Lost World 1. Chapter 1

It was a normal day like most others, Roxton and Marguerite had gone on a small journey, not four days from the tree house. They were inspecting a series of caves that had shifted due to the ever changing plateau. Challenger, Malone, and Veronica had each their tasks as well. Challenger was due for some miracle of science, Malone was attempting to jerry-rig the water heater once more, and Veronica was visiting at the Zanga village. The seasoned explorers had been traveling non-stop for two days hoping to get to the caves before a predicted volcanic shift of some sort. It was near nightfall and Roxton had finally deemed a place worthy for sleep. They were situated under a large tree, in an open meadow, and just far enough from the dangers of the jungle life.

Penny for your thoughts? Roxton spoke as he passed Marguerite a cup of coffee

Hardly worth that.' Marguerite cocked a smile sarcastically at the rugged hunter and then patted the hunk of fallen tree beside her. 'It's hardly the Ritz but it will do'

The hunter smiled jovially at his Marguerite and accepted the seat. They sat together, the fire glistening in the dark light and simply enjoyed each other's company. They seemed to be inseparable as of late, seemed to find reasons for company more often than not. They seemed to be ridiculously happy as well. They seemed to be a lot of things. Conversations later, they finally bedded down in their small but happy compound. They didn't take the precautions that tended to plague their relationship. They slept on one blanket, under one blanket, and around each other. Things were good... ridiculously good.

Thoughts swirled in Marguerite's head; they uttered strange things like deception, injury, and death. She wasn't sure what the heck this meant, but it sure wasn't a good omen. The watched the hunter's chest rise and fall with his deep sleeping, although she really had no choice. One of his hands cupped her back while the other pinned her head to his chest. They fell asleep inches apart but as he dreamt his instincts took over, a possessive need for her. She felt so safe, so utterly secure, and it was lovely. Before coiling around her, his arms would secure her arms around him. She found this both odd and comforting. To Marguerite comfort didn't come easily. If she stirred in her sleep, as she usually did, she could sense his disturbance as well. They'd never admit this to anyone, but their bond reached places they couldn't understand. She knew his anger, his jealousy, and his guilt. He knew her inert shyness, her passion, and her restless spirit. They just knew each other. Tonight however, his arms had switched places. One hand on her head, and the other on her stomach. She feared the unknown. She feared the future.

Roxton woke up to the sheer inexhaustible pain in his leg. It felt like a bolt of lightning was thundering down on him. He opened his eyes violently, expecting to see his Marguerite, but found ten tribesmen, a bound Marguerite, and guns pointed at him.

This is just something knew I decided.. and like all of my others I couldn't get this particular story out of my head. Um.. Yeah. So YES im working on my other flicks..but this one too now. Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

He had guessed from their primitive clothing and body markings that they were native to the plateau. They had their guns, packs, rations, and boots. Marguerite had been bound and gagged; she was clearly unhappy but unharmed. Her clothing had been torn and her boots removed, his the same. Their captors wore large black pantaloons and nothing else. Clothing apparently being a lesser priority, and was strictly functionary. Roxton was directed by guns and sharp blows to his torso to stand behind Marguerite. The rugged hunter guessed they were slave traders, but their kind demeanour with Marguerite left him suspicious. Clearly they wouldn't be making it back to the tree house in time for dinner.

They were prodded like animals, herded into the unknown by force and threats. Their captors took a rigid speed and within minutes they had crossed nearly half a mile. The hunter worried for his charge, he felt the strong urge to free her from bondage, to protect her with all of his might. This was like hell on earth. He was left helpless, powerless to free her, as they trudged on through the tireless jungle heat.

They had been moving for nearly an hour, when the landscape begun to change dramatically. They entered caves and exited them, climbed small hills and nearly swam through infested swamps. He could feel her exhaustion, her sheer will being torn away from her core. The jungle began to fade away and soon they were thrown upon a dingy that floated on the sea with tiresome buoyancy. Roxton collided with Marguerite as they were flung hastily into the bottom section of the boat. The latch was closed and they were left in the darkness alone.

Marguerite?' Roxton called into the dark hole he found them in. She let out a sharp moan and they crawled towards each other. They huddled against one of the large tree trunks sprouting out of the hull and each other. She lay on him, completely exhausted, frightened, and dreading the upcoming hours. His hand wove into her hair, feverishly clutching her to him, as his other snaked around her back and gently touched her abdomen. She didn't ask, and he couldn't answer. It was what felt right.

'Slavers?' The hunter asked into Marguerite's hair.

They spoke native, like Assai's people. Traces of Zanga tongue but it's a devolved form.'

The heiress took the look of exasperation on her hunters face and explained more fully.

'They left the Zanga, John. Now they're on their own.'

And so are we.' The hunter said as he prodded her head for bumps and bruises. She was doing the same, but in a far more covert manner. Exchanging routine checks were like declarations of love for the couple. Ensuring the other's survival was number one on the list, their own came second. They automatically conformed to each other when they had finished. Legs, bodies, minds, souls combined and they fell into a deep replenishing sleep. His hands replaced and held them together.


	3. Chapter 3

They might have spent hours, days; hell even weeks couldn't be far off, in that dark hole in the very core of their floating prison. Their food was thrown from above, hitting several stairs and sometimes either explorer before nearly exploding in the raptor-skin coverings. Water soon accompanied their meals and was also thrown at them and not merely by them. Periodically a giant hose like contraption would descent from the blinding light of above and drench their meek quarters with gallons of water. The pool would collect and soak the weary travelers for hours as if the ship decided when they were clean enough and then allow the bathwater to leave them. Soap was usually thrown in as well. They were meant to be presentable but clearly not happy.

The hull shook mightily with every wave or ripple from the sea, which sea they had no idea. Neither explorer was prone to sea sickness, thank heavens for small mercies. They hadn't seen the true sky in an achingly long time. It felt as if they were in a horrid dream gone freakishly awry. They spent their time looking at the ceiling, the mismatch of beams, supports and someone's cruel joke. A fake sky plastered in blues and whites foolishly reminded them of their prison. Fake stars winked at them in their slumber, grinned at their awakening, and openly mocked at their hopes. It was a cruel life even for the plateau.

It was nearly midday when the heiress opened her eyes from yet another midday nap, much too frequent in this lifestyle, when the hunter shifted his weight. They were sprawled against each other, on the beam that became their bed in the darkened hole that had become their home. He was signalling meal time. To keep occupied, and to keep the peace, they played small insignificant games that grew to mean substantial amounts. It was his turn to play catch-the-grub, they played to keep busy, and they played to live. If not caught the small bundle would burst forth upon them and smother the ground with the weird contents. Meaning not only did they go hungry, but were unpleasantly splattered with their meal. They learned fast to go with the flow.

Roxton was ready when the lock clanked and the hatch was thrown open. His eyes burned with the intense hit of light and heat. He could not blink or he might lose the precious package. It was thrown half-hazard into the darkened pit where the agile hunter grabbed it with the prowess of a lion. The explorers rejoiced, finding ecstasy in the ridiculously mundane. They sat, leaning on their beam, totally encompassed with each other. Limbs over limbs, and the package nestled between the two. It was luxuriously private down in their little hovel. They play democrats as they ate their weird little meal, perfectly proportioned by the hunter because it was his turn. This meant, of course, that the heiress would be feeling a tad fuller, and during her turn he found the same. It was blissful equality that held them together. They're meal usually was an awkward mix of dried fruits and meats, cheeses, oats and corn meal and everything was held together in some sweet sticky thing that couldn't be honey. It was odd and came in a chunk, but it was food. When the meal was done, and the skin turned out so it would also be cleaned, they sat intertwined as they were and awaited the cleaning.


	4. Chapter 4

By Marguerite's timing, and Roxton's random stokes sprawled on the hull, it had been nearly a month and half since they were abducted. The heiress had been sure she felt the boat slowing, but not trusting her instincts she poked the hunter in the rib with her elbow. Roxton groaned and held her down, so that they could rest in peace once more. The hunter had her in quite a position; as per usual he was her bed, his arms wrapped possessively around her small frame. He leaned upon the beam, and she in turn leaned upon him. They had tried it apart and they had tried it elsewhere, but they instinctively succumbed to what felt right. His arm both supported her head and pinned her backside to him, while his other lay flat against her stomach. They both knew why, and they both remained equally in a state of non-verbal bliss. When the boat lurched from its spot upon the high seas, the hunter was up having secured his Marguerite behind him. They felt the planks seize as the ropes tightened and then the anchor thumping into the water. They were either docking, or their little sea adventure was nearly an end.

The light was returned once more in a blinding flash as the hatch was flung opened. The heiress instantly grabbed for her hunter's hand, and was rewarded by his gentle touch. He guarded them both, as he eyed the latter with scepticism and suspicion. With a gentle push from an impatient Marguerite, Roxton grabbed hold of the wooden structure and began to climb. His eyes initially rejoiced and shuttered with the added stress of the outside world, and he was temporary blinded. Blinking back instant tears, Marguerite accompanied her hunter out onto the deck of the small ship. They were met with guns, and surly faces. The tribesmen directed them towards the bow of the ship, and Marguerite feared the worst when she sighted the plank. She felt Roxton tense in her very core, and squeezed his hand with ferocious strength. The look in her eyes wasn't resignation of life, but it was fear and supreme lack of power. They locked eyes, and instantly nodded in synchronization, acknowledging each other and their feelings.

The heiress was ripped from her hunter's grasp as the men separated them. A stifled cry was heard from the Englishwoman, as they bound her hands and feet. The hunter weighed his time perfectly. Inside he was in mental torment; outside he was calm as though he accepted his fate and a higher power. He watched his Marguerite struggle with her captors and ultimately was bombarded until she began to walk the plank.

Her feet dragged on the prickly wooden surface, numerous splinters bloodied her feet leaving a trail; some mark of her existence. She let loose hot tears as she retreated from Roxton, who was calm and collected. When they met eyes she knew his plan, but feared the outcome. She could see his whirlwind of emotions held tightly bottled in the man's subconscious. She already forgave him, if he failed. The plank was merely longer than she was, and too soon she was at an end. She was pleading to the outcasts in their language, talking of forgiveness and god's wrath. This seemed to only infuriate the tribesmen more, as one man climbed the steps and followed the heiress onto the plank. He stood at one end, holding a gun and a sword. As he advanced, the heiress placed one hand on her abdomen, locked eyes with her hunter, and steeped backward to plunge into the dark warm waters.


	5. Chapter 5

Roxton saw his Marguerite fling herself off the bow of their prison. Her hands, her feet, and her very soul were tied. As soon as she hit the water the hunter sprang into action. He punched out two of his captors with a solid thunk which gave him enough time to seize a weapon from them. Roxton then crossed the ship, then the plank at lightening fast speeds. The tribesmen were still reeling when they saw the Englishman's form disappear into the varied depths of the turbulent seas. He wasn't tied, because he hadn't resisted.

He dove into the sea, and frantically searched for his target. He needed for her to hold on, he knew she went under instantly, and time was of the essence. Being unable to move, Marguerite sank mercilessly with ever ticking moment. The life was being sucked from her very being. She flailed about, soundlessly screaming his name as her eyes began to drift closed. It was then that he spotted her, she had sunk to a reef and it had held her. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair flowing freely in the warm waters. He saw blood and a small shark nearby; this was a bad situation. He kicked violently as he swam downwards towards his charge, he didn't need oxygen he just needed her. He finally got to his Marguerite when the shark appeared, and it wasn't pleased with intruders. The hunter wrapped one strong arm around the heiress, and the other punched the shark on its sensitive snout. The vile thing let out a weird gasping sound and instantly retreated leaving Roxton to propel off the reef towards much needed air. As he broke free of the water, he secured his charge above the seas and silently begged her to breathe. When she let out her first gasp of heavy air, he too shared in the welcomed breath.

We've got to stop meeting like this' the heiress said as she stoked the face of her hunter. They both laughed thankful of their renewed bond. Then they remembered their situation, not far enough away from their floating prison, and not close enough to land. When the heiress was ready to swim on her own, having her hands and feet untied, they made the silent trek inland. They weren't sure which, or what land they were going to, but going back to that ship was not an option. The sea wasn't salty, but fresh, so they knew they hadn't left South America, hopefully. When they had finally reached the white sand beach, the sun was setting. Roxton hauled his charge up from their watery friend, and sprawled themselves on the dry land. He then noticed how her wet clothes hung from her body, her very shape accessible to him.

Something you're not telling me, Marguerite?'

And the heiress blushed as she looked down at her own form. Her blouse accentuated her small tummy, and the hunter was smiling like a Cheshire cat. She was about to speak when a shot rang out from the distance. A small group of rowing boats has descended from the larger boat like devil's offspring. The hunter grabbed and carried her until they had reached the safety of the tree line. It was good that they still had the jungle, with that advantage they might not die. He put her down and they began to run into the dark forest.

What felt like hours later, the two explorers stopped their frantic gait for a much needed rest.

'You okay?' The hunter asked placing one hand on Marguerite's chin and the other on her stomach.

'We're just fine, Lord Roxton.' The heiress said with a slight smirk at Roxton's protectiveness. 'Not like running for our lives is rare'

Not like this Marguerite, this is different and you know it.' The hunter said while taking the small firearm he stole out of his pants.

'And just what else do you keep there?'

The hunter raised an eyebrow at his Marguerite and caught the saucy look in her eye.

She brushed closer to him and whispered softly, "This doesn't change anything, John."

The hunter just nodded at her, while he fumbled with the gun. Somehow the damn thing stayed nearly waterproof, and just needed to be dried to be usable.

Listen, when they come, and you know they will, you run. They are too fast and they don't seem to have an interest in you.' He said while pressing the small firearm into the palm of the heiress' hand.

'No John, No. I can't leave you. I won't leave you for the hangman.'

He smiled at her use of their saying. He had first said it during that awful stint at an English village. It had all started there, their feelings lay out in the open then. He took a bullet for her, he did it then and he'll do it now.

'You,' the hunter said while placing a hand on her growing abdomen, 'You both have to go. You aren't safe with them, not when the time comes. But I will find you, you know that. I'll find you before then.'

Is that a promise John? The heiress said while tears flowed freely from her eyes.

You know it is.' They both nodded their consent and then met in a fiery embrace. Their hands feverishly clutched at each other, trying desperately to imprint the feeling in their memory. When they heard footsteps in the distance, they locked eyes and parted from each other. The heiress skulked away and headed to paths unknown. She was hoping for a village, some friendly tribe, hell anyone was good.

The hunter proceeded to run frantic and loud, screaming as he drew the enemy closer, and fled from his family. His heart was already in shreds and it was barely a moment since they last touched. He thought of his heiress, his family, and dreaded whatever the future might hold.


	6. Chapter 6

After he was captured, Roxton was taken back to the ship, that deathtrap that had become their home. He was broken, both physically and mentally, for in order to maintain the captors attention the hunter had to give up one hell of a fight. They had intended on further searching for Marguerite, but the hunter would not allow that. He had seized another of their guns and shot one tribesman in the foot. He tried to shed as little blood as the circumstances would allow. When they captured him they spent much time rendering him unconscious to the hunter's delight, in that blissful emptiness could he finally stop picturing his Marguerite. The look on her face as he left her and their growing family tore his heart, and it never left his memory, it never would. He pictured her tear-soaked cheek as she finally ripped her gaze from him and allowed him to leave her, leave them. The men had beaten him harshly almost rendering the life from him, but if John Roxton was anything he was a fighter.

He was hogtied to a dingy with just his head above water, his blood mixing with the warm tropical waters. But he could only feel the cool touch of his heiress and it kept him alive. They rowed him to the vessel and threw him angrily back down into that pit of empty memories. He was there, and he was there alone. He leaned upon their bed, the massive trunk sprouting from the hull, and he was overcome with grief.

* * *

After she left him, Marguerite wandered for miles alone. She was paranoid, her senses working overdrive and for two. Every crunch of the fallen leaves was fatal, every snap of a twig meant capture. No one could live like this, but she had and she would again. It kept her alive, this everlasting vigil of the mind, this over sensation of stimuli. She somehow found herself in a fruit orchard and was overcome with memories of her hunter and the grand times they had together. They could turn even the most mundane activities into ridiculous festivities of happiness. A simple mango could be inciting a romance, or you know falling into a pit and finding treasure. Anything could happen with John Roxton.

She sat and ate underneath a large apple tree with one hand on her growing stomach. She didn't know how far along she was, but she didn't really care. Roxton promised he'd be back and that's all that really mattered. She began talking to the thing as if it was a real person. She said weird and odd little things about Roxton, herself, the plateau, and their little tree house family. She longed to be back in the safety of that house high above the wonders and horrors of plateau life. But life being what it was and she being who she was, Marguerite decided to keep moving. She would stay in that little alcove of fruits and fallen leaves until the next day where she traveled onward. The wandering lifestyle had always suited Marguerite, never being tied down, free to do whatever she pleased, and now she had freedom to do just that. She found that it wasn't nearly as enjoyable without the hunter's companionship. She had slept alone for the first time in a very long time. She wouldn't find rest, pure and complete rest for what seemed like eternity.

As she wandered through the vast forests and intricate plant life, the scholar in Marguerite chose to share her gift for languages with the baby. If she was to live on, the most mysterious part of her would too. If she was to say something, out loud and for the entire world to hear, then she would say it in a multitude of languages. She wasn't even sure if it had ears yet, but she knew it could tell its mother's voice. She hoped that it would be healthy, and that it would be more like her hunter, and less like herself. If she had to do this, and by this point reality had set in, than the baby would be brought up right. It would have a home. It would have a family, and it would belong. This was all she could wish for the small thing growing in her.

She abandoned her fruit cove when the morning light has first shone. Apparently the baby has an internal clock of its own, definitely more suited to that of a hunter. She woke up feeling uncomfortable and then realised the problem. With the frantic escapes, the mind-numbing boredom of the ship, the lovely swim to escape the ship, another frantic escape and finally leaving her hunter, her clothing had become unattended. Add that to her growing stomach and her clothes weren't fitting. Her blouse wouldn't button all the way up, her camisole was sorely tight, and her skirt needed a washing. Today would be a day of errands. If she was to go gallivanting across this damn plateau she had better be comfortable doing it. She found a small stream and quickly got to work scrubbing her clothes one article at a time. Her modesty demanded the patience. After the cleaning and the subsequent drying, Marguerite examined her ruddy attire. Her brown khaki skirt fell nearly to her ankles, and this was a good thing. She cut slits in her camisole with a sharp rock, to allow for her growing tummy, and covered that with her skirt hiked up. Her skirt belt tightened it around her chest, and left her with a dress that went to knee height. Her blouse unbuttoned covered her shoulders from sunburn, but allowed free movement. It wasn't fashionable, hell by jungle standards she was more akin to Veronica as ever before, but it was comfortable and she was in it.

She knew that he had to leave her, leave them. She knew that he wasn't happy about this either. But she also knew that in order for him to return to her, that she would have to survive and survive alone.


	7. Chapter 7

As she wandered through the vast expanses of the jungle, Marguerite hoped to find some hint of civilization, some glimpse of life. It seemed to her that this island was deserted by all, except dinosaurs and various plants. She hadn't kept track of how long since they'd been together, wasn't sure what day it was, and she didn't care. He was coming for her and that's all that mattered. She would do her part, staying alive for two was already tricky work, staying alive for three was pure torture. She'd find some fruit grove, or trail of wild nuts, a banana tree, pretty much anything and she was forced to sit down and eat like a savage. Her clothes were tattered and dirty, and so was her spirit. She missed him and she hated being alone.

Every day the heiress woke up at the crack of dawn after sleeping most of the night. She found safety in small caves, up trees (although balance was becoming an issue), and in jungle clearings. As she walked through a particular haunt of theirs, she came upon a small hut. It was a Soddy, the primitive houses made from the earth and grasses by settlers. She knew a certain reporter who had visited one. It was low slung, and surrounded by a large fruitful garden.

"Hey there, anybody home?" Marguerite called out loudly and brazenly. She tried it in King's English, Zanga tongue, and even the bastardized Zanga. Then she tried about five other plateau languages before finally giving up and throwing a rock at the structure. The small projectile hit the makeshift door with a loud thunk but beckoned no residents. "Guess it's just you and me kid." The heiress chuckled at herself as she bravely stepped through the garden path. It wasn't well kept and rather overgrown so she figured it was abandoned. _Probably raiders_she rationalized to herself, knowing that negative comments might scare the baby, and quite rightly herself. As she walked in she found the little home suitable, one small wooden bed, a hearth, a small chest and a single chair. "Clearly a summer home" She glanced at the chair and noticed a small note written in handmade paper, it was coloured with age.

The note was written in pure Zanga tongue, and it was roughly dated two years back. The Zanga were accustomed to their own calendar, which the explorers adopted to aid in trading missions.

She translated the letter in English which flowed from her lips like her mother tongue. "_To Harpy, the season has __turned dry" _or was that _My Harpy... The Harpy_... anyway... "_I leave our home abandoned_" _house...hut...tent_...hmmm. Well seems this like fellow was talking to a dead wife." She felt a pang of understanding and sympathy as she herself was talking to her stomach. _Anything to keep sane_. She realised that with the hut abandoned she might stay a while, and rest her bone weary frame. She fell asleep on the bed, no more than five minutes after lying down. Her body finally rested, although it was far less satisfying than with her hunter. She longed for the mere sight of him, as if that was what kept her going and in truth it was. In the early morning light, she trekked the distance to the jungle where they'd parted. After finding herself alone, and her Roxton gone, she further walked to the ocean's edge. When she spotted no boat nor dingy, she returned utterly deflated to her lowly hut in the middle of a field. She would spend the rest of her day, and those to come, tending to her garden and her small little niche of life. Every day she would travel to the jungle, to the sea, just to come back alone and tired. As the days became longer and her more laden with life the travel became tougher but none the less important. She wouldn't give up this vigil on her hunter, and she would leave a small note in a crevice they pointed out for just that reason. Every day she returned to find note untouched, she fixed the date and replaced it. On the back was Harpy's scribbled dirge to his lost love. It seemed fitting to reuse this most sacred of text.

* * *

Roxton's boat had finally stopped, and this time at land. Mentally he mapped their location, as savage as the system had been. The man would shake himself away at night, just to feel the hull and to see if the directions or currents were changing. Anything could mean lifetime separation from his family. He lived to only see her face again, and to be at her side. When the boat had stopped, he knew where they were, or at least where from Marguerite they were. He was hauled from the ship and placed immediately under strong heavy chains, linked to five other men. He realised then his fate. He was to be a slave, a mindless drone for whatever purpose, his escape was indefinitely postponed. 


	8. Chapter 8

After returning from the daily vigil for her hunter, Marguerite wandered mindlessly through the meadows and jungle terrain of her new habitat. She had plenty of time to spare, the small hut was located by a well established spring of fresh water, and the garden prospered nicely. In truth she was bored. She wondered aloud what happened to Harpy, and to that of Harpy's lover. She hoped that they were together, wherever they might be. The heiress trudged along, the trek made slow and tedious with her size. Her small frame supported a few extra pounds, and her face had taken up an angelic plumpness. When she walked into a clearly the heiress stopped abruptly and placed a hand on her stomach. "Whoa..." was all she could utter while she was being kicked from the inside. It felt weird and alien, but she was overjoyed. She collapsed in the meadow, sprawled out laughing hysterically and crying simultaneously. What is joy without a family to share it with? She sobbed frantically and rationalized it with the fluctuation in her hormones. She wasn't sure when she was due, but it was coming on fast. The baby was as active as the hunter, and as devious as the heiress. In the first moments of sleep, Marguerite would be awakened with the strangest yearnings, for warm water, hot carrots, and especially for coffee. It had been a while since coffee had made an appearance in her life. Almost as long as she'd seen Roxton.

Marguerite recovered moments later, and resumed her walk through the open meadows. She constantly checked her small sidearm, a stolen memento from her hunter. She had dried it out carefully, knowing the value of this small weapon. She checked the sun almost as constantly, making sure to evade nightfall out in the open. She wasn't about to wade through the darkness, watching for dinosaurs and enemies, worrying for two lives. It felt like a piece of her hunter was still with her, and in actuality he was. So she talked aloud as if Roxton was there, in the vein hope that he would answer back. She was beginning to lose hope of ever seeing her hunter again. By the faint scribbles on the earthen walls of her hut, it had been over a month since she relocated, a little under two since she'd seen him. By any calculation Roxton had between three and six months find her, to come home. She knew it bordered far less than three months, but she tried to remain positive, in a blissful arrogant ignorance.

She had been wandering nearly half the day, and was just about to turn around when she spotted truly a godsend. Snaked behind two burly bushes, and closeted by a big tree of some sort, were three scrawny Coffea Canephora (also known as Coffea Robusta) and Coffea Arabica plants. She had found coffee. She nearly let out a shriek of glee as the kid kicked her in the ribs. "Alright, Alright," She said with her hands signally defeat, "Hold you horses" She mused quietly, humming one song or another, while plucking the seeds, and taking a plant for her own garden. She had just palmed the plant when she heard a faint clicking noise at the back of her skull. She didn't need to turn around to identify the sound of a gun.

* * *

They worked Roxton 15 hours a day, and then they beat him soundly for looking suspicious. They beat him for any reason, whatsoever. He was constantly chained to 5 men who couldn't understand him, wouldn't understand him, and clearly weren't too interested in him. His overseers were cruel, forceful, and couldn't care less for the likes of the Englishman. He slept outside in the dirt, with chains to remind him of his captivity. He couldn't forget. Even in his sleep, or some beating fuel stupor, the man saw his Marguerite. He feared she'd be alone, when the time came. Nothing could be worse. It was their first, the utter beginning of their life, and he was missing the important part. He told her he'd never leave her; give his last breath for her. In his arrogance, his stoic nature, he said he'd be there in time. He didn't know how much time he had left, could be months, hell he could be late already. The man lived in ignorant horror. If she was alone when he was needed most, if she was in trouble when he was needed, he could never forgive himself. He'd gaze into the sky, so very late at night, and hoped, mused that they were under the same sky. Clearly distance, chains, enslavement, meant nothing to this man. He would get to his heiress no matter where she was. 


	9. Chapter 9

Upon hearing the click, Marguerite breathed the one name that kept her sane: Roxton. She hoped. She damn near prayed that he was playing some silly joke that it was Roxton behind her with apologises and some good excuse, and a ride home. She turned with tears in her eyes to face her attacker, a very small woman, with a ridiculously big gun. The woman gasped slightly when she saw the shape the heiress was in. Marguerite's hair sprawled savagery across her being, her face dirty, tear-soaked and ravaged by grief and despair, and her clothes, worn and tattered with use and misuse.

Instinctively Marguerite put one hand on her abdomen protecting her child, and the other on her small weapon. When she finally brought her eyes to bear on this petite attacker, her gun was at the ready. The stranger looked her up and down, noticing her shabby clothes although clean from that mornings washings, her round stomach, her hair which now hung down to her hips in easy curls, and the pure fear in her eyes. They both looked frightened. The woman who was much older than the heiress, bordering on elderly but with much grace, had grey tints to her light brown hair. She was dressed in Amazon warrior armour, which had dulled with age and disuse. Her pistol was far from modern, still using flash pot and gunpowder pellets. Marguerite figured she stole it some time ago, everyone needs protection.

"I'm not going to shoot you," the old woman spoke in an old plateau dialect, "just protecting what's mine."

Marguerite let a small nervous smile creep into her lips and then replied in the same dialect, "Same here"

The woman further recounted that she'd been called Cleante, and that she lived just down the way. Marguerite stalled slightly before she was obliged to lie about her lodgings, trust doesn't come easily for some.

-

* * *

Roxton was thrown on the floor and was followed by a rusty pipe with a nail embedded in it, with was subsequently embedded in poor Roxton. He gasped wildly in pain as the steel ravaged his lower leg. One more stitch for Marguerite, he giggled wearily with the fond memories of their near encounters, the way she would lean slightly on him while bandaging, so subtle that the others couldn't notice. The way her scent would waft up to him like a caress, just being near her, just thinking about her, made him feel bulletproof, invincible. As he cried out in pain and angst, the man thought of only one name, one perfect being, his Marguerite.

-

* * *

'You're first?' Cleante asked kindly while they both sipped gingerly at their steaming coffee cups in her small but very quaint house. She had invited the distraught heiress in for a visit, partly in loneliness, partly in sheer pity. Marguerite looked as though the world really could end, and all with this glorious new life around her, in her. The woman really was quite taken with the heiress, or at least the version of the heiress she had portrayed. Marguerite, ever the survivalist, brewed a combination of personality that suited her and betrayed nothing but divine earnestness. She was alone and living by her instincts. She would make no apologies for the lessons life had taught her. Be kind but wary of strangers, memorable but could be forgotten in a moment, never disclose your actual whereabouts, and most importantly never trust those who trust in you. They had kept her alive, they had kept her sane, and she would fall back on them when she had no one else. The hunter was missing in action, she would be her safeguard until he returned, and his everlasting hope has stayed with her. It would always prevail; hope is one illusion worth keeping.

'Yes,' the heiress answered while placing a small hand on her stomach and beaming with such maternal pride, 'one of many" The best liars tell nearly whole-truths and partial emotions.

She had memorized the small home's directions in seconds, able to find it in moments; skills in wartime are never forgotten.

'Although I'm afraid the clothing choices are poor" Marguerite said with a gentle laugh and a kind eye for the elderly lady.

'Oh well then, aren't you in luck? I've had a few myself' Cleante replied while briskly walking around the sitting heiress, and fetching a rather large trunk from the corner of the small abode. She began sorting through all sorts of trinkets, some medicinal, some exceedingly eccentric, some just crap, and then she got to some very moderately and modestly designed clothing. Marguerites eyes widened as her eyes threatened to shed tears once more, and after cursing hormones, John Roxton, and her stomach several times, the heiress thanked Cleante sincerely. Something not often done. She was instantly outfitted in a warriors outfit, although with armour removed, this leaving the heiress in a black button-down shirt that covered a dress or rather a skirt that was very forgiving of the months to come. She was instantly comfortable, and comforted. A simple offering of used clothes, meant the world to an orphan, and this she never and would never forget.

After some more light conversation, involving a lie or two about her "husband" or more aptly named her mate, the heiress departed. She now had an acquaintance, or as Cleante described it, "an everlasting friend". Either way the heiress wasn't purely alone, even if she felt it in her heart.

As she traveled the open meadow, with a basket full of clothes, fruits, and a very large canister of pre-roasted coffee beans, and one of tea, Marguerite rubbed her stomach. She had this gnawing anxiety in her heart, this ever fearful vigilance on solitude, on contentment. The woman missed her hunter. She missed the safety she could only feel when in his presence. The security that came from his being. She was fearful of time, the baby wouldn't wait forever, but Marguerite would. He would find her and the only thing keeping her stationary was the child. She needed to stay and wait, not to go and find. She couldn't and she wouldn't. She would keep her word, just like that of her hunter. He would come for her, in time they would see each other. She knew it in the depths of her soul. Nothing could keep Roxton from her side. She would just have to wait.

-

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

The hunter was thrown savagely back down into the pit that had become his workhorse. He was chained to five men, who in turn were chained to five more. It was a line of workers, all teetering on death, all savagely beaten, all dead inside. Roxton remained constantly hopeful of escape, constantly aware of his surroundings, constantly thinking of Marguerite. The hunter toiled tirelessly day and most of the night, his expertise put to menial labour, knocking rocks together to build a mote of some sort. He didn't care; his only thought was of leaving this impoverished hell. He couldn't understand one man out of the bunch, his captors speaking some sort of crude dialect, without his Marguerite the hunter was deaf to man. He wasn't given tools and he was forced to use his hands, or whatever rock he might find, to dig. Digging was his life. They all dug from morning to night, building the unknown. Their captors drank tea and supped on raptor while the hunter ravaged his hands and soul. They had been digging for what seemed like millennia, these little worker ants.

The hunter figured the thing was most completed, with savage tools and savage captors, time was the only variable. They had dug for almost three miles, from dry lands, through forests and jungles, and finally nearing some riverbed. Roxton still had no idea where they were. Reality had begun to set it. The hunter proposed he had a good three months left of "work" for the ditch to be completed. He hoped he would be set free once the work was completed. He kept this hope, he lived on hope alone.

The day was long and tiresome for the ravaged hunter. He woke at dawn, shoved through the trough along with his comrades, and then beaten until work had begun. He was silent. Inside his mind worked through numerous complexities involved with an escape. He was forever tied to others, even during the most mundane of tasks, sleeping, eating, or using the facilities, the man was never alone. He was tied at once tied to one person, as well as four others. The chains were made steel, or some plateau bastardisation of such, but it was strong and tight. He nicknamed the other prisoners, in order to escape the sheer boredom of his circumstances. Lefty and Righty flanked him, Dirty-Face held the gun, Dirt-bag often kicked him, and numerous others had deemed names. His tired brain worked overtime to calculate some plan of action, of escape.

-

* * *

The heiress stepped out of her small homey compound, dressed to the teas in Amazonian style. She had fixed a few of the outfits, to suit her better, and the outcome was enjoyable. Today she had chosen a light blue ensemble, a sheath adorned with dark blue accents, and a lightweight skirt underneath. She had in fact left her dresses at home. Her hair was left wild and long, she didn't have scissors or a knife for a trim and her mane folded around her stomach. She was leaving for her daily ritual, a trip to the sea, the log, and she was prepared as always. She took her meagre medical supplies in case an injury bound Roxton, a large basket of food, mostly for herself, and her sheer will. It had been countless months since their last meeting. Cleante has visited often and without abandon, the wily old woman deftly followed her home one night and Marguerite ultimately allowed for companionship. They had become friends, but not family. Cleante still believed her husband, the hunter, was off fighting someone or another, doing something or something, and would return shortly. The heiress kept conversation strictly away from that the most delicate of topics. Although, the old woman has the glint of secret knowledge in her eye; Marguerite's situation was not uncommon in the wilds of the jungle. Men are often to leave those they love. They left the topic alone.

She trudged on through the muck that had become her path, her boots wildly uncomfortable, and yet still usable. Considering amazons wear sandals or beaten skin boots, Marguerite was well off. The heiress lifted a large leaf from her green companions, and spotted the great expanse that was the sea. She stepped out into the white sands, and peered into the light blue recesses of water. Dropping her baskets, Marguerite gingerly walked onto the beach and after casting aside her weary boots, the heiress sank thankfully into the wet sands. She sat cross-legged half submerged in the tides, just letting the smooth grip of the water beckon her. She sat there for hours, wishing the tide would bring her hunter and her peace. She finally gave up her vigil when the sun told noon, and the heiress headed towards their log, the last place of their meeting. She walked onwards, her sheer abundance evident in every step, the clock was definitely ticking.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

A cry rang out into the early morning air of the jungle followed by a heavy thunk that resounded off the earthen floor of the little hut. Cleante was moving through the forest, headed for her precious bean plants, when she was greeted by that most awful noise. As the elder woman poked her head into the dense vegetation she was again greeted by that sound; a sound most definitely human. As she placed the small sachet of beans in her pocket another holler rang out. Cleante moved swiftly though the greenery towards the unknown sounds trying to be undetectable if they were unfriendly. As she entered a well-known clearing, she again heard the gut-wrenching cries. Cleante picked up her pace, her silvery hair flowing around her as she crumbled numerous flowers in her midst. She slowed when she finally met the house of her dear friend, that odd little woman of many lies, the raven haired Marguerite. She called out to her while running frantically towards the little sodie. When Cleante had finally entered the small abode, she found a slumped Marguerite frantically clutching her stomach.

-

The hunter smashed his right fist into the skull of unsuspecting guard as he fled half-hazard away from the compound. His partner had died, for reasons Roxton cared not to think about. He had been unchained for merely less than a minute before the man bolted into the night. The captors weren't inhuman; no man would be tied to a corpse. As a bullet crashed into his left knee, the hunter collapsed into a heap of flesh on the jungle floor. He cries for help went unheard as the men rebound and led him back to the pit.

-

Marguerite was in terrible pain. She had been re-dressing after a most glorious mid-day bath in the ocean, when the baby lurched inside of her. She could do nothing but trudge the countless miles back to the small home. When she reached indoors, the heiress buckled from exhaustion and fell to the floor. She could do nothing but scream in agony. _It's__ too soon_. _I can't do this alone. __I won't do this alone. _

When Cleante found her Marguerite was huddled by the bed feverishly muttering something about broken promises and a late Roxton. Cleante was too worried to be confused. She helped the dark-haired lady into the small bed, and examined her. The baby wouldn't wait. As Cleante laid out the medical supplies, Marguerite laid in disappointed anguish a tear visible on her cheek.


	12. Chapter 12

Another shot escaped into the silence of the dreary night, the hunter was being punished. As the bullet ricocheted off the side of his head, Roxton reeled in pain. It had been two months of painful brutality since his first escape. Since then the explorer had escaped three times, all failed miserably. He felt no pain anymore, only the anguish in his heart. He had left her alone, and he had not returned. These thoughts resounded in his psyche daily, and he chanted them like a song only he knew. The man was broken. As they beat his feet with pipes, his captors laughed manically at the fallen servant. '_He would run no more__'_ they chanted in their desolate language, their very cores filled with such hate towards the cowardly runaway. Their blackened-teeth glowed with the light from their small torches. They had the essence of evil. The hunter fell to the floor as they finished the beatings. He was left unconscious and unchained.

When the hunter recovered he found his solitude unreliable. He peered about the small hole he had been thrown into, the only light shinning from the darkened night above. The stars accompanied his freedom, and yet they mocked at his situation. He grabbed a hold of the tree routes and stifled his yelps of pain as his bruised feet climbed the dirt walls. Nearing the top the hunter poked his head above ground, and he noticed that he had been surrounded by the sleeping guards. He tiptoed silently through the hordes of menaces and headed towards the dense safety of the jungle. The hunter traveled what seemed like eternity, in reality it was two days, towards the vast ocean. He slept few and far between, and ran like a wild beast for most. He longed to see his Marguerite. He had let her down when she needed him most, had left her. His heart had not mended a gapping whole only the presence of his heiress could fill. The man was relatively possessed. His feet had healed somewhere along the way, his bullet wounds still ached and bled intermittently but he didn't care. Roxton had to find her.

When he met the sandy borders of the ocean, the man let out a cry of glee. He had traced back their route correctly and he faced his salvation. Roxton ran frantically back to the forest and began the construction most valuable, a boat.


	13. Chapter 13

Hi there, sorry about the lack of writing. Seems that exams and work, and whtever else constitutes a social life really eats into that whole.. writing thing. Anywhoo here we are.. oh and this one is a tad dirtier than the others.. im going in a new direction.. if you like respond.. if you dont respond.. so just respond? hehe.. and i should change the rating but im not sure how so deal with it.

* * *

The unpolished splinters cascaded a multitude of sparkles onto the sleeping head of Roxton. He had fallen asleep again, unconsciously drifting into much needed sleep as he hunched over the beginnings of a vessel. It was half done... it would have been faster if the man knew thing one about building a boat. It had a mast that was mainly cannibalized from a giant redwood that happened to die by lightening. There was no way he could split wood that precisely. The hull was darkened cherry wood or something that resembled it, and sort of clung about in a boat shape. This was a bad sign. The words Lord and boats- smith weren't exactly interchangeable. But he was determined in his destination. He'd forgotten about time and dangers and whatever else inhabited his small section of the island, really he couldn't care less. The ache in his heart never ceased to stop, he was missing the very beginnings of his family and that was never ideal. He never slept long, only relinquishing himself to sleep when exertion demanded it. Or when the boat confused him to no end. Fine details weren't his strong suite; he'd rather go hunting while Challenger focused on the boat building. Not that challenger would build a boat in the middle of the jungle... He missed them too. All of his family, even the ones he hadn't met yet, he missed, he owed. The hunter involuntarily hissed as a splinter dug into his bloodied hand. Splinters often went hand in hand with boat building. He drifted back into unconsciousness and he experienced a moment exempt from pain as his mind drifted back to Marguerite's side.

They were having conversation again, the last time he had a splinter. He was rebuilding the side of the tree house after an unexpected visitor shot arrows at their home. She had cooed him back in, with undue promised in her eyes. He perched soundlessly on the edge of Challenger's desk in his laboratory like a child, playfully swinging his feet in the air. She chided him softly and placed whisper thin kisses on his finger. Roxton feigned a pouting look that didn't make it to the faint predatory look in his eyes. It was one of those moments. The mere moment they held together, in the briefest of solitudes, barely glimpsing past the various facades they ordained as common. Her face brought their lips together as she distracted him entirely. Then in a split second he felt a distinct sharp pain. Marguerite winced slightly as she shirked away while holding the splinter delicately in her fingers. The evil glint in her eye held him in check. He responded by an equally wry look in his eyes, followed by a mirth filled chuckle. He'd play along. He strode up to her confidently his presence sending shivers down her spine. He stopped mere inches away from her, her eyes remained locked with his. He tilted his head to peer down at her. She remained in her place, resolutely. He let out a small huff as his hand tipped her chin towards him. She blinked slowly, as a smile seductively dropped to her lips. Her eyes sparkled knowingly as his own mouth collapsed in a smirk. Their lips sank together as his hand threatened to trail elsewhere. Her laugh disrupted the wildlife as his hands gave up and trailed her body. They had already forgotten about the splinter. "We have time" Roxton whispered into her ear as he trailed wet kisses up Marguerite's neck. She just murmured as hopped up slightly placing her head on his shoulder to give him the same treatment. Her arm was flush against his back to steady her, the other around his neck. Her leg crept up alongside him until it was flush against him and bent at the knee to keep him closer. They had already ungracefully collided with the tree house wall and found that it offered unparalleled support. His hands roamed her body unabashed as he strove to rid her of her clothes. She just gasped sarcastically and raised an eyebrow, sporting the "eager are we" look he loved.

Roxton shook his head a few times to clear the dizzying memory out of his head, before returning to work on the damn boat.


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Roxton cut the ropes that tied the boat to shore. It was finally complete. Time seemed to stretch forwards from that moment; his was finally on his damn way. He packed fruits and dried pig which he caught and slaughtered the night before. Hell he couldn't run on adrenaline forever, although he most certainly tried. The dingy was strong and sturdy, made for two voyages really, to get Marguerite and to get them home.

That was his goal, and there was no alternative.

He floated the boat into the warm tropical waters and climbed aboard with little fanfare. He left the little godforsaken island that had been his salvation really, in search of another godforsaken part of this godforsaken plateau. The map was hastily sketched into the deep recesses of his mind, but it was permanent. His way home, to Marguerite, was always available. He missed her.

The hunters face was plastered into a scene of equal parts tranquility and determination. He had his path, and he was free to follow it. It felt good to be free of bondage, certainly free from slavery, and finally free to search out his companion. It felt like his whole life had abruptly ended when she vanished from his sight, when he left her. She was alone, though not entirely so. He was almost too worried to be curious. Almost. He thought constantly of Marguerite, and their child. He didn't care about anything really, only for them to be healthy, relatively happy, and safe. He knew that not a second went by that she didn't feel the same. That health, and safety were foremost, and happiness couldn't be attained or even feasible without the other's resumed presence. He would make it back.

He followed the path outlined in his mind's eye to a tee. He started to see familiar landscapes, not of his tree-bound home, but of his more savage stay in that sea vessel. The faint churning feeling in his stomach had still yet to settle from that affair. It certainly brought up more... unfavourable memories. But they were still memories, and still to be cherished. Memories of their time spent together were more precious than entire estates of fortune. Estates. The Roxton Estate... it was the unspoken rule between the two. What to do about going home. They had stayed away from such volatile topics on the boat, opting for the ridiculous and mundane to distract instead. _What the bread was made of, or where are my pants? __Instead._Safe, Easy topics that kept everything under wraps, and yet just peeking at the surface. In his mind, if not entirely in hers, he didn't care where they stayed, just as long as they remained as one. One family. One unit. Just damn one. Ideally they would retire to the Roxton Estate at Avebury. That would be ideal. The house was just the right size, with lush forests and sprawling meadows. It was nestled into the rolling hills, and provided just the right amount of safety. But furthermore, it was a family house. And that is what they were. It felt right to Roxton, that they should be, would be together at Avebury.

Together.

He paddled furiously now that he had spotted the small tiny, white sands of the island. He saw the small beach that had become their shelter from the insane rampages of those natives. Rather unfriendly natives at that. He heart skipped a beat as he sailed towards the ever-growing island. Finally he sank down into the silken sands as the tide lapped at his feet. He was giddy with laughter. He had damn well made it. He was victorious. He waded through the waters and then the beach as he made his way to the dense thicket of jungle. He laughed manically as he rounded the familiar terrain with a schoolboy's step.

Then he spotted the tree trunk.

A short gasp escaped him as he retook his place among his memories. The spot where it happened. Where they openly revealed secrets long overdue, feelings, and he left her. The spot where he left her. He couldn't feel his heart beat anymore. The jungle had overgrown the log, and a new tree has sprung forth. It had been that long. The time passed like a fog, never pulling him in or out, never calculating the exact time spent. He felt horrified at his actions. He couldn't have known they'd get caught. They could have been safe, and together. Together and safe...

He palmed the rough nub of the tree while thinking of his next steps. He hadn't really though this through. Get to Marguerite. Well.. yeah. But how? Then his finger brushed past a rough edge of some yellowing paper. It was hidden among the nooks and crannies of the dilapidated tree. He pulled it out, with some force, and sat down to open it further. He peeled back the folds and it was merely puzzling. It was in Zanga tongue.. some weird scribbles that made entirely no sense and then it merely drifted off into torn edges. Where was the linguist when you needed her? His heart ached with his need of her.

He almost crumbled it up in anger but then he noticed the other side. It was Marguerite's handwriting to be sure. Her hand was steady, reasonable letters without overly large flourishes... a reasonable women without too much excess. That was his Marguerite alright. To be damn sure. He'd know her anywhere. And the note read:

_Roxton,_

_If you've found this, then you've made it back. Took you damn long enough. And yes I've waited. _

_- Marguerite_

In a postscript she had earmarked her locations, and where she could be. There were also various dates written and crossed out. So many that he'd lost track of old or new. It was a damn big security risk, in his book. But there was no other way of contact. He now had a new map. So the hunter gathered up his meagre supplies, and headed for the well beaten trail.

Roxton, with note firmly tucked into his breeches, stomped the trail with lead feet. He was bone weary, the adrenaline of the chase finally wearing thin, but his excitement had yet to be diminished. He was met with meadow and forest, alternating one after the other for what seemed like miles. And in this case it truly was. When he came to a large open meadow he instantly froze.

He wasn't alone in that meadow.

A little into the distance he spotted a figure. It was human. And he swore he could hear singing. Not necessarily good singing perhaps but certainly melodic.

He spotted this cascade of black hair, this mane freely flowing in the wind. It swirled about her hips and openly caressed her body. Her face shone with health and vibrancy, her entire body emanated with a glow. She was wearing a light blue blouse and a dark black skirt. This memory was embossed in his brain.

He would never forget it.

He stepped forward and a leaf crunched. Suddenly his vision had disappeared.

He walked further, until he heard the cocking of a gun, and the distinct tones of a warning. The barrel pressed into the back of his skull.

"This is dangerous territory to trespass in"

"I'm quite aware."

John.' and it came out in a whisper. An exhale.

The gun was dropped as Roxton turned around slowly. They were face to face. Instantly studying and memorizing the changes in each other. Instantly renewing their bond.

A small wry smile twitched its way into the heiress' face.

"Took you damn long enough"

His retort was cut short, muffled as she pressed her lips onto his. One of her hands rested on his chest, the other snaked around his neck. His hands were firmly planted at her waist. The kiss was desperate and hunger-fuelled. They only broke contact when air was needed and then only to attack each other once more. Roxton's groans silenced the sounds of held back sobs from the heiress. She would remain in control of her emotions.

Her eyes shone bright as they lost contact for air once more. His lips just planted on her forehead and refused to leave. His hands had moved and pressed her head firmly against his chest while the other secured her backside.

It was a while before they were seduced by their passions once more. The obvious need for each other was evident in their very movement. The fluidity of their movements, the combined actions that allowed them to be as one. They had gained some nerve, or time had lost inhibitions as they giddily ran for a small cave known to be nearby. They made it half way before they found a smaller cove, and gave in. Roxton backed her into the small corner and pressed her up against the flat stone surface. His hands gently placed on her cheeks as his mouth ravaged hers. His sheer need for her was overwhelming every other thought in his head. Her hands were equally as furious with the slow pace. They worked their way into his shirt, half tearing fabric half ripping buttons until the damn thing fell off. Her shirt and various other pieces of clothing made their way into the pile. As she stretched to meet his face dead on, in one fluid movement he lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him. When they were finally joined they let out a collective breath.

* * *

Roxton brushed his fingers on her delicate skin as he buttoned her shirt. Her eyes were closed as he caressed her in the most intimate fashion. He kissed her nose when they had finished dressing and then bent to tie his boot. When he was at her stomach level, he thought of the question which haunted him. 

He pressed his face against her stomach, and kissed her there. He then glanced up, and raised an eyebrow.

"Babysitter" the heiress answered dryly.

A smile replaced the haunted look as the hunter shot up and swung Marguerite in ridiculous circles. He literally hooted and quite rightly hollered as they laughed in free form.

She grabbed his hands and they ran towards the small cottage. They passed the meadows in quick fashion and only stopped short of a small earthly cabin.

"Home, Sweet, Home?" The hunter pecked a small smile towards his heiress, only to receive an eye roll from the beauty.

Cleante?" Marguerite bellowed as they continued the run towards the small sodie. The answer came back in a confusing blend of Plateau dialect and some very colourful curse words. The hunter stood motionless at the gate of the small home. She had found a home and he was intruding. He was the intruder. He did not belong in her new life. He was merely an outsider looking in. The heiress was nearly at the door when she realized the hesitation.

She back peddled with a vengeance and was beside the hunter in no time.

"Something wrong, John?"

"This... This is your home. I shouldn't be .."

"John, our family is inside. Your son is inside, John. And by the sound of things we have a mess to clean. ... And I'll not be doing it alone."

The last sentiment came out soft but stern. The double meaning wasnt lost on either of them. There was a look of determination in her eyes. He agreed with her instantly, she would not be doing anything alone. He kissed her forehead and they linked hands before crossing the threshold.

Upon opening the door, they found a spoiled pot of coffee, a distraught Amazon, and a sleeping toddler.

John's eyes froze as he took in the scene. The small boy couldn't be more than three, and he was sprawled out on the floor, covered by a thick quilt. He was decked out in blue coveralls and he was holding a small blanket. His hair was a light brown like his father's, but the unruly curls clearly denoted his mother. He had this peaceful serene look to his sleeping features, and it was immediately tempered by this unquestionably wry smile forming on his face. He seemed to be constantly scheming some great plan of mischief. By the time Roxton regained thought, Cleante had been sent home with much thanks and promises of details, coffee was back on the brew, and all messes had been cleaned.

Marguerite just stood in front of Roxton after she closed the door behind them.

"Lord John Roxton," Marguerite said in hushed tones as to not wake the little trouble maker, "meet Willie, our son"

Willie?"

"William John." Marguerite confirmed with a soft eye for her hunter. His brother would be remembered in their family.

Marguerite then picked the toddler up soundlessly and sat down on the small chair beside the bed. The boy instantly cradled within the arms of his mother, his face pressed against the bare skin of her neck. He mumbled incoherently, and the heiress seemed to understand perfectly as she nodded along in silent conversation.

The hunter looked stunned as he sat down with a thump on the small bed beside Marguerite. She then got up and sat beside him. The toddler seemed to acknowledge his presence, because he instantly stretched out across the two of them and sighed in content agreement. The hunter just cradled Willie's head, as a smile etched permanently across his features.

All were content.

But just how were they to get home?

* * *

So there we go. After some serious serious issues in the "having time to write a decent chapter" arena.. there we have it. Im thinking of writing the sequal.. meaning but really how do they get home and so forth.. but i may have to be convinced. soo.. convince me!!.. 


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