Chapter Text
1919
The tea salon was almost empty. Most passengers aboard the ocean liner on its way from New York to Para had opted for a stroll on the promenade deck to enjoy the late afternoon sun. The intense bustle of activity that had marked the first days of the journey had finally settled into something of a routine.
In less than a week’s time, the Atlas would arrive in Manaus, where the members of the Challenger expedition would stock up on supplies and obtain the last of their equipment. From there, they would continue upriver and north into the mountains, and onwards to…God only knew where.
From England to Brazil in just over three weeks – the speed of modern transport still astonished John Roxton. But as far as the English Lord was concerned, they couldn’t arrive at their destination soon enough.
Roxton had been part of several expeditions in his life and had travelled extensively across Asia and Africa. More importantly, he knew South America well and had a great appreciation for the continent. He had been up the Amazon River twice before and knew that anything, truly anything, was possible in this part of the world. And he loved the very thought of it.
Restless as he was, Roxton had joined Challenger’s mad quest on a whim, barely a month after having returned from Uganda. He had taken a lease on a place in Scotland for the summer, just days before, knowing deep down that he had no intention of staying in Britain for any length of time.
He couldn’t stay. He had to keep moving.
In his life, Roxton had tried everything from boxing to mountaineering to flying aeroplanes, had brushed up against death on multiple occasions, had even seen the depravity of war. And while some of these experiences had been truly extreme and not worth repeating, nothing had ever felt enough. A brief rush, followed by a vast, terrible emptiness.
Challenger’s expedition, however, promised to be a different kind of game. The idea of a forest near the size of Europe, full of creatures few men had ever seen, a sporting risk in every mile of it – now that was the salt of existence.
And as far as sporting risks were concerned, he was looking at yet another one.
He found her sitting by herself at a table in a sunlit corner of the salon, one of Challenger’s notebooks and a cup of tea in front of her. She was reading, and her face bore an expression of intense concentration that isolated her from everything around her.
The dark masses of her hair were pinned up, revealing her neck.
‘You are not what I expected.’ Those had been her first words to him, spoken right after they had left Challenger’s lecture at the London Zoological Society. To say that the feeling had been mutual would have been an understatement. And once she had demonstrated her skill with a rifle, he knew that he would need to abandon any preconceived notions he might have had about the woman.
Not that they had spoken much after that. In fact, throughout their journey so far, she had been careful, indeed very careful, to avoid both him and Malone, the American journalist. After they had left Southampton, she had mostly stayed in her cabin. He had suspected seasickness at first, but when she had emerged after several days out on the Atlantic, she seemed relaxed and glowing with health, disproving that theory.
From what he had been able to observe, he had to concede that she at least appeared to be well-travelled. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for women to follow their husbands to the farthest reaches of the British empire, or to emigrate on their own, searching for a better life in a new world. But a lady going on an expedition as hazardous and uncertain as this one was virtually unheard of.
In recent days, she had occasionally joined Challenger and Summerlee over dinner, listening to the two scientists’ fierce arguments with an amused smile. It was clear that both men were as perplexed by her as he was but seemed to have come to appreciate her company.
“Geology”, he had heard her answer when Summerlee had enquired about her main field of study. And, more quietly, “Linguistics.”
It made sense, he supposed. In New York, during the transfer of their equipment from one ship to another, he had heard her speaking to one of the officers in precise Portuguese, then later giving instructions to some of the crew in the more open, melodic vowels of the language’s Brazilian version. While he himself did not have a particular ear for these things, he was familiar enough with this particular language to perceive her shifting tones, how she adjusted herself to her counterparts.
And indeed, their gear had been moved without a hitch. In fact, so far, everything on their journey had been expertly organised, and he began to suspect that she might have contributed more to that than just the financing.
Still, he maintained that the Amazon River was no place for a lady.
He wondered whether she would be making good on her promise to dress appropriately.
This afternoon, she was wearing an embroidered silk blouse, a fabric fine as spiders’ webs, and a floor length, wine-coloured skirt, which admittedly was fitting attire for a woman travelling in first class.
And yet, she looked out of place.
She herself seemed unaware of her own strangeness in her surroundings. Rather she was cloaked in self-assurance, smug and radiant.
It was not often that he regretted his disinterest in London society. He had repeatedly searched his memory for a Marguerite Krux, had even asked around. One would have assumed that a woman of such significant fortune would be known, would be moving in certain social circles, would be leaving a trace of herself. But nothing. No one had ever heard of her, it seemed. Unless of course, she wasn’t who she claimed to be. Still, she did seem familiar somehow; he just couldn’t place her. And that made him uneasy.
Approaching her quietly, Roxton glanced at Challenger’s notebook. A rough sketch of a map, and pages filled with chicken scratch writing. Always pleased to offer his insights, the scientist had been delighted to share his research with their mysterious benefactress, despite the fact that his excessive elaborations and impromptu lectures often drew sarcastic commentary from her.
Whatever was in that notebook seemed to have indeed captured her attention, for she did not notice him approaching. Eyes cast down, she was taking notes on a separate sheet of paper. Her own handwriting was elegant and flowing.
A thrill flickered through him.
He pulled up a chair across from her, noisily, startling her out of her concentration. She drew in a breath, her eyes widening. Within seconds, her expression had composed itself again.
“Lord Roxton”, she gave him a sardonic smile. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“Miss Krux.”
Up close, her beauty was startling.
Large, bright eyes and flawless skin. Delicate features with a slight angularity that made her face even more compelling to look at. She was one of those languid women, who could be both smooth and sticky at the same time, taking control of a room with a single gesture.
There was something thrilling in it. Something menacing, too. She knew how to wound.
In his chest, his heart began to beat faster.
“I see you have an interest in Challenger’s work.”
She gave him a measuring look.
“Naturally”, she replied, raising an eyebrow. “Why else would I be here?”
Roxton smiled. He had not expected her to walk into his trap so easily.
“An excellent question. Why are you here?”
Her large eyes narrowed, her annoyance immediate and obvious. The image of a snake getting ready to strike flashed through his mind. This was promising to be good.
“I’m here because I funded this expedition. I’m merely looking after my investment.”
“But why?” he asked. “You did not spend all this money in the pursuit of scientific discovery, that’s for sure.”
Where had she picked up that hard stare?
“Lord Roxton, this is the twentieth century. Is it so impossible that I could be on a quest for knowledge, just as much as Challenger or Summerlee are?”
“It is not”, he admitted. “But that’s not quite the truth, is it?”
She put down her pencil.
“What makes you say that?” The question sounded genuine.
“You refusing to give me a straight answer, for one.”
“But why does it matter to you why I’m here?”
“Your motivations are of interest to me.”
“And how are my motivations any of your concern?”
‘Because I don’t trust you’, he thought. ‘Because I want to draw you out.’ And, ‘Because I want you.’
“The safety of the whole party is my concern. I understand everyone else’s ambitions, but yours remain a mystery. And that is a potential risk.”
Something passed between them then. A shift in power. She gave him a slow, dazzling smile.
“The safety of the whole party? When exactly was that duty assigned to you?”
She reached for the China pot and poured herself more tea.
He stared at her lips, closing around the rim of the porcelain cup.
“Truth is, Miss Krux, I have a feeling that you would sell us all down the river first chance you got.”
His tone was harsher than he had intended, but her smile only widened. He felt anger rising inside him. The woman knew how to prick him, that was for certain.
“My, my! Is this how you perceive me, Lord Roxton?” she laughed a little. “Well, rest assured, it would not be in my interest to jeopardise the success of this expedition. I think South America is one of the richest and most wonderful bits of earth on this planet, and people don’t know yet what it might become one day. I just want my share in it. And besides”, she said, her gaze briefly dropping low. “You already know that I can take care of myself.”
The swiftness of her movements, the wood splintering as the bullet hit the writing desk, barely an inch away from him. His muscles tensed at the memory.
Marguerite put down her cup. Her wrists were delicate, but there was a spryness to her.
“I don’t doubt that for a moment. I believe it’s the rest of us who need protection from you.”
“You might be right!” Her voice was merry. “But you shouldn’t have too much trouble with that, either. You got the equipment and the guns you wanted, didn’t you? Bland’s .577 axite express – some excellent shooting metal indeed, top of the line, particularly suited for big game hunting in tropical climates. And enough ammunition for a small army, besides.”
“Yes, and we might have every need of it. You’ll have to hold your gun straight in these jungles, and unless our friend the Professor is a madman or a liar, which I don’t believe, we may see some strange things before we are back.”
Their eyes met. She seemed to hesitate, unsure of what to do.
Then, she pulled something from between the notebook’s pages. It was a much-handled, off-colour photograph. It showed the outlines of a beast he had thus far only seen as illustrations in books, or as piles of bones in a museum. The picture was too dark to serve as any sure proof but was indicative enough of what might be waiting for them. A Tyrannosaurus Rex.
“Do you think it’s real?”
They both leaned in, studying the photograph.
“I believe it’s a possibility”, he said after a moment’s deliberation. “And to be honest, where we are headed, nothing would surprise me.”
“Do you think it is possible to take down such a creature with a rifle? Even one big enough for shooting rhinos and elephants?” For a moment, she sounded worried.
She had skillfully steered the conversation away from herself, he noticed with some irritation, but the point she had raised was a relevant one.
“Hard to estimate”, he admitted. “I guess we will find out.”
“We’ll get the remaining equipment we need from the Pereira da Pinta company in Para. I have worked with them before. Let me know if there is anything else we’ll require.”
She was all business now; her voice having lost its teasing edge. Strange, he thought, how easy it was to conspire with her.
He looked at her and noticed a few dark tendrils had escaped her coiffure.
To touch her hair, her skin. To kiss her.
Desire, so sure and so sharp, it was startling.
Abruptly, he stood and buttoned his jacket. She looked up in surprise.
“I’ll let you get on”, he said. It was difficult to keep his expression neutral. Then, he remembered something. A little trick to regain the upper hand. He wanted to rattle that self-confidence a bit.
“It just occurred to me that we have never been formally introduced.”
She blinked, then laughed. “I did not have the impression that you particularly valued etiquette. Besides, we have known each other for weeks now.”
“Well,” he said, smirking, “the first time we met, you shot at me.”
“I had a point to make”, she gave him another smile.
Again, that delightful thrill. She seemed to him both luminous and dangerous, and stocked in him emotions that were equally ambivalent. He loved it terribly.
“You certainly made it.” He held out his right hand. “Lord John Roxton.”
She hesitated. Then, a firm handshake. “Marguerite Krux.”
He held her hand, for one heartbeat, for two. She held his gaze. A shiver went up his spine.
“I will see you at dinner”, he smiled at her and turned to leave the salon. This wasn't the end of it. Far from it.
‘Give me a gun to hold, wide open land, and something worth finding’, he thought. ‘And it will be alright.’
Roxton softly clenched his fist. Where she had touched him, pleasure was like heat in his hand.