Lost World

Another Time, Another Place . . .

Part Five

She recognised Von Ruhl's footsteps immediately and her body prickled with readiness. Opening her green eyes warily, she slanted them up at him like a cat. Beside her, Avebury was shivering, his cheeks flushed beneath the bandages, and even though it was cool in the cellar his skin felt unnaturally warm. Her heart sank as she realised he was running a fever once more.

"Please excuse me, Fraulein King," there was a different edge to Von Ruhl's voice when he addressed her and she knew at once he'd verified her code name.

Avebury's body tensed, his muscles tightening, "Monique?"

She squeezed his hand reassuringly, "It's all right, John. What can I do for you, Captain Von Ruhl?"

He gave her a tiny formal bow as he carried out her instructions to the letter. "I should like to discuss the transportation of the wounded. I have confirmed the arrival of a Field Medical team at first light, and they would be glad of your assistance."

She nodded tersely up at him, "Please give me a minute to check the Major's wound. I'll join you as soon as I can."

A part of her was flooded with sudden relief. The Hauptmann's bearing had changed completely. His conduct had changed to subtly deferential and she recognised an undertone of fear. One component of her burden had started to ease and the weight began to lift from her shoulders. She would be able to resume her journey and get back to the Allied lines. From there, it would be relatively easy to hitch a ride up to the coast, and once she had spoken with her contact, she would make her passage in time.

Fingers trembling slightly, she leant forward and touched John Avebury's dirty cheek. There was one more thing she had to do for this man – one last gift he would never even realise. Subsequently, his fate would be left to the gods, but damn and blast it, she had to try.

He was so ill in-spite of his courage and the gallant attempts at flirting. The head injury needed treatment and his breathing was getting worse. He would die if they took him to German HQ. Of that, she was bitterly sure.

"You'd better go with him," Avebury's voice was a ghastly croak.

Her fingers hovered against his skin and she wondered what he sounded like normally. Cultured, she imagined wistfully, deep and rich and definitely refined. He was public school English, no doubt about that, but masculine and used to giving orders, self-assured despite being injured and in the habit of being obeyed. A strong voice for a strong man – and that alone was very appealing, but she longed to hear him soft and urgent with passion, not strained and hampered with pain. Avebury was no shrinking violet, that much was patently obvious, and she knew from the way he'd responded to her, he was damned sure of his attraction to women.

She envisaged the sound of her name on his lips – her true name – not the one she had given him. Imagined him out of control with desire and vibrating with ardour against her. A ghost on her grave. There was a ghost on her grave… a wintry feeling of chill which stole over her. She shivered abruptly with sorrow as she realised she had to let him go.

Bending forward, she pressed her mouth against his and their lips met and quivered together. It was the fleetest of tender kisses, salt with a solitary tear. Nonetheless, the spark jolted her, and flared like a bright star between them. Even here in the direst of conditions, in the dusty corner of a Belgian cellar surrounded by the wounded and a host of German soldiers, this man had managed to do to her what no man had ever done before.

Somehow, he'd succeeded in touching her heart, and in doing so, captured her soul.

"Yes, I should go," she pulled away sadly. Every instinct was screaming not to leave him. "Do you… do you think you can manage take care of yourself while I'm gone?"

His mouth curved into a smile that hurt her. "As long as I know you'll be back again." He secured her fingers in his for a second and lay down patiently as she quickly checked his dressing.

"Well?" The smile still lit his lips. "Will I do, Sister?"

"Yes," she was forcibly light-hearted as she got to her feet. "I think you'll do very well, John. Now promise me you'll try to get some sleep?"

"And dream of you," he responded gallantly, the effect unspoiled even though his poor throat grated like old hinges.

"Goodbye," she whispered softly, looking down at him for the last time as he settled back against the pile of knapsacks. "Goodbye, John Avebury, my love."

She crossed the cellar unsteadily in search of Starling. The cockney Corporal finished adjusting Private Jessup's splint and looked up at her with an approving nod as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll say this for the Fritzy medic, Ma'am, he done a good job on this ankle. Course he had us to 'elp."

She smiled briefly down at him and gave him her medical pack. "I want you to promise me something, Corporal." Her eyes flicked back across the room to Avebury. "Whatever happens, I want you to make sure the Major receives the best possible care and attention."

"But Sister - "

Starling's face creased in puzzlement, but she stopped him from going any further.

"Just promise you'll do all you can, Starling. Promise me, that's all I ask."

He took the pack from her slowly, his eyes searching her face with sudden sharpness as he heard the need in her voice. "I'll try my best to keep him safe, Sister. I give you my word on that. Are you - are you going to be all right?"

For a welcome moment, the shadows dipped and guttered on the redbrick walls and hid her expression from his gaze. "I'll be fine," she answered as she turned on her heel and made her way over to Von Ruhl. For after all, it was the truth wasn't it?

She was always fine in the end.

They moved behind the empty beer barrels and she regarded the German officer coldly. "Well?"

"It was verified," he said, glancing quickly at her and then looking away again. "I am to give you any assistance I can."

"At last," she exhaled in relief. "I need to get back to the Allied lines as soon as possible. I've already wasted too much time."

"The whole region is unstable," Von Ruhl said curtly. "We are merely an advance party and not equipped to provide you with an escort. There are numerous pockets of British resistance left in this area; they may even hold the next farm. High Command ordered us to push forward when the British were still in disarray following the bombardment, but the wind dispersed the gas sooner than expected, and already they have reorganised." He paused and frowned. "In the end, it was only a temporary advantage. We will fall back to our lines later this morning."

Mind working quickly, she pondered his words and a spark of hope ignited in her breast. "You're sure the British will regain this area?"

"Yes" he nodded despondently. "Within forty-eight hours at the latest."

"Good," she smiled affirmatively and embarked upon her gamble. "That suits my purpose admirably. You will withdraw your men as soon as possible, Von Ruhl, leaving the prisoners and wounded behind."

He narrowed his eyes and looked down at her with a gleam of suspicion on his face. "The wounded perhaps, but not Major Avebury. He's far too high ranking to sacrifice. Any information he may provide could prove invaluable to us."

Please God, let this work. Schooling her features, she prayed harder than she'd ever done in her life, before turning on him like a cobra, her mouth curling into a sneer.

"Only a complete fool would choose to disobey a direct order, especially one straight from the top." Her eyes flashed with molten anger and she knew a brief second of satisfaction as he paled before her obvious scorn. "I shouldn't have to explain myself to a junior officer, but evidently, in this case, I must. Major Avebury has been fed some false information High Command want the British to get hold of. They will clearly be unable to do so if you decide to foul up our plans. If he dies as a result of inadequate care or ends up as a German prisoner, then High Command will be very unhappy. They will have my report to refer to, and rest assured, they will know whom to blame."

"Fraulein - "

"You will do as I say and withdraw. Major Avebury stays behind with the rest of them."

Two bright spots of colour flared on Von Ruhl's angular cheekbones as he faced her, rigid with anger. She held her ground and stared at him boldly, although her breath felt frozen in her breast. If this failed, if she failed – then John Avebury would die. There was no question he would survive imprisonment, and even if she could not have him herself, she would grant him this one chance of life.

The bitter and unbidden thought that war would probably claim him anyway hovered spitefully on the fringes of her mind. Who knew, in this case, he might beat the odds. Perhaps fate would be kind. Even to her.

Von Ruhl clicked his heels together mockingly, but his patent distaste didn't bother her. So what, if he despised her for a double agent. As long as John Avebury was safe.

She raised a cool eyebrow at him. "Is that clear, Hauptmann? Don't force me to mention your name to Command in anything other than a favourable light. I can assure you, you'll live to regret it."

She felt the unease flood back over him then, watching with bleak satisfaction and a sharp little smile as the last dregs of belligerence sagged from his stance and he nodded in capitulation.

"It's clear, Fraulein. I shall withdraw my men before dawn. All the British wounded, including Major Avebury will be left behind unharmed."

She reached Dunkirk with time to spare and made her way through the narrow streets to rendezvous with her British contact before embarking for Dover. After recounting the incident which had delayed her, she could glean no fresh information about the small party of wounded she'd left behind in the ruins. The chances that Private Brady had made it safely back to the British lines to summon help were good, but the lack of information was galling and she wanted to find out for sure.

Saving John Avebury had placed her mission in jeopardy - she was very well aware of it, but there had been something about him which had made the risk more than worthwhile. She had sacrificed a little of her self back there in the tumbledown ruins of the Salient. All the well-worn codes and tenets by which she ruthlessly chose to live her life.

Never compromise, don't forge any ties.

No friendships or emotional involvement…

A few hours in a darkened cellar had shattered those brittle defences, and driven her to jeopardise everything for a stranger she would never see again. She laughed harshly at herself. A fool - she'd been a stupid fool. Washed away on a tide of sentimentalism. Her iron resolve weakened by a well-shaped leg, a sweet smile and a sensuous mouth. Well, she wouldn't make the same mistake again. There was no room for such arrant self-indulgence. She must never lose sight of her ultimate goals or be so ill-judged in the future.

The breeze on the coast was fresh and cool. She tipped her head back and savoured its sharpness. The salt tang of ozone whipped out strands of her hair from underneath the brim of her hat. A couple of them stuck to her lashes. It was only that which made her eyes water. Nothing to do with her brief foray into weakness or the man she had left behind.

Even from here she could hear the boom of the guns as they wreaked their deadly carnage on the battlefront. Their sound would follow her home across the Channel, even as far as Dover and beyond. If the wind was blowing in the right direction they would rumble like distant thunder. A chilling and eternal reminder of what was happening over in Belgium and France. She straightened her back like a ramrod. The war was her immediate priority. There would be plenty of other difficult missions before her role in this nightmare was done.

She was wearing a different uniform and carried new identity papers. Monique King had been 'killed off' on her way up to the coast and if anyone had the inclination to search for her, the account of her death would read as thus. The convoy of wounded she'd joined had been hit by a salvo of shellfire. Unfortunately, there were no survivors.

She dashed the moisture away from her eyes and blew her nose somewhat defiantly. In several hours she would be in London, back in her rooms at the Goring Hotel. Hot baths and warm towels… she couldn't help sighing. All the little things which made her feel better. Fresh flowers and unashamed luxury. They were ready and waiting for her there. She would choose from an array of luxurious gowns and have her hair dressed as befitting her status, and then dinner at the Elysée Restaurant with a high-ranking Cabinet Minister. It was easy… it should be so easy, rather like pulling on a new change of clothing. She would slip into her guise as the Baroness Von Helfing just as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter.

There was no room for dreams or heartache. She'd cast them aside a long time ago. No place in her life for an obstinate jaw or a finely-shaped, masculine leg. She was on her own just as she'd always been. She didn't need anyone or anything. Straightening her shoulders defiantly, she took a deep breath of bracing sea air.

She was, god damn it…the most feared and ruthless spy on the whole of the Western Front.

Code name Parsifal…

Epilogue

A sharp pain in his head like a metal spike. Talk about a rude awakening. It felt as though someone had picked up a hammer and cleft his skull in two. He lay very still for an awfully long while, gradually becoming aware of other sensations. It was tempting, very tempting, to just sink back and drift instead of striving to master the darkness. Perhaps if he simply stopped trying, then the vicious pounding might go away.

There was a gentle breeze wafting across him and the softness of linen against him. The vague scent of carbolic washing soap and another, more indefinable, fragrance…

Opening his heavy eyelids, he immediately wished he hadn't. He gave a quiet moan of agony as his vision adjusted to the dim light. A single candle burned at the bedside and he focused on the flame for a moment. As he watched, it dipped and guttered in a faint draught of air, throwing eerie shadows on the rattan walls. He was back in the Treehouse, but not in his room. That much was patently obvious. He groped confusedly for the reason why, but it was too much effort to think. Easier by far to just lie here...

There was a movement beside him and he turned his head, wincing at the effort it cost him. It was Marguerite, her pale face cupped in her hands, curled up in a chair next to the bed. Of course, if he was hurt, then he would be in her room. It was where they usually placed him. He'd been filled with hope, the first time it had happened, when he'd discovered it was at her insistence.

"John?"

Her voice trembled so much that he frowned. What had he done to make her that afraid?

"Something happened?" he sounded strange, almost disembodied, like a weakened echo of himself. "We were attacked?"

"Yes," her hand was cool on his forehead. As she leant across him, he saw a glitter of tears in her glorious faerie eyes. "It was Vantu. Challenger and I saw them off in the end, but not before - " She faltered and brought his hand up to her lips. "Oh John, I… please don't do that again. Put yourself directly in the firing line. They hit you so hard with one of those stone axes - there was too much blood everywhere."

He struggled to move in spite of his pain, his heart filled with guilt for the anguish he saw in her. "Not tears, Marguerite? Oh, tell me they're not. You mustn't spoil those lovely eyes for me." The room spun and he paid for his gallantry, sinking back against the bed with an involuntary expletive as the sledge hammer resumed beating in his head. "Hell…"

Her hands were gentle on his skin, stroking the hair back off his brow as she smoothed out the pillows beneath his sore head. Her touch felt wonderful and he turned his face towards her, merely content to bask in the sensations her fingers magicked within him. Eventually, the pain died to a reasonable level and he opened his eyes again.

"Hush, John, you must lie still. George thinks you may have a fractured skull. You've been unconscious for nearly three days."

He studied her face with stunned dismay. No wonder she looked so distraught. "Three days," he echoed bemusedly. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Marguerite."

Confused as he was, he could scarcely believe it, although he knew she was telling the truth. He'd been drifting amongst images and nightmares, most of them concerning the war, lost in a landscape of hellish dreams which had returned with a vengeance to haunt him. That terrible time still hurt him like a scar etched across his psyche. It lingered deep in his consciousness, staining his memories with blood. He shivered and wondered if he'd ever escape. If the past would eventually release him. Lately, he'd almost begun to believe he might one day be free of the ghosts. He reached for her, pulling his arm out from underneath the thin cotton sheet and waiting as she curved carefully into his embrace.

"I was having such peculiar dreams. Memories, I think, of a time I was injured during the war."

Was it his imagination, or did her face tense with surprise?

"That's strange," she whispered oddly. "I too, dreamt of the war. Was it the time you were shot?"

"No," he answered, thinking about it. "There was another time - I don't remember it very well. It was whilst I was still with my regiment, before I joined Military Intelligence. A bloody great chunk of shrapnel struck me on the head and put me out of action for a few months. It was during my stretch in the Salient when the first wave of gas attacks started. The whole thing was a ghastly stalemate. It was late spring in 1915."

"Chlorine gas?"

He nodded ruefully, and winced. "My regiment was caught in the thick of it. They lobbed it over into our trenches and I managed to inhale some of the stuff. Not much, but it was bad enough, and for some days, I was temporarily blinded. The bloody poison buggered my lungs up too. I had a nasty bout of bronchial pneumonia."

A single, shining tear fell from her eye. "Hush, John. You shouldn't be talking."

"But it's so peculiar," he repeated perplexedly. "The piece of shrapnel cracked my skull. I had amnesia when they shipped me home and never really regained any memories of that time until now. There was a farmhouse…"

"Yes," she said quietly. "That's where they took you when the ambulance broke down."

"That's right," he looked up eagerly. "A ruddy cellar and the stink of hops and malt. There were several of us, there was a nurse… my God, there was a nurse - "

Cupping his unshaven jaw in her hand, she bent over and gently kissed him on the mouth. He felt her lips tremble briefly against him as he tasted the salt of her tears.

"Except that she wasn't really a nurse. She was a spy with a head full of ciphers. She needed to get out of there quickly and make her way up to the coast."

"Marguerite…"

"Shh," she shook her head, determined to finish. It was a story she needed to confess. "She ended up in big trouble when her ambulance got hit by shell-fire and she was forced to take shelter in a cellar with a rag-taggle bunch of wounded Tommies."

"I was there."

"One of them was an English Major. His head was so bandaged she couldn't see his face - his voice so damaged, he could barely even speak…" she paused, her breath soft on his cheek as she continued. "She only knew him as Major John Avebury, and however hard she tried, she never found any trace of him, once the war was over."

"It was you," he murmured incredulously. "Once again, it was you. How many times did our paths have to cross? What were the odds that brought us together?"

She smiled a little shakily, "I'm beginning to think you might be right. It's a little too contrived to be coincidence. Perhaps some higher power has decided we are meant to be. The war seems to have bound us with a common thread which pulls us tightly together. It's like the iridium business; you were protecting me even then."

"As you have protected me," his eyelids were slipping closed again, weighted with weakness and sleep.

She waited until his fingers grew lax and after reassuring herself he'd fallen back into a healing slumber, she got to her feet and moved across the small room to stare out into the night. The jungle rustled below her, dark and sentient and full of life. She threw back her head and breathed in its greenness. The damp scents of tree-bark and leaf-mould. The Plateau was as much a part of her now as the man who lay asleep in her bed.

In her heart...

A prickle of presentiment ran down her spine. From the minute he'd begun to recount his nightmare, she had known for sure he was Avebury. She wondered briefly how he'd acquired that particular name and then recalled he'd had no discs or ankle tag. During the melee he must have mentioned his home and the medics had made a mistake. At the time, he'd been badly injured, amnesiac and confused. A field dressing station could be mayhem, especially in the midst of a battle. Closing her eyes, she was bombarded by images. Some of which, she would rather forget.

It was strange how the memories flooded back again, so sharply they almost hurt her. Even now, she could still feel the sense of loss as she'd left him behind in the cellar.

How had she failed to recognise him?

It scarcely seemed possible now.

It had been dark and she had been desperate. Her mind focused on completing her mission. The War Office had been waiting for the ciphers and she only had a short amount of time. Avebury had been grievously hurt, his face hidden in a swathe of field dressings, and the gas had wreaked all sorts of havoc on his vocal chords and poor ravaged throat. Her face softened into a tiny smile and she shook her head at her short-sightedness. If nothing else, his obstinate jaw should have given the game away. To say nothing of the strong and shapely legs which seemed to stretch on forever, let alone the wayward swirl of hair which curled tenderly into his neck.

It was funny how fortune had tossed the dice and led them up to the sticking point. Like pawns on a bloody chess board moved around on the whim of fate. She supposed it was fate and perhaps something more. The gods seemed mocking and often capricious. Apparently the Plateau had plans for them all. She just wished she knew what they were.

"Oh, John."

Wrapping her arms tightly around her body, she was assailed by a sudden fit of shivering. All her recent terrors crowded in on her, as she relived the last three dreadful days. She'd been so afraid she'd lost him this time. That he'd been brutally and summarily taken from her. As though history was cruelly repeating itself. Just as she'd lost Avebury back then. Hour after long and deadly hour, spent watching his white face on the pillow, and the dark unmoving line of his lashes, which she feared would never open again.

The stone axe used by the Vantu had delivered a harsh blow in more ways than one, and she was still hollow with dread at the thought of it. There had been blood on her hands, on her favourite blouse, so much of his blood everywhere…

She sighed, the worst of it was over, and she really ought to go and tell Challenger. She could hear him snoring below her and her mouth curved into a grin. The scientist had been wracked with guilt and anxiety and hadn't been sleeping much lately. Not since Roxton had been so damned noble and taken the blow meant for him. Her smile faded… it happened too often, as though he was paying a penance. He would sacrifice his life in a heartbeat.

Just as she would die for him.

Moving back to the bedside, she watched as a shaft of moonlight fell across the pillow, and highlighted the planes and angles of Roxton's beloved face. Sighing, he turned his head slightly, murmuring something softly in his sleep. Marguerite exhaled in sudden relief, and took a while to study the well-shaped mouth and the stubborn jaw she loved so very much. George Challenger could wait a little longer. She wanted this special moment to herself.

Leaning forward, she snuffed out the candle. The room was awash with silver. She was content to keep watch in the moonlight and try and come to terms with her thoughts. It was tempting, too tempting to resist him and she gave in and touched his face lovingly, her fingertips hesitating gently on the rasp of his unshaven cheek. It had taken her long enough to tell him how she felt. She'd pushed him away so often. The small ache inside her grew stronger. She had wasted too much precious time.

She had not chosen to love this man. Any choices had been stripped away from her. He had entered her life like a whirlwind and taken her heart unawares. God, he had vexed and infuriated her, she smiled a little at the onslaught of nostalgia…and lived up to the set of his damned Roxton jaw more times than she could honestly remember. She'd given him a run for his money, and fought tooth and nail to deter him, insulting and deliberately hurting him, as he took the blows and came back for more. He had seen her at her absolute worst and been wounded many times by her cruelty, but always, he'd declined to give up on her.

Lord John Roxton believed he could save her.

She was so very used to being alone, despite all the men or in spite of them. Nothing tangible had ever filled the emptiness or eased the aching void in her heart. Her wealth and fortune, all the glittering parties, and seeking danger for the sheer bloody-hell of it. In the end, all that really mattered was her vital work during the war. When it was over, she'd wandered restlessly, spending her money and avoiding her enemies, wasting time on abortive love affairs which flared briefly and then fizzled out. She was hollow, a pretty brittle shell. It had left her feeling arid and broken. Like the shell, she was fragile and empty, and the life force inside her had died.

Things were different now, she realised wonderingly, as she watched his dear face in the moonlight. Roxton loved her without reservation and she no longer had to fend for herself. She had finally found the answers she sought in the most Godforsaken place on the planet. The one man for whom she'd been seeking. The other half of her soul.

The moonlight shimmered and shifted. She laid her head beside his on the pillow. The sound of his breathing was comforting. In a short time, she was asleep.

She was dancing barefoot on the dew-drenched grass, weaving in a pattern through the standing stones. Her hair flew out behind her like a banner as she moved to the music in her head.

Mist hung over the meadows in bands as she looked up and saw him walking towards her. The last stars burned out in the heavens as the night died and faded away.

He was closer now, reaching out to catch her in his arms. She ran forwards and stepped into them gladly. He held her with infinite tenderness as his heart beat strong and sure against her breast. The sun rose and cleft through the standing stones, turning the last threads of dew into mist-wraiths, and lifting her head, she knew she was home, as she looked into John Roxton's face…

THE END

Lisa Paris - 2003.