Getting Out of Hot Water

Author: Pam
Rating: G
Summary: Marguerite thinks she's getting Roxton out of hot water, unaware that she's soon to find out he's not the one in over his head…
Disclaimer: The Lost World does not belong to me. *wistful sigh* It belongs to New Line Television, the Over the Hill Gang, et al …
Author's Note: This fanfiction is a response to the following intriguing challenge from Zakiyah and DNash:

Hot Water is set between the episodes Tapestry and Legacy. At the end of Hot Water, Roxton's ring is no longer in his possession. And yet in the very first scene in Legacy, his ring is back on his finger. How did he get his ring back, and why?

Spoilers: DNash & Zakiyah's "Hot Water" and various episodes of The Lost World series from "The Outlaw" onwards.

Sept-Oct 2009
Approx. 9,900 words

*****

Challenger mumbled unintelligibly as he shifted in his sleep and bumped tender, still-bruised areas on his arm, hip and thigh. He wriggled around on his bedroll, subconsciously searching for a more comfortable position before stilling again with a deep sigh.

Finn stepped from the shadows beneath the trees and craned her neck peer around the side of the lean-to so she could check on the ginger-haired eldest of the party. Once she had assured herself that he hadn't wakened, she resumed her guard duty, vanishing back beyond the perimeter as quietly as she'd stepped into the campsite.

Both Roxton and Veronica, senses honed by years of hunting and being hunted, had awakened at the pained sound from George. Neither of them moved physically, but like Finn they monitored his condition, Veronica from the other shelter on the other side of the campfire, Roxton from beside the scientist. Each of them also noted Finn's alert and stealthy movement, smiled their approval, then closed their eyes and drifted back to sleep.

Marguerite, unbeknownst to the others, was wide awake. Although she'd curled beneath her blanket in a relaxed position and appeared to be fast asleep since moments after she'd laid down last night, she hadn't slept a wink. She was far too preoccupied with her current problem to waste precious planning time on mere slumber. She'd long ago discovered that night was her most productive time zone, whether for creative thinking or actual activity, so she'd regularly gone without sleep in favor of using the darkness more profitably. While rest would definitely have helped her body heal from the stresses she'd endured over the last few days, her priority tonight was to settle on a plan of action before they reached the tree house.

They'd hiked hard to cover as much ground as possible, wanting to get below the snowline and back to more familiar territory. Although they'd joked about their eager anticipation of getting warm again, and George cited his worry over the experiments now left untended far longer than he'd planned, Marguerite suspected that the others, like herself, were just as motivated as she by a desire to distance themselves from the uncomfortably mythic culture of the ice-cave-dwelling society they'd left behind. Their goal had been achieved, although it had been well after sunset before the five friends finally stopped to camp for the night. It was still noticeably chilly here, as evidenced by the scattered piles of snow that lingered in areas heavily shaded by the dense woodland growth on the slope, but there had been plenty of dry tinder to gather for their fire, and they'd spread their bedding over fragrant pine needles instead of frozen rocky ground.

Everyone had been too tired to talk much by then; Marguerite and Finn had gathered firewood and refilled canteens from a nearby stream while Roxton cleared the perimeter and prepared the pair of lean-tos to shelter them from the cool night wind. The task of coaxing the exhausted scientist into sitting down - "to supervise setting up camp and getting dinner ready" - had fallen on Veronica's capable shoulders. Distracting him by asking for his assistance in the mixing of ingredients for their meal, she'd used the provisions gifted to them by Fia to produce a hearty soup that they'd all appreciated after the long, cold march.

The only real discussion they'd undertaken during dinner had been over how to handle security when so many of their party were already so weary. Predictably, Roxton had insisted on first watch so the others could rest, with Veronica and Finn amicably bickering over handling second or third. Challenger, of course, was still too weakened by his injuries from the avalanche to consider standing watch, and Marguerite hadn't protested being left out of the duty rotation.

No one had questioned why she'd stayed silent; it was one of the benefits of having a reputation for avoiding work. Roxton, the only one who consistently expected her to live up to his expectations, thought she was simply exhausted from the combination of the long trek, her unplanned swim in the icy cavern waters, and the effort involved in performing her part of the ceremonies they'd undertaken to reunite the Matozóide. She'd let him misinterpret her silence rather than give him any hint of how troubled she was by the situation she'd found herself in.

She'd been desperate for the time to examine her options and decide how to proceed from this point. She'd known it would take hours of concentration to find and fine tune a plan, and night was the only time to do it. She couldn't mull over something this complex during the day under the inexplicably discerning eyes of Lord Roxton.

The man knew more about her than she'd ever expected anyone to know, but it was only a drop in the bucket compared to the sum total of her mixed up history. And now he'd gone and added yet another bloody question to the mystery that was her life.

What the devil was she going to do about the Roxton family heirloom? And the deeper issue - how could she deflect the commitment it represented?

A conundrum indeed… It was exasperating, the way Lord John Richard Roxton excelled at presenting her with posers for which there were no easy solutions. The way he could corner her with these insidious emotions was downright…, well, exasperating! It would be so much easier if only he weren't such an adorable man - or if she were anyone other than whom she was. After all, most women would have been justifiably delighted to be the object of that look in his eye, to be the recipient of his not-so-subtle hints that he was ready to take their affectionate flirting to a more serious level. She'd suspected his intentions for quite some time now, but had been able to excuse her delay in dealing with the issue as long as it remained a game. It was a very enjoyable pastime, and she hadn't wanted to end it.

But it was crystal clear now that the nobleman was too attached to her for his own good. She'd thought Roxton was smart enough to know better than to contemplate a serious commitment with a woman like herself. Why couldn't he just be satisfied with their friendly flirting, as she was? He had no inkling what he was letting himself in for, wanting a permanent relationship with her instead of a mere lusty liaison.

Wryly, she realized it had been precipitate to be relieved by the recent revelation that she'd been a triple agent during the late Great War. As startled and impressed as she'd been to discover that Roxton was the patriot who'd taken the fall for Parsifal to ensure that the Germans would accept her credentials, Marguerite had fully expected her disclosure of Parsifal's true identity to prompt him to maintain a bit more emotional distance. He knew now - or should have known - that her life didn't permit proper relationships. He didn't know the dangerous minutiae, and her time as Parsifal was by no means the darkest part of her past - a fact of which he was still unaware, and that she had no intention of telling him - but just knowing she'd been a spy should have been enough to warn him off. It should have ended any likelihood that she'd ever have to undertake an uncomfortable confrontation over what should've been no more than a bit of silly wistful thinking on her part. After all, what had the odds been of his growing to love her? Or continuing to love her once he learned who and what she'd been?

Even if he'd had any real romantic intentions toward her, his involvement in intelligence and counter-intelligence should have provided adequate information about Parsifal for him to know that there were myriad details about her life that she could never divulge to him. Her secrets had already threatened to end their relationship once, so it was logical that he would distance himself after learning that she'd been a triple agent.

And totally apart from the fact that Roxton abhorred secrets, any sane man who'd found out as much as Roxton had would have run the other direction as fast as his legs could carry him. What man in his right mind would love a woman after he found out she had traded sex to gain favors and information? What honorable man would continue to trust a woman whose lifeblood was deceit and lies, cons and thefts, mayhem and murder? He had to know she'd been responsible for the deaths of innumerable men as the instigator of plots that had taken lives on both sides for the sake of the larger picture. Her so-called skills might be admired in theory as useful to the British Empire, but when considered at an individual level Roxton should have been repulsed by the reality of who she was and what she'd done.

But could Lord John Richard Roxton behave like a sensible man? No, of course not! Instead of discreetly distancing himself since the iridium-inspired disclosures, the insufferable man had treated her even more tenderly. Why couldn't he simply conduct himself as she expected, just once?! But no, he'd had to go and regard her as if she'd done something heroic that justified an increase in his devotion to her!

As often as she'd tried in the past to convince herself that she was reading too much into his behavior - that it was inconceivable that Lord John Richard Roxton could actually be courting her - there was no denying that his attentions had become all the more marked since Challenger had stumbled across the iridium and set them on their current disastrous course. A man like Roxton wooing her, for goodness sake! International jewel thief wanted on multiple continents! Medium of séances extraordinaire! Mistress of Mysteries! The Black Widow of Vienna! Parsifal, the deadliest spy of the Great War! The woman who didn't know her own name! How could a man with his history and experience be so absurd?! It was wrong on so many levels that it wasn't worth taking seriously.

Well, truth be told, she hadn't really wanted to take it seriously, because that meant she'd have to do something about it. Now, with this business about her holding his ring for him, she could no longer pretend to misunderstand him.

The look in his eye when he'd told her to keep the Roxton family heirloom for him had been unmistakable. A "trinket" he'd called it, and when she'd challenged his description he'd added, "Or treasure. It all depends on how you think of it. I know what it means to me."

She'd known, too. She'd been caught off guard by the unexpected timing of his implied declaration, and with the others too nearby to allow her to be blunt with him - and because she'd been reluctant to set him straight about how it had to be - she'd given him a response that could only cruelly encourage him: she'd agreed to keep the ring. At least she'd had the presence of mind to add "for now".

Still, that didn't eliminate her culpability for having given him unwarranted hope in the first place.

It wasn't that the idea of being a couple wasn't attractive. She definitely liked that "something" in his eye, and if she'd believed that dreams really did come true, or if her unsavory past had been different… But such thoughts were beyond foolish. The idea of any lasting relationship with him was completely unrealistic. It didn't matter how deeply she cared for him.

The only thing that mattered was that John had no idea the hot water he'd be in if she were to yield to his very enticing wooing. She had to do whatever was necessary to get him out of that hot water before he ended up scorched… or worse.

The sooner she gave the ring back to him the better. This was one time she could be glad he was more intelligent and perceptive than was usually good for her; he'd get the message.

Returning the heirloom would tell him in no uncertain terms that when she'd said she would hold it for him "for now", and that she had "a good idea" about that something in his eye, it had been a forewarning that while she understood the meaning behind his gesture she had no intention of encouraging any formal relationship between them. Once he got that through his thick skull, then it would be up to him to decide whether he wanted to continue flirting with her instead of pursuing the impossible… or whether he would cut his losses and end their friendship.

She had no doubt that he'd be hurt, possibly even angry. John would be completely in the right if he accused her of leading him on. She'd been ambivalent about her feelings for him since long before he'd shown signs of being serious, torn between wanting any kind of relationship with him and knowing she should push him away - for his own good as well as her own. There had been something about him, right from the moment she first met him… But her self-indulgent behavior had definitely sent mixed signals. Despite knowing better, she'd let the attraction between them linger on for far too long, basking heedlessly in the physical magnetism and heady emotional attachment, and now they were both going to suffer the consequences. She owed it to him to make it as painless as possible, for him, if not for herself.

Marguerite had spent this entire miserable night considering one scenario after another, even absurdly obvious ploys like dropping the ring into his morning tea and casually waving off his predictable attempt to return it to her. Not that she couldn't carry it off, but if possible she wanted to find a way to do it without making him feel that he had to save face by repudiating their friendship. She liked him too well to want to cut all connection to him - not to mention the fact that they had to continue to live in the same house for who-knew-how-long. So she needed a way to return the ring without hurting his pride, not an easy task… maybe not even a possible task, considering she'd discarded every single option she'd come up with so far.

A confrontation had to be avoided at all costs if there was to be any hope of salvaging their camaraderie. He would never let her get away with handing it back without saying anything at all. She must have speculated about at least three dozen options and variations of options in the last seven hours, and hadn't come up with a single solid idea that let her return the ring while evading an explanation. It didn't matter what gimmick she envisioned; every scenario cascaded into some kind of angry exchange that seemed likely to drag everyone else into it, too.

That was something else she'd prefer to avoid, ending up with the tree house as an armed camp with the others divided on either his side or hers. She had no doubt that Finn would come down squarely in Roxton's camp; the girl from the future was in awe of his formidable marksmanship and hunting prowess, and was equally as charmed by his open friendliness, while she was justly wary of Marguerite's chillier demeanor. Given how often she'd angered and even endangered Veronica and Challenger, it didn't take a genius to guess which of them the other two would champion, either.

Ending up booted out of tree house was another outcome she'd like to avoid.

There had to be a way to do it.

Drat the man, why couldn't he have just been content to leave things as they were?!

Marguerite was distracted from her ruminations by the stirring around her. Dismayed, she realized the sky had considerably lightened since the last time she paid attention to her environment. Morning was upon her, and she was no closer to a solution to her problem.

Veronica had risen smoothly to her feet, sheathing her knives without conscious thought as she straightened up at the edge of the lean-to. She shoved her fingers through her hair to ease the tangles of the night, and stood still at the foot of her blankets, poised and listening to the sounds of the dawning day. After a few seconds, she smiled; all was normal. The jungle-born blonde set about the usual morning routine when on the trail.

Before she'd finished digging through one of the packs for breakfast ingredients, Finn was inside the camp perimeter, stoking the fire to heat water for coffee or tea. She whispered a morning greeting to the older blonde, assured her everything was "primo" - one of the idioms from the future that her housemates had no problem understanding, given its familiar linguistic origins - and settled at the fireside to check over the workable parts of her crossbow as she waited for breakfast.

Roxton had been on his feet at almost the same time as Veronica, both hunters' internal clocks attuned to the arrival of the most dangerous time of day to be wary of predators. Despite Finn's preliminary report, his keen green eyes scanned their surroundings while he donned his weapons, shrugging into his bandoleer and adjusting the straps before he slipped the pair of pearl-handled Webleys into their holsters, then buckling on the belt that held his knife sheath and ammo pouch. Only then did he kneel and begin to pack up his bedroll.

He was careful not to disturb the still-sleeping scientist who had shared his lean-to through the night, although it was almost certainly without conscious thought, Marguerite decided as she watched him with increasing interest. He probably wasn't intentionally keeping an eye on the perimeter, either, but he wasn't wholly focused on wrapping up the bedding. He continually scanned the undergrowth beyond the small clearing where they'd camped. It was a cautionary habit she'd noticed when they first set out on the expedition, and then had grown accustomed to and forgotten.

In fact - Marguerite sat up and took a closer look at each of her friends to confirm a sudden realization. Each of them was performing tasks they'd done so often that they didn't need to think about what they were doing. Just like John, they instinctively did what needed to be done while devoting the major portion of their attention to the awareness of dangers that might be present around them. It was so much a part of them that she had grown as used to seeing them do it as they'd become to doing it.

It didn't only happen when it concerned group security, Marguerite reflected with increasing satisfaction. People were creatures of habit. It was one of the facts she'd used to her advantage throughout her multifaceted career. Discover people's personal and public habits, and you could use those oft-mindless routines to your advantage - this was one of the primary rules of survival, in her experience.

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she considered how this recollection might aid her current quest. Roxton was definitely a creature of habit. Just as he had an orderly routine on the trail, he had an orderly routine at the tree house. Her lips curved further upward as she culled her memories to review what she knew about the customs he'd developed over the years. Oh yes, this could be the answer! It might work. It could work… it should work. It was subtle, discreet, and so simple! It eliminated any need for posturing, saving face, or public confrontation. Depending on how he responded, it could also reduce the risk of having to face him over this at all. This had to work!

Having already run through so many scenarios, it only took a moment to narrow down his possible reactions. Quickly calculating the odds, she decided she had a good chance of getting out of this with their friendship intact. He'd probably still be wounded by her rejection, and he'd be upset… but he was an intelligent, mature man. Even if he was furious with her at first, he'd eventually calm down. Further, she suspected he'd appreciate her use of stealth in this instance. He'd no doubt be more restrained with her, but at least she wouldn't lose his presence in her life.

Retaining his friendship was a bonus she probably didn't deserve, considering that if she'd done what she should've done when she'd first suspected his emotions were engaged, all of this would be a moot point. She'd let her cockamamie fairy tale happily-ever-after dreams get the better of her common sense, and had allowed their relationship to linger in limbo instead of protecting him by limiting their interaction. She didn't deserve his devotion, loyalty or trust. But merited or not, having Roxton around was a bonus that would certainly be a welcome bright spot in her oft lonely life. She'd count herself lucky to be able to retain any semblance of friendship with him.

Of course, she'd still deny that she had anything like a soft spot for the irascible nobleman… one of her more outrageous lies, adorable man that he was.

John dropped his wrapped bedding beside his backpack, picked up his rifle and approached the women's lean-to. He ducked down to enter, then knelt between the two abandoned groundsheets and set his rifle aside while he began to straighten and gather up Finn and Veronica's bedrolls. He met Marguerite's gaze with a twinkle in his own eyes. "And what does my lady find so amusing this fine morning?" he asked her with a fond smile.

"There's no such thing as a fine morning, John," she admonished lightly. It was the type of response all of her housemates would expect from her; it was important to keep anyone from suspecting everything wasn't just as it had been. She shifted to her knees off her groundsheet and smoothed her blanket over it so she could roll them together.

He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the younger women were busy, then leaned over and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. "A good night's rest seems to have restored your spirits," he said softly, then teased, "Good thing, too, since it's still a long walk home."

Marguerite accepted the affectionate tribute, but made a face at him. "Don't remind me. I swear when we get off this plateau I'm never going to walk anywhere again." She waited until he finished with the other two bundles before she handed him her neatly-rolled bedding and followed him out from under the structure. "Still, it will be nice to get back. I'm ready for a nice long hot shower."

"What milady wants, milady shall have," he promised with his lopsided grin.

"That's as it should be," she preened, making him chuckle. She noticed Veronica and Finn exchange grins at the banter, too. Good. That meant everything appeared normal to her friends. Generate the right appearances, and you could get away with almost anything.

Time to bring all her skills to bear on getting Roxton out of the hot water he'd unwitting jumped into when he'd handed her his family ring.

Marguerite was in fine mettle the rest of the way home. She'd been playacting to conceal her real thoughts and feelings for years, so it was almost as second nature as the morning routines she hoped to exploit to return Roxton's ring. None of her companions suspected her well-shielded anticipation of undertaking a stealth operation as she complained about the arduous hike, the heat they encountered as they reached level ground, and the incessant torment of buzzing insects trying to suck her blood away. When she wasn't grumbling, she alternately debated scientific theories with George, flirted carelessly with her suitor, or allowed Veronica to mediate her running argument with Finn over what the girl would owe her for mending the damage to the clothing she'd borrowed from Challenger.

Marguerite noted with a sad twinge that deceiving her friends was disappointingly easy. None of them suspected her mind was whirling the whole time as she repeatedly reviewed and fine-tuned her plan, and re-examined her options in case something else presented itself. Of course with the basic plan settled in her mind, it didn't require anywhere near the concentration of devising an entirely fresh plan. Nonetheless, while it boded well for her future that she hadn't lost any of her more nefarious skills, it was disconcertingly lonely to realize she had so easily fooled her closest friends.

Roxton did notice a trace of tension in her expression, but he attributed it to her usual desire to clean up after too many days on the trail. Anticipating a shower was one of the first things she'd mentioned today. His lady never liked being sweaty and grimy, and was often irritable when she couldn't bathe.

Consequently, true to his promise that morning, the first thing he did upon reaching the tree house was build an extra strong fire beneath the water heater. Coming up the steps, he dusted off his hands and assured her with satisfaction that she would soon have as much hot water as she could possibly want.

Marguerite looked up from the stack of clothing Finn had just dumped in her arms, arched a brow and drawled, "I wouldn't make such an open ended statement if I were you, Lord Roxton." She couldn't help wishing it was this kind of hot water he was in, instead of being tangled up in the more dangerous rhetorical hot water from which she now had to extract him.

Blissfully unaware of her concerns, he grinned and caught up her backpack. "I'll just stow this for you while you're gathering that bucket of stuff you always haul back and forth for a shower. By the time we finish eating, the water will be hot and you'll be set to go."

The lovely brunette cast him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

He was half a dozen steps away before it sunk in that there'd been something unusual in her quiet response - a hint of sadness? He stopped and turned, searching her lovely features. She seemed to be preoccupied with the material she was examining. But the wily hunter had learned long ago to trust his instincts rather than his sight when it came to hints about her usually well-hidden feelings. "Marguerite?"

"Mm?" When he didn't say anything else, she looked up to find him watching her in concern. "What? What's wrong?" she asked, puzzled by his unspoken question.

Her eyes were clear and guileless. Maybe he'd imagined it. He shrugged. "Just wondering if it would spoil you if I offered to clean your gun while you're showering?"

She grinned. "You know I never look a gift horse in the mouth, John."

"Not when it suits you," he agreed without rancor, and went on his way with her gurgle of laughter echoing in his ears.

Finn strolled in from the kitchen with a tray of fruit and dried raptor strips as Roxton disappeared back down the stairs. "You sure got him wrapped around your little finger, Marguerite," she grinned, shaking her head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No offense intended," the youngest tree house resident said quickly. "I just meant that the big guy would do anything to please you. I think it'd be pretty cool to have some guy who'd turn himself inside out for me, like he'd do for you."

Marguerite let that pass without comment. It wasn't a line of conversation she wanted to continue. Roxton might not be wrapped around her little finger for much longer, and she didn't want to contemplate the prospect before it was absolutely necessary.

Taking the hint, Finn switched topics. "So was I right or not? About Challenger's pants, I mean. Is it going to be as much work as you said to fix 'em, or do we have a deal?"

The dark haired woman's lip curled. "Neither. It's worse than you implied… but," she admitted grudgingly, "not as bad as I expected. To your credit, you managed to cut them with something approximating straight lines, but it's still going take hours to do a decent mending job on them."

"But you're going to do it, right?" the younger girl pushed anxiously.

"I will… if you up the price two more elevator maintenance shifts."

Finn grunted in dismay. None of the women liked doing the difficult, oily chore. "You gotta be kidding!"

"I'd jump at the chance if I were you," Veronica advised dryly as carried freshly squeezed juice in from the kitchen and settled the pitcher on the table. "Remember how much you hate to sew, and how often you end up having to rip out and start over. It would take you four times longer to do the sewing than it would to do half a dozen lift maintenance chores. You're getting off easy."

Everyone in the tree house knew how hard it was for Finn to sit still at all, let alone to undertake a painstakingly detailed task like decent-looking stitches of appropriate placement and strength to actually hold pieces of material together. Finn hated needlework more than any other chore at the tree house. But the task of cleaning and re-oiling the elevator gears was a close second, rivaled only by laundry duty or dusting the extensive tree house library - all of which she'd already agreed to do in exchange for Marguerite's mending Challenger's shortened pants.

Reflecting on the alternative, Finn yielded to the inevitable. "Okay," she groaned. "Two turns at laundry, two dusting the library, four meal cleanups, and three turns at the elevator."

"Done," Marguerite agreed. It amused her to think what her housemates' reactions would be if they ever found out how much she genuinely enjoyed sewing. When all else had failed, her clever fingers and artistic eye as a seamstress had more than once earned bread for her table and a roof over her head. If she'd had the luxury of choice about whether to settle down or not, she might have set up a shop of her own and made a tidy fortune.

"Thanks. Challenger will be glad it's you doing the work, not me," Finn grinned, instantly relieved and cheerful again. "He went down in his lab to check his experiments as soon as we got home, didn't he? I'll go tell him supper's ready."

Veronica shook her head as the younger blonde bounced down the stairs. "She might as well have saved herself the effort," she grinned.

"No, he'll come," Marguerite replied without glancing up, already pinning the cut-off layers of material to the matching pant legs of the first pair of trousers.

Surprised, the other woman sent her a skeptical look.

Still without looking up, the European woman added, "Finn has George wrapped around her little finger the way she says I have John wrapped around mine. Maybe you haven't been back long enough to see it for yourself yet, but she touched a place in his heart that I'm not sure he knew he had. He acts like an indulgent father to a favorite daughter."

"Actually, I had suspected something like that, at least on Finn's part," Veronica admitted, recalling how the sight of Finn clad in Challenger's clothes only a few days before had reminded her of a child dressing up in her father's clothes. Now that she considered it, she had noticed that Finn was quite familiar with Challenger's likes and dislikes, as well as his work. The younger girl had talked a lot about him after the other three left on their trip to collect snow samples for George's latest scientific premise. "But I didn't realize it went both ways."

"Oh, it definitely does. Just watch," Marguerite nodded her head toward the stairwell.

Roxton came back upstairs before the others, but within another minute they heard more than one pair of booted feet ascending the wooden steps. Challenger's fly-away ginger head showed first, bent down as he listened to the cheerful flow of words from the young blonde with her arm wrapped through his as she escorted him up for supper.

"Well what do you know?" Veronica breathed, clearly a rhetorical question that needed no reply. As Marguerite had stated, the world-renowned scientist was beaming down on Finn with paternal affection, tolerantly patting her hand as he answered one of her comments.

Roxton followed her gaze and grinned. He and Marguerite had been amused to watch George's attachment to Finn develop after they'd inadvertently brought her back with them from the future. It had been Marguerite that mused about how Veronica would react to finding her father-figure's affections divided with a new sister, the hunter remembered as he noticed the odd shadow in Veronica's sky blue eyes and the slight crease between her brows. It had only been a little over a week since her return home, and for most of that time Challenger had been away with the older couple, so this was the probably the first opportunity Veronica'd had to witness this new development in the tree house dynamic. Clearly, his insightful lady had been right; their orphaned friend was wondering if she was losing George's paternal participation in her life.

"It's not that he cares for us any less," Roxton offered lightly while he pulled out a chair beside Marguerite. "It's just that with us he sort of became a patriarch over time. With Finn, he fell into fatherhood overnight, and found himself with this girl on his hands who's as full of energy and curiosity as he is himself. He's having a great time teaching her and seeing everything new again through her eyes."

Marguerite granted the nobleman a smile as he settled into the seat next to her, and added, "She saw right through his gruffness, and she adores him. A little adoration is good for the soul. He's actually become more deliberately paternal since Finn joined us. I think he likes the idea. Just watch; you'll see." The volume of her words increased as Challenger and Finn joined them at the table. "Everything all right in the lab, George?"

"Yes, yes, my dear, just fine. I must admit I suffered severe pangs about the condition of two samplings I had under observation before we left, but our delayed return doesn't appear to have caused any debilitating effects."

"Yeah, one of them actually turned three shades of blue, which is totally sweet," Finn declared enthusiastically.

"Sweet - Finn you didn't try to taste that leafy mold, did you?" George asked in alarm.

"No, no," the girl laughed. "It's just a saying, Challenger. Here, have some of this mango. You always say we should eat more fruit, and you haven't had any today."

The others exchanged grins at the way he meekly accepted the handful of sliced mango onto his plate. Then they, in turn, submissively accepted his strictures that they needed the nutrition just as much as he did. The scientist launched into a lecture about balanced diets as the younger adults joined in serving themselves from the bowls Finn and Veronica had set out. They chatted comfortably together as they shared the meal, everyone relaxed and thankful to be home again.

*****

The breeze wafted through the tree house, whispering through the leaves along the branches. No other sound disturbed the silence within the arboreal structure as a shadowy figure traversed the curving hallway between two of the bedrooms. In and out, wraithlike, Marguerite left behind only a hint of scent and a gold ring that gleamed dully in the moonlight that filtered through the curtain over Roxton's window. Task accomplished, she flitted back to her own chamber and slipped back beneath the mosquito netting over her bed.

Well, it was done now, for better or worse. Come morning, she'd know which. There was no use wasting time worrying about it, especially when she'd not slept the night before.

Either way, it had to be done.

*****

Lord Roxton was up with the sunrise, as usual, and one look into the small looking glass assured him that it was past time to shave. Their prolonged time in the mountains had prevented him from completing his usual schedule of ablutions.

He'd given up daily shaving within six weeks of being stranded on the Plateau; it had simply been too much bother to heat the water over the fire every day, not to mention the labor of cleaning the remaining lather from his shaving mug and brushes, and then the effort had tripled when they had to begin making their own soap - well, Ned was so fair that he hadn't needed to shave every day, and the professors' only concern had been to trim their beards and mustaches, so Roxton had matched his shaving schedule to Ned's. By the time Challenger had rigged hot water for the tree house, the adaptable nobleman had grown accustomed to shaving every fourth or fifth day. Up to that limit, he didn't mind the bristly effect. Marguerite had once confided that it gave him the air of a charming rogue. The image hadn't displeased him.

But right now his facial hair was entering a slovenly stage that he didn't like at all, too short to qualify as a beard, but prickly enough to give Marguerite bristle burn if an opportunity for a bit of romance should present itself.

Smiling at the pleasant prospect, he stripped off his undershirt and laid out his shaving gear on the shelf below his gilt-edged mirror. He dumped some soap flakes into his shaving mug and strode down to the water closet to add hot water from the spigot there, soaked a small towel and draped it over his bare shoulders, and vigorously stirred the contents of the cup as he walked back to his room. He set the mug aside while he stropped the razor and applied the heated damp towel to his cheeks and jaw. Ready, he deftly applied the rich lather to his skin and spread it evenly. Eyes twinkling at the thought of Marguerite's approval, he reached for the razor.

One strip at a time, his skin again became visible. First one side, then the other, then the center areas… and finally his throat. It was a time-consuming process, what with rinsing the razor and wiping his face, and then cleaning up the spattered suds - one of these days he'd have to ask George to do a study about why shaving soap always splattered, no matter how careful a fellow might be - but it also felt good to be clean shaven when he was done.

He returned to the water closet to clean out his shaving brushes and mug, taking his pitcher along to collect more water for the basin in his room. There was at least a cord of wood to be cut this morning, and maintenance on the windmill to finish before lunch, too. A quick wash would do for now, and he could enjoy a full shower later in the day. By the time he finished washing and had donned a fresh shirt and trousers, it was getting late. From the sound of the movement upstairs, at least two of the others were moving about in the Great Room and the kitchen.

Pancakes! He could smell pancakes! George was always on time for breakfast when there were pancakes. If he didn't hurry, Challenger and the two girls would eat their fill and he'd be lucky to get a single plateful!

Roxton squinted into the looking glass as he rapidly combed his hair, set his brush down on the shelf and picked up his ring to slide onto his finger while he jammed his feet into his boots. He darted out of his room and tucked in his shirt and adjusted his suspenders on his way up the stairs. "Morning, everyone," he greeted them as he reached the top.

"Morning," they chorused, already at the table, but only just beginning to serve themselves, to his relief.

"You didn't wake Marguerite?" Veronica added, looking past him for the absent former heiress.

He hesitated in mid-step toward the table, expression arrested as his gaze lingered on the already-half-empty platter of pancakes. A hairsbreadth later he deliberately continued on. "Let her sleep in. She'll be in a better mood," he said with an easy grin.

Finn snickered. "You just don't want to miss seconds today."

Not waiting to be seated, he grabbed his fork and stabbed four of the golden brown discs, neatly dropping them onto his own plate as he grinned back at her, unrepentant, and finally sat down. "Well, she doesn't eat pancakes anyway. I, on the other hand, do."

"So much for chivalry. It's nice to know exactly where I stand in the pecking order."

He hunched his shoulders and winced at the dry comment from the stairs, while his three companions laughed at his suddenly reddened face. At least she sounded amused rather than irate, a fact that he confirmed with a quick glance over his shoulder.

Marguerite's lovely countenance was alight with laughter at having caught him out. Her silver green eyes twinkled at him while she crossed the Great Room, asking "Is there anything else to eat today?"

Veronica swallowed another chuckle and answered, "I made up the ingredients for an omelet for you, Marguerite. And there's coffee in the pot."

"Thank you," the brunette nodded her appreciation as she changed direction to head straight to the aromatic coffee.

When she returned to the table with a steaming mug cupped between her hands, Roxton jumped to his feet and pulled out her chair for her. "Allow me," he offered with his most charming lopsided smile.

She looked him up and down for a moment, but then nodded regally and allowed him to seat her. "Thank you, Lord Roxton. Very civil of you, I'm sure," she said with imperial condescension, which sent Finn and Veronica into peals of laughter again.

It was two more days before he finally realized what she'd really been doing when she looked him over like that.

He was out hunting when a glint of light caught his attention. It took him several seconds to realize it was sunlight skipping around the bushes, reflecting off the Roxton family ring on his pinky. On the heels of that recognition he was hit with a realization so intense that he sat down right where he was, staring blindly down the game trail he'd been following.

She'd given his ring back.

It required a few moments of bewildered thought to work out how it had come to be back on his finger again instead of being tucked safely away in Marguerite's pocket or with her treasures. In spite of his rueful admiration of her skilled placement of the ring right where he usually left it while he shaved - of course she'd known he'd pick it up without thinking twice about doing so - figuring out the 'how' didn't help him resolve the question of 'why' she'd done it.

He couldn't doubt that she knew the value of the heirloom. Of course, she'd only agreed to hold it temporarily, but "for now" certainly hadn't lasted very long. She was so skittish about their relationship that he'd been delighted when she'd agreed to even that much. And he'd been pleased and encouraged when she'd said she had a good idea what had been in his eye.

But if that was true, then by giving back his ring she was clearly rejecting what he was offering. Bitterly, he stared down at the antique gold signet.

When he thought of the dozens of women who had literally thrown themselves at him or tried all sorts of ploys to ensnare him after his ascension to the title… but the one woman he wants… No, not just wants, but needs! The one woman he loves and needs, she has to give back the ring that represents his family, his name, his fortune - all hers for the asking. He'd laid his heart at her feet, offered her everything he thought she wanted… but apparently he'd been wrong.

Ironic. Marguerite Krux, the woman who owned his heart, didn't want anything Lord John Richard Roxton had to offer her.

He had no idea how long he sat there in the middle of the trail before a loud rustle in the nearby undergrowth snapped him out of his numbness. He jumped to his feet and jerked his rifle into readiness, eyes scanning the underbrush for danger as he carefully eased backwards off the trail until he had a tree at his back.

He was ready to dodge if necessary, but it the animal that pushed through the foliage was only a barely-weaned hedgehog. He relaxed and watched it waddle away - until he noticed the flash of light flicker on its side and disappear.

It was his ring again.

Odd, it had never done that before. The metal had always been too dull to create any noticeable reflection. Roxton raised his hand and took a closer look at it. Had she slipped him a copy? No, there was the tiny nick he and William had inflicted on it when they'd been heedless boys playing Robin Hood and using the heirloom as a target for archery practice. They'd never been sure which of them had shot the arrow that scarred the heirloom and earned them both a rare hiding from their outraged father. This was definitely the family ring. But there was a different gleam to the heavy metal. He'd seen this kind of gleam before.

"Marguerite polished it with her gem buffing tools," he whispered. "Now why would she do that when she had no intention of keeping it?"

In fact, now that his mind was clearing, he had quite a few questions. If she had no intention of keeping it at all, which he could read into her words in retrospect, why hadn't she simply refused to keep it right then and there? Once she'd agreed to keep it "for now", why had she given back his ring so bloody soon? And when she'd decided to give it back right away, why had she chosen to avoid telling him she so? Didn't she at least owe him the courtesy of an explanation? She was no coward, so why had she taken pains to return it in secret rather than face to face? And why make the time to clean and polish the ring in the few hours it had been in her possession if she wasn't planning to keep it?

Once he started thinking it through, he came to some mighty encouraging conclusions.

She did care about him! The beautiful brunette was totally callous in dealing with things she didn't care about. The fact that she'd accepted it at all implied that it mattered to her whether it would hurt his feelings to have his ring rejected in the presence of their friends. She hadn't wanted to embarrass him, or she wouldn't have accepted the ring at all, even temporarily. That proved Marguerite cared.

She'd given his ring back so quickly because she'd thought it would make it easier for him to find out now rather than later. She was wrong, of course; he was already too deeply in love with her for it to make any difference whether she turned him down now or later, had been in love with her for far longer than he'd realized himself, let alone revealed to Marguerite. But that didn't change the fact that she thought she was protecting him, and that gave him another proof that she had strong feelings for him.

Naturally she'd avoided telling him she was giving it back, because it would have opened a discussion about the very feelings she didn't want to admit. Over the last couple years they'd skirted the issue more times than he could count. A sentence here, a few phrases there, no better than tentative hints at their romantic intentions. Even the rare times she was willing to talk, something had always come along to interrupt. Besides, everyone knew that Marguerite avoided open discussions like the plague. Unfortunately, the mixed signals resulted in a limbo that was a severe trial to his patience, not to mention his libido. Most of the time he was certain Marguerite wanted more, but her reluctance to commit was enough to drive a man crazy.

He understood it better now that he knew she'd been Parsifal - it explained so much more about her than he'd garnered while he'd thought her to be merely a mercenary thief and extraordinarily talented con artist - and on top of that had come the eye-opening simultaneous discovery that she was also the Baroness, the Black Widow of Vienna, a revelation that would have given any man pause. It presented nearly as many questions as her secret identity as Parsifal did. He'd never known whether to take her seriously when she'd mentioned one or another of her husbands. He'd half suspected it to be a ploy to get a rise out of him, another red herring to detour his efforts to discover who she really was behind the façades she employed so deftly. Now he had to accept the possibility that they'd really existed after all. Would he ever know how much of the Widow's married life had been part and parcel of her being Parsifal? Whether any of those marriages had been real or whether they were only fabrications for her cover story? Or what had happened to her as Parsifal and the Black Widow - or before those two personas - that had left her so bloody leery of love?

Yes, he had plenty of questions and far too few answers. If Marguerite's reasons for returning his ring were tied into her identity as Parsifal, he had no right to press for answers. When he'd lost his temper with her over the secrets revealed by Callum's coming after the Ouroboros, and then remorsefully promised that her secrets would be safe with him when she was ready, he'd never imagined the magnitude of what his lady kept hidden, or that there might be a legitimate reason she not only shouldn't but genuinely couldn't confide in him lest she violate the laws governing war secrets. It had to be incredibly difficult to balance how to give your friends the honesty they demanded yet hold back such a major segment of her life and experience.

Regretfully, he acknowledged to himself that things hadn't been the same between them since she'd chosen to stay on the Plateau with him instead of seizing the chance to use the restored Ouroboros - and it was his own fault. He'd deliberately vented his wrath over her prevaricating and made rash accusations that must have hurt her deeply. He knew now that she'd told him the truth when she'd claimed that she kept secrets to protect him and the others. He deeply rued his open disbelief; she'd been honest with him, and he'd all but called her a liar. Looking back at the injustice of it, he wished she'd given him the tongue-lashing he'd deserved instead of fuming in relative silence. Having everyone know she'd been the infamous triple agent Parsifal wouldn't make it any easier for her; now she'd have to guard against their piqued curiosity. She'd be more likely than ever to shy away from any conversation that might segue into the risky territory of her war work. There were whole portions of her life that she could never reveal to her friends. It was no wonder she wouldn't seriously consider his courtship: after his ignorant tantrum about secrets, she probably thought there was no possibility of overcoming the chasm between them.

It was also to be expected that she'd been more restrained since Callum disappeared, more prone to periods of contemplation when her gray eyes were more shadowed than they'd been in a very long time. It was far more challenging now to engage her in the innuendo-laden interactions he'd grown to enjoy so much, and although she maintained her familiar acerbic attitude, he'd noticed that she didn't voluntarily join her housemates' activities or conversations unless specifically included by them. The strained atmosphere always hovered just below the surface.

And yet in spite of her outward withdrawal, he was convinced that she was no more willing to give up on him than he was to give up on her. Although it had ended badly when they'd run into the demon-destroyed archeologists' camp, they'd been out there because she'd agreed to go away with him for a couple days specifically to be alone together. He'd hoped to discuss some of their relationship issues when they'd gone to gather medicinal plants, but that foray had been ill-fated as well. Of course it had had its moments… but they'd been too consumed by the effects of the poison ivy to delve into serious topics. Still, it was a good sign that she was willing to spend the time with him in the face of the way circumstance seemed to constantly conspire against them. It was notable that if she hadn't cared one way or another about how he felt toward her, she wouldn't have expended the effort to exercise discretion in returning his ring.

Roxton suddenly smiled. "She doesn't want me to give up on her!" he exclaimed to himself with satisfaction. "Not really, no matter what she says or does. She went to too much trouble to give the ring back without facing me." She'd probably feared that if he vented his hurt feelings in another angry tirade, it would irreparably increase the gap between them, so she'd come up with a clever way of returning it that almost guaranteed he'd have time to think before he reacted. By slipping the ring into its usual place in his room, human nature had tilted the odds in her favor that he wouldn't notice it right away. All she'd had to do was avoid being alone with him for a while, so that she wouldn't be with him when he finally realized the ring was back on his finger. There'd be time for him to cool down before he saw her again, to think things through and see it as she'd intended. And how did she intend him to understand this gesture?

She'd polished the ring. Now he was right back where he'd started. Marguerite always had a reason for everything she did. She'd been exhausted, but she'd cared for the ring while waiting for everyone else to fall asleep before she sneaked into his room to leave it. She wouldn't have wasted her time and skill if she hadn't believed it was a precious bit of treasure. She might be able to quote the actual monetary value of the ring's mineral composition, but she was also well aware that its real significance made it priceless: she'd certainly understood that his heart had been offered along with the token.

So she'd cleaned and polished it before she returned it to him, replenishing the natural beauty that had been hidden by years of neglect and abuse as the gold ring was worn on the hand of an adventure-seeking hunter instead of the aristocrat for whom it had been intended. Why restore its beauty? Because she knew how much he valued it? Maybe she was trying to show him that she recognized the honor he'd shown her in offering it? No, that was too easy. Things were rarely that simple with Marguerite.

Was she drawing some correlation between herself and the ring? Or between their relationship and the ring? If so, then did it mean she, too, wished things could go back to the way they'd been at the high point of their relationship, before his impatience had stalled everything?

The only way he'd know was to ask her. He'd do that one of these days, maybe use the question as an opening for the serious tête-á-tête he really wanted to have with her. He'd never been one to be content with the status quo, and he'd worked too hard and wanted her too long to settle for anything less than Marguerite's whole heart. If she wanted to delay their inevitable conversation, he'd give her the same courtesy she'd shown him - he'd let her avoid it "for now", for maybe a day or two at most, but if the opportunity presented itself sooner, he'd take it.

There was no way on earth he could let this ride for very long. So much time had already passed; it'd taken almost two years to learn to read between the lines of what she did and didn't say, and to earn her trust - he'd never forget her expression when she'd realized he'd come back for her to save her from being hung at the hands of Edgar Gray. He'd made steady inroads ever since, his perseverance winning him small tidbits of bona fide information and tentative admissions of her genuine regard amidst their daily banter and flirting. He'd fallen more in love with her every day as he gleaned more about the real woman behind the sarcasm and surface greed she'd so often used to shield herself from anyone getting too close to her. She'd opened up, but she was still guarded and wary of exposing herself. If he didn't prove otherwise before long, Marguerite would think he'd accepted her rebuff and all his hard-won progress would be lost.

Well, he wouldn't let that happen. The first chance to talk to her without the others around, he'd gird up his loins and ease into the subject. She mightn't like it, but his objective was to fully air everything between them, assure her that learning of her war work had only cemented his respect and admiration for her courage and intelligence, and do whatever else it took to convince her that there was no need for her to wait for the other shoe to drop - he was never going to give up on her and walk away. She was stuck with him. Whatever else he said to her, he was definitely ready to tell her he loved her.

Whatever roadblocks she might throw in his way, by the time he was through she'd know he was the one man that would be at her side forever.

*****

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