THE LOST WORLD
– Rescue in the Sand
"If you're going to laugh at me, I'll stop."
She masked her smile with a nonchalant hand. "I'm not laughing," she said, but her eyes betrayed her.
"This was your idea. If you want a story, you tell one." He stood, crossed their small camp and busied himself with the fire.
Marguerite sat upright and pulled her legs to her chest, cradling her chin on her knees. The white beach glowed orange in the firelight and she traced a finger through the silky sand.
"I wasn't laughing, John; I was smiling… your story was nice."
The sun had dipped below the western skyline and Roxton stood silhouetted against the evening-blue sea. This was their spot – the place that brought out the best in both of them. A light breeze stirred up and tossed his dark hair. He would be needing a haircut soon, but on this carefree beach, the length looked just right.
She was wearing his favorite blue shirt; the garment was threadbare at the shoulders – held together only by years of mending. She unfastened the top button and beckoned him back to their open bedrolls, "Come put your shirt on."
He knelt in front of her and balanced himself against her bare legs. "Now, how do you propose I do that? I do believe that is the last stitch you have on."
She raised her arms skyward so that he could slip the garment off in one easy motion. Mischief danced in her emerald eyes. This beach was far from the crowded tree house. They had spent the day swimming in crystal blue water and then retired to the soft, fire lit sand for the night – everything here was heightened. He reached up, took the tattered sleeves in his fingertips, and slowly began lifting the shirt.
Suddenly, she retracted her arms and folded them across her chest, halting the rising cloth.
"But first, Lord Roxton, I'd really like to hear the rest of your story."
"So, it's come to blackmail," he said, and he fell in beside her onto their thick bedding. She lay back and pulled his free arm around her shoulder as she rolled into his warm chest – and the loose shirttail climbed up her tan thigh.
"There is a thin line between incentive and distraction", he warned, using a section of blanket to cover her bare skin. "Now, where were we?"
Marguerite eagerly volunteered her edit, "Young Maggie had just killed the wild boar and the prince was…"
John pressed a silencing finger to her lips. "I'm certain it was the prince that fell the beast, saving little Maggie from the brutal charge – one arrow, straight to the heart."
As before, Marguerite was unable to hide her amusement and John stopped his narration immediately. "There you go again," he accused, and he looked out to the sea.
"It's sweet, John, honestly – please continue." She brushed the back of her hand against his stubbled jaw and guided his gaze to hers. "But, is that how you see me? –as an innocent young girl? –in constant need of rescue?"
"You?" he questioned, in mock confusion. "This is a story about Maggie and the prince." But there was a lighthearted note to his claim.
"I see," she played along, "So, is that how the boy prince sees Maggie – as helpless?"
The word stung. He hadn't meant to imply that anyone was helpless. His voice turned defensive, "It's just a silly story, Marguerite."
"A good story – the handsome prince comes to her rescue," she tried to say the words without judgment; she had no desire to spoil their evening.
"That's not what I meant," he said. Admittedly, he had imagined an adolescent version of himself as the hero and a young Marguerite as the damsel – but he had never considered her helpless.
"John," she said, rousing him from his thoughts. She reached for his hand at her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "Let's not do this."
"Wait," he said, still trying to make sense of his own feelings, "I want to finish this; there is more to the story."
She settled in, determined to accept this rendition without interruption. After all, she truly didn't mind being rescued by a handsome prince from time-to-time.
Roxton continued his tale, and it was clear that he was speaking from the heart. "Of course the prince wanted to rescue Maggie – it was the one thing he was good at. He would daydream of all the ways that she might slip, just so he could be there to catch her."
An impish grin lit Marguerite's face and she asked, "Did it ever occur to the prince that Maggie may have stumbled on purpose – so that she might land in his arms?"
He answered with a sly smile of his own, "If he suspected such a thing, he'd never admit it." And he kissed her forehead. "The truth is: they're both a little helpless when near one another."
"…and they lived happily ever after," she finished the tale.
After a quiet moment Marguerite sat up and raised both arms over her head – and then, in her best damsel-in-distress-voice, she said, "Save me, Lord Roxton, I'm being held captive by this nasty old shirt."
The noble lord leapt into action and bravely freed her from the garment.
– END