Her hands tied behind her back, still dizzy from the sucker punch she had received, Veronica was helpless to protect herself as her captor heaved her from his shoulder onto the grass of the riverbank. She landed heavily, stunned by the impact. As she fought to catch her breath, she felt her hands released from behind her back then retied in front of her. She heard the pounding of wood on wood then her hands were roughly raised over her head and fastened to a stake. She was starting to recover her senses and struggled as he reached down to tie down her feet. The slaver responded with an elbow to her solar plexus. As she heaved and gasped to regain her breath once more, both her feet were staked down as well. She looked in fury at the slaver who leered down at her. Fighting a chill of panic for what was about to happen, she put all her efforts into loosening the bonds that held her hands.

"Don't fight me, honey. I can make you be quiet." With that, the burly slaver pulled a sharp hunting knife and squatted down by her side.

Marguerite stopped behind a near-by tree, the scene before her raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Veronica was helpless, tied down but defiant nonetheless. The big slaver took out a knife and bent toward his captive. He ran the blade down her front and paused at her belly. Marguerite may have had the advantage of surprise but she realized that she had run out of time.

She closed on the man as quickly and quietly as she could. She gripped her stolen sword with both hands intent on taking the man's head off before he even realized she was there. Maybe he heard her boots make a little noise or maybe he saw a look of recognition in Veronica's eyes, but something alerted the kidnapper. He sprang to his feet and wheeled to face his attacker. In the same motion he pulled out his sword and assumed a ready posture.

Marguerite stumbled to a stop before she impaled herself on the slaver's sword. She instinctively took up a fencer's ready position, rejecting the doubt and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. Marguerite grimaced in disgust. Getting into a real swordfight with this devil was the last thing she wanted. She'd prepared long and hard to learn to use a sword, but never had any conviction she could defeat a powerful, ruthless enemy. Now here she was, fighting for her life - hers and Veronica's.

Marguerite covered her alarm with a pleasant smile and a flippant introduction.

"Sorry I'm late for the party." The slave leader was momentarily nonplussed by the woman's unexpected gambit. "Shame on you, Veronica, for keeping this handsome fellow for yourself."

Veronica craned her head awkwardly to see what was happening. She was amazed that help had come so quickly. Roxton must have been on his way out to find them when Marguerite went for help. But she couldn't see him. Where was he?

The slaver grunted in surprise. Then a lewd grin split his face. He'd found himself another fine-looking female. If he didn't end up sticking her with his sword, she'd make a nice prize. He called for his lieutenant even though he wouldn't need his help to make this arrogant woman crawl. If she put up a fight, he'd slice her into pieces. He took two steps, slowly extending his sabre, tapping her sword tip down toward the ground. Curse her, she had Argor's sword, he noticed, Looks like I won't be getting any help from him. Angered, he feigned a jab at the woman's gut then brought the sword down in a violent overhand swing at her head.

Their swords clashed metal-on-metal above her head. Marguerite's weapon was driven downwards by the fury of the blow. She stumbled back as her own sword rebounded toward her head. The flat of the blade bounced hard against her skull, knocking off her hat and bringing instant tears to her eyes. Her ears were buzzing and her scalp tingled. The brunette was amazed to find she was still upright.

"Can't we discuss this like two rational people?"

In response, her opponent drew his blade back to press his advantage. The beleaguered brunette twisted her body sideways in a desperate parry. She absorbed two more ferocious blows with the strength of her arms. Panic gripped her. She didn't have a chance. He was too big, too strong.

Deep in her mind a voice whispered. Don't match power with power. Deflect. Use your strengths. She stepped a little aside on the next blow and circled to her left. The slaver chased her, swinging with abandon. She was moving more confidently now and as he took a wicked backhanded slash at her midsection, she slipped away and knocked his sword downward as it passed in front of her. Instantly she sprang forward and slid her sword over his guard. The sharp tip gouged a slice across his upper arm. Angered, the man rained blows at her as she gave ground hurriedly, almost running backwards.

Veronica watched the uneven match in horror. It was becoming obvious that Marguerite was her only rescuer. Marguerite's opponent was strong and skilful. One blow from that murderous sword and the heiress would be crippled or killed. The dark-haired woman was barely staving off the slaver's attacks; it was only a matter of time till one of those vicious sword-strokes landed. What had Marguerite been thinking to follow her on her own? She wrenched at her bonds to no effect. Tears of frustration leaked from her eyes.

Marguerite was starting to feel more comfortable. The sight of the man's blood streaming down his arm raised her confidence. She could see that he was breathing heavily, his sword tip held a little lower than before. Roxton had told her to look for such signs to gauge the time to attack. The slaver lunged, she parried, he countered, she stepped out of his line of attack and her sword clipped his chin as he took a couple of off-balance steps. She launched her first attack, a croisé that Roxton had worked on with her. The slaver barely deflected the blow and for the first time a look of doubt warred with the anger and frustration that had reddened his face. Blood dripped from his chin.

A few more ripostes and parries later, she freed her blade and slashed at his ribs. Only a last-second backward leap saved him. A triumphant smile broke out on her face. She had him. She knew it.

The slaver saw the smile. Stunned disbelief washed over him followed by deep humiliation and anger. He could not lose. No slip of a woman was going to best him in a swordfight. He changed his tactics, let her come to him, parrying and giving ground, feigning exhaustion. He waited for that one opening. He would slaughter her in that instant.

Marguerite was almost beginning to enjoy the duel – skill against crude power. She was pushing him back. Her opponent was clearly spent, just hanging on. She began to plan how she would finish him.

The slim woman put together a complex series of moves, coming at him with a backhand slash at chest level. Suddenly the slaver's blade came in under her moving sword, sweeping toward her midsection. Marguerite reacted instinctively, desperately bringing her sword hilt down to try to deflect the blow. The sharp edge of his sword raked along the length of her thigh. Danger drove her to a daring counterattack. She chopped her elbow up under the man's chin, his body so close she could smell the reek of his exertions. He reeled backward.

Marguerite risked a downward glance, fearful of what she'd see. She saw with relief that, though bloody, her leg was in one piece and at present holding her upright. After the original sharp pain, it hardly hurt at all now, just stung a little.

She knew she had to take advantage of her opponent right now. She wasn't all that sure her leg would last much longer. She stepped in and made a few false attacks. Her opponent was clumsy; he must be reaching exhaustion. She slashed at his leg. Her blade bit home. With a howl he dropped to one knee. The desperate man brought his sword up from below. Marguerite barely managed to lean away from the thrust then came back at him with all her power behind the blow. He deflected it a little but her sword hit the side of his head with sickening force. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed on the ground with a soft sigh. Marguerite stood over him, waiting for any movement, any excuse to drive home the killing blow. Her chest heaved with the exertion, perspiration trickling down her chin and off her nose. She was vaguely surprised to see the sweat drops on her blouse stained red with blood. She must be cut.

Veronica watched the battle in amazement as it seesawed back and forth. Too many times she was certain the slim woman would be killed. Now the battle appeared over and she was frantic to be released. Marguerite was just standing there, swaying as she stared down at her bleeding foe. For heaven's sakes, if she collapsed now, they would both be eaten by predators drawn by the smell of blood.

"Marguerite! Marguerite! Cut me loose!"

The heiress turned as if surprised to hear her voice. She stumbled closer and knelt at Veronica's tied hands. Her fingers shook so badly she couldn't grip the cords that held Veronica's wrists and tears trickled down her face. Nerves, she realized. Too much adrenaline. Luckily her face was shielded from Veronica's view. She breathed deeply and flexed her hands. In a minute she had settled down enough to fumble the knots loose then she rolled into a sitting position. Her thigh was really starting to throb.

Veronica sat up the moment her wrists were freed and untied her ankles. She rubbed them a little then turned back to the ashen-faced brunette. "What's going on? Where's Roxton? Why are you by yourself? And where's your pistol?"

Marguerite felt a little dizzy as she sat there and thought it might be a good idea to lie down. "See? You do something nice for somebody and this is what you get for it," she muttered under her breath, her voice fading into silence.

"Marguerite." Veronica's voice filled with worry. "Don't pass out on me. We've got to get out of here."

"Of course we do." Marguerite replied, trying to rise.

"Hold on a minute. You're bleeding like a pig."

"Charming!" came the sarcastic if weak reply.

Veronica used the unconscious slaver's shirt to improvise a bandage to staunch the bleeding from Marguerite's leg wound.

"Is my dance partner going to give us any trouble?" Marguerite murmured, her eyes closed.

"No, I don't think he's going to last. Looks like his skull is fractured."

Veronica sized up the woman lying on the grass, her forehead streaked with blood still trickling from a scalp wound hidden in her hair somewhere. She didn't look good. Somehow she had to galvanize the fading brunette into action or she would be dinner for the raptors.

"Come on. You can't just lie here all day. We'll be lucky to be back before nightfall."

Marguerite's eyes flared open and slowly focused on those of the woman who she had just rescued. Eyes that still showed a trace of anger. Figured. Just once she'd like to have the jungle native give her the benefit of the doubt. Marguerite assured herself she didn't care how ungrateful Veronica was.

"Don't let me slow you down," she muttered caustically. She pulled herself to a stand with Veronica's help. She found she needed to lean on the sturdy blonde as they began the trek back to the treehouse, her leg a little numb and wobbly. The wound continued to ooze and soon the left leg of her jodhpurs was soaked with blood from mid-thigh to her boot top. They made reasonable time, silence between them. Marguerite struggled to maintain her forward progress feeling more ill and dizzy as time went on. Veronica tried to take on as much of the injured woman's weight as she could while still remaining alert for raptors. They had almost regained the clearing where the original attack had taken place when they walked into the raised rifles of Roxton and Malone.

The men had been a little worried when Marguerite hadn't returned hours earlier. Since it was just as likely she was avoiding the balcony repairs that Veronica was so adamant she complete, they didn't think to start a search until Veronica, too, was late. Their vague concern had turned to grim anxiety when they came across the dead body of the slaver. They were just about to follow the trail when the two women had stumbled out of the jungle.

Roxton took one look at the pale brunette swaying on her feet and swept her into his arms. Damn her. Now what had she gotten herself into? He felt his gut sink with emotion as she closed her eyes and rolled her head into his shoulder. He shot a look of anger at Veronica.

"What happened?" he snapped.

"She was out here practicing with that sword of hers. Slavers were waiting. They took me captive. Marguerite followed and decided to take on the head slaver in a swordfight."

"Didn't she have her pistol with her?"

"I don't know. And I don't know why she didn't just come back and get you."

Marguerite didn't have the energy to set them straight. Veronica was still angry and Roxton sounded very cross. His chest on the other hand was very comfortable and smelled wonderful. She could just fall asleep right there.

Roxton turned and half-jogged back to the treehouse. The limp woman in his arms seemed so vulnerable right now. That was why he had a sickening twist in his stomach. Nothing more than concern for a friend. Or that any man might have when faced with a woman in need.

It was clear that she needed medical treatment right away. She hadn't yet said a word. Her silence worried him more than anything; he could depend on Marguerite to have a retort in any situation. Roxton had grown fond of hearing the acidic tone she affected when things got tense; it mirrored his own approach to a crisis. He ran faster. Then from beneath his chin a voice issued, weak but full of irony.

"Whoa there, Dobbin. I'm trying to get my beauty-rest. All this bouncing around makes it hard to sleep."

"Sorry, I just wanted to get you to the treehouse right away so we can take a look at that leg."

"Mmmph." The injured heiress followed up the ambiguous snort by giving Roxton a mocking glance that both challenged and acknowledged his concern. Relieved to see her more like herself, Roxton slowed to a smoother pace.

"As you command, my queen."

"That's better. Now, where was I?"

As Ned and Veronica caught up with them, Marguerite closed her eyes once again and turned her head back into Roxton's chest.

Back at the treehouse, Marguerite reclined in a chair as Challenger made his examination. The scalp wound though bloody, had proven to be minor. But he fussed over the leg injury, cleansing it thoroughly despite the bitten-off curses of his patient. He dusted it with a new sulpha-dye powder that he had stumbled on in his research that seemed to stop infection. It fell to Veronica to stitch up the long shallow cut; Marguerite would not let Challenger try his hand and stitching up her own wound seemed a little daunting. She didn't refuse Roxton's offer of a home-made herbal liqueur to help deaden the pain. In twenty minutes, he was easing the half-empty second glass from her fingers as she nodded off in front of the fire.

"Rest is the best thing for her right now. As long as there is no infection she should be up and around in a day or two." Challenger reassured the others.

Roxton ran his fingers through his hair and asked Veronica the question that had been eating at him. "What the hell happened out there?"

"I don't know. On my way to gather some fruit I dropped by to suggest that Marguerite come back and help you with the firewood. The slavers were on me soon as I left her. They must have been waiting. Probably had seen Marguerite there earlier. I thought she'd come and get you, but she must have come after me instead."

"She sure took a crazy chance. Taking on two slavers with just a pistol." Ned was once again thrown-off a little by the ruthless independence of the heiress.

"She never fired a shot as far as I know. And it was three men not two." Veronica said thoughtfully.

"That guy we found on the trail had been shot. It had to be Marguerite." Ned put in.

Roxton rose and picked up Marguerite's holster from the side table. He took out the battered weapon and examined the damage.

"It has been fired. But the hammer's broken. It's useless now." He reached into the ammo case and found the broken pieces. Good going, Marguerite, that'll make fixing this thing easier. A smile pulled at his lips but didn't chase the worry from his eyes.

A woman of fire and steel. Beautiful and brave and quick-witted to boot. He twisted to look at the dark-haired woman asleep in her chair, her head tilted to one side, her face smooth and youthful in repose. He could feel the place on his chest where she had leaned her head against him on the trip back to the treehouse, her hair tickling his chin. Damn her for being an attractive woman. For that was all it was. Simple appreciation of the female form and perhaps a little carnal desire. Quite natural considering their confined quarters.

Ned was dumbfounded. "She went after you with nothing but a broken revolver? How could she be so stupid? It would only have taken an hour at most to find us and go after you."

Suddenly Veronica felt a little unsure. For the first time, she thought of a reason why Marguerite would have followed her instead of getting help. Maybe the linguist had heard the intent of the raiders – their plans to rape their captive. But of all people Marguerite wouldn't have taken such a risk for some vague ideal like honour or decency. When they had been captured by the lizard-people, the brazen woman had practically told her to submit to the monsters as a way to gain their freedom. And for sure the brunette wouldn't take the chance of losing her own life for Veronica's – would she?

Veronica tossed away that idea. Marguerite had shown her nothing more than a kind of grudging respect for her survival skills. Most often Veronica got the feeling that Marguerite would just as soon see her out of the treehouse so she could take over. There had to be some other reason for her behaviour. Marguerite must have underestimated the slavers and thought she could take them on herself or maybe she planned to put on that act of hers where she would pretend to be attracted to one of those fiends. If that were the case her arrogance could have gotten them both killed. In fact, if Marguerite hadn't been sneaking out there instead of working in the treehouse like she should have been, none of this would have happened.

The jungle-raised blonde chose to leave Ned's question unanswered. She didn't feel comfortable telling the men about the brutal intentions of the slavers. For some reason it made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. With any luck Marguerite wasn't even aware of how close she had come to interrupting an ugly scene.