“Oh, I missed that.” he spoke in a low tone that signified acute fulfillment.

Marguerite chuckled softly but blissfully in his arms, indicating the same contentment. She turned slightly to nuzzle his upper chest, just below his Adam’s apple. Her head rested on his shoulder, disheveled dark hair spread across her own white pillow.

In the past (and certainly in the present) Roxton would have been the first to admit that physical interaction with a woman was rewarding. He hadn’t quite been a saint during his adult life and had often enjoyed the body of a beautiful and eager partner, benefiting from the intense pleasure the corporeal act gave them. However, not before Marguerite Krux had Roxton realized what a passionate and profound experience love-making could be. The warmth, the ebb and flow, was intoxicating and actually being in love with one’s partner added a whole new dimension to the deed. Her tenderness, his is touch, and their kisses were all important and so were the words, the honeyed endearments, despite the numerous times they had exchanged them over the months.

Relaxing in his arms as they rested in bed, drawing uncomplicated patterns on his bare chest, Marguerite thought back to the first time she came to Avebury and stayed the night. She met Roxton’s relatives, his Uncle and two adult cousins, and also Roxton’s Aunts, Rose and Nora.

Marguerite was a little surprised they were all living under the same immense roof. Indeed, she learned, his relations did have homes elsewhere but since Roxton’s absence, his years living and fighting for all their lives on the plateau, the family adopted the estate as their own. Marguerite found it quite presumptuous but Roxton did not mind, really. After all, he reasoned, most thought The Challenger Expedition gone, never to return. Both Roxton and Marguerite had been shown old newspaper articles where it stated out-right that no one of note believed there were survivors of the expedition … But the fact that Roxton’s family were not anxious to leave presently, now that the Lord of the Manor has returned, appeared to have eluded her husband.

Later, after they had married for a few weeks, Marguerite did try to bring it to Roxton’s attention but he side-stepped her concerns with, “The estate is a large place, Marguerite.” and “They’re family and will leave soon enough when the seasons change. Most Roxtons run off to the South of France during the Winter months.” Honestly, Roxton did not seem to want to talk about it further and quickly changed the subject.

New to the home, Lady Roxton did not instantaneously push the matter but later, she determined, her subtle reminders to Lord John would become firm demands. If matters did not change in the upcoming month, if she still felt uncomfortable in her own home, demeaned because of his relative’s interference and attitudes, they would be turned out. ‘I will give them until Christmas.’ she decided. Marguerite was, after all, the lady of the house. It made sense to her that she would have the authority to say who stays and who goes.

Dinner during that first evening had been impressive, everyone dressed in their best attire, Marguerite wearing a long black sleeveless gown with a tasteful jewel encrusted pin at her shoulder. When Aunt Rose had enquired about “the decoration” as she put it Marguerite explained that the pin was specially designed with gems she had found in South America.

Roxton then stood, proudly raising a crystal glass to Marguerite, and all were eager to join in. However, she would never forget the astounded looks on their faces when he said: “…. to my love, my redeemer and my future bride …” Even now, the memory nearly caused Marguerite laugh out loud, especially when remembering how Uncle Andrew coughed and sputtered over his wine glass.

The Roxtons had probably deduced that she and John were lovers and certainly they were impressed with Marguerite’s courage and stamina whilst in The Lost World but never did they think John, the satisfied bachelor, would actually fall in love and wed the woman.

Then, late that evening and wide awake, tossing and turning in her comfortable bed, Marguerite - knowing Roxton was in the room next to hers - slipped from beneath the sheets to visit him. She opened the door which adjoined their rooms and saw he was awake, sitting up and reading, pleased to see her. If she did not know better Marguerite would have thought he was expecting her.

Barefoot and alluring in her lovely cream colored nightgown, she ambled over and sat at his bedside, smiling mischievously as he pushed the book aside and gently rested a hand on her covered knee.

They talked briefly about the day’s events. Roxton assured Marguerite that his family would have reacted to their bombshell the same if he brought home a member of the Royal Family. Roxtons were very protective of one another, he said, but they were also practical and eventually very pleased when marriages were underway.

Marguerite was not so certain but she admitted to liking Aunt Nora, who was genuinely kind to her and wished the couple a happy life together. Later, after John had left for India, Lady Nora Roxton Mornphrey was the sole family member Marguerite could go to for advice and comfort. She was a meddling dear, often pushing her niece through marriage to have a child, to carry on John’s blood line, but she meant well and was the grandmotherly figure Marguerite never had.

“There are a few things we should discuss, Marguerite.” Roxton began.

“Talk is for the daytime.” Marguerite purred, “I’m all talked out, John. Aren‘t you?” She leaned forward and kissed him, offering a tantalizing promise of delights to come. She felt Roxton’s arms move around her and as the kiss deepened, when matters started to become even more steamy, promising unfathomable pleasures, Roxton - with a super human amount of self control - asked Marguerite to stop.

Stunned, she pulled back and stared at him, a little puzzled and marginally affronted.

Considerate, a hand raised to cup her left cheek as he attempted to explain. “You know how I feel about you, how I love you, respect you, and want you with me for the rest of our lives … But now that we’re engaged …”

“What?” She was authentically perplexed.

“I want to do it right -- Proper.”

She gazed at him, still unsure of Roxton‘s meaning.

“An old fashion notion, I know. But I want to … wait.”

A flicker of understanding shone in her eyes. “Until our wedding night?” Marguerite asked, somewhat skeptically.

He nodded, gauging her reaction.

Marguerite smiled at his earnestness, taken aback and amused. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think, John? I recall quite a few nights on the plateau when …”

“But that was on the plateau.” he tried to explain, “Things were different and a little unreal, Marguerite. We just never knew what … when something might kill us. But here …” He looked about, indicating reality, and seemed to be struggling, “I know I’m not making much sense but it would just mean so much to know that our wedding night will be …”

“ … a new, fresh and eagerly anticipated experience?” she offered, not unkindly.

“Special.” he clarified, “Not that they haven’t all been special.” he added quickly, “But … Help me here, Marguerite. Does this make me sound stuffy -- and maybe a bit of a hypocrite?” he asked, wincing a little.

“Somewhat.“ she teased, “Actually,” Marguerite face nearly took on a blush and she looked away from him, “I think it’s one of the most adorable things I’ve ever heard.” She squeezed his hands. Roxton still managed to surprise her. “Strange, all things considered, but adorable.”

Part of her wondered what Roxton thought they would gain by depriving themselves of each others company but Marguerite supposed he did have a point. Neither she or John had ever played entirely by the rules but there were some things their upbringings instilled in the children of the late eighteen hundreds. Appropriateness was not to be dismissed entirely. There were, at times, something to be said for tradition and decorum. They weren't animals, after all. She could respect that -- for the most part.

“John, I would just hate to disappoint you because, well, I’m not exactly a budding virgin -- as you well know.”

“And for that I am truly grateful.” Roxton winked at Marguerite and the two exchanged a knowing smile. “Well, self-restraint sometimes can be the greatest aphrodisiac. Believe me, that is something I know about.” he offered, hinting at their past on The Lost World.

“You keep telling yourself that, Lord Roxton because it’s going to be a long few months.” Once more, she leaned forward and touched him intimately on the lips with her own. Marguerite then stood and backed somewhat reluctantly away. “Until our wedding night then, John.” As an after thought she raised an eyebrow and warned, “It better be spectacular, Roxton. I would hate to have the marriage annulled.” She then winked at him before turning about, “Good night. Sleep well.” she called in sing-song.

Marguerite left him, closing the door behind her.

Roxton’s eyes remained on her exit, the memory of her kiss and that enticing and willing form etched into his mind. He gulped and sighed a little. Roxton could almost hear a voice in his head ask the inevitable question: ‘Are you crazy?’ and he had no answer. Feeling a form of remorse, Roxton pushed back onto his plump pillows and abruptly wondered if it would be bad form to take it all back and invite her back to his bed.

***

“Marguerite,” he murmured, “What are you thinking about?” A firm but gentle hand had moved beneath her hair, his fingers massaging her bare back.

Quickly, Marguerite returned to the present and smiled at his attention and question, “Nothing really, just recalling a show I saw in the movie theatre last time I was in London.” she fibbed.

“What did you see?”

“It was called GREED+.”

“Oh?”

She lifted her head and, smiling, looked into his amused eyes. She was pleased he had missed her enough to want to know everything she was doing since his departure. “There was a woman who had great wealth but, even when falling on hard times, refused to part with her money.”

“An American motion picture?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?”

“Because recent experiences have taught me that no British woman would ever have a hard time spending money.”

Marguerite chuckled with him, playfully smacking Roxtons chest with an opened palm, sharing an on-going tease between them.

Caressing her hair, he had to own up that Marguerite really wasn’t as bad as all that and, truth be known, Roxton enjoyed buying her any little bauble or knick knack that caught her eye. He even approved of Marguerite’s judgment that their estate would eventually profit from a few extensive upgrades, not just externally but internally as well. The electric and plumbing were both suspect in Marguerite’s eyes and it was better to be safe then having the four hundred year old family estate come tumbling down on them one evening when they were all asleep in their beds.

Marguerite reflectively touched his chin with gentle fingers and her tone grew sober, “The problem is, John, you have not been around recently and I want you to tell me all about it. And --” She traced a finger from his chin, down his throat, then touched his thickly bandaged upper arm, “This.”

Earlier, when they were undressing one another, Marguerite became aware of the bandage and quickly, with great concern, asked Roxton about it. He was too caught up in the moment and told her they would discuss it later. Marguerite nearly insisted but she too was becoming overwhelmed and allowed it to be forgotten in lieu of their fervor. But now, satiate and curious, she touched the binding once again and asked him what had happened.

Chapter 4.

"India Part 1"

~~~

Those were Lord Lungry’s last words to Roxton. The vehemence, near lunacy, behind his declaration was almost enough to make the hunter turn around and go back home. Yet, Roxton knew there was more to it than simple grieving, on both their parts. It also meant rescuing the men, women and children of the village. They were all in dire peril and it would remain so until they got honest and skilled help. Roxton felt he had to aid them any way he could, as well as even the score for Lungry‘s sake.

Thank heavens for Margueite’s understanding. She could read him so well, his guilt and anxiousness, when it came to situations like this. Sometimes saying no, even though he did his best to remain uninvolved, was not an option. In his heart he knew leaving her was right but, dear God, he was going to miss her.

Lord Lungry had chartered a small ship to sail Roxton and the other hunters he hired to India. Their quarters were small and cramped but serviceable.

Their destination was Bombay, which had grown a great deal since the last time Roxton visited the city. Years ago when he had docked at Mumbai Harbor there had been small huts and the rudiments of industry to come but nothing remotely sophisticated. Now there were paved streets, large stucco structures, a hospital, government buildings, churches and even a library. Still, this was Bombay and not the surrounding villages which, Roxton came to understand, had changed very little.

Well stocked horses and a few camels, provided by the British regiment patrolling the area, took them to the small village of Zamavat++. It was nearly fifty miles outside the main city. The batalion was more than happy to have Roxton and the others help them with their “little problem”, as it was call by a rather snooty young officer.

As they walked through the village, getting an objective idea of the damage at hand, Roxton was startled by the large, frightened eyes of the children and the jerky, anxious movements of the men and women. Whether they were working, running errands, or simply resting in front of their mud and straw homes everyone appeared nervous and near to tears. It splintered Roxton‘s emotions and strengthened his desire to help the Zamas.

The small community of one hundred and twenty six families maintained themselves, like most, by growing cotton. The English moved in when quotas were not met and fear became a staple. You could not make people work, maintaining their crops, if they were too afraid to venture out into them. Unless, of course, one used the whip -- and that was not an option. Roxton was pleased to hear this because years ago there was not such a stipulation.

A week into the hunt the men were gathered around a campfire one evening, eating, talking, strategizing and checking weapons. They had spotted nothing during their hunts on previous days and a few of the men, including their four compensated volunteers from Nasik and a few native carriers, were becoming impatient. Some shot small game to supplement their rations and others, with nothing else to occupy their minds, tried to understand their companions.

“Hey Roxton, you know why you’re here?” Alan Mosley, one of the more modern hunters Lord Lungry hired, called to Roxton over their campfire. He was man in his early thirties with youthful features and a large mustache which seemed too old for his face. He was a boisterous American, a bit crude but friendly, who came from the south. No one was really certain exactly where in the south the man was from and Mosley, fancying himself a man of mystery, was not quick to divulge much about his background. However, he seemed to know a great deal about everyone else on their mission.

“Lord Lungry and I are friends. He trusts me.” Roxton answered Mosley, tossing a wood chip into their fire. He looked up into the night sky. It was clear with a visible half moon.

“Maybe.” Mosley looked from Roxton to the flames, “But he’s heard and read the stories of you and the others in South America, in The Lost World. That Malone fella really knows how to write story -- all those supernatural doings, hunting for and being hunted by dinosaurs and savages. Lungry thinks Khokkosh will be a snap for you.”

“Hardly.”

“I agree.” Mosley looked up from the fire, tipping his dark wide-brimmed hat back, and stared at Roxton for a few moments, “So, how much of what he wrote is true?”

This wasn‘t the first time Roxton had been asked this question. “Everything is true. Ned was never a good liar.”

Oscar Mathers, a legendary huntsman who had been staring deeply into the fire, possibly wondering why a sexagenarian like himself was a part of this hunting party, raised his gray bushy eyebrows. “Malone wrote about ghosts, a woman from the future visiting the present and even something about the Flying Dutchman. Not all that can be real, Roxton.”

Chuckling now, somewhat enigmatic, Roxton brought a tin cup of warm coffee to his lips but did not look at either men. “You’d be surprised.”

“Even the jungle girl, Veronica?” asked Liston Price, eyes twinkling. He was a young man, not yet out of his teens. He was brought along to help carry their equipment, the son of one of the solders whose family lived in the British fort near Zamavat.

Roxton was uncomfortable with him tagging along. A boy, with no experience in the wild, could be a detriment. He could get hurt or worse be killed by the very animal they were hunting. Or perhaps young Master Price made Roxton nervous simply because he possessed blondish hair and blue eyes. In truth, he looked a lot like William at his age. “Especially Veronica.” Roxton answered him, indulging. “We couldn’t have survived without her.”

The boy smiled, recalling. “And her tree house.”

Malone’s descriptions of Veronica had been very detailed and flattering, recounting her golden beauty, clothing and physical talents; even going as far to write poetry about his jungle princess. Was there any wonder why Ned stayed with her on the plateau, giving Lord Roxton his journals, asking him to send them to his publisher?

And the newspapers just ate them up, all their adventures, printing a chapter every week, the public loving a fantasy come to life.

“Why do you suppose no one has ever been able to go back there?” The elderly British hunter squinted as he considered it, “Many have tried, but no one can find a way through the mountains surrounding the plateau. I’ve heard of a couple missions where a balloon, much like the one you took Roxton, had been put into service but they were simply blown away. Apparently the heavy currents of wind are too much for them.”

“Both balloons crashed. They were pushed away from the plateau, ‘seemingly by the hand of God.’” Mosley quoted, recalling a story written in the Chicago Times. “and nearly all aboard were killed or badly injured. In some cases it took weeks to find the bodies in the Amazon jungle.”

Liston asked, “How did your party get past those winds, Lord Roxton?”

The wonder in the boy’s tone and the suspicion in Mosley’s did not escape Roxton. How could he explain it to these men without sounding like a delusional fool? There really was no way. If a brilliant scientist like George Challenger, with physical proof including a dinosaur egg and photographic plates, could not do it how could he? “When it’s time The Lost World will let the right people leave … and come to her.”

“You talk like it’s a living entity.” Mathers observed.

“Sometimes I think it was … is.” Roxton saw that the men, including the carriers, were staring at him, “You would have had to been there to understand, my friends.”

Mathers said, “I know Challenger plans to try again. He’s been attempting to get funding ever since you came back last year.”

“If anyone can return to the plateau it’s Challenger.” Roxton commented, smoothly. He missed his friend and wished he would come to Avebury more often. One of the best times Roxton and Marguerite had after they married was when Challenger and his wife, Jessie, came to visit them for a few days. Even then Challenger voiced his interest in going back to the plateau. Jessie asserted she was going with him this time. Roxton remembered Marguerite’s eyes lighting up with good humor and admiration at the older woman’s tone. Jessica Challenger was not about to lose her husband to that bloody world again, unless she was there to watch over him when it happened.

Marguerite … Roxton’s eyes closed at the memory of her smile and those beautiful eyes … Only three weeks parted and he was already mourning the loss of her touch and voice … He shook thoughts of her away. Roxton needed to focus on the objective at hand or he might never get back to her.

“Thinking of the wife?” Mosely unexpectedly asked, smiling.

Roxton opened his eyes and looked at the younger man. Was he that obvious? “Yeah.” he said, honestly.

“Don’t blame you. I’ve seen photographs of Miss Krux … or should I say Lady Roxton? She’s stunning. You would think all that time lost in the jungle would have marred that peaches and cream complexion.”

“A natural beauty.” Roxton commented. If anything, he thought, the jungle had enhanced her loveliness.

“And gifted?” Mosley asked slyly with a rather lascivious tone in his voice.

Roxton supposed he should have been offended, maybe even incensed. Back in England he might even have called the man out for asking something so personal and inappropriate about his companion. Yet, they were all lonely men of the world. Instead Roxton smiled and said, “A gentleman never tells.” Roxton stood and stretched, breathing deeply. He then said, “And with that, gentlemen, I say goodnight.”

He turned to where his blankets were situated and was about to settle in for the night when a nearly imperceptible sound was heard.

A deep throated growl and the crack of a twig greeted his ears, muffling the sounds of crickets and various flying bugs.

Liston Price, a few of their native carriers, and even a volunteer or two had heard it as well. Their heads suddenly bobbed up, eyes wide and looking about.

“There’s something out there.” Roxton said loud enough to catch the hunters attention.

Mosley carefully grasped his thirty eight caliber Colt in both hands and slowly stood from a crouch, looking above the long grass surrounding them, “Wish I had my Daddy‘s Smith and Wesson with me right now.” he whispered to no one particular, “That darlin’ had a bite you wouldn‘t believe.”

Mathers slowly picked up his own weapon, a long gun, which he had propped against the trunk of a fallen tree he was resting his back on. It was a very modern piece with a four inch scope and a Brenneke patented lock up system. “Bring it on, old boy.” he told the beast which was stalking them.

Roxton pulled both his Webleys and kept an eye on his rifle.

When the attack came it was not so much a surprise as an event.

The cat sprang from the right and caught the legs of one of their volunteers. The young man screamed his terror and pain as he was being dragged from where he sat. His friends, who had been conversing and joking with him only minutes before, scattered.

Unthinking, Liston was at his side, pulling at the volunteer, punching and kicking with his own feet at the tiger who was trying to pull the small man in an uncertain direction.

“Get out of the way, lad!” Mathers cried, lifting his gun to take a shot.

Unanticipated, another tiger sprang out beside Mosley and knocked him flat on his back with the mere push of its thick muzzle. As it launched itself, Mosley pulled his firearm but never had a chance to aim. Fortunately, Roxon got a bead on the beast instantly and discharged a Webley before the tiger could sink either teeth or nails into the stunned American.

Seconds later Mathers long gun discharged and the tiger attacking the volunteer was dead.

Liston held the screaming, flailing young man in his arms. A deep gash to his leg bled badly and Roxton watched as Mathers applied a tourniquet, all the while telling the boy to get control of himself. They were British after all.

In the distance the men heard a thunderous, deep and very angry roar.

“Another one?” Mosley wondered looking about them for movement.

“No.” Roxton said, expression grave, also looking about. “At least, not close.”

Panting, looking at both dead tigers and taking in the aid being given by Mathers, young Master Price asked, “Did we get Khokkosh?” He instinctively petted the wounded, unconscious young man on the head, soothing him, as the elderly hunter worked on him.

“Not this one.” Mathers mimed toward the dead cat beside them. She’s a young female and too small.”

Roxton walked over to the other, using a booted foot to turn it over and get a better look. “So is this one. Female.” he sighed, “And she was pregnant.” he added.

“Two less tigers, not to mention a nasty litter, to worry about. That’s not such a bad thing.” Mosley announced and the volunteers, inching their way back to the fire, despite their injured companion, all breathed easier.

Roxton did not think any of them should feel comforted. Another angry roar was heard in the distance. He did not tell the others but he felt they were in a great deal of trouble. The one tiger was a young adult and the other pregnant tiger was in her prime. Roxton feared, and eventually he would realize he was right, that they had killed Khokkosh’s offspring and his mate.

They had just made their worst enemy very angry.

***

Roxton paused his story when he felt Marguerite stiffen in his arms.

“Did you continue even with the wounded volunteer?” she asked.

“We did but had two of the others take him back to the village. We couldn’t afford to be slowed down now that we had Khokkosh with in our reach.”

"So, you were being stalked ..." Marguerite was oddly thoughtful.

Roxton could not quite read the expression on her lovely face as he gazed at her, pushing back a swath of her dark hair to get a better look. She seemed to be nervous and unsure if she wanted him to proceed.

“Marguerite, should I …?” he asked, unsure.

“Yes,” she said, with a quick nod and strain in her voice, “I want you to tell me what happened next.”

***