a faster pace. He was balanced above her and she reached for him, drawing him down against her, wanting the length of her body to become his bedframe, allowing flesh to be seared by flesh.
He sank upon her, positioning himself along her center, his arm still drawing most of his weight off her. But she was like sinking into a soft sea and he found he had no need to breathe so long as he was with her. Their mouths collided again and he gently eased her into position with his hips. She met him eagerly. There was no hesitation in her. They had waited too long for this moment.
But then he pulled back, a question held in his eyes. He had to be sure. Her long lashes lifted, like fans parting over a treasure, her wide orbs meeting his, and he saw all the words he needed to hear echoing in her eyes.
Her body rose up to meet him and she gently kissed the puckered scar in his left shoulder, the one she had sealed with a scalding iron, saving him and hurting him all in one motion. She never wanted it to be that way with them again. Tonight she wanted him to know that her love would hurt no more.
She had no doubt that this was what she wanted. Their love could survive anything. She believed that now. Roxton had not abandoned his feelings for her in all this time, but only offered her his continued strength and devoted presence. If anything, he had shown he was a man of truth and honor in that his promises were not just words. Never would she doubt him again.
As her lips brushed against the scar, the man took a shuddering breath. She could feel him surge again against her. She lifted her hips and then relaxed as they intimately joined ever so slowly. It elicited a loud moan from him and he started to move against her. Her legs rose to wrap around his waist, bracing herself against a gentle roll in the floor.
She rocked with him, the sensations of their rhythmic motions building within her like a growing squall, tumbling and surging into a fury. They moved like one, as if they had been together all their lives. She whispered his name over and over, like a broken prayer.
Thunder crashed outside and the storm found them. Wind threw itself against the shuttered door, lightening illuminated the dark, and rain washed over them, filling them, two swollen streams converging into a flooded river.
Slowly the world around them returned as their storm clouds ebbed. They shifted and lay as one on their sides, arms wrapped around the other, still entwined in a honeywater afterglow. Roxton's eyes were closed, his breath just starting to slow, the mad pulse at his throat finally relaxing to its natural pace.
Marguerite kissed its throbbing beat and curled up against him. She could hear outside the weather still in a full furor. It hadn't waned like she had dreamed. She gazed back at the entrance, surprised to hear the wind and rain still raging after the way it seemed to fill them in the cave.
"I've never seen a monsoon this intense before," she commented.
Roxton eased her face back towards him, regarding her with a look of abject adoration and desire, cupping her pale cheek and caressing its curve with surprising gentleness.
"Whenever I'm with you, Marguerite, love is a monsoon."
Tears filled her eyes. The honesty, the commitment that echoed in his visage stilled her heart. The sheer love of this man was a frightening, wonderful thing to behold. For so long she had never imagined it would be given to her forever to hold. Was there no end to the room this man had in his heart?
"I love you, John Roxton."
"And I you, Marguerite. I love you with all my soul." He kissed her again, lightly, soothingly, but with no mistake all he said was true.
And the storm rose again and carried them away.
The end….