How does one measure a man?  By the depths of his wallet, the height of his stature or the breadth of his shoulders? 

Here was John Roxton, a man who cared little for his own safety, and would risk everything to rescue a woman whom he hated.  Or, at least, it was supposed he hated.  As the months wore on and the bickering increased, so did the care that could be measured in the underlying tone of the words, in the looks that were traded when no one was thought to be watching. 

She had told him not to make her his personal crusade, but, stubborn man that he was, he did not listen and, instead, continued to push her for more.  His questions, unlike Malone's, probed her past, forcing memories long hidden under woolen cloaks to materialize unbidden and sit as some sort of uninvited guest in her mind. When their sparring turned to gentle flirting, she began to see him as more than a hunter and adventurer.  He had assumed the role of her protector.  Self-appointed and though highly unnecessary in her opinion, as they evaded raptors and head hunters alike, she had come to rely on him and welcomed the knowledge that he was always only few feet away with rifle or pistol at hand. 

But slowly, her protector became something more; something she couldn't categorize.  He was more than a friend though not yet a lover, for some damn thing or another always seemed to interrupt them moments before their lips could even meet.  He was a confidant -- or at least as much as she would allow.  But mostly, he was "John."

He was one of the few men who dared to scale the wall she had so methodically constructed around her heart and for no other reason than because he cared about her.  About Marguerite, the woman.  Not Marguerite, the heiress, nor Marguerite, the wanton.  Though sometimes she had her doubts about the latter. 

He offered to talk, and shared his own guilt, but there were some things that were too painful, too buried, to be examined in any sort of situation.   Subconsciously, she feared his reaction when he realized the truths that constituted Marguerite Krux.  But as bits and pieces of her soul were laid bare, he seemed to absorb them and, instead of condemning her, he loved her all the more.

Having never known such an open and forgiving love, she was often caught off-guard and fell back into her comfortable role as antagonizer.  Berating and snapping at him, never understanding that each word, each curse, hurtful though it may be, merely solidified his love for her.  He knew she possessed secrets, most of which she was likely never to reveal, and yet, he recognized something inside her, something he had seen many times before.  She was wounded, and every wounded animal, when cornered, would lash out even at the most gentle of touches. 

He understood her as probably no one ever had.  She was selfish and self-centered, yes, but he saw through the layers and found the real woman underneath.  Though she would never admit it, he had given her a gift. 
He had reintroduced her to herself, someone she had long ago lost touch with in the desperate battle of survival.  And, along the way, he taught her more than Oxford ever could.  Through daily contact and in small doses, she discovered the true definition of love, in all its many variations.

To measure a man like John Roxton would take years.  For it would take a full eight months at least just to pass the more irritating aspects of his personality.  And then it would take longer still to adequately describe the love that she felt in his gaze and in his touch.  The way his voice would deepen when they were alone.  The surprising softness of his lips against hers.  The feel of her heart melting when he flashed that crooked smile.  The ripples that flew over her skin at the rough tones of his laugh.

Indeed, how could one measure a man such as he?  By the depth of his honor, the height of his character or the breadth of his love?   It is all of these and none of these; for to Marguerite, he is immeasurable.