FENCES part I

By Lex

These characters do not belong to me, but to Telescene. I am just borrowing them for a while. I am making no profit from these little stories, so please don't sue me. I'm poor, anyway.

Instinctively he knew that she would be as uninhibited, as fierce a lover as he himself was. He did not delude himself into believing that she was untouched, inexperienced, but privately he determined that he would be the only lover she would ever know from that night onward.

Roxton was on his back in her bed in the treehouse and Marguerite was riding him, her slim, hard-muscled thighs straddling his hips. He was arching into her, pounding forcefully, growling with the effort, his hands on her hips, his breath ragged in his throat. Her elegant hands rested on top of his, her head and long neck were thrown back, and her face transformed by passion. She was moaning huskily, urging him on; her masses of stormy black hair fell almost to her waist. Her hands left his then, one reaching back to caress the juncture where their bodies met, the other at her own breast. Her smoldering gaze met his, her eyes heavy-lidded. Roxton thought he had never seen anything so erotic in his life.

"Oh, God ... God ... Marguerite ..." he rasped, knowing he could no longer hold back. His callused hands pulled her roughly down to him; he was biting, then kissing, her pale shoulder, her pink tongue was in his ear and he groaned gutturally into her neck as he came.

When they had both regained their breath, and lay sprawled together, limbs entangled, on the bed, Roxton wound a hand in Marguerite's hair. He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned lazily down at her,

"Well?" he said, cocking his eyebrow.

"Well?" she questioned teasingly; he laughed, amused at the mischief in her gray eyes as she mirrored his ex pression almost exactly. "Proud of yourself, John?"

He pretended to polish his fingernails on a nonexistent lapel.

"Shouldn't I be, my love? You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself!"

" I suppose ... " she said consideringly, looking coyly at him from under sooty lashes.

He burst out laughing and commanded her huskily,

"Come here ... " and drew her close. He nuzzled hungrily at her creamy breasts, surprised at the strength of the desire that was so soon again surging through him, and was gratified to hear a noise that sounded almost like a purr emanating from her throat. "You little tigress," he breathed, "You'll be my most beautiful trophy yet!" So engrossed was he in loving her - in her light powdery scent, the feel of her nipple hardening against his thumb, the excitement of his other hand brushing lightly at the curls between her legs - that he did not, at first, notice how completely she had frozen at his words.

"Trophy ..." The ill-chosen word set off loud warning signals in Marguerite's brain, and the protective walls that had only just begun to crumble when she saw the love in John Roxton's eyes were made strong once again. She - and her fortune - were no man's trophy. She would never be that weak, never fall prey to any fortune hunter! More than one man - and one in particular - had sought her company, had convincingly professed his love for her, and had turned out to be interested only in her money. But surely, surely ... Roxton was not like that ...Marguerite cast her mind back to the events of the evening...

She and Roxton had been the only two left around the campfire. Summerlee had long been asleep, and Malone and Veronica were accompanying Challenger on one of his searches for previously undiscovered specimens ... or something. (As usual, Marguerite had not paid very much attention.) The night was very quiet and still, and, for a change, she and Roxton were not engaging in their usual bickering and games of one-upmanship. Marguerite had closed her eyes and rested her head against the tree behind her, and had lost herself in dreams of their eventual return to London. Somehow sensing Roxton's eyes upon her, she had suddenly opened her own, catching him unaware, as he drank in the beauty of her lovely face. Her lips parted in ... surprise? pleasure? For Roxton's heart was there on display, thinking itself safe from her notice: he loved her. For once, his cool, mocking look was gone completely, and in its place was such protectiveness, such unguarded hunger, such love, that she ached to see it. Her defenses were overcome at the sudden assault. And then,

"Yes," she had said softly.

It was the hardest word she had ever uttered in her life.

He had given her his familiar slow grin, but had been unable to quench the fire that flared in his dark brown eyes, and taking her hand in his strong one, had led her into the treehouse.

And now, forgetful of her hands tangled in his thick hair as he kissed his way down her body murmuring words of love and sex, she stiffened, as hurt, shame and rage burned in her. How could she have been so stupid, so weak!!?? How could she have trusted someone to this extent - someone who then confirmed her innermost fears by referring to her casually as his "trophy?!" She was furious at herself and at him. So that when he sensed the change in her mood and looked up at her quizzically, her face was set in her old look of disdain.

"Marguerite? What ..."

"Get out of here ... NOW," she spat.

The look on his handsome face was almost comical.

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me. You thought you had me, didn't you, Roxton? Well, guess what .... I had YOU!" she lashed out at him.

"Marguerite, what the hell are you talking about?" He looked at her as if she had gone mad. "God help me, but I love you ... I'm in love with you, and I remember you once telling me that we needed each other."

Marguerite hardened her heart until she felt like her old invulnerable self.

"Yes, I need you, Roxton, like a cat needs a ball of string ... to play with."

He drew back as if he had been slapped and stared at her. Finally he shook his head and said slowly, as if he didn't much like what he had to say - as if he didn't much like HER, for that matter -

"I once called you a cold customer. I don't think I could have imagined just HOW cold." He turned away and started to dress.

Marguerite's insides were in knots. Oh, God, what was she doing? She swallowed convulsively.

"John ..." she managed to squeeze out. He turned back to look at her, wariness in his shadowed eyes, but the iron bars around her heart, so painstakingly erected over the years, would not let themselves be breached by another word, and she could say no more.

Roxton thought for a moment that he had seen something in her face, something that was calling to him, but his pride prevented him from speaking. And as she sat there, she seemed so unapproachable and arrogant, that he was sure he had been mistaken. Could this really be the same woman as the one who had just minutes ago used her slim fingers to caress him, her tempting mouth to excite him, whose hot breath had fanned his temple as he kissed her neck? He thought despairingly that her capacity for deception and cruelty were remarkable. He loved her; he was trapped like one of the beasts that he himself hunted, but it seemed that his captor had no soul.

He turned and exited the room, deliberately slamming the wooden door behind him, and cursed,

"May God damn you to Hell, Marguerite."

Marguerite gave a short, bitter laugh and said to the closed door,

"Don't worry, John ... He already has."

FENCES II by Lex

"Well, the dinner got a little overdone,"

Marguerite said defiantly, as she slapped down the plates on the wooden table, each one containing a charred hunk of unidentifiable something-or-other. Her tone dared anyone to complain.

"Hell, Marguerite," Roxton said in disgust. "Can't you even cook a meal? You're bloody useless!"

"May I remind you that it is MY money that funded this expedition?" Marguerite looked daggers at him. "If it weren't for me, it never would have taken place. I'd hardly call that 'useless!'"

"And may I remind YOU that if it weren't for your colossal greed, that cave-in would never have taken place, and we would have had a way off the plateau."

"How dare you ..." Marguerite reared up, her hands clenching, white-knuckled, at the table's edge.

"Now, now ..."interjected Summerlee placatingly.

"Well, he is just insufferable!" Marguerite exclaimed indignantly.

"Will you two PLEASE stop picking at each other?" sighedVeronica, exasperation plain on her face. "It's making everyone else miserable."

"Maybe you should direct that comment to Miss Krux," smirked Roxton, "since it she, who, on the rare moments that she deigns to lift a finger to act as anything more than a bank for this group, is, more often than not, the cause of trouble."

"Don't you ever call me that again! Don't you ever speak to me like that again," she sputtered, enraged. And reached out and slapped his face as hard as she could, needing to wipe away that smug look.

"Damn it," Roxton swore, lurching forward with raised hand, as if to slap her right back.

"Go on, Roxton, do it!" she dared him, her chin thrust forward. "We'll see who ends up on the floor!"

"Stop it RIGHT NOW!" Ned jumped between them and grabbed Roxton's arm.

Challenger glanced up from his book, annoyed at the distraction, and scolded,"Can't either of you control yourselves? I suggest you resolve whatever difficulty you are having with each other because the last few days here have been like living in a war zone." Marguerite kept her eyes stubbornly on the floor, tapping her foot rapidly, saying nothing. Roxton, however, was shaking with anger. "You bitch," he retorted bitterly, his eyes filled with a cold fury. " I've had enough of you; we all have."

Marguerite's head jerked up at this; to everyone's surprise, her gray eyes and long black lashes were glittering with unshed tears. "Do you think I care," she forced out between gritted teeth, her voice shaking in an effort to sound unmoved. "Do you think I need you - any of you?" Impatiently dashing away a teardrop that had broken away and was sliding down her cheek, she fled the treehouse.

The others stood in stunned silence. No one could quite bring themselves to look at Roxton, who stood with heaving chest, fists balled at his sides.

After what seemed like an eternity, he swore, turned on his boot heel, and strode over to his room, where he slammed the door behind him.

Half an hour later, Summerlee knocked at Roxton's door, and, receiving no answer, entered. He found Roxton sprawled in a chair by the crude desk, a near empty bottle of whiskey and an empty glass nearby. He did not look up. Summerlee, grimacing at the reek of liquor that pervaded the room, quietly approached Roxton and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"John," he said gently, "I think perhaps you were a bit harsh with Miss Krux. She really did try her best with that dinner ..."

"I don't care about the bloody dinner!" snapped Roxton.

"I know," said Summerlee kindly. It's the would-be chef about whom you care, isn't it, my boy?"

Roxton laughed darkly. "Is it that obvious?" He took a swig of whiskey from the bottle, after which Summerlee gently removed both it and the abandoned glass from Roxton's reach.

"Ah ... well, aside from the obviously ... er ...rather incendiary relationship that seems to exist between the two of you, the other night, I ... er ... er ...well, it is a small house, John, and the walls are not thick, you see, and I am a relatively light sleeper ... and ... well ..." Summerlee was flustered; his face was a bright red, his hands fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt.

"And you heard us arguing." Roxton finished for him.

"Yes, among other things," admitted Summerlee wryly.

Thankfully, Roxton ignored the professor's last comment, and turned to look at Summerlee, a look of hopelessness on his face. "What do I do now - just what the hell do I do now?" he demanded. "I love her and now she knows it. I had begun to feel as if ... I thought that maybe she ..." his voice trailed off.

"That she might return your feelings?'

Roxton sighed ruefully. "I don't know - I was obviously dead wrong."

"Oh, I am not so sure about that," Summerlee smiled knowingly, "take some advice from someone who has been on this earth a good while longer than you have: your love may not be in vain."

"Come on, Summerlee, you see how she treats me, how self-centered she can be."

"Yes, and also how brave, how intelligent, how loyal and resourceful. You know, John," Summerlee continued conversationally, changing tack and pulling up a chair next to his companion, "Marguerite is rather a complicated person." He paid no attention to

Roxton's sarcastic snort, and went on, "And she has led a very lonely, independent life. I don't believe that she's ever had any practice or experience at any form of loving relationship at all. From what I know of her history, her parents showed no interest in her nor did they show her any affection. The only attention she has ever received has been due to her fortune. She has, unfortunately, come to be distrustful and at least superficially hard-hearted, since all she has ever been able to rely on is herself. She most likely has had to deal with sycophants her whole adult life, who see her hand in marriage as nothing more than a sound economic investment, a prize or trophy of some sort..."

"Oh, Christ." Roxton, chagrined, closed his eyes. "I know what happened ... it was something I said ... that little idiot, how could she have thought I meant ... where is she now, Summerlee?"

"Actually, I am not sure. She hasn't yet returned, so Challenger and Malone have gone out to find her."

"She's out there alone, at night? I had better go look for her, although I sympathize with any raptor who meets up with that woman. She packs a mean punch," he tried to joke, despite his concern. He grabbed his rifle and hurried outside. "Oh, and

Summerlee ... thank you."

"Go and find her, my boy," whispered Summerlee, a smile on his kindly face. "And bring her home safely to us."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Roxton went rapidly through the jungle growth, his sharp eyes searching for signs of Marguerite's passage. He started to call her name, but stopped bemusedly when it occurred to him that, with the anger she was feeling, the sound of his voice might very well drive her further off. All of a sudden, the utter absurdity of the situation struck him, and he couldn't help but chuckle, worried as he felt. Here he was, Lord John Roxton, head of one of the oldest families in England, highly sought-after and titled candidate for marriage among London's social set, chasing through the jungle after a woman who had not only decked him, but who would actually flee at the sound of his voice!

After his brother's (murder) ... no, ACCIDENT, he firmly told himself ... Roxton had immersed himself in one dangerous and wild adventure after another, in truth not particularly caring if he lived or died. Until Marguerite. His Marguerite. He had never met a woman like her. Her beautiful body haunted his dreams on an almost nightly basis, she could drive him into a towering rage with her willful stubborness, or evoke a flood of tenderness in his heart. She had the courage of a lion, she was very smart, and, sweet Jesus, was she sexy!

Of course, he regretfully reminded himself, it had not always been positive. She was the most infuriating, ornery, sharp-tongued woman he had ever known, and sometimes it seemed to him that she fought him at every turn. One minute she would demonstrate concern and affection for him, the next, she would sear him with a scathing insult or scornful look. Her moods could suffer a sea change from moment to moment; it was as if she had two natures - a warmer human one and one with an armor plating adapted for protection - that were at war within her, and he thought that was probably the key. He was determined to destroy that armor plating. But he was not used to feeling this way, and he often found himself resorting to bluster and shouting, leaving him feeling foolish afterwards. But despite all this, or possibly because of it, he had never felt so exuberantly alive.

After their initial fiery meeting, they had forged, over the months, a relationship, each gradually letting down their guard a small piece at a time, their appreciation of each others' company growing. They had suffered numerous setbacks as their pride and their tempers had caused the new-made affinity to falter. But something had continued to draw them closer and closer together, and Roxton found that he had fallen deeply in love with this lovely, vibrant woman, even as he was often shocked at her greed and self-interest. But those incidents of selfishness had become fewer and farther between, and Roxton had begun to hope that the warm and loving nature he was confident she possessed was reasserting itself against the protective coating she had donned.

One night, he had inadvertently slipped up, and had allowed her to witness the strength of his feelings for her, and then, unbelievably, they had made love. Just thinking of that brief time together made him hard, and his eyes darken with passion. He recalled, with a jolt of desire, the absolute abandonment, the unequaled ecstasy, he had experienced as she knelt gracefully in front of him and took him in her mouth. His hands had stroked her face and tangled themselves in her luxuriant hair as her soft lips engulfed him. The tickle of her hair at his thighs, the musky scent of her arousal perfuming the air, had excited him tremendously; he had helplessly moaned her name over and over, intersticed with incoherent and erotic exhortations, so blunt and lust-filled that he was sure he would be mortified if he ever remembered exactly what he had said. Later, as he had thrust into her slick, warm inner passage, he had almost come right then, she sheathed him so tightly and felt so sweet. When they finally climaxed together, he could only describe what he felt as delirium. He had never dreamed it could be like that and he told her so. Her wide eyes and a seldom-seen look of uncertainty and wonder on her face had told him she agreed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now he at last caught a glimpse of her; she was tugging at her long skirt which had caught on a mesh of branches. She was cursing, richly and profoundly; she could avail herself, when she wanted to, of the foulest language that Roxton had ever heard a lady use. She looked so mad, stamping her foot like a child, her face flushed and tears of rage filling her eyes, that his heart went out to her. As he approached, he felt a stab of pity for her - her sterile and solitary childhood, the years of discipline at the cold convent schools, for the inner sensitivity that she tried so hard to hide from everyone ... and then she turned, saw him coming, hauled off and punched him squarely in the jaw.

"HEY," he yelped, shocked out of his warm reverie, "What the hell is wrong with you??!!" He was so ... so ... he didn't know WHAT he was. His mouth opened and closed, open and closed again, but no words came out. A part of his brain detachedly thought that he must look rather like a fish. He glanced wildly around and raked a hand through his dark hair; this woman would drive him to insanity. He was sure of it.

Marguerite, having successfully freed her skirt, looked at his stupified face. Her hurt and anger ebbed. Two qualities, she realized, that she could not ascribe to Roxton were cruelty and skill at deception. She had to admit to herself that she had acted in haste and wild self-defense, starting with the quarrel of the other night. And now, well, the look on Roxton's face was priceless, she thought. He was turning such a lovely shade of red. The corner of her mouth twitched, once and again, and she desperately suppressed a giggle. But not for long. She tried in vain to control herself, to stifle the laughter rising inside her, but it finally burst forth and she bent almost double in her mirth.

He looked completely taken aback by her laughter. "You are the most infuriating woman ..." he finally got out, when the rest of his words were silenced by her lips on his. Christ, he thought to himself, what's next, a knife between my ribs? But even as he thought this, he was kissing her back, gripping her slender form so tightly that later she would show him the bruises on her waist and shoulders, ramming his knee in between her legs and his tongue into her open mouth. She moved against his leg, stroking herself against the muscular thigh and breathed an apology - an apology!! Marguerite!!! - into his ear, her hands tearing at the buttons on his shirt.

Roxton's head was spinning. With an iron will, he tore away from her lithe and welcoming body and gasped out, "Wait ... no, I mean it, just wait." He stepped back with Herculean effort.

She gazed at him with smoky eyes and a wicked smile. "What's the matter, John? Glass jaw?"

He looked determinedly away from that gorgeous mouth, wanting to clarify things between them. "Look, Marguerite. I think I know why you ... well, what happened the other night. I am so sorry that I used the word that I did, and that it hurt you or caused you to doubt me, but you must know how I ..."

She scowled, and interrupted, "I don't want to talk about this."

"But I do, and for once you're going to listen to me without an argument. I mean it, Marguerite," he cautioned, as he saw her mouth opening to object, "be quiet." He exhaled loudly. "Marguerite. I want to make it perfectly clear that the feelings I have for you are in no way influenced by your money or any other self-interest. You can't have known me all this time and still believe that I am capable of that sort of treachery, even if others in your life HAVE been. At least, I hope you can't. Can you actually think me so low?" He tried to look directly into her eyes, but she avoided his questioning gaze by averting her face. So he held her chin and forced her to look at him. "Can you? Do you find me such a bastard as to make love to you for any other reason than that I adore you?"

She tried to jerk her chin away but his hold was unrelenting, so she straightened her shoulders and faced up to him. "I ... I don't know," she admitted with difficulty. "I don't think so but ..."

"Oh, God - Marguerite, oh, come here, love." He held her closely. "You are the only woman I have ever loved and I can't live without you - of course, sometimes I feel like I can't live WITH you either," he jested, trying to coax a smile out of her. He was rewarded when she gave him a small grin and rolled her eyes. "I love you for yourself." He cradled her head on his shoulder. "And to prove it, you could donate all your money to charity and I still ..."

"WHAT? Give away all my money?!!" came an outraged squawk from the head resting on his shoulder. "Are you crazy? I'll try to believe you without resorting to such drastic means, John!"

"Oh, my dear, I do cherish your greedy little heart," laughed Roxton. "And I'll make you mine even WITH your money! Feel better?" he asked fondly.

She grinned up at him and said flirtatiously, "We'll see, John, we'll see," and pulled his head down to hers.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next morning, Roxton arose very early but found Marguerite already gone from the treehouse.

Looking outside for her, he saw by her footprints that she was heading for the pond. He followed her, annoyed . The woman was utterly exasperating; there was a rule about venturing off alone to bathe in the pre-dawn hours, when wild animals were most likely to come to drink, but this rule, like almost everything else that crossed her will, was apparently being blithely ignored. He saw her approach the pond's edge and look furtively around. Roxton, who had intended to confront her, could not help himself from stopping, concealed, just to watch her as she undressed. Her blouse and camisole discarded, she unbound that glorious hair, and bent to slide her skirt down over her hips. In his mind, Roxton traced the line of her shapely back with his tongue, while she writhed and purred underneath him. (He just melted at that satisfied little sound she made when they were together and he was pleasing her.) She stepped decisively into the cold water; no hesitation, no one-bit-at-a-time for his Marguerite! Fascinated, he watched as she crouched to wet her hair and then tossed it back in a shining arc over her shoulders.

She stood with her back to him, waist-deep in the opaque water, as he came silently up behind her. Running his lips along her neck, he reached around to cup her breasts.

"Why, George," Marguerite said demurely, stepping back, deliberately coming in contact with Roxton's groin.

"What??!" barked Roxton, spinning her around. Seeing the teasing smile on her face, he half-growled at her, half-laughed - and impulsively pushed her completely underwater. She came up choking and gasping for air, pushing the masses of heavy hair from her eyes. Concerned, he moved closer to her, only to be instantly dispatched on his own sub-marine journey. But he did manage to pull her down with him. When they surfaced, they were both laughing and Roxton said, pulling her against his hard chest, "You'll be the death of me yet, woman."

She sobered instantly. "Don't say that, John." And then in a lighter tone," I would miss you if you weren't around." She ran a finger along the line of his jaw, loving the feel of his skin.

"Marguerite, I will always be around to look after you and care for you ... even though I know, of course, that you don't need looking after," he added hastily as he sensed her imminent objection. "Anyway, you may drive me to the madhouse, but you complete me, and make me happier than I have ever been. I love you."

"I ... I ... " she licked her lips nervously, unable to bring herself to say the words he wanted to hear - years of training were hard to break - but Roxton, looking at her expressive eyes, already knew. Her face said it all. He drew her head to his shoulder and said tenderly, "Never mind, love. You'll tell me when you're ready," and kissed her hair.

Marguerite smiled gratefully against his broad shoulder and thought to herself that one day soon she might, just might, tell him that she loved him too.

END