Lost World 1. Chapter 1

_This story was originally written and posted in 2003 but vanished into the cyber-ether when the main The Lost World Story Site disappeared. I recently decided to dig out and re-vamp some of my old LW fic and repost them here. It is a sort of 'What if' - Prequel to the expedition and assumes Marguerite and Roxton did indeed meet under somewhat difficult circumstances before the fateful night at the London Royal Zoological Society. The story begins during the First World War and ends with our explorers back in the treehouse..._

_**Usual disclaimers apply - some mature language.**_

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_**Another Time, Another Place . . .**_

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_**Part One - May 1915 - The Ypres Salient**_

_**Before Midnight **_

The hands that guided him were firm but gentle as they led his faltering footsteps across the rubble. The man held onto him securely as they made their stumbling way as best they could.

"Not far now, Major." Starling's voice was brittle with false cheer. "We'll bivvy for the night in this old farmhouse. Well, what's left of it, anyhow."

Roxton nodded dumbly, his throat too clogged to speak. He doubted he could even answer. He was surrounded by a nightmare of confusion and his aching head beat like a drum. His foot turned inwards on a pile of loose bricks and the void nearly opened up and swallowed him. The weight dropped away from his body and if it hadn't been for Starling, he would have fallen.

"Steady-on, Sir," The cockney Corporal caught him and shifted his grip, taking a second to recover his bearings. "Only another fifty yards or so to go, then we can get you indoors and take a look at that head wound. The whole road's such a bloody great pothole, mebbe there'll be some others there."

"The gas - " Roxton choked on the words, his sore vocal chords constricting as he felt a rush of saliva forming in his mouth again. He tried once more. "Can't quite catch my breath…" before his throat started closing again.

The terror of it bludgeoned his senses with a terrible cacophony of pain.

* * *

_**Afternoon **_

The guns had worked their hellish will since first light had broken that morning. The men had been taut and grey with nerves as the lines rattled and shook under one of the most intense bombardments Roxton had ever known. The Old Contemptibles amongst them knew an assault like this could only herald one thing - the Germans were planning an attack. The whey-faced replacements, just shipped out from England, badgered them for information and did their best to hide any fear. Roxton sighed with unaccustomed weariness, most of them were little more than boys. Hardly a man among them more than twenty-one. _The latest batch of cannon-fodder. _

Alternating between swagger and bravado and silence and terror, they crouched in the trenches and covered their ears against the incessant roar of the guns.

Lord John Roxton had seen it all before. This part of the Ypres Salient had changed hands with regular brutality for the entire time he'd been here. He was now the oldest and only surviving field officer of the proudly optimistic regiment that had left the shores of England in the August of 1914. They had fully expected to thrash the Hun and be home again in time for Christmas Day.

He looked across at his two new Lieutenants with mild despair and more than a hint of presentiment. Each one of them was pink-cheeked and youthfully smooth-skinned; lambs to the slaughter, fresh out of Blighty. One was an Honourable, straight out of Eton, the other an Oxbridge graduate. Full of notions of honour and duty and both of them green as grass. They seemed scared and he really didn't blame them as he wondered if either man shaved yet. He had a horrible nagging feeling they would be dead by the end of the day.

There had been no new information of note from HQ, just the same old tired instructions. There was one hell of a big bombardment; _well, he could have told them that. _The orders were just as usual, so familiar he could have predicted them. He was to place his company on high alert and hold onto his section of the line. It was nothing he didn't already know. Roxton had sighed as he signed for the briefing;_ they were rather stating the obvious._ 'High alert' was the only real option out here in the hell of the Salient.

Just after four, as the early light began changing, the sentries had sounded the alarm bell, and the first clouds of greenish chlorine gas drifted over towards the British lines. The men had recently been issued with pad respirators, a piece of cotton wadding wrapped in muslin veiling. It was soaked in soda solution the minute the alarm bell sounded. Better than nothing, it bought them a modicum of time, vital minutes to escape the worst of it, but the muslin was woefully inadequate against the deadly asphyxiating gas. This along with a pair of goggles was the only protection afforded them. Roxton watched with a tight-lipped anguish and knew it wasn't enough. The chlorine settled in layers in the sunken pockets of the trenches, and many men started to splutter and drown as their lungs began filling with fluid.

It was the weather that saved them. A brisk and unlikely May wind that blew down from the English Channel and quickly dispersed the ghostly layers of poison. Too little, too late for many of them, and heralding another form of danger. They were vulnerable to an open German attack with the gradual dissipation of the gas.

The trenches were filled with the dead and choking. Roxton had lost Mortlake, his Honourable Lieutenant, within the first few minutes when the youth panicked and delayed putting his gas mask on in time. It was left to him to re-group the men, relying on his more experienced Sergeant's and grim-faced NCOs to organise the stretcher parties and clear the wounded back to the supply trenches.

He kept the surviving Lieutenant alongside him for safe-keeping, knowing full-well a German attack was imminent as he redoubled the lookouts and placed the gunners on high alert. It finally came with the pale light of dawn. Once the Germans were sure the last pockets of gas had gone, they swarmed out of their trenches over no-man's land under cover of a secondary barrage.

His own eyes were still streaming and his throat raw and swollen, but Roxton rallied his men under the onslaught, knowing full well the whole front was under similar siege and no reinforcements would be forthcoming. The situation was increasingly desperate as the gallant Canadians further down the line suffered under the same assault.

The first onrush of German troops poured over the ramparts in grey waves as the Vickers guns chattered in accompaniment to the shrieks and screams of the dying and the constant ear-splitting boom of artillery. Voice cracking with the effects of the gas, Roxton ordered his men to stand fast as the hand-to-hand combat began.

It was frantic and disjointed after that. Roxton fought for his life using the barrel of his rifle as a club. It was quicker and more efficient to crush skulls at close quarters than to waste valuable seconds thrusting in and pulling out a bayonet. A blade which caught fast in the gristly cartilage between the ribs gave your enemy time to strike back.

The graduate Lieutenant dropped like a stone, killed in seconds by a bullet in his temple. Roxton noted his death dispassionately. At least this time, he would not have to lie. For once the condolences would be true when he wrote that their son had died instantly. Not like the usual bunch of standard platitudes which he was forced to write to ease a family's pain.

A figure lurched out of the darkness and Roxton lifted his gun again. His own face was spattered with blood and worse as he caved in another man's head. _Kill or be kille_d – he felt no compunction. The war in the trenches was brutal. All his out-moded concepts of nobility had died. He was in hell. There was no honour here.

In spite of the gas and terrible odds, it seemed as though the tide was turning. The British soldiers fought with tenacity and held onto their sector of the line. Roxton heard the retreat whistles blow and watched the Germans withdrawing, harried back across the desert of no-man's land by remorseless machine gun fire.

_He barely heard the shell that struck him. _

A high pitched whine shrilled through the air and burst on the lip of the dugout. It exploded yards from where he was standing and a piece of shrapnel glanced off his head. Reaching up, his hand was sticky with blood and the pain in his skull was quite shocking. His legs slid and he felt himself falling as the mud began to shower around him. His last coherent and terrified thought was that he would be buried alive.

"_Dear God, I would rather be dead."_

* * *

They dug him out within minutes, pulling him clear of the quagmire, and then placed him onto a stretcher to be taken off down the line. He vaguely remembered being lifted, and the shouts of the men who passed him, their voices dulled by the sullen beat of his heart and the bombardment still ringing in his ears. Strangely enough, he was floating, separate and disembodied. _Shock,_ he thought vaguely, he'd seen it before. He wondered if he might die. His head throbbed like the veritable devil and the spike in his skull was relentless. The shrapnel wound was bad enough but the rasp in his lungs was worse.

_That and the fact he was blind._

At first he thought there was blood in his eyes. His hair and face ran red with it. It had soaked through the breast of his uniform jacket and tasted like salt on his lips. Only when the pain and burning beneath his eyelids reached almost unbearable proportions, did he realise his sight might be damaged. The gas cloud had been thick and choking, chances were, he could end up blind.

The bearers carried him as fast as they could but each step was bloody torture. They treated him quickly at a Dressing Station situated behind the lines. The station itself was a makeshift tent where he was assessed by a team of medics. They irrigated his swollen weeping eyes and bandaged up half of his face. Roxton drifted in and out of consciousness, surrounded by the dead and dying. He lay in a fog of agony as he waited to be moved on again.

After an interval of what seemed like hours, someone gave him a shot of morphine to ease the pain in his chest and he was stretchered out to a field ambulance for transport back to the rear. He was barely aware of their hands on him as a name tag was tied around his ankle, and they propped him up on a knapsack to help relieve the shortness of breath. There was no access to vital oxygen here, not whilst the walls shuddered under bombardment. They were surrounded by live ammunition and the whole place could go up in smoke. There was also an acute danger of being over-run by the enemy. The chance of a break-through German push was unfortunately only too real.

Roxton tried not to panic. His knuckles gleamed white as he clutched onto the sides of the stretcher and fought to control his breathing. If he made it out alive - _when he made it out alive -_ it seemed likely he'd be sent back to England. If he was lucky, he might yet spend a couple of months far away from this dystopian hell.

_If he was lucky. _

In a sudden poignant vision of his home, he saw once again, the chalk downs and rolling Wiltshire hills of his family's estate near Avebury. The memory filled him with longing and he was struck by a rush of nostalgia. Wheeling kestrels and wide-open meadows lined with hedgerows and a rush of wild-flowers, and the winding roads leading westwards towards the fabled seven hills of Bath. It was ancient and somehow timeless – the landscape steeped in Neolithic mystery, where village churches struggled for ascendancy over assertive lines of marching standing stones.

It had been six long months since he'd been there during his last brief leave back in England, and the thought that he might not see it again wrapped him in depression like a shroud. _Might not see it…_ if the gas had damaged his eyes he was condemned to a life of darkness. If the medics were unable to fix him, he might never see anything again.

_The effects of the gas would surely be temporary; he'd worn his protective goggles..._

"Here we are then, Major," a cheery cockney voice addressed him. "My name's Corporal Starling an' me an' Private Hanbury are going to shift you down the line and orf to visit some of them pretty nurses at the field 'ospital."

"Thank you, Corporal."

His words came out in a ghastly croak and Roxton barely identified the voice as his own. His vocal chords must have been damaged, he reflected, and even his own mother would be hard-pressed to recognise him now, if she should happen to come upon him.

Starling grasped his shoulder lightly and held a canteen up to his lips. "Take a sip of water, Sir. That's it, nice and steady. It'll 'elp ease your throat a little 'till the wretched swelling goes down."

The water tasted like heaven even though it was brackish and warm. Roxton sucked at it thirstily, but Starling refused to let him have too much, tucking a blanket around him instead as they carried him out of the Dressing Station and back into the darkness.

The guns still sounded terrifyingly near and he could hear the tramp of feet as they passed him. More men on their way up the line to reinforce the depleted positions. Starling and Hanbury spoke to each other in muted tones, sometimes calling out greetings to soldiers moving by as they made their way over the duckboards. A shell fell close to their position sending a shower of mud and debris around them. Roxton jerked and then groaned with pain as they took cover at the side of the trench. As they lifted him, Hanbury lost his grip and the stretcher tilted for a second. No one noticed the identification tag slide off his ankle into the mud.

At some stage soon after he lost consciousness. Waking again as they loaded him into the back of an ambulance, he was aware of the sound of voices speaking across him. He was cold and his teeth were chattering. The pain in his head was much worse. Taking his bearings, he listened hazily as Starling spoke to the driver.

"Another one for you, mate. A Major, no less. Dug 'im out of a shell crater, a dozen men dead all around 'im, lucky blighter." A pause and then, "Hold on 'alf a mo, Stan, there's no I.D tag."

Roxton felt someone's hand on his shoulder. "Can you tell me your name, Sir?"

He furrowed his brow and tried his best, but his head hurt too much to think clearly. All he could see in his mind's eye was an image of his home back in England. There was a driveway winding through open parkland and some strategically planted oak-trees. It led to a mullioned manor house with twelve sloping steps up to the entrance. The doors were vast and studded with iron, blending into the worn stone archway. Leaded windows twinkled on either side and white roses clung to the wall.

"Avebury," He muttered the word in confusion; "but that isn't… _it isn't my name."_

The ambulance driver spoke impatiently, "Come on lads, we haven't got all night. What was that he said?"

"Something like Amesbury? Now come on, Sir, beggin' your pardon, best you try and rack those brains."

_God help him, he couldn't remember his name,_ Roxton began to feel panicked. Pictures and distant memories of the old house swamped him again. There was a gracious high-ceilinged drawing-room, _he recalled it had been his favourite,_ carved wood panelling and patterned rugs from India, and sunshine stripes across a polished floor.

He was standing there dressed in army uniform and saying goodbye to someone. A beautiful sad-eyed woman with a greyhound curled up at her feet. She was dressed in dove grey satin and the lace at her throat was pinned with a cameo brooch. Her hands had been trembling as they reached for his face and pulled his head down for a kiss. Even though she was smiling, she was trying so hard to be strong.

"_Write to me often, Johnny."_

He remembered she was his mother and that she had called him John.

"John, my name is John."

"That's good, Sir," Starling spoke kindly. "Now all we need is your surname, I think it was Amesbury you said?"

Roxton tried his damnedest to stay awake, fighting hard against the darkness as the world started slipping away. "_Avebury…"_

It was his last coherent thought.

In his dreams he was taken back through the years and all the pain and terror fled away. A long ago dawn across a meadow in May with the silver dew wet all around him. He had left the house and stolen out early before his family was even stirring, urging the new hunter to a gallop as they raced through the mist-shrouded fields. It hadn't taken long to reach Silbury Hill as the night began to fade on the horizon, and then onwards, the cut turf flying, as he was drawn by the lure of the stones.

The sun had risen clear and pale like a metallic disc on the horizon. He had dismounted the edgy stallion to wander amongst the ancient megaliths. A little after that he had first seen the girl and her image was ingrained upon his memory. He'd been transfixed, ducking around behind a stone to watch her unseen and enraptured.

He fancied she looked like a faerie child with the dawn mists rising behind her. She wove her way through the stones on her bare white feet as she danced to the music in her head. For one wild heartbeat, he almost heard it too, as he was caught up in the magic of the moment. There was something unearthly about her. _Was she flesh,_ he had wondered, _or fey?_

Then the hunter had whinnied and broken the spell as she flung her head up and looked straight at him. For one brief moment, her eyes met his – wide and silver, almost otherworldly. He took a step forwards and stumbled, nearly tripping on a tussock of grass. _She laughed…_ he could have sworn she laughed at him, and he rose up determined to challenge her, but with a flash of bare feet, she was gone in a trice, her dim hair flying out like a cloud.

He had ridden back through the village in a forlorn attempt to locate her, but his search turned out to be futile, she was lost like the morning haze. For some reason, he'd been compelled to keep on looking, as though seeing her had somehow bewitched him, but she'd vanished into the break of day as though she had never been.

_Perhaps she had been faerie after all…_

**_TBC_**

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Lisa Paris - 2003.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Lost World**_

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_**Another Time, Another Place . . .**_

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_**Part Two**_

This positively couldn't be happening. Not now, when her mission was so desperate. She regarded the shattered vehicle with nothing short of dismay. _Damn the bloody ambulance, damn the stupid Boche … and chiefly damn her filthy rotten luck._

She was expected to reach Dunkirk by noon tomorrow and embark on a troop-ship to Dover. Instead, she was in big trouble and marooned in a German push. She bit her lip with frustration and regarded the stricken ambulance. Her only means of transport had been well and truly disabled, put out of action by a stray Moaning Minnie, or German _Minnenwerfer _shell. She should, she supposed, thank her lucky stars it hadn't been a direct hit. The damned thing had exploded at the side of the road and sprayed her with a hail of flying shrapnel. A piece had skewered the vehicle's bonnet and cleft right through to the engine's casing, and now the sadly listing ambulance was as dead as the proverbial dodo.

She reached into the breast pocket of her serge jacket and pulled forth a map, grey eyes narrowing as she peered through the gloom and tried to determine her position. She was stranded somewhere near the Yser canal, roughly between Ypres and St. Eloi. If she was lucky, then maybe she could hitch a lift with another ambulance on its way up to the coast. Due to the day's escalation in fighting, one was bound to pass by sooner or later.

The roar of the guns sounded closer now. Sighing, she looked out across the desolate landscape with a shudder and supposed it could have been worse. To her right were the abandoned ruins of a small settlement. Once a farmhouse and a couple of labourer's cottages, the shell-ridden walls were now scarred and pock-marked by a previous onslaught of artillery. Some of the barn roof was still intact so at least she would have some basic shelter. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but a girl in her position might do worse. When she got back across the Channel, she was due some serious pampering. A few nights of unadulterated luxury, and by god, she meant to have them.

_Clean clothes, top quality bed sheets, and an honest to goodness hot bath… _

As for tonight_,_ she pulled a face… tonight it looked like she was stuck here in the tumbledown ruins with some coarse blankets salvaged from the ambulance. A cold earthy floor and a draughty barn – perhaps some hay bales if she was lucky.

"Are you all right there, Sister?"

She cursed under her breath at her negligence. She hadn't heard anyone approaching. She couldn't afford to take chances with the vital information she'd compiled. Her hand reached automatically for her revolver but it was a bedraggled British Sergeant who confronted her. His uniform was blackened by cordite and filthy with dried-in mud.

The man leant heavily on a makeshift crutch, and in-spite of his own apparent injury, appeared to be guiding another man with a heavily bandaged shoulder. She relaxed and left the gun where it was. There was no need for self-defence this time. These men were Allied walking wounded on their way back down the lines.

Nodding ruefully, she gestured across at the useless vehicle. "A Moaning Minnie - the engine's had it."

The Sergeant made a sympathetic face. "There's a few of us taken shelter in those buildings over there. Mostly wounded, but a couple of ambulance drivers who lost their own wagon back along the road. We'd be glad of an extra pair of hands, Ma'am."

She managed to hide her grimace in time. Things just kept getting better and better. Her chance of grabbing a few welcome – albeit uncomfortable - hours of sleep had almost certainly gone up in smoke. Instead she could now look forward to a long and decidedly difficult night spent ministering to the unwashed British wounded. It served her right for wearing the _QAIMNS _uniform again, however useful it might be. The famous grey serge was a like a talisman and afforded her a great degree of freedom, an almost certain guarantee of access along the length of the Allied lines. The men treated the army nurses with reverence and a huge degree of respect.

Considering the options, she nodded her head. _What the hell, it was only one night. _Besides, there was a better chance of picking up a ride to the coast if she threw in her lot with these men. There was also safety in numbers if they should come under German attack.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You look as though you could do with a hand yourself. I hear it was bad today?"

She reached inside the wagon for her kitbag and followed the injured Tommies over the rubble. They were clearly from the same infantry regiment, both of them cheerful West-Countrymen with a broad rural burr to their speech. The accent brought back a slew of memories and she was surprised to feel a slight pang of nostalgia. It had been a long time since she'd thought of those far-away days or that particular time during her childhood. She recalled the rolling slopes of Wiltshire and the heat-haze on the chalk-downs in summer, and most especially the patchwork of meadows that lay around Avebury and Marlborough.

_She had been left to her own devices, and for a while, had been almost happy there. It was so ancient and full of mystery. What a lifetime ago it seemed…_

The Sergeant shook a weary head. "Proper nightmare it was, Sister. The blasted… begging your pardon, Ma'am," he cleared his throat apologetically. "The Boche fired another round of gas at us. Proper choking, a real pea-souper. Twas chlorine, or so they tell me, like great green clouds of fog. We was quite lucky in our section and it drifted out over no-man's-land, but the Frenchies nearby copped it good and hard, and some of ours down the line, so I heard."

She closed her eyes briefly. She had warned Command this was imminent and they had assured her the troops would be issued with protective equipment in good time. In _'good time'_ had not been time enough. She knew the toll of dead and disabled would probably be horrendous.

"Were you gassed, Sergeant - I'm sorry, your name is?"

He shook his head dismissively, "Billings, Ma'am. Like I said, we was lucky. The wind was pretty brisk at our end of the line and it blew the bloody… beg pardon, stuff, further down. Makes your eyes sting something fierce though."

They had reached the doorway of the battered building and she slipped her shoulder under the arm of the other wounded man and followed them into the gloom.

"Who goes there?"

"Keep your hair on, mate. It's me, _Alf. _Got another one here and ran into a bit of luck as well. A _Q.A_ - her ambulance was hit by a Minnie."

Another soldier stepped out of the shadows and saluted her with a grimy smile. "Evening Ma'am. It's a proper sight for sore eyes you are. Everyone's down in the grain cellar. There's a couple that look pretty bad."

She felt her way down the narrow stone steps. The smell of grain and malt was so damned strong that the whole place stank like a brewery. _That was the trouble with Belgians;_ she wrinkled her nose at the thought of it. Unlike their next-door neighbours, the French, they preferred drinking beer to wine. So much so, it was becoming hard to get hold of a bottle of the good stuff. Anything decent had already been looted in this bloody part of the Salient.

The cellar was lit by some kerosene lamps and she counted ten or so wounded. There was a male ambulance driver hard at work and an RAMC stretcher bearer assisting him. Most of the men seemed conscious and alert. The _RAMC_ Corporal spotted her uniform and his eyes brightened at once.

"Good evening Ma'am, it's nice to see you. I'm Corporal Starling and this here's Private Brady, _RAMC_. Our ambulance lost a wheel in a shell-hole a while back down the road."

Nodding briskly, she unshouldered her heavy kitbag and opened the clasps, before taking stock of her equipment. She might as well get this over with and perhaps she could get some sleep.

"Sister King," her introduction was perfunctory. "I've come from the hospital at Poperinghe and was on my way up to Dunkirk. Now, where shall we get started?"

She didn't care if they thought she was aloof. There was too much at stake to risk familiarity, but she was still human enough to feel a grain of regret as a veil dropped down across the friendly cockney's face.

"Yes, Ma'am." He was instantly formal, showing her over to the corner of the cellar where two men lay prone on the floor. "Private Macey… took a bullet to the right lung and lost a lot of blood. His breathing's very poor as you can hear." He met her gaze honestly with an infinitesimal shake of his head. "I'd really like to give 'im a dose of morphine, but it'll make his breathing much worse."

The truth lay unspoken between them and she knew what was being asked of her. The morphine would help to control his pain whilst suppressing his tortured breathing. The opiate was a respiratory depressant and would hasten a premature death. Her stomach clenched but she didn't hesitate, getting down on her knees beside the stretcher. She smiled kindly at the soldier who opened his eyes when she placed a tender hand upon his brow.

"Hello there, soldier, no need to worry. I'm just going to take a quick look at your wound. Starling - " she nodded across to the waiting corporal. "I'll require some help raising him up."

Starling held the Private forward as she eased the khaki jacket aside and lifted the blood-soaked pad. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth when she saw the extent of his injury. It was a flapping, flail chest wound, the white gleam of ribs clearly visible. The lower lobe of the right lung was shredded and Private Macey would not last the night. In fact, it was truly a miracle he had hung on up until now.

Replacing the dressing gently, she reached across for her kitbag, as Starling settled the whey-faced Private back against the pile of blankets. It took seconds to snap the neck of the glass ampoule and draw the morphine into the syringe. Her hand shook slightly as she laid it to one side and carefully rolled up Macey's sleeve.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain." She met Starling's sombre gaze across the top of the boy's head and jabbed the needle expertly under the skin. "There we are now, just relax and let it work. We'll soon have you feeling better. Let me get you another blanket. We have to make sure you're warm enough."

She drew the blanket high up to his chin, looking into his face for the first time and seeing he was no more than eighteen. Somewhere over in England, his mother was probably praying, perhaps a sad-eyed sweetheart was crying…

She forced herself to push such thoughts aside. There would be many other Private Macey's before this bloody war was over, but the vital knowledge she had in her head might save a few thousand more lives. She smiled down at him gently and brushed the fair hair off his brow.

"Sweet dreams, laddie. Close your eyes and go to sleep."

Bracing herself, she turned to the second man, slightly surprised to see the officer's brevets on his sleeves and epaulets. A genuine full-blown Major no less, out here slumming it in the mud and squalor. It was unusual to see anyone of such high rank and insignia without the red tabs to indicate he was a Staff Officer. She raised a quick eyebrow at Starling and he gave a corroboratory nod.

"Nasty shrapnel wound to the skull. They dug 'im out of a shell crater. According to the medic at the Field Centre, he's been in and out of consciousness ever since. Took a good dose of gas an' all. Possible lung damage, blindness…" the rest of his words trailed miserably off, leaving the remainder unsaid.

Right now, the Major was restive, but unconscious and non-responsive. There was a blood-soaked wad of bandage obscuring his head and eyes. She reached automatically for his ankle tag and then noticed it wasn't there.

"What's his name?"

"We're not quite sure, Ma'am. The ankle tag got lost on the way down the line and he's having some trouble remembering. We think his name might be Avebury - Major John Avebury – but there's no letters or personal effects."

"Major John Avebury," her words faltered, a cold frisson of shock running like ice down her spine.

_Avebury._

How strange it was to hear the name. Coincidence, or more perhaps, that she should hear it now. She hadn't thought about Wiltshire for years until tonight but now the bloody place had come back to haunt her. First the soft West-Country accents of the soldiers and now this Major's uncanny name.

"No Identity disc?"

"There was nothing left of one, and his jacket's been pretty much shredded. No proper means of identification, just a broken leather cord around his neck."

She took a closer look at him and tried to ignore the odd sense of destiny prickling along her spine. Shivering, she wiped a hand across her forehead. _Of all the times for her unwanted gift to surface…_ she had no time for such rank self-indulgence and intuition was unwanted here. He was a big man, that much was certain, broad-shouldered and well-proportioned. His long legs seemed to sprawl on forever in their mud-caked, hand-tooled leather boots. She reached down and pulled his blanket up higher but it still didn't cover the length of him. He had the height and build of a rugger player, at the very least, six foot two.

Starling had him propped up on several rucksacks but the worrying effects of chlorine gas were evident. His lungs hitched with each inspiration and the breath caught and rasped in his throat.

"Damn it, he needs some oxygen." The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and Starling looked up, startled at her unladylike blasphemy. She met his eyes wryly and gave a small smile, "Shocked, Corporal? I'm sorry, I suppose it must be the surroundings."

He grinned back at her lop-sidedly, "I never 'eard a word, Ma'am, and I 'appen to agree. The Major needs some decent air in 'is lungs, and the sooner the blasted better."

"I've got some atropine in my bag. It should help to diminish his bronchial spasm and dry up the secretions."

She administered it quickly. The dose had been for her private use in the eventuality of exposure to chlorine gas, but the large Major's need was obvious and immediate if he hoped to avoid a bronchial pneumonia. She took his pulse and felt more optimistic. It was fast but surprisingly strong. With any luck, death would only claim one victim down in the cellar tonight.

What little she could see of his face was flushed. Almost black with gunpowder and blood. "What about his eyes?" She was loathe to remove the bandages, knowing that her own facilities to treat the inevitable conjunctivitis were non-existent.

Starling helped her ease the man back down on his makeshift pillows. "The Field Surgeon irrigated them at the Dressing Post, Ma'am. Best leave 'em covered for now."

She let her hand linger briefly against the Major's cheek. It was lean and dark with stubble, the facial bones well-defined and strong.

"Most definitely an obstinate man," she murmured. "You can tell by the set of his jaw."

* * *

Private Macey died just before midnight without regaining consciousness. The large dose of morphine had done its job and carried him off beyond the veil. Starling and Brady lifted him across to a darkened corner of the cellar and covered his body with malt sacks. Blankets were a precious commodity and could be utilised for those still alive.

Other than Major Avebury, the rest of the wounded were stable. Most were suffering disabling but relatively minor limb injuries apart from one other man who'd been gassed.

With any luck, she thought sardonically, she would be able to get some sleep. She picked up one of the dead man's blankets and huddled down in the corner next to the Major's stretcher. His breathing seemed easier and not quite so laboured. Perhaps the atropine had done a little good after all.

She was dozing in minutes, although one hand remained curved comfortingly around the smooth wooden handle of the pistol concealed within her skirts. Her dreams were bizarre and badly disturbed - a nightmare of twisted images. There were painful memories from her childhood interspersed with her more deadly present. The continuous knife edge she balanced along must be taking its toll on her nerves.

_The sun was rising bright like a blade and casting eerie shadows through the standing stones. She was dancing barefoot on dewy grass, spinning round to the music in her head. The mist hung in bands across the sward like tendrils of ghostly fog. She sensed him walking towards her, just as she always did. _

_He was an indistinct figure, tall and upright, and proud of posture and bearing. At any other time, he might be menacing, but in him, she knew she was safe._

_She was home. _

_As he drew closer, the mist began parting until she could almost see his face. She stepped forwards, stretching out yearningly as she tried to reach the safety of his arms._

The scenery changed dramatically and the shadows rose all around her. She was trapped in a dim twisted landscape and a _Minnenwerfer_ went screaming overhead. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she swerved to the side of the road. It exploded in a hail of rubble close by and showered her with mud and debris. A jagged piece of shrapnel wrought like a double-headed snake was embedded in the bonnet of the ambulance.

The man was gone and this was reality. The world around her was shattered and ugly. She was back on the shell-damaged road to Ypres, all alone and marooned in the dark.

"_Will_…William…"

She jerked up out of her dreams. The Major was rambling, either delirious or talking in his sleep. She moved stiffly, clutching the blanket round her shoulders as she placed her hand on his cheek.

"Shh - it's all right. Just relax, Major Avebury. You're quite safe now."

He reached up and grasped her wrist with surprising strength. "Who are you?"

His poor voice was barely a croak, strangled and raspy with pain. She grimaced at the sound of it and gently pried his fingers from her arm.

"Save your breath, Major," she shook her head. "I'm just another stranded traveller. Here," she held her flask of water up to his lips. "Drink it slowly; it'll ease your throat."

She supported his head gently whilst he swallowed, her touch feather-light so as not to place much pressure on his wound. His hair, she noticed, was soft and dark where it curled into the nape of his neck, and despite the fact it was the regulation two inches above his collar, she had a sudden impression of unruliness, of what it might look like if it were longer. At the moment it was stiff, caked with dried mud and blood, but her fingers still wanted to linger.

"Thank you," he paused in some confusion. "Am I in a hospital, I thought the ambulance got stuck?"

"It did and you're not," She eased him back on the knapsack. "We've taken shelter off the road between St Eloi and Ypres. Don't worry, they'll come and get you tomorrow. You'll be going home before you know it."

He was quiet for a moment, digesting her words. "And you? I thought when I heard a woman's voice…"

She smiled with wry understanding. "No, I had the bad luck to get stuck too. I was on my way up to Dunkirk for supplies but my ambulance got struck by a stray Minnie."

His shaky hand moved up to touch the swathe of grubby bandages around his head. "There was a shell - I was hit. The mud buried me."

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly, "Corporal Starling says you were fortunate. They pulled you out almost at once."

It was impossible not to miss the shudder that ran through him at the thought of being buried alive. It was a common enough phobia out here in these execrable conditions, occurring as it did all too often in the muddy trenches and shell holes. She guessed he had seen it happen more than once.

"Fortunate," he turned away, jaw tense and rigid with pain. "I must have been _fortunate,_ indeed."

Her gut caved unexpectedly and she reached for his big square hand. It was an out of character attempt to comfort him. She thrust away the need to analyse it and sought to find the right words.

"The blindness is probably temporary. Once they get you to a hospital, they can irrigate your eyes and then I'm sure you'll be fine."

He squeezed her fingers with gratitude and she sensed he was glad of her touch. "Thank you… I'm sorry, how remiss of me. I should have asked for your name?"

She gave him the name on the papers she carried. Not her own, it was just one of many. A false name used for ease and expediency and to accompany this particular disguise. It couldn't do any harm, she reasoned. It was unlikely she'd ever come across him again.

"It's Sister King. Monique King."

"A _QA_?" He rasped croakily, shapely lips curving into a boyish smile. "How very fortunate indeed."

The clumsy attempt at gallantry amused her and she knew she'd caught a glimpse of the man beneath the khaki. Clearly a charmer, she thought to herself, if he could flirt when so hurt and afraid.

She pulled her fingers coolly away. "Don't push that good fortune too far, Major Avebury."

_**TBC**_

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2003**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_The_**_** Lost W**_**_orld_**

* * *

_**Another Time, Another Place...**_

* * *

_**Part Three**_

He awoke in a panic an hour or so later. He was drowning, suffocating in darkness. He'd managed to slip down off the rucksacks and his damaged breathing was worse. There was a dull ache wrapped around his chest which hitched when his ribcage expanded. Each inspiration was a strident whistle as he forced air down into his lungs. He lay still for a moment, too exhausted to move, and tried to re-group some awareness, but the darkness seemed dense and all-encompassing and his impressions were jumbled and confused.

He was in a cellar, he remembered, or so the _QA _Sister had told him, however everything was horribly hazy and his head still pounded with pain. His head… _god, it hurt like bloody hell._ He raised a shaky hand to touch the bandages. The sister had called him Avebury, but he was certain that wasn't his name. He frowned hard and tried to focus but the attempt made him feel sick and dizzy. The sudden urge to retch was unpleasant and he compressed his lips until it was over. Panting softly, he waited for a second or two and didn't make the same mistake again.

It would start coming back to him eventually, he supposed, he'd be a rum sort of wreck if it didn't. The alternative was truly abysmal and didn't bear thinking about. A shell of a man with no memory – a blind man who didn't even know his name.

Holding onto his chest, he laboured for breath and struggled upright with a grunt of discomfort.

"Bloody hell."

The muffled expletive came naturally and was expelled before he could control it. He was dismayed and truth be told a little frightened at how very unwell he felt.

Somewhere to the left of him, he heard a softly amused chuckle. "Easy, Major, you need to take things slowly, although I totally agree with the sentiment. Things are undoubtedly bloody, and we are most definitely in hell."

She helped him up the rest of the way and settled him against the pile of rucksacks. He tried to assist her as much as he could, but his limbs were pathetically weak. It was the giddiness which scared him the most, washing through him with relentless waves of vertigo. He swallowed hard, trying to stave off the nausea which surged in time with the fire in his head.

"Thank you, Sister."

He reached automatically for her hand and after a few seconds hesitation, she gave it, waiting as his long sinewy fingers wrapped tightly round her own. She was freezing cold, her skin like ice. Now she was closer, he could hear her teeth chattering. In contrast, he felt uncomfortably warm. The result of a fever, he presumed.

"You're frozen, Miss King. Won't you take my blanket?"

"Oh no," her free hand was soft against his cheek. "You need it far more than I do. Don't be fooled by this fever, it's important that you keep warm."

He smiled, unable to help himself, beguiled by her voice and her touch, and perhaps he was rambling just a little, or at least that was his excuse. "We could always share some body heat, Sister."

She stiffened, and he cursed inwardly, berating himself for his foolishness. _Trust him and his unruly tongue._ He should have kept his big mouth shut. Without question, he had offended her, there were still some rules left in society. His basic conduct appeared to have deserted him. He'd been out here in hell for too long. Sister King had been nothing but kind to him and did not deserve such a lack of propriety. She was doubtless from some genteel family and more used to well-mannered men.

"Forgive me," the words died as soon as he'd uttered them and to his total surprise, he felt her huddle as close as decorum would allow, without it seeming amiss. After the first sense of astonishment faded, he was seized by a hint of mischief and unable to stop himself. "Well, I must say, this is unexpected but nice. If only I wasn't so helpless."

"The fever must have made you delirious, Major," her voice purred sardonically in his ear. It was knowing and filled with rich humour, intriguing him even more.

He revised his initial opinion and a sense of frustration suffused him. In-spite of the cultured accent, this was no _milk and water_ Miss. He was absolutely certain she was beautiful and wished he could see to confirm it. She wasn't shocked and the thought intrigued him. _Was she dark,_ he wondered, _or fair?_

Brunette, he hazarded a wild guess, and as delicate and fine boned as porcelain, if her hands and arms were anything to go by. Her skin was as soft and smooth as satin. With an undertone of fire and steel.

He shifted slightly so that more of his blanket fell across her, resting his aching head back against the cool brick wall of the cellar as he rifled through his meagre stash of memories. It was like trying to grasp hold of a shadow or a ghostly will-o-the-wisp. There were green fields and nestling hamlets, the long lost images of Avebury. Silbury Hill rising up like a sentinel and tall weathered standing stones.

Other pictures began to assault him and he tried his best to hold onto them. There was one image in particular which caused a sudden sharp pain in his heart. Two young boys wrestling like puppies, with a fierce sense of rivalry between them, and then tearing across meadows on horseback in a mad race to get home first…

His gut wrenched as he saw the boy again, a man this time, at least ten years older. Lips flecked with red as he choked on the blood from a gaping wound in his chest. It felt like a blow and he recoiled in shock, jerking upwards as his head started pounding. It was his brother, he knew that now, and he was filled with a sense of horror. Something unthinkable had happened, something dreadful that was utterly his fault.

Monique King stirred beside him, "Are you all right?"

Her question was sharp and edged with concern as he gripped her hand tighter in the darkness. It was becoming a habit, he noted, but it was such a nice little hand. "Yes… no… _I don't know._ I just remembered something," his voice faltered roughly and started to fail. "Something I had far rather forget."

"We all have _those_ kinds of memories," to his surprise, her tone was brittle with cynicism. "Some of us more than others."

He was silent, not trusting himself to speak. She had sounded so bruised, so utterly exposed for a second. He felt a sudden surge of sympathy; _perhaps she had lost someone too? _Hell, there was hardly a woman or family in Britain that hadn't sent their men off to war. He couldn't help squeezing her fingers gently, but the gesture caused her to snatch her hand away and he knew he had presumed too much.

"I'm sorry, Sister," he touched his bandaged head shakily. "It's just such a struggle to remember anything. It hurts like the veritable devil."

"It's probably only temporary," she still sounded a trifle unsteady. "The amnesia usually starts to fade when the bruising on the brain goes down."

"I hope so," he couldn't help being flippant. "It would be quite nice to know my real name."

_"Shh_," he felt her tense and straighten beside him as quiet footsteps approached their corner. "What is it, Billings?"

"Begging your pardon, Major, Ma'am - but there's someone poking about outside. I sent Brady out fifteen minutes ago for a quick recce but he hasn't come back."

"Douse the lamps," ordered Roxton sharply, "and post two able-bodied men by the door. This damned stretch of the Salient's changed hands so many times, who's to say it isn't the Boche."

"Right-o, Sir. What shall I do about Brady?"

"Let's not fear the worst yet, Sergeant, he could just be taking his time. We'll give it another fifteen minutes before sending someone out after him."

Billings moved away and Roxton reached out blindly, his hand closing on Monique King's grey serge shoulder. "Am I still wearing my revolver, Sister?"

He felt her nod in the affirmative, her nimble fingers moving down his body to unfasten the clip of his brown leather holster.

"Here," she placed it circumspectly into his palm. "Careful, it's fully loaded."

"I should jolly well hope so," he replied with a tinge of dry humour. "A fat lot of good if it wasn't." He pushed it back at her. "But I'm not the one who should carry it; I can't see a bloody thing. You take it - _just in case,_ of course. The fact you knew it was loaded tells me you can probably use it."

"Oh, I can use it all right."

He heard the answering smile in her tone and allowed himself a moment's indulgence. She was pluck to the backbone, this one. No miss-ish vapours for her. Again, he longed with all his soul to see her. To look just the once at her face.

"Then take it," now was not the time to be whimsical. He had a deep feeling they were in danger. He inclined his head in spite of the pain as she accepted the custom built Webley from him. "If things take a real turn for the worse, promise me you will, if you have to."

Her fingertips quivered for a second and then he thought he might have imagined it. The implication lay unspoken between them, but he knew she understood what he meant. There had been rumours, and worse, of vile incidents involving Belgian women taken by the Germans, and evidence of revenge and reprisals unsparing of innocent lives. Roxton took an unsteady breath; the thought of her in the hands of a blood-thirsty bunch of Huns was a damned sight more than he could bear.

Some of the stories were most likely half-truths. He was no fool and knew the power of propaganda. There were good and bad soldiers on both sides who might have done things which filled them with shame. _Not her though… he was not prepared to chance it._ He knew men and what battle could do to them. It could destroy any semblance of decency and strip it right down to the bone.

"Don't worry about me, Avebury," her voice had grown soft again. "You ought to be more concerned about yourself. It's not everyday a nice ripe Major falls into German hands. You'd be considered quite a prize."

He smiled laconically in the darkness. "A Major who can barely remember his own name. Not _that _much of a prize, Monique."

Her given name left his lips before he could help it and gave him a jolt of surprise. _What was it about this woman that made him feel he could be so forward?_ A woman whom he'd known for such a short space of time, and whose face he couldn't even see?

He could tell by her voice she was beautiful and trace it in the porcelain bone structure, but it was more, so _much _more than that, a certain something logic couldn't explain. He even liked the hint of acid on her tongue. There was, he sensed a real strength about her. It emanated from her like an aura. In the confidence and intelligence she so clearly possessed and the sure but gentle tenderness of touch.

This time she didn't pull away or pick him up on the familiarity. She patted him once on the shoulder before getting to her feet and moving across the cellar to check on the other wounded men. He tried to follow the sound of her footsteps, his ears straining to catch the soft tone of her voice as she spoke with Sergeant Billings. As she drifted out of hearing range, the loss made him feel suddenly bereft.

* * *

Damnation, what was wrong with her, cosying up to the chivalrous Major? She was falling for his valiant gallantry like a silly starry-eye girl. She had no time for this foolishness. No time for such blatant self-indulgence. She needed to make Dunkirk by high-tide tomorrow and get back to Whitehall with the ciphers. There was too much resting on her narrow shoulders to risk any dangerous entanglements. Too many intricate details she couldn't afford to mess up.

She looked down at the Webley with a lump in her throat. It suddenly felt infinitely precious. Custom made, with a smooth pearl handle, it really was quite a gun. She hadn't been able to refuse, of course, although his need was probably far greater. Her mouth twisted somewhat wryly. There was no prospect of being honest with him even though every instinct had wanted to. She had a perfectly serviceable revolver tucked away in her skirts… not exactly standard issue for your average nursing sister.

She looked back over at Avebury and frowned. In-spite of the absurdity of her current situation, it wasn't remotely amusing. His medical condition was serious, and she really hadn't been joking when she'd said the Germans would consider him a prize. He was sick and that made him vulnerable and ill-equipped to deal with rough handling. If he was captured and subsequently interrogated, then the chances were he wouldn't survive.

She didn't know why it should matter, but it did, and somehow that bothered her. There was something about this long-legged Major with the raspy voice and obstinate jaw line. It wasn't just his innate sense of gallantry or the slight hint of suggestive humour she appreciated. Not even the wide set of his shoulders or soft hair at the nape of his neck. No, it was all far less tangible than that, a certain impulse which woke an echo inside her.

_Just like her dream,_ she remembered uncomfortably, _of the nebulous man in the mist._

"Ma'am," It was Billings, anxious in the darkness. "There's still no sign of Private Brady."

Something was wrong, she really didn't like this. All her nerve-endings prickled with menace. She was possessed with a strange feeling of destiny and a very real sense of threat. Every impulse told her there was trouble afoot and she knew from past experience her instincts were like an antenna. She'd trusted her very life to them many more times than she could recall. All the junctures she'd avoided danger, merely acting on a gleam of intuition. There had been moments when she'd risked everything and invariably been proven right.

There was someone moving about in the ruins above them. She strained her ears as hard as she could. Definitely more than one pair of footsteps, clumping over the malt house floor.

Billings shifted uneasily, "Best get back to the Major, Ma'am, and stand away from the door."

"Will you surrender, Sergeant?" Her voice was remarkably calm.

He shrugged unhappily beside her, "We don't have any choice. Just a couple of guns between us and a dozen wounded men. It'd be suicide to put up a fight."

She closed her eyes briefly in relief. "I think that's the right decision. It might not be of much comfort now, but it's a fight we wouldn't win."

She made her way back to the Major and sat down beside him on the floor. Immediately, he reached for her hand, finding it and holding on unerringly in spite of his blindness. She clasped his fingers in the darkness without so much as a thought, drawing a grain of comfort from his touch as her mind raced feverishly with plans.

**_TBC_**

* * *

Lisa Paris - 2003.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Lost World**_

* * *

_**Another Time, Another Place . . .**_

* * *

_**Part Four**_

It didn't take long for the men above to find the entrance to the cellar. Her body tensed at the sound of the first footsteps on the stairs and when the cry of discovery went up, she knew their worst fears had been recognised. Judging by the guttural accents they were undoubtedly a patrol of German soldiers. Avebury began to struggle beside her but she turned and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders.

"No, John, you'll only hurt yourself. Please stay still. This won't help us now."

"Monique," His strained voice was barely a whisper. "There's so much I want to ask you - "

She put a finger over his lips and found it was shaking slightly. "I know, me too. But just not on this occasion. Maybe in another time, another place."

Gripping her wrist tightly, his sinewy strength surged through both their bodies. "Whatever happens, you must stay safe. I give you my word, I'll find you. _Promise me,_ you have to promise me? Whatever happens, I'll come."

Her eyes shone, glistening and gauzy with tears, and she was really relieved he couldn't see them. She had only known him a few meagre hours, but she'd been waiting a lifetime to meet him. How symbolic and cruel it should be here and now, on the floor of an abandoned Belgian malt cellar. At a time when she could do nothing at all but watch helplessly as he was taken from her.

Responsibility bore heavily upon her and the burden was suddenly crushing. The last few years had been both dangerous and exhilarating, but she had paid a heavy personal price. Sometimes she would wake in the middle of the night to a momentary sense of fear and panic, terrified she might have spoken out loud and given the game away. Other times, in the darkness, heart thumping, she would struggle to recall who she was.

There was no possibility of quitting and the war showed no signs of ending. Her cover was deeply embedded and the intelligence she gathered was crucial. Her position was unique and highly valuable and afforded her a great deal of freedom. She moved easily in powerful circles and had gained access to the secrets they concealed. She sighed and then shook her head ruefully. For the moment, her work was too vital. In effect, she was trapped in a precarious world and condemned by her very success. To walk away would be out of the question, even if given the choice.

The Boche were bashing the door down, their gun-butts smashing through the wooden panels. Avebury barked a quick order to Billings, his poor voice hoarse and strained as he ordered the limping Sergeant to stand-down and re-light the lamps.

There was no point panicking the advancing Germans. The sparse lamplight would reveal just how helpless they were, a small defenceless party of wounded. With any luck, it might save their lives.

The door caved-in with a final crash and the first men poured into the cellar in a tidal wave of greenish-grey German field uniforms. They spread out along the bottom of the stairwell, their _Mauser_ rifles cocked and ready to fire. For a split second, she thought they would be slaughtered. The enemy seemed edgy and hare-triggered. The soldier on point had his gun raised, a fanatical gleam in his eye.

She sat up a little straighter and tightened her grip on the major, careful not to move too suddenly as she raised her hands into the air. _"Schieben sie nicht! Wir ergeben uns - diese manner sind verletzt!" _

It might have been her words that saved them or the sound of someone speaking in German, but the first few soldiers seemed to pause and stand down upon hearing a woman's voice. As she waited and held her breath, there was a moment of frozen silence, and then the air of tension eased very slightly and the immediate danger was gone.

The Germans spread out around the cellar and after a quick corroboratory nod at Starling, Billings laid his gun down on the ground and placed his hands over his head.

She watched the doorway intently and waited to see who was in charge, acutely aware of their eyes on her, some admiring, others weighing her up with less respect. What she wanted was a proper officer. Someone with some real authority. An _Oberleutnant _at the very least, but a Captain would be even better. A Field Officer wouldn't be high-ranking enough and delay might be fatal to her plans. Exhaling slightly, she felt a burst of intense relief as a hard-faced Captain stepped forward, his men quickly motioning the British aside so he could stand in the centre of the room.

"Who's in charge here?"

Though heavily accented, his English was faultless. _Not so good,_ she frowned slightly. It would have suited her plans far better had he not spoken English at all. She felt Avebury move beside her and leaned protectively nearer to him.

"Major John… Avebury,_ Hauptmann_." He stumbled over the temporary surname, his voice still cracked and raw. "I'm the senior officer here."

The _Hauptmann_ lifted a lantern and swung it across to the corner, a fleeting expression of surprise on his face as he saw them both properly for the first time. He strode closer and stared down at them. She watched him carefully as he ran his eyes boldly over her and then switched his inspection to the injured Major.

"We are a party of wounded - stranded," said Avebury as distinctly as he could. "A nurse and two members of the Royal Medical Corps. Under the rules of the Geneva Convention, we are entitled to proper care."

The _Hauptmann's_ lips thinned slightly. "And contrary to most British propaganda, you have my complete assurance you'll receive it. Your men will be transferred to a hospital facility, and you, Major Avebury, will be escorted with all haste to our Military Headquarters."

Avebury struggled up a little higher. "What of Sister King? I need your _personal_ assurance she will be treated with every respect and accordance for her safety and well-being."

The German officer flicked his gaze back over to her. She met his regard unflinchingly and offered him Avebury's Webley. "Do I surrender this, Captain?

It was an ironic question and she had the briefest satisfaction of seeing the man flush. He accepted the revolver formally and gave her a small clipped bow.

"_Hauptmann _Von Ruhl at your service, _Fraulein_ King. You need have no fear, I give you my word you will not be harmed in any way."

"That's reassuring to hear," she favoured him with a nod of her head. "But Major Avebury requires medical attention just as much as the other wounded. He has a probable skull fracture and is suffering from the effects of gas."

Von Ruhl reacted just as she'd known he would. The capture of an actual Major was a huge coup. It could mean a potential promotion for him. He wasn't about to forego the glory of escorting Avebury back to German HQ personally.

"I regret that the Major will need to be questioned first. He will, of course, be given all possible care."

"But not taken to a hospital," she countered angrily. "Can't you see how sick he is?"

"It's all right, Sister," murmured Avebury, _sotto voce_, beside her. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. _Unless they find out I'm using a false name._" He turned his bandaged face towards Von Ruhl. "What happens now?"

Von Ruhl began issuing commands to his men before deigning to answer the question. He looked down at his high-ranking prisoner without any outward expression. "For now, we will wait until morning, and after that, I will personally supervise your transferral. I suggest you should try to get some sleep. There are five hours left until dawn."

* * *

"There you go, soldier, that should be easier,"

Pushing her hair back, she looked down at her handiwork before tying off the tails of the lint bandage. The man's arm was badly broken and she'd been readjusting his splint. In-spite of the _Hauptmann's_ instruction, sleep had proved an impossible order, and she was edgy and filled with uneasiness at the new mess she found herself in.

Moving quietly around the cellar, she helped Starling change some more dressings, her hands moving automatically as her agile mind roved back and forth. No one had mentioned Brady and no gunshots had been fired in the darkness. With any luck the soldier had managed to slip away into the night, and might, even now, be on his way back with some help. It was a slender chance and couldn't be counted on. He was probably stiff and dead amongst the rubble. Her choices had been narrowed down to zero. Time was against her and she needed to escape.

She straightened up and pressed a weary hand to her forehead. Von Ruhl watched her from across the cellar and she noticed the gleam of admiration in his eye.

'_Good,'_ she thought, calculatingly. It would make what she was about to do an awful lot easier if the man was attracted to her. Her mouth curling sardonically, she picked up her medical bag and made her way across the legs of sleeping men until she reached the German officer's side.

"_Hauptmann _Von Ruhl - I should like to talk to you in private."

His face creased in surprise before he began to shake his head in denial. "It is not possible - "

"Please," she parried quickly. "It's of the utmost urgency."

She turned on her heel before he could refuse her and headed across to an empty alcove at the back of the cellar. It was a gamble and she knew it, but she heard his footsteps behind her and surmised it had paid off.

"What is it you wish to say, _Fraulein_? If you are going to ask about the Major again, I regret that…"

She turned quickly, her face a pale glimmer in the gloom. "Listen to me carefully, Von Ruhl," her German was patrician and faultless. "I'm going to give you a codename and I want you_ personally_ to verify it with your HQ. No one else... I repeat, _no one else_ _here_ must know. Not your Field Wireless Operator, nor any of your men, and certainly none of the British. You need to carry out this order immediately. It's imperative we waste no more time."

His eyes narrowed and he stared at her in silence for a moment. "And why should I do this, _Fraulein_ King?"

She smiled back at him coldly. "Because _if_ you don't - when I give High Command your name, you'll be digging latrines for the rest of the war, and that's only if you're very lucky. Or perhaps you'd prefer the Russian front? I hear it's charming at this time of year. _Now -_ " she paused for effect to let her threats sink in. "I suggest you do as I say. When you've confirmed the name I give you is valid, then ask to speak to me about transporting the wounded. This conversation between us never happened. Do I make myself clear?"

He continued to stare assessingly at her, forehead creased with a furrow of anger, but something in the way she had challenged him must have sown a seed of doubt. He gave her a small ironic bow and clicked his heels together smartly.

"I'll do as you request, but I warn you it may take some time."

"Then stop wasting what little we have left," she snapped curtly and leant forward to whisper the codename. She got him to repeat it back to her to make sure he'd heard it correctly. It was a dangerous game she was playing, but destiny had left her no choice. The seconds were ticking against her and the fate of many lives lay in her hands. It was imperative she made it to London. She had to reach Dunkirk later today.

She traversed the cellar back to John Avebury and regarded him with sorrow in her heart. The small part of his face that was visible beneath the dirty bandages was blackened with cordite and streaked with the rust of dried blood. She watched as his particularly fine-shaped mouth tightened into a line of pain and anxiety and knew he was still awake.

The toe of her boot scuffed inadvertently against the edge of a loose flagstone and he tensed immediately. "Monique?"

She crouched down at his side. "I'm here. Von Ruhl wanted details of the men's wounds. I didn't think there was any harm in giving them to him."

He relaxed visibly at the sound of her voice. "No harm. Seems he intends to keep his word then?"

"I believe so," she replied softly. "Their Field Medic helped as Starling and I re-set Private Jessup's ankle."

Avebury shifted uncomfortably, valiantly trying to control a spasm of coughing that racked his damaged lungs. She helped him to sit forward, supporting his large body firmly in her arms until the outburst began to ease. There was a tight knot in her breast as she considered the fate that awaited him. He would not survive without prompt hospitalisation and the chances of him living through any form of harsh interrogation or incarceration were almost negligible.

Pulling him closer for a bittersweet moment, her body reacted of its own volition as she held him securely against her heart and knew it was all she could ever have of him. _A few stolen hours in a war-ridden cellar._ In that second, a part of her died.

Even though the coughing had stopped, he made no effort to move away from her. His lips were only inches from her earlobe and his head rested gently on her shoulder.

"Why now?" he whispered softly.

She sighed and agreed with him silently. Words were superfluous between them and she understood just what he meant, every part of her reacting to him strongly as she felt his breath on her skin. There was no doubting the connection between them and for the first time in years she felt complete. She had never believed in love at first sight or the fanciful concept of soul-mates. It was absurd and stupidly irrational to feel this way about a man she barely knew.

"Don't say anything, John," she didn't trust herself to speak but somehow the words were uttered. "You and I are just passing ships in the night. It was never supposed to be."

"This bloody war."

His arms tightened around her and she made no effort to resist. This was the only time she would have with him, the only time destiny would grant her.

"_This bloody war,"_ she echoed, voice breaking, as she caressed the soft nape of his neck.

* * *

Roxton woke suddenly, his lungs contracting violently as the coughing consumed him again. It felt horribly like he was choking and he tried to overcome the surge of panic. _What if there was permanent scarring?_ The question was one that haunted him. _What if the damage to his lungs was too great and he could never breathe normally again?_

His brains might be scrambled like a plate of eggs, but he had memories of being an active man. He recalled the mud of a rugby pitch and the arrant rough and tumble of that game. There were boxing bouts he knew he'd taken part in, and more bizarrely, bare-knuckle fighting, something hardly in-keeping with his background and as nebulous and hazy as a dream.

"God damn it," he muttered, with a shiver of unease.

He was scared and badly frustrated.

Everything had narrowed down to fragments and oddities. The thin fragile strands of a life. He honestly didn't know which would be worse, lung damage or permanent memory loss. Not to mention visual impairment if he lost the use of his eyes. Even worse, there might not be the luxury of choice, but he couldn't bear to contemplate all of them. A possible future as an invalid made the outlook seem very grim.

In a way, it was appallingly funny and he almost laughed at the irony. Von Ruhl thought a big juicy plum had dropped right off the tree into his lap. Instead, he scarcely remember his name, let alone anything more valuable. When he considered the likely outcome it made the blood run cold in his veins. It was doubtful they'd ever believe him and a part of him could hardly blame them.

So what price the life of a blind English Major who was more of a hindrance than help?

Not good.

Chances were, he was probably done for. As things stood it was bloody inevitable. He tightened his hold on the woman beside him and allowed his hand to rest on her hair. Soft and abundant, it sprang beneath his fingertips. He caught his breath and let his fingertips linger, taking pleasure in the smooth luxuriance and delicate curve of her head. He had the sudden mental image of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. _A pale-skinned, elfin-faced woman, with masses of dark cloudy hair…_

She was his one link to sanity in all of this mess. His uncanny hold on salvation. A woman, to all intents and purposes a stranger, whose very touch had imprinted on his soul. It was strange and not a little frightening. He knew it more than he'd ever known anything. In amidst the pain and misery that beckoned him, she shone like a beacon of hope.

_Ships in the night._

It was how she'd described them and the words had a horrid finality. As though she was sure fate would part them, but she was wrong, he would not let her go.

Beads of sweat rose on his forehead and he realised his hands were shaking. He was terrified she would be torn from his grasp and ill-fortune would sweep her away. In comparison, it felt something like drowning. Of being drawn into a maelstrom. If he didn't hold onto to her tightly enough then the vortex would part them forever.

"_No."_

He whispered the word out loud and felt her stir slightly beside him. She turned towards him and he heard her sigh softly, but the word hadn't roused her from sleep. Pulling her closer, he rested his cheek against her head and counted the minutes until morning.

**_TBC_**

* * *

_**Lisa Paris - 2003**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Lost World**_

* * *

_**Another Time, Another Place . . .**_

* * *

_**Part Five**_

She recognised Von Ruhl's footsteps immediately and her body prickled with readiness. Opening her green eyes warily, she slanted them up at him like a cat. Beside her, Avebury was shivering, his cheeks flushed beneath the bandages, and even though it was cool in the cellar his skin felt unnaturally warm. Her heart sank as she realised he was running a fever once more.

"Please excuse me, _Fraulein_ King," there was a different edge to Von Ruhl's voice when he addressed her and she knew at once he'd verified her code name.

Avebury's body tensed, his muscles tightening, "Monique?"

She squeezed his hand reassuringly, "It's all right, John. What can I do for you, Captain Von Ruhl?"

He gave her a tiny formal bow as he carried out her instructions to the letter. "I should like to discuss the transportation of the wounded. I have confirmed the arrival of a Field Medical team at first light, and they would be glad of your assistance."

She nodded tersely up at him, "Please give me a minute to check the Major's wound. I'll join you as soon as I can."

A part of her was flooded with sudden relief. The _Hauptmann's_ bearing had changed completely. His conduct had changed to subtly deferential and she recognised an undertone of fear. One component of her burden had started to ease and the weight began to lift from her shoulders. She would be able to resume her journey and get back to the Allied lines. From there, it would be relatively easy to hitch a ride up to the coast, and once she had spoken with her contact, she would make her passage in time.

Fingers trembling slightly, she leant forward and touched John Avebury's dirty cheek. There was one more thing she had to do for this man – one last gift he would never even realise. Subsequently, his fate would be left to the gods, but damn and blast it, she_ had_ to try.

He was so ill in-spite of his courage and the gallant attempts at flirting. The head injury needed treatment and his breathing was getting worse. He would die if they took him to German HQ. Of that, she was bitterly sure.

"You'd better go with him," Avebury's voice was a ghastly croak.

Her fingers hovered against his skin and she wondered what he sounded like normally. Cultured, she imagined wistfully, deep and rich and definitely refined. He was public school English, no doubt about that, but masculine and used to giving orders, self-assured despite being injured and in the habit of being obeyed. _A strong voice for a strong man – _and that alone was very appealing, but she longed to hear him soft and urgent with passion, not strained and hampered with pain. Avebury was no shrinking violet, that much was patently obvious, and she knew from the way he'd responded to her, he was damned sure of his attraction to women.

She envisaged the sound of her name on his lips – her true name – not the one she had given him. Imagined him out of control with desire and vibrating with ardour against her. _A ghost on her grave. _There was a ghost on her grave… a wintry feeling of chill which stole over her. She shivered abruptly with sorrow as she realised she had to let him go.

Bending forward, she pressed her mouth against his and their lips met and quivered together. It was the fleetest of tender kisses, salt with a solitary tear. Nonetheless, the spark jolted her, and flared like a bright star between them. Even here in the direst of conditions, in the dusty corner of a Belgian cellar surrounded by the wounded and a host of German soldiers, this man had managed to do to her what no man had ever done before.

Somehow, he'd succeeded in touching her heart, and in doing so, captured her soul.

"Yes, I should go," she pulled away sadly. Every instinct was screaming not to leave him. "Do you… _do you_ think you can manage take care of yourself while I'm gone?"

His mouth curved into a smile that hurt her. "As long as I know you'll be back again." He secured her fingers in his for a second and lay down patiently as she quickly checked his dressing.

"Well?" The smile still lit his lips. "Will I do, Sister?"

"Yes," she was forcibly light-hearted as she got to her feet. "I think you'll do very well, John. Now promise me you'll try to get some sleep?"

"And dream of you," he responded gallantly, the effect unspoiled even though his poor throat grated like old hinges.

"Goodbye," she whispered softly, looking down at him for the last time as he settled back against the pile of knapsacks. "Goodbye, John Avebury, my love."

* * *

She crossed the cellar unsteadily in search of Starling. The cockney Corporal finished adjusting Private Jessup's splint and looked up at her with an approving nod as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll say this for the Fritzy medic, Ma'am, he done a good job on this ankle. Course he had us to 'elp."

She smiled briefly down at him and gave him her medical pack. "I want you to promise me something, Corporal." Her eyes flicked back across the room to Avebury. "Whatever happens, I want you to make sure the Major receives the best possible care and attention."

"But Sister - "

Starling's face creased in puzzlement, but she stopped him from going any further.

"Just promise you'll do all you can, Starling. _Promise me_, that's all I ask."

He took the pack from her slowly, his eyes searching her face with sudden sharpness as he heard the need in her voice. "I'll try my best to keep him safe, Sister. I give you my word on that. Are you - are _you_ going to be all right?"

For a welcome moment, the shadows dipped and guttered on the redbrick walls and hid her expression from his gaze. "I'll be fine," she answered as she turned on her heel and made her way over to Von Ruhl. For after all, it was the truth wasn't it?

_She was always fine in the end._

They moved behind the empty beer barrels and she regarded the German officer coldly. "Well?"

"It was verified," he said, glancing quickly at her and then looking away again. "I am to give you any assistance I can."

"At last," she exhaled in relief. "I need to get back to the Allied lines as soon as possible. I've already wasted too much time."

"The whole region is unstable," Von Ruhl said curtly. "We are merely an advance party and not equipped to provide you with an escort. There are numerous pockets of British resistance left in this area; they may even hold the next farm. High Command ordered us to push forward when the British were still in disarray following the bombardment, but the wind dispersed the gas sooner than expected, and already they have reorganised." He paused and frowned. "In the end, it was only a temporary advantage. We will fall back to our lines later this morning."

Mind working quickly, she pondered his words and a spark of hope ignited in her breast. "You're sure the British will regain this area?"

"Yes" he nodded despondently. "Within forty-eight hours at the latest."

"Good," she smiled affirmatively and embarked upon her gamble. "That suits my purpose admirably. You will withdraw your men as soon as possible, Von Ruhl, leaving the prisoners and wounded behind."

He narrowed his eyes and looked down at her with a gleam of suspicion on his face. "The wounded perhaps, but not Major Avebury. He's far too high ranking to sacrifice. Any information he may provide could prove invaluable to us."

_Please God, let this work. _Schooling her features, she prayed harder than she'd ever done in her life, before turning on him like a cobra, her mouth curling into a sneer.

"Only a complete fool would choose to disobey a direct order, especially one straight from the top." Her eyes flashed with molten anger and she knew a brief second of satisfaction as he paled before her obvious scorn. "I shouldn't have to explain myself to a _junior_ officer, but evidently, in this case, I must. Major Avebury has been fed some false information High Command want the British to get hold of. They will clearly be unable to do so if you decide to foul up our plans. If he dies as a result of inadequate care or ends up as a German prisoner, then High Command will be very unhappy. They will have my report to refer to, and rest assured, they will know whom to blame."

"_Fraulein - "_

"_You_ will do as I say and withdraw. Major Avebury stays behind with the rest of them."

Two bright spots of colour flared on Von Ruhl's angular cheekbones as he faced her, rigid with anger. She held her ground and stared at him boldly, although her breath felt frozen in her breast. If this failed, _if she failed_ – then John Avebury would die. There was no question he would survive imprisonment, and even if she could not have him herself, she would grant him this one chance of life.

The bitter and unbidden thought that war would probably claim him anyway hovered spitefully on the fringes of her mind. Who knew, in this case, he might beat the odds. Perhaps fate would be kind. Even to her.

Von Ruhl clicked his heels together mockingly, but his patent distaste didn't bother her. So what, if he despised her for a double agent. As long as John Avebury was safe.

She raised a cool eyebrow at him. "Is that clear, _Hauptmann_? Don't force me to mention your name to Command in anything other than a favourable light. I can assure you, you'll live to regret it."

She felt the unease flood back over him then, watching with bleak satisfaction and a sharp little smile as the last dregs of belligerence sagged from his stance and he nodded in capitulation.

"It's clear,_ Fraulein_. I shall withdraw my men before dawn. All the British wounded, including Major Avebury will be left behind unharmed."

* * *

She reached Dunkirk with time to spare and made her way through the narrow streets to rendezvous with her British contact before embarking for Dover. After recounting the incident which had delayed her, she could glean no fresh information about the small party of wounded she'd left behind in the ruins. The chances that Private Brady had made it safely back to the British lines to summon help were good, but the lack of information was galling and she wanted to find out for sure.

Saving John Avebury had placed her mission in jeopardy - she was very well aware of it, but there had been something about him which had made the risk more than worthwhile. She had sacrificed a little of her self back there in the tumbledown ruins of the Salient. All the well-worn codes and tenets by which she ruthlessly chose to live her life.

Never compromise, don't forge any ties.

_No friendships or_ _emotional involvement…_

A few hours in a darkened cellar had shattered those brittle defences, and driven her to jeopardise everything for a stranger she would never see again. She laughed harshly at herself. A fool - _she'd been a stupid fool._ Washed away on a tide of sentimentalism. Her iron resolve weakened by a well-shaped leg, a sweet smile and a sensuous mouth. Well, she wouldn't make the same mistake again. There was no room for such arrant self-indulgence. She must never lose sight of her ultimate goals or be so ill-judged in the future.

The breeze on the coast was fresh and cool. She tipped her head back and savoured its sharpness. The salt tang of ozone whipped out strands of her hair from underneath the brim of her hat. A couple of them stuck to her lashes. It was only that which made her eyes water. Nothing to do with her brief foray into weakness or the man she had left behind.

Even from here she could hear the boom of the guns as they wreaked their deadly carnage on the battlefront. Their sound would follow her home across the Channel, even as far as Dover and beyond. If the wind was blowing in the right direction they would rumble like distant thunder. A chilling and eternal reminder of what was happening over in Belgium and France. She straightened her back like a ramrod. The war was her immediate priority. There would be plenty of other difficult missions before her role in this nightmare was done.

She was wearing a different uniform and carried new identity papers. Monique King had been 'killed off' on her way up to the coast and if anyone had the inclination to search for her, the account of her death would read as thus. _The convoy of wounded she'd joined had been hit by a salvo of shellfire. Unfortunately, there were no survivors._

She dashed the moisture away from her eyes and blew her nose somewhat defiantly. In several hours she would be in London, back in her rooms at the Goring Hotel. _Hot baths and warm towels…_ she couldn't help sighing. All the little things which made her feel better. Fresh flowers and unashamed luxury. They were ready and waiting for her there. She would choose from an array of luxurious gowns and have her hair dressed as befitting her status, and then dinner at the Elysée Restaurant with a high-ranking Cabinet Minister. It was easy… it _should_ be so easy, rather like pulling on a new change of clothing. She would slip into her guise as the Baroness Von Helfing just as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter.

There was no room for dreams or heartache. She'd cast them aside a long time ago. No place in her life for an obstinate jaw or a finely-shaped, masculine leg. She was on her own just as she'd always been. She didn't need anyone or anything. Straightening her shoulders defiantly, she took a deep breath of bracing sea air.

She was, god damn it…the most feared and ruthless spy on the whole of the Western Front.

_Code name Parsifal…_

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

A sharp pain in his head like a metal spike. Talk about a rude awakening. It felt as though someone had picked up a hammer and cleft his skull in two. He lay very still for an awfully long while, gradually becoming aware of other sensations. It was tempting, very tempting, to just sink back and drift instead of striving to master the darkness. Perhaps if he simply stopped trying, then the vicious pounding might go away.

There was a gentle breeze wafting across him and the softness of linen against him. The vague scent of carbolic washing soap and another, more indefinable, fragrance…

Opening his heavy eyelids, he immediately wished he hadn't. He gave a quiet moan of agony as his vision adjusted to the dim light. A single candle burned at the bedside and he focused on the flame for a moment. As he watched, it dipped and guttered in a faint draught of air, throwing eerie shadows on the rattan walls. He was back in the Treehouse, but not in his room. That much was patently obvious. He groped confusedly for the reason why, but it was too much effort to think. _Easier by far to just lie here..._

There was a movement beside him and he turned his head, wincing at the effort it cost him. It was Marguerite, her pale face cupped in her hands, curled up in a chair next to the bed. _Of course, if he was hurt, then he would be in her room._ It was where they usually placed him. He'd been filled with hope, the first time it had happened, when he'd discovered it was at her insistence.

"John?"

Her voice trembled so much that he frowned. _What had he done to make her that afraid?_

"Something happened?" he sounded strange, almost disembodied, like a weakened echo of himself. "We were attacked?"

"Yes," her hand was cool on his forehead. As she leant across him, he saw a glitter of tears in her glorious faerie eyes. "It was Vantu. Challenger and I saw them off in the end, but not before - " She faltered and brought his hand up to her lips. "Oh John, I… please don't do that again. Put yourself directly in the firing line. They hit you so hard with one of those stone axes - there was too much blood everywhere."

He struggled to move in spite of his pain, his heart filled with guilt for the anguish he saw in her. "Not tears, Marguerite? Oh, tell me they're not. You mustn't spoil those lovely eyes for me." The room spun and he paid for his gallantry, sinking back against the bed with an involuntary expletive as the sledge hammer resumed beating in his head. _"Hell…"_

Her hands were gentle on his skin, stroking the hair back off his brow as she smoothed out the pillows beneath his sore head. Her touch felt wonderful and he turned his face towards her, merely content to bask in the sensations her fingers magicked within him. Eventually, the pain died to a reasonable level and he opened his eyes again.

"Hush, John, you must lie still. George thinks you may have a fractured skull. You've been unconscious for nearly three days."

He studied her face with stunned dismay. No wonder she looked so distraught. "Three days," he echoed bemusedly. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Marguerite."

Confused as he was, he could scarcely believe it, although he knew she was telling the truth. He'd been drifting amongst images and nightmares, most of them concerning the war, lost in a landscape of hellish dreams which had returned with a vengeance to haunt him. That terrible time still hurt him like a scar etched across his psyche. It lingered deep in his consciousness, staining his memories with blood. He shivered and wondered if he'd ever escape. If the past would eventually release him. Lately, he'd almost begun to believe he might one day be free of the ghosts. He reached for her, pulling his arm out from underneath the thin cotton sheet and waiting as she curved carefully into his embrace.

"I was having such peculiar dreams. Memories, I think, of a time I was injured during the war."

_Was it his imagination, or did her face tense with surprise?_

"That's strange," she whispered oddly. "I too, dreamt of the war. Was it the time you were shot?"

"No," he answered, thinking about it. "There was another time - I don't remember it very well. It was whilst I was still with my regiment, before I joined Military Intelligence. A bloody great chunk of shrapnel struck me on the head and put me out of action for a few months. It was during my stretch in the Salient when the first wave of gas attacks started. The whole thing was a ghastly stalemate. It was late spring in 1915."

"Chlorine gas?"

He nodded ruefully, and winced. "My regiment was caught in the thick of it. They lobbed it over into our trenches and I managed to inhale some of the stuff. Not much, but it was bad enough, and for some days, I was temporarily blinded. The bloody poison buggered my lungs up too. I had a nasty bout of bronchial pneumonia."

A single, shining tear fell from her eye. "Hush, John. You shouldn't be talking."

"But it's so peculiar," he repeated perplexedly. "The piece of shrapnel cracked my skull. I had amnesia when they shipped me home and never really regained any memories of that time until now. There was a farmhouse…"

"Yes," she said quietly. "That's where they took you when the ambulance broke down."

"That's right," he looked up eagerly. "A ruddy cellar and the stink of hops and malt. There were several of us, there was a nurse… _my God,_ _there was a nurse - "_

Cupping his unshaven jaw in her hand, she bent over and gently kissed him on the mouth. He felt her lips tremble briefly against him as he tasted the salt of her tears.

"Except that she wasn't really a nurse. She was a spy with a head full of ciphers. She needed to get out of there quickly and make her way up to the coast."

"Marguerite…"

"Shh," she shook her head, determined to finish. It was a story she needed to confess. "She ended up in big trouble when her ambulance got hit by shell-fire and she was forced to take shelter in a cellar with a rag-taggle bunch of wounded Tommies."

"_I was there." _

"One of them was an English Major. His head was so bandaged she couldn't see his face - his voice so damaged, he could barely even speak…" she paused, her breath soft on his cheek as she continued. "She only knew him as Major John Avebury, and however hard she tried, she never found any trace of him, once the war was over."

"It was you," he murmured incredulously. "Once again, it was you. How many times did our paths have to cross? What were the odds that brought us together?"

She smiled a little shakily, "I'm beginning to think you might be right. It's a little too contrived to be coincidence. Perhaps some higher power has decided we _are_ meant to be. The war seems to have bound us with a common thread which pulls us tightly together. It's like the iridium business; you were protecting me even then."

"As you have protected me," his eyelids were slipping closed again, weighted with weakness and sleep.

* * *

She waited until his fingers grew lax and after reassuring herself he'd fallen back into a healing slumber, she got to her feet and moved across the small room to stare out into the night. The jungle rustled below her, dark and sentient and full of life. She threw back her head and breathed in its greenness. The damp scents of tree-bark and leaf-mould. The Plateau was as much a part of her now as the man who lay asleep in her bed.

_In her heart..._

A prickle of presentiment ran down her spine. From the minute he'd begun to recount his nightmare, she had known for sure he was Avebury. She wondered briefly how he'd acquired that particular name and then recalled he'd had no discs or ankle tag. During the melee he must have mentioned his home and the medics had made a mistake. At the time, he'd been badly injured, amnesiac and confused. A field dressing station could be mayhem, especially in the midst of a battle. Closing her eyes, she was bombarded by images. Some of which, she would rather forget.

It was strange how the memories flooded back again, so sharply they almost hurt her. Even now, she could still feel the sense of loss as she'd left him behind in the cellar.

_How had she failed to recognise him_?

It scarcely seemed possible now.

It had been dark and she had been desperate. Her mind focused on completing her mission. The War Office had been waiting for the ciphers and she only had a short amount of time. Avebury had been grievously hurt, his face hidden in a swathe of field dressings, and the gas had wreaked all sorts of havoc on his vocal chords and poor ravaged throat. Her face softened into a tiny smile and she shook her head at her short-sightedness. If nothing else, his obstinate jaw should have given the game away. To say nothing of the strong and shapely legs which seemed to stretch on forever, let alone the wayward swirl of hair which curled tenderly into his neck.

It was funny how fortune had tossed the dice and led them up to the sticking point. Like pawns on a bloody chess board moved around on the whim of fate. She supposed it was fate and perhaps something more. The gods seemed mocking and often capricious. Apparently the Plateau had plans for them all. She just wished she knew what they were.

_"Oh, John."_

Wrapping her arms tightly around her body, she was assailed by a sudden fit of shivering. All her recent terrors crowded in on her, as she relived the last three dreadful days. She'd been so afraid she'd lost him this time. That he'd been brutally and summarily taken from her. As though history was cruelly repeating itself. _Just as she'd lost Avebury back then_. Hour after long and deadly hour, spent watching his white face on the pillow, and the dark unmoving line of his lashes, which she feared would never open again.

The stone axe used by the Vantu had delivered a harsh blow in more ways than one, and she was still hollow with dread at the thought of it. There had been blood on her hands, on her favourite blouse, so much of his blood everywhere…

She sighed, the worst of it was over, and she really ought to go and tell Challenger. She could hear him snoring below her and her mouth curved into a grin. The scientist had been wracked with guilt and anxiety and hadn't been sleeping much lately. Not since Roxton had been so damned noble and taken the blow meant for him. Her smile faded… it happened too often, as though he was paying a penance. He would sacrifice his life in a heartbeat.

_Just as she would die for him. _

Moving back to the bedside, she watched as a shaft of moonlight fell across the pillow, and highlighted the planes and angles of Roxton's beloved face. Sighing, he turned his head slightly, murmuring something softly in his sleep. Marguerite exhaled in sudden relief, and took a while to study the well-shaped mouth and the stubborn jaw she loved so very much. George Challenger could wait a little longer. She wanted this special moment to herself.

Leaning forward, she snuffed out the candle. The room was awash with silver. She was content to keep watch in the moonlight and try and come to terms with her thoughts. It was tempting, too tempting to resist him and she gave in and touched his face lovingly, her fingertips hesitating gently on the rasp of his unshaven cheek. It had taken her long enough to tell him how she felt. She'd pushed him away so often. The small ache inside her grew stronger. She had wasted too much precious time.

She had not chosen to love this man. Any choices had been stripped away from her. He had entered her life like a whirlwind and taken her heart unawares. _God, he had vexed and infuriated her,_ she smiled a little at the onslaught of nostalgia…and lived up to the set of his damned Roxton jaw more times than she could honestly remember. She'd given him a run for his money, and fought tooth and nail to deter him, insulting and deliberately hurting him, as he took the blows and came back for more. He had seen her at her absolute worst and been wounded many times by her cruelty, but always, he'd declined to give up on her.

_Lord John Roxton believed he could save her._

She was so very used to being alone, despite all the men or in spite of them. Nothing tangible had ever filled the emptiness or eased the aching void in her heart. Her wealth and fortune, all the glittering parties, and seeking danger for the sheer bloody-hell of it. In the end, all that really mattered was her vital work during the war. When it was over, she'd wandered restlessly, spending her money and avoiding her enemies, wasting time on abortive love affairs which flared briefly and then fizzled out. She was hollow, a pretty brittle shell. It had left her feeling arid and broken. Like the shell, she was fragile and empty, and the life force inside her had died.

Things were different now, she realised wonderingly, as she watched his dear face in the moonlight. Roxton loved her without reservation and she no longer had to fend for herself. She had finally found the answers she sought in the most Godforsaken place on the planet. The one man for whom she'd been seeking. _The other half of her soul._

The moonlight shimmered and shifted. She laid her head beside his on the pillow. The sound of his breathing was comforting. In a short time, she was asleep.

_She was dancing barefoot on the dew-drenched grass, weaving in a pattern through the standing stones. Her hair flew out behind her like a banner as she moved to the music in her head. _

_Mist hung over the meadows in bands as she looked up and saw him walking towards her. __The last stars burned out in the heavens as the night died and faded away. _

_He was closer now, reaching out to catch her in his arms. She ran forwards and stepped into them gladly. He held her with infinite tenderness as his heart beat strong and sure against her breast. The sun rose and cleft through the standing stones, turning the last threads of dew into mist-wraiths, and lifting her head, she knew she was home, as she looked into John Roxton's face…_

**_THE END_**

* * *

**_Lisa Paris - 2003._**


End file.
