SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

By Susan Zell

Disclaimers: Refer to Chapter One

Chapter Ten

"Taking Stock"

Roxton opened his eyes reluctantly. He had been dreaming and he wasn't sure he wanted to leave the comforting thoughts of his wayward mind. He was also reluctant to move, knowing that his body was still healing and any movement would merely start the aches garnered these last couple of days.

But the thought of seeing the object of his dreams in the flesh prompted him to waken. Blinking against the bright sunshine, he cast his gaze about the room. He alighted on the form of a sleeping woman curled against the framework of the single chair in his room. Marguerite looked most uncomfortable within its confines and it appeared she had been there all night, as she had been the last couple of days while he healed.

In her lap was some sewing and what looked like Ned's mauled shirt and Roxton's own ripped pants. It lay abandoned in her limp fingers, thread and needle paused as if she would just start up again at any moment.

A fever had struck him but it wasn't a deadly one, just merely a bother to the hunter. Summerlee had been concerned but attributed the mildness of the illness to Roxton's bullheaded nature and Veronica's quick thinking with the honey. But it had kept him rooted to his room and bed.

To his surprise Marguerite had taken it upon herself to be his nurse. She claimed that Summerlee was exhausted from the extended excursion into the jungle and that she was doing it as a kindness to the older man. Roxton supposed that might be so, but he preferred to think that maybe she wanted to do it for another reason.

He couldn't help but watch her a few minutes unobserved while she slept, but the angle of her neck and the crooked position of her back finally made him wince in sympathy. A gentle cough from his lips was enough to rouse her abruptly, as if she had been unconsciously on guard for the slightest distress from him.

Her worried expression twisted slightly as she moved, wincing against the sharp pain that stabbed at her spine as she straightened. A groan escaped her as she struggled to get upright and see to him.

"Go slow, Marguerite. All is well," he assured her. He was afraid she'd pierce herself with the sewing. But she seemed to remember it at the last moment and put it carefully aside before standing.

She regarded him as she came over rubbing her neck and rolling her shoulders under her rumpled blouse. "How are you feeling?"

Her hand brushed against his forehead and he closed his eyes, relishing the cool touch. Such comfort as that could heal a man far faster than any jungle remedy.

"Your fever broke," she commented.

"Mmm-hmm," he sighed.

It suddenly struck Marguerite how much he was enjoying her hand on his flesh and she promptly removed it. She regretted it however as his boyish smile abruptly faded into disappointment.

She covered her own lament by sitting beside him on the bed to examine the bandages. His smile returned immediately. Willing herself not to look at its brilliance, she lifted the dressing. To her great relief there was no fresh blood on it. "I do believe you are going to pull through."

"Thanks to your sweet Nightingale duties."

"I told you, I was merely..."

"I know what you told me," he acknowledged with a patient nod.

Marguerite studied him cautiously. She certainly didn't want the man thinking there was anything more to her nursing for she would do it for any of them. Wouldn't she?

He shifted in the bed, his hand reaching up to her shoulder. His fingers kneaded the taunt muscle there. "How is your neck?"

Exhaling slowly as his massage loosened her stiff and aching muscles. Her eyes closed in abject heaven. "It hurts," she mumbled. "That chair of yours will be the death of me one day."

"It is my favorite piece of furniture in the entire treehouse."

She cracked an eye open. "It's horrid. There's not a comfortable spot at all."

His grin widened. "It's not the chair so much as what it represents."

She regarded him curiously. There were times his mind worked in mysterious ways. "What does is that?"

"That I'm never alone when I need someone most."

Her skin immediately flushed. She straightened away from him. "I should get Summerlee. He'll want to know your fever is gone."

He grabbed her arm gently. "Can't he wait a bit? I'd much rather continue to enjoy your company."

Marguerite was allowing panic to set in. He was once again pushing his way past her defenses. God, how she wanted him to come in, but knew she dare not allow him anywhere near her heart. Oh, the damage he could work once there. She tossed her thick back over her shoulder in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "Well, we have a surprise for you. It will make you feel much better."

"I feel better with you right here," he coaxed her.

She pulled herself from his gentle grip. It was like she had pushed off from a mountain. She never felt so adrift when that strength of his was gone. His touch, no matter how gentle, was a steadying force of nature for her. Was it any wonder why she gravitated toward him all the time? Of course, it wasn't because of his rugged good looks or quirky sense of humor or his tortured soul that mirrored her own. She drew in a shaky breath and turned to head upstairs. "I'll be right back." She practically fled.

Moments later, Summerlee's kind face replaced hers. "How are we doing this morning?"

Roxton shrugged. "Better. Ready to get out of this bed."

Summerlee nodded. "Challenger has fashioned some crutches for you to assist you around the treehouse. Just promise me not to fall and reopen anything and you can get up."

"I solemnly swear not to fall and make you play nursemaid." Roxton laid a hand across his chest.

Summerlee grinned. "That goes for Marguerite as well," he pointed out with that clever knowing twinkle in his eye.

Roxton arched an eyebrow at the cagey man. He excelled at the silent observer. Malone could learn a thing or two from the professor. Roxton allowed a faux pout. "You do take all the fun out of things."

"We can't afford to have you laid up for two long, dear boy." His hand patted Roxton's arm.

"Yes. We need to discuss the matter of ammunition as quickly as possible. Has anyone taken stock of what we had left?" Suddenly Roxton was all business. The weight of being in charge of their safety settled on him once more. He had ignored it long enough. "We need to think about going back to pick up the empty casings we left behind."

Summerlee just smiled down at him paternally. "Don't worry about that for right now. There is no danger about at present and I'm sure something will turn up."

Roxton warily eyed the older man. Something wasn't quite right. That twinkle was back again. "That's no way to think about the future, Summerlee. It's best we start preparing ourselves for some hard times ahead. Life on this blasted plateau without a means to protect ourselves will mean a short life expectancy."

"My prescription for you, my boy, is to rest and stop worrying. There's nothing that can be done by you for the moment. We have things well in hand. Challenger and Malone have been busy working on that very crisis."

Roxton was sitting up in the bed now. "In what way?" Challenger getting involved in any crisis was always a reason to be concerned. There were times he almost dreaded what bizarre device that wild brilliant mind had cooked up. Though at least a portion of them had worked in their favor. But the rest....

Summerlee couldn't help but laugh. He knew that expression of concern well. He had had it many times at the Archeological Society back in London, whenever Challenger demanded to speak in front of the assembly. The topics were slightly unorthodox and rather frightening to the general mind. Summerlee coughed to cover his own anxiety. "Well, my boy, nothing that warrants such concern as all that."

Roxton cocked an eyebrow at him. "Where are my crutches?"

To be concluded next chapter

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