Chapter 1.

“Introduction”

~~~~

He was a young man in his early twenties with the blue eyes and fair skin of his mother. Treading slowly, nearly floating, he moved in the direction of the luxuriant but tastefully draped canopy bed. He gazed at the lovely brunette as she lie, looking up at him as if he was expected.

She had hoped for a kind face. There were periods over the last couple of months when he seemed almost sympathetic with her plight, living in a great home with people who not only looked upon her with suspicious eyes but - when they did not think she was watching - hostility. Normally, the woman would not have cared. Or, at least, she would not have let it bother her to the point of outward distress. But her husband’s absence was taking its toll. She missed him horribly and no amount of influence and wealth made their parting bearable.

Unfortunately, the phantom’s countenance was grim with displeasure this time. “Go away … Leave … I don’t want you here …. He does not want you here …”

She saw not a particle of empathy in his eyes and it did not merely distress her but incensed the lady of the house as well. “It‘s not true.” she defiantly replied, sitting up in her bed.

This was not the first time they had exchanged these words but lately, over the last couple of weeks, he had been particularly forceful in his approach. He was growing weary of her denials, she knew, and a very small part of her liked the discord. It was, at least, something she understood.

The apparition pulled back his vest to reveal a crimson stain. Blood seeped from the wound beneath his well worn shirt. “Could a man who truly loves do this?”

He never did that before. How dare he question the adoration of her beloved? The very idea that an act, a mishap which had hurt him so deeply and devastatingly, could be anything other than an accident was monumentally ridiculous. “Stop it!” she demanded.

“Go back to where you came from! What ever made a woman like you think …”

“I have a right to be here!” she bit back. “He does love me. He does. He loved you.”

“He did. Once upon a time.” Suddenly the intruder lunged forward and was at her bedside, his face now very close to her own. A hand closed around her throat. “Then why is he not here now? Why did he leave you?” As the spirit spoke it changed.

Lady Marguerite Roxton could see him clearly now in the dim light of her bedroom, the gray mottled face and blazing red eyes, the madness ... He was a demon.

“You have danced with the devil too many times, my dear. What makes you think I will allow you happiness now?” His grip tightened.

Frightened and gasping for air, her own hands lifting to her throat, she awakened and quickly sat up in bed.

Marguerite’s sleek nightgown clung to her slender perspiring body, her glassy eyes darting about the lavishly decorated room. There was little to no light but she could still make out a few of her things, including a recently purchased Belgian ceramic vase. It was spotlighted by a shard of moonlight poking through a small slit between heavy black-out curtains, shading the chambre à coucher’s tall windows.

Straining to see, Marguerite looked into the darkened corners of the room. She tensed. Was someone there? Silence. Not a thing stirred. No, of course no one was there. ‘Another nightmare.’ Her imagination was working over-time. “Damn it.” Marguerite hissed.

With a deep, calming breath Lady Roxton looked at the time-piece on her bedside table. Four AM. John was coming home in two days and she was leaving this morning for London. Marguerite would be there by evening and spend a glorious night of uninterrupted sleep in their suite at the Ascot then meet her spouse the following day.

It was odd how her trips to the city, her stays in London since John had gone, relaxed her. There were never any nightmares or visions when she was away from Avebury. There was also a certain amount of consolation being surrounded by the boutiques, theatres and restaurants Marguerite adored. Yet, she was led to admit, those special times in London were particularly sweet when she shared them with the man she cherished. She wished they could live in London full time and leave Avebury, never to return.

How very sad to feel this way, she thought, for in the beginning Marguerite loved Avebury, living on the grand property. She felt she belonged in the estate, wed to this man, and they were so fortunate to have found one another, to support, care and love -- and live so richly despite the sometimes sour looks and comments of his relatives.

“John …” Marguerite lamented, and brushed a trembling hand over her face.

Things would return to normal when he came home.

There was a time in her life when she sincerely believed she did not need anyone, above all a man, but now … Marguerite ached to feel his touch, hear his voice and just see him. Even now, eyes closing, Marguerite could picture her adored standing beside her, smiling warmly. She could feel the loving pressure of his fingers as he rested by her side in his or her big bed, stroking her hair, touching, gently pulling her lips with his own. She could smell his masculine fragrance as every inch of his body converge upon hers and they loved together, deeply and intimately, without interruption …

Opening her eyes once again, reluctantly pulling herself from the reverie, Marguerite tossed back her bed covers. No time like the present to finish packing. If need be, she would sleep in the Phantom* on her way to London.

~~~

Chapter 2.

“He Returns”

~~~

If it wasn’t for the fur collar on her sleek burgundy colored coat she might have appeared as any anxious woman, impatiently waiting for the ship’s occupants to depart. However, this was obviously a lady of great wealth and refinement. Her dress, what could be seen of it underneath the expensive coat, was neither too short or too long. The hem was just hiked-up enough to reveal fashionable glossy ankle-buckle shoes, new and chic for the Autumn of nineteen twenty four. They had only just been purchased at Harrods two weeks previously, during one of those excursions where she just had to escape the estate, the people residing there and - yes - her uncertainties. The shoes substantiated her as a lady of good sense and taste.

A matronly woman, her cold hands stuffed into a tan muff, passed in front of the statuesque but distracted beauty and paused, “Exquisite hat, milady.” she complimented cheerfully and moved on.

Lady Roxton acknowledged her with a mild smile and nod. She appreciated that there were at least a few women left in the world who truly understood style. It was a costly hat, black with small hand embroidered flowers and a tastefully beaded brim, hand made by Lillian, on the west side of London, one of Marguerite’s favorite chapeau makers

Truth be known, as pricey and stylish as it and all the other things she wore were, Marguerite would have gladly tossed them off the bustling wharf into the lapping water below the wooden deck if she thought it would cause the ship’s ramp to drop faster. The S.S. King Edward had berthed solid at London harbor twenty minutes ago. Marguerite waited restlessly as cargo, including passenger luggage, was removed from the bottom compartments. They were loaded onto huge wheeled trolleys to be picked up later by their owners. Marguerite would have their chauffer, Stanton, take care of it directly.

But, for now, the ramp itself held firm, mocking her with its lack of movement.

Soon he would be back where he belonged. She thought this with joyful restlessness although her outward expression was calm and slightly cheerless. For two months she had waited for his return. It did not seem possible to Marguerite that Roxton could miss her as much as she missed him. ‘The damn fool.’ she silently cursed. The anger was directed at herself as much as Roxton.

She should never have pretended to approve of it, to their hasty parting after only six months of wedded bliss. It was ridiculous. Yet, when Marguerite saw the expression on his face; the way Roxton’s brow knitted with apprehension upon hearing Lord Lungry‘s sad story, of the loss he had experienced, how could she refuse her beloved a last adventure? Particularly when it was an undertaking that was so deeply personal.

He never asked Marguerite how she felt about Lungry’s request. They made a vow shortly before their wedding to discontinue intrigues. John promised Marguerite, now that they had returned to “civilization”, there would be no more wild adventures. After living on the plateau and marrying her, Lord Roxton announced, he had bested himself. And he, of course, was a man of his word.

Marguerite had laughed then too, agreeing with him and tenderly announcing to her partner that she could do no better or worse than he.

Roxton told his old family friend, “Try to understand, Lungry. I’m a married man now with an estate to manage. I can’t just drop everything and run off to India because there’s trouble. I can’t be that reckless anymore. That was the old John Roxton ...”

Lady Lungry had been sitting right next to her husband, her hands clasped together, a handkerchief between her creased fingers. She spoke anxiously and emotionally, “Please John, The children. They’re being taken from their homes, dragged out by the teeth of those vicious monsters. My son …” she wept, turning from him, blotting her tears with the lace. “You knew him. He used to play in this estate, in this very room. How can you say no, John?”

They were home in the great house’s parlor. Lord and Lady Lungry were sitting on an antique French setae. Roxton, positioned before them, was also sitting but in a tall leather chair, with straight stiff arms. He was leaning forward, elbows on his grey flannelled knees, his own hands clasped together. Roxton’s expression was sympathetic but his voice composed as he replied, “Stephen, there are other hunters … Boyston, Mathers and Dungary to name but a few.” he counseled.

“I’ve managed to contact Mathers. But none of them are as good as you, John.” Lungry insisted.

Marguerite had stood off to the side, near a small window, trying not to listen too carefully to what was ostensibly a private conversation between Roxton and his friends, but being pulled in nonetheless. “Children.” she murmured as she looked away from them thoughtfully, to the tall stone fountain in their courtyard. It bubbled cheerfully despite the bleak conversation inside.

This had actually been Lord Lungry’s second visit to Avebury in three weeks. However, it was the first with his grieving wife. ‘Clever.’ Marguerite thought despairingly. The woman was there to tug at Roxton’s heart and she was succeeding. Their son, Clive, had been killed in India, near Bombay. It had not been by an enemy, a savage, or even friendly fire. He was slaughtered by a beast, a monstrous tiger, who lived in the jungle just outside of a small village where the young Lord Lungry’s battalion was stationed.

The unfortunate natives had been having problems with tigers and other big cats stalking their offspring, coming into their village after dark, and snatching innocent babies from their beds and cribs. This had been going on for years but when the British forces arrived, with their powerful firearms, it became more infrequent. The people of the village were grateful and welcomed their new neighbors.

Yet, the threat still existed. There was one fearless tiger, a creature the natives called Khokkosh**. He was bigger than any cat the villagers (and eventually the British) ever saw. The forces at the outset thought Khokkosh a myth until they saw the beast attack not just babies and small children but full grown men and women. The tiger was quick and strong, nearly supernatural in its stealth, and its attacks became more frequent even as the other cats moved on to easier prey. The villagers begged the British to do something and finally, when one of their own men had been fatally wounded, they did act.

Five men tracked the immense tiger, including Clive Lungry, and all five had been ripped to pieces within a week. One of the trackers made it back to the village and told his superiors what had happened just before he too succumbed to his injuries.

“Please John, just think on it.” Lord Lungry continued, “A ship leaves on Friday with some men I’ve hired who think they can take care of Khokkosh with some new powerful shotguns. But honestly, I think they’re doomed without you.”

Later in the evening, as they were preparing for bed, as she finished fussing with her hair, laying the silver-handled brush on her dressing table, Marguerite told Roxton she thought he should go. She could manage the estate on her own in his absence. It would be a good opportunity to see how the servants, as well as his relatives, reacted to her as the lady of the manor, without the master himself being present. “Besides, you are seriously needed elsewhere, John.”

He was sitting up in the bed, watching and waiting for her to join him, and reminded Marguerite of their vow.

Marguerite slipped off her robe and laid it at the foot of the bed, then crawled in beside him. She spoke simply and from her heart, “Sometimes even the most earnest of vows need to be broken, John.” She took one of his hands in both of hers. “That Lungry boy was like a favorite nephew to you and I know, until you’ve brought his killer to justice, you won’t rest easy.” She looked down at their clasped hands, the words painful as well as generous. “And believe me when I say this is not easy for me. I’m afraid for both of us, John. You out there with that viscous tiger and me, here at home, facing dangers of another kind.”

Her final comment was meant to be humorous but the gravity behind it was absolute.

“Marguerite, we’ve just married.” He lowered his head to let their foreheads connect as they talked, “I don’t …”

“You need to do what you need to do, John.” She slipped a hand from his and allowed it to rest on his chest, “You need to do what your heart is telling you must be done. And I’ll be here waiting for you when you return.” Then she looked up into his eyes and spoke in an emotional whisper, “And damn you, John Roxton, you better return or I’ll never speak to you again.”

And she kissed him hard, full on the lips, with deep sincerity.

“Finally!” came a gasp.

Nudged out of her memory, Marguerite heard the relieved call as the plank showed itself and dropped to the ground. Shortly thereafter men and women were seen leaving the King Edward, walking carefully down the ramp to be greeted by their loved ones.

Marguerite did not know why she expected to see him return wearing jodhpurs and a hunter’s hat. Roxton had changed ships at least twice since leaving India. However, she was not at all disappointed by what she did see. His hair had grown out a bit, nothing a good pair of scissors in the right hands could not cure, and he seemed to have lost a little weight (but it was hard to tell in his Oxford baggies**). Other than that he was tall, tanned, well dressed in a navy tweed jacket and two-toned shoes. She watched as he searched from the platform for her.

“Roxton!” Marguerite cried, raising her gloved hand and waving anxiously at him.

He spotted her and grinned, moving quickly down the ramp.

“Oh, John.” she whispered his name as they embraced. They kissed enthusiastically then pulled away, merely looking at one another for a few precious moments. Fingers lifted to touch her cheeks and Marguerite at first thought it was a simple loving gesture until she realized he was brushing away tears. Marguerite hadn’t even realized she was weeping until she saw the moisture on his fingertips and the alarm on his face. “I missed you.” she explained, simply.

He smiled gently and sweetly kissed her forehead. His voice was low and deep with longing, “I love you so much.” and he kissed her lips again.

***

Stanton, their chauffer, had picked up Roxton’s bags and loaded them into the back of the Phantom. He then waited for the couple as they approached. “Good to see you again, sir.” Stanton bowed ever so slightly in his dark uniform, tipping his cap, and opened the car door. “I hope the hunt was successful.”

“Yes, thank you, Stanton.” Roxton replied, his smile altering slightly, and got into the backseat of the Rolls Royce after Marguerite.

“To the Ascot, Stanton. “ Marguerite called when the chauffer slid behind the wheel. She had one of her arms linked with Roxton’s and was feeling especially satisfied. To Roxton she said, “Stanton will be taking your things home first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll leave later in the day in the Roadster, maybe take in a little scenery and quiet time together before we get to Avebury.”

“I like the sound of that.” Roxton smiled affectionately at her, “But I hope you left me with a change of clothes. I could use it. I’ve worn this same suit for a week.”

Reflexively, Marguerite pulled back ever so slightly from him, “Not to worry, Roxton. I have it all taken care of.” she then added, “Oh, and I have a surprise for you.”

“Yes?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Any hints?”

“No, not yet. But I think you’ll be pleased. We can talk about India then too.” Marguerite was a little surprised when Roxton wordlessly turned from her and looked out of the car window. She did not have a clue what he was thinking about but it worried her a little.

Gently, she laced her fingers with his and was rewarded with a warm, gentle squeeze.

**

Upon entering, Marguerite divested herself of her coat and gloves. She then turned and watched as Roxton took the Do Not Disturb sign and placed it on the outside of their room’s double doors. It was a lovely, airy hotel suite with a common room, large bedroom and a bathroom with hot and cold running water. A charming claw-footed tub with a shower and toilet was at their personal disposal.

The Roxton family had owned the suite for years. Lord Gerald Ryan Roxton - John’s great grandfather - had been the first to stay at the Ascot when it was built. It was used chiefly when business brought a Roxton to London but recently, and more often, also for pleasure. When no Roxton was visiting London the suite was frequently given to dignitaries. However, the minute a Roxton called to the hotel and told the manager they were on their way, the suite was immediately made available. Often fresh flowers, champagne, chocolates and strawberries awaited their arrival. Title had its rewards.

Marguerite loved the amenities but, right now, they were the last thing on her mind as she gazed at her handsome husband. He was reading a message which had been left for him at the front desk. It was from the estate. His uncle Andrew was reminding Roxton of their yearly Autumn fox hunt, the day after his arrival home. Participants and spectators, he wrote, were already camping out and moving into guest rooms.

“Nothing changes.” Roxton murmured. World War Two could start but The Roxton Annual Fox Hunt was paramount.

“Well, maybe I can take your mind off troubles for awhile, milord.” Marguerite commented. Her hands balanced seductively on her hips and she winked flirtatiously at him.

Distracted, Roxton looked over at Marguerite. The message was suddenly forgotten as he let it fall to the carpet without a second glance. Was it possible that he, for even a few minutes, had almost forgotten how stunning and tempting his wife was? He had been without her for a very lonely two months and here they were, finally on their own together ... If there really were such a thing as an ‘explosion of passion’ it could not better be illustrated then when Roxton crossed the floor, at a near sprint, and took Marguerite into his arms. He rained kisses all over her warm cheeks and throat.

“Lord Roxton, it’s not even two o’clock.” she teased, breathlessly. “What would The Westbury Society of Respectability think if they saw you now?”

“I don’t give a damn.” he growled and breathed warmly in her ear.

“Me neither” Marguerite chuckled deeply, as anxious as he, and carefully backed her beloved spouse in the direction of the hotel suite’s sumptuous master bedroom. “To hell with propriety.“

While Roxton’s suit was in need of a good cleaning, the man himself had washed aboard ship and smelled of soap and sandalwood. She found it very sexy and pushed the coat from his shoulders. Marguerite was about to pull him inside when Roxton held her still and looked into her eyes.

He seemed troubled.

“Wait.” Roxton whispered.

“Wait. Really?” Marguerite looked up at him, staggered, a bit afraid he left his libido back on the ship or in India.

Cautiously but with purpose, he reached for Marguerite’s designer hat and took it from her head. He then perfunctorily tossed it over onto a side table and quickly, almost urgently, pulled the pins from her hair. His expression softened as he watched her dark waves fall free and the hair cascade down her back. “Thank God.” he whispered, smiling gently, visibly relieved.

“What?” Marguerite asked, confused and trying to read his expression.

“In the Phantom, when you said you had a surprise for me, I was worried you had cut it.”

Marguerite could not help but laugh as her silly husband, “What would make you think that?” she asked and leaned a bit away from him, her arms lifted and fingers laced behind his neck.

Roxton did feel a little foolish now and admitted: “I know how fashion conscious you are. Women having their hair bobbed, I’ve discovered, is the thing to do now.”

“You learned this in India?” she wondered.

“On the ship back home. I saw all these women walking around deck, looking like men …” he said, distaste evident.

“How conventional of you, John.” she quipped and saw the apology in his eyes. She could smile at this. It really wasn’t the idea of women cutting their hair that bothered Roxton but that she might do the same. If there was one thing Lord Roxton loved about his wife’s outer appearance it was her hair. She wore it rather conservatively during the day, up away from her shoulders and face, but at night when they were alone she let it hang loose - as she had on the plateau - and he loved it. It was as if her hair was long, wavy and soft for him alone and he would eagerly touch it and brush it away from her eyes as he and Marguerite made love …

Fondly, Marguerite continued to gaze up at him. There were times when her “thoroughly modern warrior” could be a stick in the mud, which was both aggravating and somewhat endearing. “Not to fear. I may get an occasional trim but the hair will remain the same.” She then grinned, “I do this for my near-sighted husband. Wouldn’t want him to think he married Adolpho, our gardener.”

Motivated, Roxton abruptly kissed her and picked Marguerite up off the floor, across his arms. He winced slightly and later she would discover why but now, parting from the kiss, he said, “No fear of that ever happening, my dear.” He then carried his somewhat dazed and always beautiful bride into the bedroom.

Giggling, she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and kicked off her stylish shoes as they entered.

****