Chapter 2 The Game Begins

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

7,067 words

Thank you for the reviews, and thanks to readers who chose to "follow" and/or "favorite" this story.

Re Quadrantje's question about why she hadn't seen this story before if it was originally posted in '02: during a period when revised its policies and made site adjustments to accommodate the growing volume of users, it was often difficult loading, formatting, adding new chapters, etc. In frustration, some of us removed all our posted stories. By the time I started re-posting here again in 2010, most of my early un-beta'd (un-edited) stories had been revised. Although readers liked "Not A Game" as originally posted, there were a number of character and plot issues that needed work, and I wanted to delve deeper into R&M's point of view as well as add an epilogue. Zakiyah and DNash's input was invaluable during the long re-write process. "Not A Game" is now more than twice its original length, and I hope readers will enjoy the story's added depth.

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When John Roxton felt the tiny drop of moisture fall from the tree onto his forearm just at the very moment he began to follow Ned and Veronica back to the clearing, he nearly stopped in his tracks. It required massive self-control not to look up into the tree. By sheer force of will, he kept walking, arguing silently with himself.

She can't be up there.

There's no way she could've climbed that tree - the lowest branch is nearly fifteen feet off the jungle floor, the trunk is too thick to get a hold around, there are no stubs hanging off for a hand or foot hold. She can't be up there.

There are often droplets on the trees from condensation that builds up in this torrid tropic heat. It's probably just a bit of the usual jungle moisture, nothing more. Yet he couldn't shake the certainty that it was proof of her presence.

Roxton eyed the single drop of liquid that remained on his forearm, functioning on automation as he participated in the routine of breaking camp. It fascinated him. If, by some miracle, this was a sign of her presence, then since she hadn't responded to their words, she obviously wasn't willing to talk to them. Truth be told, it'd be me in particular that she's not willing to talk to… if she's there, which is unlikely. Not that I would blame her for keeping mum, if on some off chance she really is up there and heard us apologize and still hid from us… from me. I doubt that anyone who betrayed her in the past ever admitted they were in the wrong, so even if she's up there… would she know what to make of what she heard? Of course, there were plenty of times in the last few years when we had to admit fault to one another… but it was never about anything as important as this.

Roxton continued to work even as his mind whirled. If… and that's a highly improbable "if"… if she somehow managed to climb up into that tree… if there's even the slightest chance that I might have the chance to see her again, to talk to her again… then other than repeating myself, what more can I say or do to convince her believe that we're sorry and want her to come home? Not that she's really there, so it's a moot point. It's absurd to get my hopes up when the odds are next to nil that she'd be up in that tree…

His heart was pounding at the thought that there was even the slightest chance that she was up there, regardless of how many times he told himself it wasn't logical. When has logic every applied on this bloody plateau?! If God is giving me a second chance, then I have to get this right. She's already on the defensive. I have to be careful not to do anything that would give her cause to run, at least until I figure out how to approach her again.

Reminding himself again that the drop of moisture was most likely just jungle condensation, he still couldn't rid himself of the idea that it might also have been a drop of perspiration, or water from a canteen. It's crazy to even think, to hope… canopy moisture, that's all it is. But as he packed his backpack, he steeled himself to face the truth and casually touched his forearm where the droplet had fallen. Then he raised the tiny dab of liquid to his tongue.

Salty! Canopy moisture wasn't salty! He almost stopped breathing. It can't be salty from my skin; it'll be another three or four hours before it'll be hot enough for me to break a sweat today. This has to be a tear. Memories assailed Roxton, leaving him reeling as he vividly remembered the few times he'd tasted Marguerite's tears, kissing them away from her cheeks to comfort her in her sorrow, or that most significant of moments when their lips met lovingly and she wept with joy. These thoughts in turn brought home the memory of other tears, the ones he'd failed to heed, left uncomforted. The memories were so powerful that he couldn't breathe for a long moment, finally sucking in a deep breath that made Veronica cast him a sympathetic look. She thinks I'm on the verge of tears, but it's not me who's crying – it's Marguerite! She has to be up there, somehow, someway, she's here!

But she hadn't answered their calls. She didn't want to talk, didn't want to see them, and they'd given her genuine cause to feel that way. He forced himself to stay in the clearing with Veronica and Ned, to think it through, though his stomach roiled in protest. I have to find her – have to be with her.

She's crying. My Marguerite is crying. She's still hurt. I hurt her so badly that she, who so rarely cries, is still crying months after the pain wiped the color from her face. Everything I told her, promised her, showed her - gone in one horrendous day.

No, she wouldn't want to see him or talk to him, not after that day.

He could alert the others, turn right now, and march over to that tree. He and Ned could boost Veronica up to bring Marguerite down if she wouldn't come voluntarily. Between the three of them, they could compel her to return to the tree house with them, give her no choice in the matter. But if she couldn't trust them and didn't want to stay – which was undoubtedly how she'd feel, especially if they confronted her as a group and tried to force her forgiveness – she would only leave again.

He barely managed not to double over and hurl up his breakfast at the very thought of her disappearing so completely again for even a day, let alone for three quarters of a year, or, maybe, this time forever. In the face of his companion's watchful worry, he'd spent every day of the last nine months pretending he was coping with her absence from his life. Yet he was well aware that he'd lost his edge, was too often distracted when his life – or theirs – might depend on his attentiveness, and wasn't reacting as quickly as he would have… before. No one had called him on it yet; but he'd noticed the subtle ways each of them, even Ned, were covering for his lapses.

No, if the evidence of his senses was correct and Marguerite was here, then he couldn't risk losing her again. He'd never survive without her.

If only I could find out where she's been all this time and make sure that she's doing all right wherever she's living! Then maybe I could begin to drop by to visit her there. I could try to win back her trust a little at a time. If I just knew where to find her, if I could see for myself that she's okay, then maybe, eventually, I might be able to win her back again.

The knot in his stomach eased as he considered this idea, and suddenly he could see light at the end of this interminably long, dark tunnel he'd been traveling without Marguerite. This is it! Instead of confronting her, I have to follow her, find out where she lives, and work my way back into her good graces. Alone. It'll have to be alone, in case I get the chance to talk to her. There are so many things I need to say to her, things between she and I that she wouldn't want the others to hear. Yes, going it alone is my best chance for success, maybe the only chance to be a part of her life again. I have to take it slowly – little steps. That's the ticket. I won her before by earning her trust a little at a time. I can do this, even if it takes another three years. I'd do anything for another chance, anything to make up for what we did… for what I did.

Having decided on his plan – wouldn't Marguerite be surprised to know he had an actual plan in mind! – he went on packing up as if his heart wasn't pounding hard enough to force itself from his chest, and then followed Ned and Veronica until they were out of sight of the clearing where they had camped. Only then did he stop and tell the other two that he was going back.

When he explained about the bead of moisture, Ned protested, "Roxton, that could have been anything."

"Even if she is somewhere nearby, you can't just go alone to look for her," Veronica chimed in, her eyes darkening with distress. She understood that he needed to believe this, and hated to see her friend like this, so hopeful and yet so desperate.

"I have to," he responded flatly, more life in his dark green eyes than his friends had seen for months. "Go home to Challenger, and pray that I can find Marguerite again." The tautness of his lean body revealed his anxiety about returning to the clearing as soon as possible.

It was impossible, absurd… but if he was right, if she was there as he believed, they both knew John had the best chance – and the greatest need – to convince her to come back to them. Veronica and Ned looked at each other, their doubts, concerns, and hopes evident to each other in their expressions. Yet Roxton had been so lost, so quiet without Marguerite… and there was no doubt about the energy and purpose that was now animating the hunter.

Finally Ned nodded. "Sometimes you have to try things on your own, no matter how strange it seems or all the arguments against it." His blue eyes gleamed with the memory of his decisions to set out alone for his own journey of discovery. "Good luck, Roxton. Bring her home."

"If you aren't back in a month, I'm coming back to find you," Veronica promised. Her lips curved upward in a tremulous smile. "Don't stay away too long. And if you find her…"

"I'll find her," Lord Roxton said simply.

And despite everything, Ned and Veronica couldn't help but believe him. Their faces gleaming with renewed hope and suppressed excitement, the blonde couple nodded and set out eagerly for the tree house with lighter steps and hearts.

The hunter didn't even wait until they were out of sight before he turned back the way they'd come. Exercising more self-control than he'd known he could, John crept back, slowly, circling around cautiously to be downwind. It took precious time, but he was positive that Marguerite wouldn't risk showing herself until she was certain they were gone. He found a good vantage point to watch that tree and its neighbors, and settled in, flat on the ground beneath the thick jungle underbrush.

Then he waited, denying the adrenaline pumping through his veins, repeatedly reassuring himself that she was there, that it really had been her presence he'd sensed, that he'd see her again if he resisted the urge to rush headlong back to that tree and up into the branches until he had her in his arms.

So he waited. And waited. And waited some more.

His muscles were knotted with the ache of strained power that could be given no outlet, and he'd begun to think he'd been wrong after all – it had been so long now, and Marguerite had never been known for her patience – when motion attracted his eye and he saw a vine suddenly drop into sight, dangling from the very tree he'd been watching.

No, not a vine! A rope?

A shadowed figure descended so rapidly that at first he thought she was falling. No! I'm too far away to get there in time to catch her!

Fortunately, before he could give himself away by scrambling forward as she dropped below the branches of the lowest canopy level, he realized the descent was smooth, controlled by arm and hands. He breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back to his stomach beneath the shrubs.

When she reached the jungle floor he saw her shake a booted foot once, freeing it from a rawhide loop he only noticed once she wasn't standing in it. She shifted her grip on the rope, and he could now discern that there were two strands of the cord. Retaining one end as the two strands separated, she pulled on it with a quick, graceful gesture.

Roxton heard only a hint of a whistling sound as the loose end traveled back up, over the branch he'd been sure she couldn't reach, and fell to the ground at her side. A whip. It's a whip, and she used it in some sort of pulley-like system, with the branch as a fulcrum. It's like her own private elevator, he realized with awe. He watched in fascination as the slender brunette expertly coiled the whip and attached it at her waist with a thong that was obviously meant for that purpose.

Once again suppressing an inadvisable urge to run forward, embrace her and never let her go again, he concentrated instead on how she looked and the details of her appearance.

Her hair tumbled in masses of thick waves over her shoulders and down her back – She climbed a tree with her hair unbound like that? She's lucky she didn't end up tangled in the – His irritation at her carelessness was stilled as she raised her hands, gathered her hair and deftly tied it back into a single ponytail, using a thin leather strip from around her wrist. John noted that there was already a crimp at that length of her hair, showing that it had been tied up for quite some time that morning. She must've let her hair loose to help camouflage her position in the tree. Smart! No wonder all three of us missed seeing her before, what with the way she looks! Her skin was honey-gold, not as bronzed as Veronica's but far from her former peaches and cream complexion. Her knee-high boots were made of mottled brown hide, modeled after Veronica's. Her skirt and top seemed to be of the same material; he liked the way the skirt had swayed gently about her knees as she'd coiled the whip and then as she tended her hair. She had no hat, no rifle or handgun, but she did have a knife sheath beside her whip, and she carried a bow and a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. She also had a hide-skin bag for water and another for provisions, worn crossed over her torso so that they hung at either hip, leaving her hands free. The browns and golds of cloth, skin, hair and weapons blended in almost perfectly with the jungle around her, so long as she stood still.

And she was motionless now, except for those silvery green eyes, which swept the jungle with alert caution. He noted her every movement, watching for the slightest sign that she was about to take to her heels. Behind too much brush to clearly read her expression, far enough that there was no way she could detect his irregular breathing, he nonetheless deliberately regulated and quieted himself, more than a little afraid he would somehow give himself away. She was thorough, and impressively patient, not taking a step until she had scanned everything around her. Only then did she turn and start out in the direction opposite to the one taken by her former housemates. She adopted a graceful, easy lope, setting herself a good pace that would quickly eat away distance. In only a moment she was out of sight again.

Roxton let out his breath slowly and rose to his feet, resisting the panic that threatened as his view was cut off by the jungle between them. He swiftly jogged to where she'd been only seconds before, pausing only long enough for his keen eye to note the minimal tell-tales of her passage. Then he broke into a long-legged lope of his own to close the distance between them – at least enough to bring her back into his view, but not so close that she might detect the sounds of his pursuit.

A smile crept onto his face, and he didn't bother to restrain it. She's alive. Thank God she's alive! She's alive, and she's healthy! All this time – he'd hardly dared to admit even in his own mind that he'd clung to hope; there hadn't been a single sign to indicate that his optimism was justified - until now. She's still alive! The thought echoed in his mind, and the ache that had settled into his chest nine months ago finally eased a little. Marguerite is alive!

And she was incredible! The wood lore she'd developed in the past months was impressive – or perhaps she'd been absorbing skills all along, but simply hadn't had the opportunity to display them. He'd continually lectured her about survival skills here, as had Veronica. Marguerite was certainly applying those lectures now. He grinned, his pride in her warring with ruefulness at his culpability in believing that she hadn't taken them seriously. I should have known she was constantly listening despite appearances to the contrary!

But she certainly never learned that bit with the whip from Veronica or me, he thought admiringly as he maintained a carefully discreet distance from the slender brunette ahead of him. It appears that she's mastered the necessary skills for survival, with her usual capacity to fend for herself. She must have made her own clothing and weapons, she's obviously managed to feed and shelter herself adequately, and she's learned to nearly conceal her movements in the wild.

He exercised extraordinary caution as he followed her, wary of his own trail as well as hers. It was a tricky challenge. He had to stay far enough back not to alert Marguerite, but close enough to keep her in sight. If she decides to scoot up a tree again, I don't want to discover it by finding the sudden end of her footprints. It'll be too late by then, and she'll have spotted me.

As the morning wore on Roxton was astonished and impressed with her stamina, and also with her awareness of her surroundings. The old Marguerite, who had so often demanded rests during their treks around the plateau, was nowhere in evidence as the hours passed. She barely slowed, even to drink from her water skin, and she only came to a complete halt twice.

The first time, she suddenly veered to the right only to turn and sit back on her heels at the base of a tree, facing the way she had come so she could observe her back trail.

Roxton had scarcely ducked out of sight in time to avoid her seeing him.

The second time she stopped, it was to throw herself beneath shrubs mere seconds before a group of slavers rounded the bend of the faint footpath she followed. She laid still mere inches from them, knife in hand, as the fifteen unkempt men filed by her scarcely-concealed position.

Roxton pressed his back to the nearest tree trunk, his rifle ready in case anyone happened to look down to the right. Fortunately, no one did. The undisciplined column of men went on, never guessing what a treasure they'd had within their grasp.

After that, Marguerite left the footpath and headed through the jungle brush, slipping through the undergrowth at a slower pace and checking direction often, needing to be more careful since she was breaking her own trail instead of following any of the faint paths that had been left by man or beast as they crisscrossed the plateau.

Right around noon she ate her 'lunch' as she sat on a rock by a stream. Roxton was impressed anew as he watched her consume a strip of dried raptor and a handful of berries and nuts. Her eyes never stopped scanning and she never stopped listening to the jungle around her, even when she took a long drink from her water skin. After she ate, she knelt by the gurgling water and splashed her face and forearms to refresh herself before she refilled her water bag. With the day's heat fully in effect, she spent a couple extra minutes to re-tie her long hair into a twist down her back. Then she resumed her journey.

Roxton followed, but his delight in having her within sight was now tempered by a growing concern.

She's doing just fine out here on her own. The realization provoked mixed feelings; while he was proud of the skill and savvy she was exhibiting, it left him with a dilemma. She relied on my skills and strengths to keep her safe, before we… well, before. After all, if she hadn't needed my abilities for her own survival here in the beginning, I'd probably never have had the chance to know her well enough to discover the real Marguerite behind the façade, and to fall in love with her. He could admit that to himself now, although he hadn't even realized the nature of his feelings in the beginning, and he'd fought against acknowledging that he'd fallen in love long after he'd known. Not nearly as long as Marguerite had fought against admitting she loved him in return, but still… Marguerite has always valued her independence; if she'd been able to do all this back then, she'd have kept herself closed off from all of us. She never would have stayed with us long enough to learn to love me, or to care about the others either. So if she doesn't need us any more in order to be safe here… what will draw her back to us? What can I offer her, what might she accept from me now that I've lost her trust and forfeited her love?

Wait… something different was happening. Roxton's gaze sharpened as he noted that she was no longer moving forward with the assurance of the morning. Marguerite seemed to be increasingly uneasy. She paused more often to listen and to watch, especially in his direction, off to the left side behind her.

Roxton moved cautiously off to the right of her trail, unsure if she'd spotted him.

It proved to be a good precaution, because a few minutes later Marguerite suddenly doubled back, veering off to the left to scout her own back trail. He had a few bad moments as she drew closer to where he'd switched to the right, but she paused a few yards shy of crossing his tracks. That was close! If I hadn't moved when I did, she'd have seen my trail, and she'd have known someone was following her. I doubt she'd have suspected it was me, but it would have scared her. I'd have had to tell her I'm here, and it's too soon. She has no reason to trust me; she's not likely to listen to anything I have to say.

His stomach lurched as memories resurfaced again, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Until I can prove myself, prove my intentions, I'm just as likely to scare her as any headhunter or slaver on her trail.

Finding no sign of pursuit, she took one more look behind her, brow puckered in concentration, before she faced forward again. Roxton grinned, relieved at avoiding discovery and confrontation. She definitely paid attention to Veronica and me. She executed that move exactly as we demonstrated over and over when we were trying to teach the others to check on whether they were being followed.

Towards dusk she began to look for a place to camp for the night. About half an hour before it would've been too dark to travel safely without a torch, Marguerite found a deadfall where a passing dinosaur had uprooted a large banyan, which had taken out several smaller trees when it crashed down. After a quick examination of the site's perimeter, she eased through the tangled branches to the relatively clear ground she'd noticed beneath the fallen tree. She still seemed jumpy; she moved almost restlessly within her small site and studied her surroundings from almost half a dozen angles before she finally selected a place to settle down within the circumference of the deadfall.

Roxton crept nearer, inch by inch, utilizing every bit of cover, wanting to be close at hand if she was threatened during the night. He wriggled slowly and silently up a nearby tree, and settled himself in a juncture that would safely hold his body. From his vantage point – the closest I've been to her in the last nine months, he grieved – he could see the rise and fall of her chest with each breath she took as she sat cross-legged beneath the branches.

She'd chosen well, he noted, again with pride that was shadowed with worry. No fire, no blankets, no water supply or apparent food supply, nothing to attract attention, and this place is surrounded by dried bark and twigs that'll crackle loudly if anything steps on it. The deadfall itself provides an effective perimeter fence that any attacker would have to contend with in order to reach her. It's just the kind of place I'd look for myself if I wasn't' sure I could wedge myself into a tree securely enough to stay put while asleep.

She ate more dried raptor, nuts, and berries from her pouch, and drank sparingly from her water skin. When she lay down, she kept her knife in her hand; the whip, bow and arrows she placed beside her, within easy reach. But although she'd had a full, physically active day, she slept fitfully; she woke often throughout the night and carefully checked the jungle around her.

Perhaps she hasn't become quite as self-sufficient as I thought, he mused, half-ashamed of his relief as he ate sparingly from his own scanty rations. Maybe she doesn't need us the way she did, but she's still better off with us… If only I can convince her of that.

As the hours passed, his concern increased, keeping him wakeful despite the long, tiring day. She'll be exhausted in the morning, at this rate. And now that I'm this close and can see her better… she's too thin. She'd always been slender, of course. But she had lost about ten, maybe fifteen pounds since he had seen her last, far too much weight to lose off her delicate frame. Not an ounce of extra flesh, and she's far too tense. She's completely on edge even while she's dozing. She can't always be like this, or she'd never have survived this long alone. She'd have been too tired to stay alert. Good thing I'm close enough to step in if she runs into any trouble.

A half dozen times during the night he almost yielded to his desire to join her, to hold her in his arms, to reassure her that she was safe because he was with her. Only the dread that she would rebuff him held him in place so nearby without revealing himself to her. Wait, he sternly rebuked himself again and again; watch. Stick to the plan. Find out where she's living. Then it'll be okay to talk to her. I have to wait for the right time, or I won't get the chance to prove myself again. For now, I'm lucky just to be this near. Roxton stood guard over her all night, sleeping little despite his own fatigue, troubled over her nervous and fitful slumber, yet also glad to be in such close proximity to this woman he loved so deeply, and thankful to once again have the privilege of watching over her.

With the dawn she didn't bother trying to doze off again. She sat up, sheathed her knife, settled her two bags over her shoulders, and stretched wearily. She rolled her shoulders, unbraided her hair and ran impatient hands through the tangled curls to sweep out the leaves and bark before she re-braided the unruly mass. Finally, she secured her whip to its fastening, shrugged on the quiver and the bow, and then straightened to her feet. She stood motionless, only moving her eyes as she waited quietly for the sun to rise.

The hunter nodded approvingly as he watched her thorough care in assessing her environment, marveling anew at how well she had mastered jungle survival skills. The only fault he found with her preparations was that she didn't eat something while she waited for the sunrise to confirm which way she needed to travel.

Once she could see the deep orange gleam of the sun as it tipped over the horizon, she adjusted her direction and started out. To his relief, she ate and drank on the move. She had to be exhausted after the distance she'd covered yesterday and the poor quality of sleep she'd had last night – he certainly was – yet she was still moving with fluid grace. But there was something about the way she was holding herself that troubled the hunter shadowing her trail. It was if she was . . .

Frightened. Marguerite was clearly skittish, spooked about something. She had her bow in hand not an hour into the day's travel. Twice she pulled her bow around into position to fire, arrow notched, ready to let it fly as she spun and faced down her back trail, so fast that Roxton barely saw her do it. But she found no target. Each time, after turning in a circle to scan the jungle all around her, she reluctantly continued on. Her pace slowed more and more, and the glances over her shoulder became more frequent.

Roxton's brow furrowed as he followed her, reviewing the situation. She was increasingly tense yesterday, and it only grew worse last night. This isn't just taking normal precautions because her intuition says she should be careful. Now she's scared, too. She's acting like she believes she's in danger.

He had long ago learned to trust her instincts, and since she was uptight, he was extra mindful of keeping his trail to a minimum and staying under cover. Fatigue was forgotten as his adrenaline rose. He had to fight his inclination to reveal himself so that he could ease her apprehension and reassure her that she wasn't alone. If someone's following her, I don't want to give away my presence and position. I have to stay available in case Marguerite needs my help.

After several hours, Marguerite abruptly sidestepped to cross an area relatively free of the usual jungle ferns and shrubbery, and pressed her back to a tree trunk as she warily surveyed her surroundings for the fourteenth time since she'd stepped out of the deadfall at sunrise.

Roxton squatted on his heels between several thorny bushes, careful not to touch them, and divided his attention between watching her and scanning the jungle to locate what was bothering her. He couldn't spot anything, either visually or audibly, that hinted at what might be affecting her.

Apparently, she couldn't either.

But she stayed right where she was for the rest of the morning. Once more he found himself marveling at her patience – no fidgeting, no fussing, and no sign of the frustration that had so often characterized her behavior in the past. Torn between approval of her discipline and exasperation at this confirmation that she'd always been capable of much more self-control than she'd usually exhibited, he suppressed a yawn as he pondered the undeniable evidence before him. Even after she admitted she loved me, and stopped hiding the fact that she cared about each of the others, she still didn't reveal to us that she was capable of this kind of patience. Why didn't she? Will I ever understand why she does such things?

His attention was reclaimed by the present when Marguerite shifted position slightly, angling her body more directly toward him. Her gaze swept over his position without pausing, to his relief. Better pay more attention to what she's doing now, and less to what she's done in the past, he rebuked himself. Besides, I'm sure any ground won in gaining her trust and learning about her is going to have to be regained from scratch. I need to study her and base my strategies on what's happening now, not on where we were before, so I can figure out how to approach her. So he waited and watched.

At noon she sighed, shook her head and finally sat down. She opened one of her pouches, took out her provisions, and ate lunch, much as she had at the stream the day before.

And then she sat there.

She just sat there!

John couldn't get over the patience she was displaying. Although, he reminded himself, it makes sense that Marguerite must have exercised plenty of patience as an international jewel thief, and also as a triple agent, or she'd never have succeeded at either. Maybe she simply hasn't had anything she wanted to be patient about since we met and were stranded together – well, other than her search for the Ouroboros. But now that she's alone again, she has no choice but to be patient in order to survive, like before we knew her. If Veronica and the others could see her now, they'd be flabbergasted!

She barely moved, although her eyes once again never rested long on any one thing. Gradually, as he witnessed her taut watchfulness, he realized that Marguerite didn't merely suspect danger was near; she was absolutely certain of it. She's full expecting someone or something to come into view. Now what is it that she's sensing? What am I missing? Suddenly it dawned on him, and he shook his head ruefully, cursing himself for not realizing it sooner. It was so obvious! She knows I'm here! She knows I'm watching her! She feels my presence, just as I felt hers yesterday morning!

He remembered, now that it had come to mind, how often she had simply known he was watching her, had sensed his eyes on her. He had teased her about it, but she'd only replied haughtily that it was an instinct for self-preservation. Just the same, he'd always suspected she was privately delighted to know John was watching her so often.

If she was feeling it today, as she had before that disastrous episode nine months ago, then it explained her increasing restlessness on the trail, her interrupted sleep, and why she had come to a halt.

If she's realized that it's me following her but keeping from sight, then she's probably also deduced that I want to know where she's been living. But she won't have any idea what my intentions are once I find the place where she's staying, and she certainly has no reason to expect anything good coming of my finding her, not the way things stand between us. She must have heard what we said when we were below her perch in that tree, but that wasn't much to weigh against what we did to her… especially what I did to her. We're back to square one. I've lost her trust, her belief in me. That's why she scared – and I can't say I blame her. She's not going to welcome me back with open arms. Marguerite stopping like this is her way of telling me that she knows it's me following her, and that she isn't going to lead me to her home.

Smart and stubborn – fire and steel – just like in the beginning.

How long would she keep this up? Exactly how much restraint did his lady have? How long would she brazen it out? He certainly wasn't going to give in before achieving his goal, not when failure meant losing her. She'd vanished for nine endless months, and if he didn't follow through on finding out where she was based now, she'd be gone for good. The odds are too high that approaching her now will cost me the chance to make sure I can find her again, which is the only way I have any shot at winning her back. She won't come back with me today, I know she won't. It's going to take time, so I can't confront her before I have an Ace in the hole. Once I know where to find her again, then… His heart leapt in anticipation of the moment when it would be safe to reveal himself, to begin coaxing her to trust him again, to finally come home. I can do this. I can outwait her, make her question whether she's really sensing me. She can't sit there forever. Eventually she has to move on. If she wants to challenge me, well, I'll give her an opponent to match her move for move.

He and Marguerite had matched wits often in the early days of being stranded on the plateau; she was a wily adversary, and trying to outmaneuver her would take all his hunting skill and globally-gleaned savvy. Especially since she was apparently more his equal in wilderness survival skills now than she had been when they'd first arrived here. This could be fun, much like when he and William had played at outsmarting one another as their childhood games had become mock hunts around the sprawling grounds of Avebury and even friendly rivalries while away at school. How they had enjoyed challenging one another's skills, testing one another's limits, vying to best one another!

His early relationship with Marguerite had been a similar series of competitions against one another, pushing one another's boundaries, studying each other and playing subtle – and sometimes not-so-subtle – games of one-upsmanship. As with William, such games had strengthened the bonds between himself and Marguerite. It could do the same now. Win or lose, this game could be his foot in the door, the first step in rebuilding their relationship. Grinning at having found a positive addition to his goal of locating her home, Roxton settled in to play the game, his guilt and unhappy memories fading as he watched her with appreciation, beginning to enjoy the situation.

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he had more patience than Marguerite Krux. If she didn't move, he wouldn't either. And when she finally gave up waiting and resumed her journey, even if she was more guarded while she continued to question what she was sensing, he would have more time to observe her new skills. Moreover, every step she took would bring them closer to his discovery of her current home. All he had to do for now was sit tight.

The afternoon stretched on, and Roxton found it increasingly difficult to fight his own fatigue and stay alert. Marguerite was like a statue, except once when she reached out for some nearby sticks in order to pull them back to herself. It looked like she was checking them out as possible arrows, he decided. But after setting them aside, she returned to her former stillness.

The sun began to sink and the shadows to lengthen. Still Marguerite rested against the tree trunk, unmoving.

Or did she?

He blinked and refocused.

Is she there? The way the shadows look now as the sun sets….

After struggling briefly to make sense of what his fatigue-blurred eyes saw, Roxton decided enough was enough. If she was there, he'd be confirming his presence and maybe blowing the last opportunity he'd have… but he had to know. He stood slowly, rising from the shrubs, and, when there was no reaction from the shadows, walked to the tree trunk.

The lack of response told him before he reached the tree that she was gone. The outline he'd thought was Marguerite was a bundle of sticks that had been left leaning against the tree trunk where she had been sitting. She was gone.

"Oh, very good, Marguerite," he chuckled, impressed anew. "Very, very good!"

He looked up into the foliage of the tree. She must've used her whip again, probably tossing it up over a branch at the same time she'd reached for one of these sticks to redirect his attention. Then she could have pulled herself up slowly, bit by bit, as the dusky dimness spread and hid her movement. She could've been gone two minutes, or for as long as an hour, he realized, slapping his hat against his leg in mingled disgust and admiration.

He clapped the hat back on his head and studied the surrounding area. With the distance that these branches spread out from the gnarled trunk, she could have dropped back out of the tree twenty feet away in any direction. She'd have quite a lead on him by tomorrow morning, when it would be light enough for him to pick up her trail again. And she was forewarned that he was coming. Roxton found himself grinning again, even though she was no longer within his sight. He hadn't smiled this much in one day since she'd disappeared those long months ago.

Filled with anticipation for the coming dawn, he settled down in the same spot she'd sat in earlier, and leaned back against the tree that had aided in her evasion of him. Yes, this was just like the hunting games he'd told Marguerite about playing with his brother William. And it was also comfortably akin to the skirmishes he and Marguerite had so enjoyed with one another these past few years.

The game is definitely on! The minx will sleep like a baby tonight, knowing she put one over on me like this. But she can't have gone so far that I won't be able to track her down again. Let her have her little head start for now. I'll catch up with her soon enough. This hide-and-seek isn't quite what I planned to win her back again, but it's a good light-hearted start; it just might do the trick. Smiling up at the glimmers of moonlight visible through the leafy canopy above him, Roxton contemplated the process ahead. This was going to be fun!