By Susan Zell
Disclaimer and Notes: See Chapter One SalvationChapter Nine
"Is he dead?" shouted Challenger.
Veronica's fingers fumbled for his throat. There was a silence in the entire tribe as they waited for word whether the young man had survived. Her jaw was clenched tight until she finally found the steady pulse. She gasped out in relief. "He's alive!"
There was a shout of elation from the surrounding natives, but Osha raised a hand silencing them. Marguerite approached the altar. Roxton lay so still, his hair askew on his forehead, his face peppered with red from the high fever he was battling. All eyes were on her, but Marguerite took no notice. Dread had gripped her soul as she reached for him, knowing that in the next moment she would either cry with joy or fall apart with abject loss.
He couldn't be dead. He couldn't, not while Malone lived. It wouldn't be fair.
Roxton suddenly drew in a deep shuttering breath. Marguerite let out a small cry and ran the last bit to him. He was warm but there was no trace of the raging fever that had claimed him prior. His heartbeat thumped against her palm, as powerful and as strong as ever.
A roar went about the village. This time Osha made no move to stop it. She stepped up to the altar and laid a hand on Roxton's chest, feeling this miracle for herself. "This has never happened before. Never has a stranger been able to give his spirit to another."
Challenger stroked his beard, lost in thought. "Perhaps the term brother is not bound exclusively by blood."
"We have been through much together," Summerlee pointed out. "We have almost become a family of sorts in our own right."
Osha grinned. "Yes. Battle can forge bonds stronger than blood. Perhaps that is what saved your friends' lives. Truly you are blessed."
Ned roused in Veronica's arms. "Did it work?" Disoriented, he hadn't yet processed the fact that the others had somehow found them.
"Yes it worked, you crazy idiot," she scolded softly. "What were you thinking?"
"Of a friend," he told her. He didn't miss her smiling face and glistening eyes. Are those tears for me? he wondered. It finally dawned on him as he looked around. "Hey, when did you all get here?"
"Too late to stop you from doing something impetuous as always," Challenger groused, leaning into Ned's field of vision, red hair flying riotously out from under his hat.
"Welcome back, young Malone," Summerlee offered, his crinkling eyes bright with unabashed tears. "Our valiant hero."
"Who'd have thought, huh?" Ned remarked, flushed with embarrassment and silent pride.
***
The quiet and peace in the large hut was a pleasure after the arduous ordeal of the explorers. Evening had fallen and most everyone was sleeping. They lay in a semi-circle around a dwindling campfire.
Veronica had not left Ned's side since the ceremony had ended. Though the journalist had been conscious for the first hour, exhaustion soon claimed him and he slept as though he would do so for weeks. Osha assured them that it was a natural side effect of performing the Kira. It would take a few days rest for Malone to regain the strength he had transferred to Roxton.
The recovering lord lay quietly beside Marguerite. He still had not roused, but Osha again said it was a good sign. His fever had not returned, indicating the infection was gone. The leg no longer festered and he no longer breathed blood. His flesh had knitted but the broken bones had not yet fully mended; however, enough energy was transferred to allow him now to recoup on his own. Any more and it might have killed Malone.
Summerlee and Challenger had argued that perhaps it was the black, pitch-like substance Kimshe had used that had turned the tide. It was made of a plant yet unclassified by either professor and that discovery had held their attention most of the day, after they were positive both sick men were well on the road to recovery, of course.
Still Veronica liked to believe that it had been Ned himself that had saved the day. It seemed somehow important to believe that, for Ned's sake. He had been through so much, and despite his claims of failure after failure in his attempt to save Roxton, Veronica was positive that Ned's selfless acts had saved both their lives. It had been a heavy load to bear all alone. She was amazed and very proud of him.
Now she dozed along side him, her slender hand resting atop his, not only to sense if he awoke during the night, but also to reassure her of his presence.
Marguerite watched them and wished she had the courage to be so bold. She sat beside Roxton but did not touch him; instead she merely watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flutter of his long eyelashes that hinted with the promise of his waking. But each time she was disappointed. He remained asleep.
Marguerite wondered how and why she had these feelings for the hunter. He was arrogant and uncouth, a braggart and a bore. He constantly got under her skin.
Though not always in a bad way, she mused. There were many pleasant memories that made a warmth spread through her. She recalled the time he had approached her on the balcony after finding the valley of that vile tree, his fumbling attempt to open the door to his feelings and hers. She had fought him then. She also remembered how he had confessed to her about his desperate desire to belong, even if the cost meant becoming a bloodthirsty killer like Calista. And then there was the time he had offered of himself after she had almost committed suicide in the cave saturated with hallucinogenic spores. Each time, it was he who had made such small efforts, whittling away at her foundation, showing her that such battlements might not be necessary any longer. If only he knew just how necessary they were.
She felt drawn to him. No man had ever affected her like that, at least not in a very long time. It was something she would have to consider sometime in the near future. She was just relieved that they had one. This way she could sort out just what it was between them. Not that she was fooling herself into believing there was something lasting brewing. She had no time or desire for that. She was here on business after all, but the promise of something wonderful continued to envelop her with a tenderness she had rarely known. It was at once incredible and alarming in its intensity.
Reaching out, she hesitatingly touched him, brushing her fingers lightly over the dark purple bruises so vivid on his chest. So much pain and suffering; so many scars; so much like herself. She took one last look around to make sure no one was watching her, hoping everyone was still deeply asleep. When she turned back, she was shocked to see Roxton awake. His eyes were open and observing her.
"Roxton!" She vainly fought the elation that struggled to erupt over her face and jerked back her hand from where it lay on his muscular chest.
"You're finally here," he whispered. His hand reached out to brush her cheek as if expecting her to vanish like she had so often in his dreams of late. To his pleasure, she remained solid and warm to the touch.
"Of course I am. You know we had to track you and Malone over half this bloody plateau. Next time leave some bigger breadcrumbs."
"As you command," he murmured.
A delicious chill ran up her arms at his words. She tried to distract him so he wouldn't see her reaction. "Should I get someone? Summerlee?"
He shook his head. "No, the one that I want is right here."
She couldn't help the blush that rose in her cheeks. A part of her always hated the way her body unconsciously reacted to him. A pure lack of control that distilled everything she had trained herself to do over the years. It was dangerous how he affected her so.
"I've been meaning to tell you something."
"Oh really?" She shifted uncomfortably on the mat.
"I thought my number was up this time." His hand dropped to cover hers and his thumb rubbed the pulse point at her wrist.
"It very nearly was." Her breath was reduced to short, quick gasps marked in time with its rhythm. "I swear, you and Malone have the same number of lives as my cat back in London." Her forced laugh was too rapid and loud in the pervading silence of the hut. To her horror, Challenger stirred in the far corner. She did not want anyone to see how she was reacting, all flustered and off balance. It could be misinterpreted.
"There are too many things left undone in my life," Roxton continued. "It's time to remedy some."
Suddenly she was afraid of what this man was going to blurt out. She wasn't ready! "Roxton, you really should rest." She looked back at Challenger in hopes that he had actually roused from his sleep, but with no luck. The professor had fallen back to snoring merrily. However, she did see someone move outside the hut through the bundled branches that made up the structure's wall. Natives on the move most likely. Maybe one would come in and check on them. She almost pleaded that they would. Anything was better than opening up to Lord Roxton.
"I've rested enough." He raised himself up on an elbow and pulled her attention back to him with a gentle hand. He stared directly into her face. "Marguerite, you don't deny there's something between us, do you?"
"Between us?" she exclaimed. "Don't be silly. Whatever sparks fly between us are purely dangerous ones. Not to mention annoying."
The hunter wasn't to be deterred. "Danger is a game we both like to play," he murmured, his gaze traveling the length of her like a predator devouring its prey. She actually shivered before his eyes but she quickly covered it up with a sharp retort.
"One that only you continually lose."
He shook his head, frustrated at the turn the conversation had taken. It always happened that way between them, like a bad habit. It prevented them from speaking the truth all too often. He tried again. "Look, all I want to say is--"
There was a sudden crack of dry branches outside the door. "Did you hear that?" Marguerite squeaked, purposely looking around.
"Don't change the subject."
She huffed with exasperation. "I'm not. There's someone out there."
"We're in a village, are we not? It's just a villager."
"I should go check." She tried to rise.
"Marguerite!" he growled with irritation, but then he realized he was pushing her. She had no intention of listening to him confess his feelings. He backed off reluctantly, remembering his own advice just before this whole adventure started. She wasn't ready. Instead, he looked down at his bare chest, covered still with the strange markings. "What the hell is this stuff?" He rubbed at a symbol but it didn't come off.
"You can thank Malone." Relieved at the distraction, she explained what the journalist had done to save his life. Roxton was amazed and grateful. At least until Marguerite pointed out, "Unfortunately that stuff has to wear off naturally." There was a mischievous grin on her face.
"How long?"
"About three weeks."
He rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered.
"I don't know. I think it looks rather … primal." Her finger traced one of the patterns, making his skin tingle.
The grin he shot her was as feral as her own. "God, I do lo—"
The door exploded inward with a crash, sending splinters of wood everywhere. Marguerite screamed as something large and hairy came at her.
Concluded in Chapter Ten
