A Tiny Problem
Chapter 11: The Walk Home
Roxton crouched in the darkness with his back to the fire, scanning the undergrowth. The light of the waning gibbous moon did not reach the forest floor, but the blaze cast long shadows among the tall trees. Over the crackling of the flames, he listened for any noise that might signal the arrival of his quarry, whether friend or foe. The night air was alive with sound, making it impossible to discern the size and distance of the creatures that moved in the darkness all around him.
To his left, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a winding shadow among the leaf litter. A coral snake, he realized from its distinctive tricolor pattern, highly venomous. He turned his head slowly so as not to draw its attention. Its yellow bands flashed gold in the gleam of the fire as it stalked something through the decaying leaves. He watched it for a moment to ensure that it was not headed his way and discovered that its attention was focused on a small sapling whose trembling leaves glowed copper in the firelight. Slowly, the snake coiled backward on itself, preparing to strike at something that was obscured in the shadow of the small tree. Without thinking, he drew his revolver and fired a bullet that severed its head. The shot echoed through the forest. Well, if the bonfire didn't draw out our mystery attackers, then maybe my shooting will.
It was then that he felt something brush against his left boot and he practically leapt out of his skin. Another snake? He wondered whether he might have been focused on the wrong danger all along. He cursed himself for his amateurish mistake and, training his revolver on the ground, he almost jumped again.
"Marguerite?" He couldn't believe it was her.
"Roxton, put that thing away, you almost shot me!"
Dirty and disheveled, she looked a fright, but her imperious tone told him that she was not seriously harmed.
For a moment, he remained frozen. He wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to take her over his knee. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to shout in her face. He wanted to lock her in a box and carry her back to the treehouse. Most of all, however, he wanted to hear her say his name again.
"Marguerite, are you alright?"
"No, John, I am bloody well not alright. I am filthy, exhausted, and practically dying of thirst. I have been chased through the undergrowth by snakes, insects, and lizards of every imaginable variety. And that was after I quite literally fell out of the sky and was dashed against every branch and twig on the way down." She could see his concern at her comment, so she tried to reassure him with humor. "Nothing is broken, but every inch of me hurts, which is really saying something considering I'm only three inches tall at the moment." Her laugh was hollow and mirthless, and her voice quivered as she continued. "I just want to go home."
"It's too dangerous to travel at night, but we'll head back to the treehouse at first light. In the meantime, why don't you try to get some sleep. You look like you could use a rest."
She scowled at this last comment, though she had no doubt it was true.
"Do you have any water?" Her lips were chapped and dry. Her tongue felt like tree bark.
He unscrewed the cap from his canteen and filled it, passing it gently to her as she received it with both hands. Tipping it to her lips, she drank deeply and then sank, exhausted, to the ground. Without asking, he took the cap and replaced, then scooped her up by the silk of her dress and returned her to his empty holster. He could feel her disapproving glare at his manhandling of her, but he could not see her face in the shadows.
"We had a deal, remember? Back you go."
For once, she had neither the strength nor the will to argue. In the leather pouch, she did not stir. He knew from the faint snoring sound coming from his vest that she was already asleep.
Roxton, however, kept watch. He may have succeeded in finding Marguerite, but he knew their problems were far from over. He let the fire burn low and continued to listen for any sign of danger. He had the distinct feeling that they were being watched—a feeling he had learned not to ignore—but he could neither see nor hear any sign that anyone else was out there in the darkness. It unsettled him.
As dawn approached, he felt Marguerite stirring and decided it was time to be on their way.
"Is there anything to eat?" He heard a small, sleepy voice ask from inside his vest.
He took a mango out of his pack and presented it for her inspection.
"You're not going to peel it for me?" This was a game they had played before.
His bowie knife made short work of the thin, green peel, though it took him rather longer than usual. While his hands were busy, she somehow managed to wriggled out of the holster. The feel of her small hands gripping the fabric of his clothes as she made her way to the ground, though not unpleasant, was extremely distracting. Now, she stood before him, fists on her hips, waiting impatiently for her breakfast. He proceeded to cut off a long, pulpy slice, which he handed to her. It was so large she had to set one end on a leaf, stabilizing the other with both hands as she bit into it with surprising voracity. She squeezed her fingers into the flesh as sticky, golden nectar ran down her forearms. Her chin and throat were slick with its fragrant juice. It was even in her hair. Ordinarily, this would have horrified her, but, for the moment, at least, she did not seem to care. It was the first food she had eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. And it was delicious.
Once she had eaten her fill, she released her hold on the mango and became aware of the state she was in. Grimy, sticky, and dripping with juice, she thought, crinkling her nose as she examined her hands. Ick!
Roxton, having long since finished with his own breakfast, decided that he had suffered enough after going nearly an entire day without their banter, and could not resist a teasing comment.
"You're mad if you think you're going back in my holster like that. You'll ruin the grain."
"In that case, you had better give me some more water."
Although Marguerite could always give at least as good as she got when it came to their repartee, her vanity was a major chink in her armor.
"There's a stream not far from here. We can stop there on our way. Come on!" He lifted her off the ground and swung his pack over his shoulder in a single, fluid motion.
A few yards away, he knelt down by the edge of a brook.
"Just a minute, my dear," he cautioned her, as he began arranging some stones to create a sheltered area that was shielded from the current. He was taking no chances. "There you are!"
He set her down by the pool he had made.
"Is it too much to ask for a little privacy?" She turned to ask this over her shoulder, having already knelt at the edge of the water where she was busy laving water over her forearms.
"As a matter of fact, yes, it is." His tone was playful, but he was entirely serious.
She rose and turned to face him defiantly.
"I mean it, John. I need a bath."
"You certainly do," he grinned. "Don't let me stop you."
"So … turn around or close your eyes or something!"
She sprinkled the water from her wet hands in his general direction, forcing him to blink and turn his head slightly to the side. His insistence had her flustered. Usually, she had no difficulty in appealing to his overdeveloped sense of gallantry. This morning, however, he was proving rather more resistant to her manipulations than usual.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight."
She scowled at him, but he would not budge. She considered kicking him, but, given her current proportions, she realized there was nothing she could do to change his mind. She was not pleased about the indignity of having to wash in front of him, but she simply could not continue in her current state.
"You're insufferable," she hissed at him.
"That's the spirit," he laughed.
He could almost feel the sting of her steel-gray eyes before she turned away from him with a swish of dirty silk and undid the knot behind her neck, stepping into the water.
He tried not to stare at her as he refilled his canteen. Teasing was one thing, but he genuinely didn't want to make her uncomfortable, and he knew she was already self-conscious about her predicament. Besides, he really did need to keep an eye on their surroundings, just in case the mystery archers made a return appearance. But she was breathtaking, even in miniature form. He could not help but steal a glance out of the corner of his eye as she rinsed her hair.
Movement on the other side of the bank drew his attention. A capybara emerged from the jungle and snorted as it settled in the middle of the stream. Just then, a shriek of terror from Marguerite called his attention, and he instinctively snatched her out of the water. He looked down to see a crayfish scuttle under one of the rocks he had disturbed to create the pool. Then he turned to the tiny woman in his hand. She tried to cover herself, but he had inadvertently pinned her arms to her sides with his thumb and forefinger.
"Put me down!" Her wide eyes flashed with white hot ire.
"Sorry," he offered, rather sheepishly, as he averted his gaze.
He set her down and she snatched up her scarf. As she refastened it quickly, he realized she was trembling.
"I think it's time we were going, my dear," he held out his hand. "Back in the holster you go."
She said nothing and did not look him in the eye as she stepped onto his hand. He could see that she was blushing deeply. Marguerite was an enigma. One minute she is bold as brass, the next the very picture of chastity.
He adjusted his pack and rifle, and, with his passenger safely stowed, he set a brisk pace for the treehouse.
As he walked, he thought about what he wanted to say to her. While he had, of course, been pleased to resume their playful banter, he felt as though there remained something important between them that needed to be addressed. In the end, however, it was Marguerite who spoke first.
"I hate to admit it, John, but you were right. I never should have left the treehouse."
It wasn't exactly an apology, or a thank you, but he knew it was as close as he was likely to get. The urge to holler 'I told you so' at the top of his lungs was almost overwhelming, but he thought she deserved some credit for making the first conciliatory move.
"I thought I'd really lost you this time." It was hard for him to say the words. He didn't even want to think about how close he had come to never seeing her again.
The ache in his voice made her a little uncomfortable. She wanted to lighten the mood.
"Come now, John, you should have known that it would take more than crashing out of the sky to kill the likes of me." She paused.
"Does this mean that you'll listen the next time I try to talk you out of some foolhardy scheme of yours?"
"My schemes are never foolhardy, Roxton, you should know that by now. And I always take your objections under advisement," she added coyly.
He could not suppress a laugh.
"Yes, and then you go and do precisely as you damn well please!"
"You wouldn't have it any other way." Her voice was satin.
"You know, when I found you last night, I had half a mind to take you over my knee." He paused and waggled his eyebrows. "When this is over, I still might."
He knew there was a chance—more than a chance—that she would bristle at this rather brazen comment. In fact, he had no intention of ever taking her over his knee—not even if she were my wife, he thought—but in that moment there was something undeniably appealing about the idea of disciplining her for her disobedience. Yet, if he was truly honest with himself, he had to admit that he had no interest in a submissive Marguerite. Her headstrong independence was an inextricable part of her charm, even if it occasionally drove him to distraction. For the moment, however, she was clearly in a teasing mood and he was curious to gauge her reaction. It was a calculated risk. At least she was too small to slap him for his impertinence.
"What nonsense," she dismissed his hollow threat with a mocking laugh. "First of all, it was I who found you, remember?"
He had a rather different interpretation of the previous night's events, but he wanted to see where this was going.
"And second, I happen to know for a fact that you would never strike a woman, John."
She knew his upbringing would prevent him from ever seriously considering such a thing, and she told him as much.
"Don't be so sure about that." He tried to sound assertive, but something about her taunting disarmed him.
"I mean it, you couldn't raise a hand against a woman to save your life. Nor mine, for that matter."
"I'm sure that's not true," he replied, a little surprised at the direction their conversation had taken. When did I lose the upper hand here? He was quite certain that there was nothing he would not do to keep his lady safe, decorum be damned.
"Oh, but it is. Have you forgotten your little misadventure with the vampire?" She paused for effect. "Or that jungle tart?" There was a discernible note of venom in her voice. He had a pretty good idea to whom she was referring, and a part of him was rather flattered to think that she was jealous. However, he recognized that this was very dangerous ground. He dared not say a word.
"They wanted you dead, they wanted us both dead, and yet still you couldn't bear to see them hurt."
Roxton swallowed hard. He was deeply uncomfortable now. While he had been relieved to confess his confusion to Marguerite in the aftermath of his terrible, transcendent brush with immortality, they had never really spoken about the incident with the Voodoo priestess. He had hoped she would never come between them again. Is this her way of getting back at me for the comment about taking her over my knee? He wondered.
"No," she continued, confident in her assessment, "you would never strike a woman. Especially not a lover."
He was not entirely sure whether she was talking about herself or Danielle now. It didn't matter. He wanted to put an end to the comparison, for he was sure that no good could come of it. They did not belong in the same category.
"I didn't love her, you know."
"I never said you did," was Marguerite's glib reply.
She was enjoying watching him squirm, despite the fact that it meant that she could not keep from revealing her own jealousy. The trade-off, she reasoned, was worth it. He simply cannot be allowed to imagine that he can get away with an impudent notion like that.
"She had me under some sort of spell." He had repeated this explanation several times since the regrettable incident. He desperately hoped it was true, but he had no way of knowing for certain, and no way of proving it to Marguerite.
His intense but ill-fated affair with Danielle was perhaps the most serious lapse in judgment he had suffered on the plateau. She had nearly made a mindless slave of him, not to mention her vile plan to have him slaughter his friends for her own twisted amusement. Still, when her zombies finally turned on her, it had pained him deeply to see her torn to pieces. She died screaming his name. No one deserves to die like that, not even a murderous witch. He sincerely regretted the whole sordid affair, and he had told the others as much after they saved his sorry hide. Only later, much later, had he come to realize how deeply his actions had hurt Marguerite. His chest tightened uncomfortably at the memory.
"Oh, she had you under her spell, alright." Marguerite had heard this explanation before. She did not believe it now any more than she had then. Roxton did not need to see her face to know that she was rolling her eyes as she said it.
"I do love you." There was nothing in his voice but sincerity.
For a moment, Marguerite didn't know how to reply. She had suddenly lost the upper hand. He was not teasing anymore. He had said it before, and she knew it was true.
Slowly, she reached out and stroked his chest with her small fingertips. He understood. She disliked talking about her feelings, but she did love him. She had told him so only once, though he harbored no doubts. He could feel it in her touch. And he could see it on her face, in the relaxed, romantic smile she reserved only for him in those rare moments when they were alone and she let her guard down completely. For now, that was enough. Of course, he longed to hear her say it again, but he knew she would only do so in her own good time. Some things could not be rushed.
He had never put such effort into wooing a woman. In London, they had practically fallen into his lap. But he also wanted more from Marguerite than he had ever wanted from any other lover. He wanted her heart, as well as her body, and he would not be satisfied until she had given him both, freely and completely, just as he meant to give himself to her. On their return to England, he fully intended to make an honest woman of her—if such a thing is possible, he laughed inwardly. For the present, however, he understood that she was not ready to receive his affections publicly, and he would not risk pushing her away.
"How much farther is it to the treehouse?" Her small voice broke the silence that stretched out between them.
"Not far. Another hour at most," he replied. Then, grinning, he decided to return to their earlier teasing. "I've been making excellent time now that you're unable to slow me down. I almost prefer you as a passenger."
Her sarcastic reply was drowned out by the tune he whistled innocently, which only served to infuriate her. He struggled to keep from laughing as she pounded on his chest with tiny fists.
To be continued …