This story is dedicated to Theresa – thanks so much for your thoughtful advice and encouraging comments. L.

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It was late, too late for him to still be awake, but Roxton found himself unable to sleep. He turned onto his left side, then flipped onto his back, then impatiently back to his right side. He concentrated on clearing his mind but it was useless. The images of Marguerite, sultry and exciting, which were haunting him would not be exorcised. He visualized the swan-like neck, so recently caressed by his hungry lips, the half-closed eyes and sex-drugged expression on her face as she sucked each finger on his hand into her mouth, and then slowly kissed his palm and his wrist. Oh, God. 'This is ridiculous,' he thought, in desperation. 'Why can't we be together tonight?' Summerlee had positively beamed at the two of them when they had returned to the treehouse this morning at dawn, both soaken-wet from their encounter at the pond, unable to look away from each other. Veronica and Malone would have no objection, and Challenger, so intent on his experiments, would probably never even notice. And it wasn't as if he and Marguerite had a viable alternative; there was no priest around the corner to give them the blessing of marriage. Otherwise, Roxton would marry her in a minute. He pictured Marguerite, stunning in a white veil, walking toward him; then he pictured himself lifting that veil and kissing her mouth. He shivered as desire coursed through him.

That did it. With a curse, he slipped out of bed and walked silently into the little room where Marguerite slept. He was a bit nonplussed to see her slumbering peacefully, when he had been kept awake by thoughts of her, but, after all, he was a man, and men were more subject to that sort of thing. Anyway, she looked like an angel, in her lacy white camisole, her hair soft about her shoulders, and both hands tucked under her smooth cheek. 'Angel?' He considered fondly that perhaps there was no more inappropriate description and rubbed his jaw, still quite sore, where she had punched him. Recalling her passionate apology made him remember why he had come to her room now; he grinned and got into bed beside her.

Marguerite's eyes flew open and she gasped in surprise. "Sh, sh," he whispered frantically. "Don't scream, it's me."

"Roxton," she hissed at him, inexplicably pulling the sheet up to her neck. "What are you doing here? You'll wake everyone else up!"

"I'll be quiet, if you will. Besides, Marguerite, I … I just wanted to be with you."

The fierce look left her face and she smiled warmly at him – a genuine, sunny smile, and Roxton was enchanted. "You're beautiful," he whispered and kissed her, hard. Her hands crept up around his neck. His breathing quickened as her mouth opened under his; his impatient hands pushed the camisole's straps off her shoulders, and the rest of the garment below her breasts. Soon his mouth followed the path his hands had blazed. His ear was over her rapidly-beating heart, its pounding evidence of her arousal. Marguerite was pulling imperiously at his hand, directing him to where she wanted him to touch her, and bit her lip to stifle a moan as Roxton obeyed, and reached down to roughly stroke her between her legs.

He was literally shaking with wanting her, but he took a moment to prop himself up on his elbows above her, so he could savor the beguiling picture she presented. Her face was flushed, she was actually biting her own hand to keep from crying out, and her eyes, well … he could swear it would be possible to dive right into them. He stared, transfixed. Until …

"Roxton! Don't take all night!" panted Marguerite.

Roxton looked smug, inordinately pleased that he was able to stir such passion in her. "Patience is a virtue, Marguerite … OW! HEY!!"

"Oh, shut up, and come here, Roxton!"

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Afterwards, Marguerite lay curled up next to Roxton, purring contentedly in the circle of his arms. He kissed her hair, her shoulder, nipped at her ear. "I meant what I said, you know … you are very beautiful. You remind me of a poem:

' She walks in beauty, like the night

She lay rapt, listening to his low voice.

He paused. "I have to stop here."

"Why? Did you forget the rest?"

Veronica looked suspiciously after him. "Hmmmm …"

"What is it?"

"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say…"

She was interrupted by Marguerite's entrance; she looked pale and tired, and sat down at the table without saying anything.

"You'd say what, Veronica?" queried Malone, who was not a master of tact.

"I can't remember," the blonde said shortly, signaling to Ned to be quiet.

"You were going to tell us why you thought Roxton seemed so happy this morning. Is there some good news we all should know?" Ned chattered on, oblivious to the awkward silence.

"I don't know, maybe he found a new way to play with his guns or something," mumbled Veronica hurriedly. "Come on, Malone, let's get going. We promised Challenger we'd bring those rocks to the lab and he's waiting."

"OK, I'm on my way."

Summerlee bade them goodbye, and then turned to look, disturbed, at Marguerite. She was certainly not glowing with good spirits as Roxton had been. Her eyes remained downcast, hidden by her lashes, as she picked fitfully at the slices of fruit in front of her. The professor gazed at her drawn face with compassion. 'Poor girl,' he thought. 'She has been dealt a hard hand.' He felt very protective of Marguerite, almost like a father, difficult and selfish though she could be. He was in fact rather angry with her true parents, who had virtually abandoned her as a very young child to a succession of strict convent schools. They had done untold damage by their neglect, damage that had only been added to over the years. Now Roxton was lovingly offering her a chance at a new life. But this lady was not easily won, the harm not easily repaired. Summerlee was afraid that, without his own assistance, Roxton's open and whole-hearted invitation might be withdrawn in injured pride, if met by Marguerite's defensive tactics.

Summerlee sat down next to her. "My dear," he said gently, and then, as she started to rise, covered her tapering fingers with his own. "May I help with whatever it is that is bothering you, that is clouding those pretty eyes?"

At the tenderness in his voice, Marguerite felt the knot in her chest, which had been tightening inexorably ever since Roxton's departure from her room last night, melt away. Appalled at her own weakness, but unable to help herself, she burst into tears.

"Oh, my. Oh, my dear girl." Summerlee fussed and dabbed futilely with his handkerchief at her copious tears. "Oh, my." At this, Marguerite broke into absolutely heart-wrenching sobs, which wracked her whole body, and Summerlee gave into his paternal instincts. He drew her onto his shoulder and wrapped her in his supporting arms. He patted her long hair and whispered, "there, there," and other inanities, until her sobs died down to gulps, and then to sniffles. "Here – blow," he suggested, holding the handkerchief to her nose. She did so, and then gave him a watery, tentative little smile. "Do you feel better now, my dear?" he asked kindly.

Marguerite, to her surprise, realized that she did indeed feel a bit better. She nodded, but kept her head on his shoulder as she played with the lapel on his linen jacket, which was now stained with her tears. She felt that she would like to stay there forever, far from all the decisions and choices pressing in on her, threatening the self-sufficiency on which she prided herself, and the new demands they brought to her life. Perhaps, if her father had cared, this is what he would have done for her. It felt … nice, she decided.

"Now, my dear. Please tell me what the trouble is. Is it … is it Roxton?" he ventured hesitantly.

Marguerite, startled, looked up at him. "Why would it have anything to do with him?" she flared defensively. But Summerlee's genial eyes made her ashamed to lie to him, so she nodded reluctantly. Then, again, mortifyingly out of control, she let all the doubts and fears that had been tormenting her spill out.

Summerlee listened gravely. When he was sure she was finished, he shook his head and said mildly, "I am sure that you do both yourself and Roxton an injustice, my dear. Neither one of you is as shallow … oh, Roxton! Hello!"

Roxton, still whistling, still off-key, approached them, hands in his pockets. Seeing Summerlee's arm draped around Marguerite's shoulder, he winked roguishly at the older man. "What's this, Summerlee? Stealing my girl?"

Summerlee smiled in spite of his concern. Roxton was like a new man. The burden of guilt which had sometimes seemed to add years to his age, and made him quick to anger, had apparently vanished, although Summerlee knew that something as drastic as that did not happen overnight. But for now, Roxton's wide grin was infectious, and Summerlee could not help but return it in full. "An old man like myself wouldn't provide much competition, I'm afraid! Otherwise, I just might try my luck! Now, come on both of you … we all have work to do." Whatever problems were going to obstruct the relationship between Marguerite and Roxton would have to be dealt with at a future time … but, Summerlee vowed, he would assist them as best he could.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART II