Rogue's Hostage (10 page)

"I dreamt of you every night," he said in a low voice. "Did you dream of me?"

She stared down at him, her heart pounding frantically, but found no words to respond to his question. She had missed him, but thought it unwise to say so. No, not just unwise. Dangerous.

With a sigh, he rested his head against her bosom. She felt the roughness of his unshaven cheek, the warmth of his breath against her skin. She should not allow him this much intimacy, but for the moment it felt too good to hold him in her arms. The combined scent of damp wool and warm man mingled with the savory smell of stew bubbling in the hearth, and it felt like home to her.

When she did not back away, he nestled closer, his lips pressing against the swell of her breast. She caught her breath as a sweet longing surged through her. Her grip tightened on his shoulders.

Merciful heavens, could she not bear three weeks without a man’s touch? Without this man’s touch? Was she so weak?

It took all her will power to step out of his embrace. "You must be hungry."

"Only for you."

Heat suffused her face, and she looked away. "You should not say such things." Abruptly, she strode to the hearth.

Jacques sat, leaning against the table, and watched her stir the pot of stew. Dressed in a simple brown woolen skirt and linen bodice, barefoot, with her hair hanging in a braid down her back, she was still more beautiful to him than the ladies of the court.

She set a bowl on the table at his elbow. "Eat."

Sighing again, but this time in resignation, he obediently swung around on the bench and picked up a spoon. He did not want food. What he wanted was to pick Mara up in his arms, carry her to the bed, and make love to her until the need churning inside him was sated once and for all. But she would never let that happen, and he would never force her.

Instead, he fed his other appetites, downing three mugs of wine and two helpings of stew. "This is good. Did you make it?"

"Yes," she replied with a shy smile.

He took her hand in his. "I am glad to be back."

Her smile faded. "What happened?"

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired to the depths of his soul. "We raided the British camp, stole some horses, and retreated. Delaying tactics only." Slowly, inexorably, the British army moved onward. He was beginning to wonder if it was possible to stop them.

"It is not over then, is it?"

"No," he said softly, tightening his grip on her hand.

Nothing was settled. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged that everything could yet be lost.

* * *

A few days later, Mara and Sophie decided to make a pie, using dried blueberries Sophie had picked during the summer. With Babette’s eager help, they started setting the necessary ingredients on the table—flour, molasses, the last of Sophie’s precious supply of sugar.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, Mara looked up to see Corbeau walking into the room. He was followed by Gray Wolf and a young woman with light brown hair.

Mara wiped her hands on her apron, disturbed by the presence of the Indian. "Is something the matter?"

As if sensing her unease, Jacques smiled at her. "Nothing to worry about, madame. But if you have a few moments, Gray Wolf has brought someone to meet you. Perhaps we could speak privately?"

Mara looked at Sophie, who nodded immediately and reached for Babette’s hand. "Come,
petite,
we will go for a walk while Aunt Mara visits with her guest."

"But I want to help with the pie," Babette protested. "You said I could."

"It can wait until you return," Mara promised her.

With a shake of her head, Sophie led the child from the room.

When they were gone, Mara turned to Jacques. "What is so urgent it must be spoken of privately?"

"Gray Wolf tells me that the western Indians are leaving for the winter and taking their captives with them."

Panic blossomed in Mara’s stomach. Did he intend to turn her over to Gray Wolf after all? "But I am
your
captive," she pointed out, unable to keep a slight quaver out of her voice. "You made it quite clear that you paid good money for me. Are you trying to revoke your protection?"

"Of course not," he said, running a hand through his hair.

By the tense look on his face, she realized that he was no more pleased by this development than she. Her panic subsided a little.

He gestured to the young woman. "This is Greta. She does not speak French very well, but I am told that you understand German."

More curious now than concerned, Mara nodded.

"Then I will let her explain it to you. Gray Wolf and I will wait in the trading post."

After the men left, Mara gestured to the table, inviting Greta to join her. Switching to German, she asked, "What did you wish to tell me?"

Greta leaned forward, an earnest look on her round, red-cheeked face. "I am here to help you."

Mara sat across from her and folded her hands on the table. "What makes you think I am in need of help?"

"I heard that you were attacked by a soldier of the garrison."

Mara sighed and crossed her arms. Was there no one at the forks of the Ohio who did not know about that? "Yes, I was, but as you can see, I survived."

Greta’s hands fluttered nervously. "I did not mean to remind you of an unpleasant experience. But that is precisely what many of the women captives fear. Some of us believe that we are better off with the Indians than with the French."

Mara raised her eyebrows. "Whatever led you to that conclusion?" After witnessing Emile’s death and the slaughter of the attacking British, Mara had no doubts that the French, however despicable, were the lesser of two evils.

"I have been assured…"

"By whom?"

Greta frowned at the interruption. "Gray Wolf assures me that once we reach the village, all women captives will either be adopted by a family or married to a warrior."

"Really?" Mara rubbed her forehead. Neither alternative held any appeal for her. "Please understand that I am not inclined to trust the man who killed my husband."

Greta’s eyes grew wide. "I had no idea. But Gray Wolf is not leaving with us. He merely agreed to act as a go-between."

"I will think about what you have said, but what about your family? How will they find you?"

Greta squirmed on the bench and lowered her gaze. "I have not seen my family for some time. I was a servant. If I go back East, I will have to serve out the rest of my indenture."

"I see," Mara murmured. That put a different face on things. Greta was like so many other immigrants who were forced to sell themselves into temporary bondage to pay for their passage. Mara did not envy the girl. The life of an indentured servant was often hard and unpleasant, so it was not unreasonable that life among the Indians might seem to offer more freedom than returning to her master.

Clearing her throat, Mara reached into her pocket and drew out Gideon’s letter. "I have another reason to remain here. My brother is with the British army. He sent me this letter. As long as there is a chance that he will be able to rescue or ransom me, I dare not leave the fort."

Greta nodded in understanding and rose. "I see, but if you change your mind, we leave in two day’s time."

"Thank you," Mara said. "I wish you the best of luck."

With a shy smile, Greta left the room.

Alone, Mara stood and picked up the bag of flour. She needed to keep busy, anything to keep her worries at bay. Had she made the right decision? Only time would tell, but in her heart, she knew she had made the only possible choice if she ever hoped to see her brother again.

"What will you do?"

Jacques’s voice startled her enough to drop the bag of flour, spilling some on the table. She turned to glare at him. "Look what you made me do! It is not as if we have flour to waste here."

"Ah,
chérie,
do not be angry with me," he said softly, a pleading look on his face.

She averted her gaze for a moment. It was unfair to snap at him just because the other woman’s visit had upset her. "What do you think I should do?"

He studied her gravely. "It is your decision."

Mara stared at him incredulously. No man had ever allowed her to make a decision. Not Emile, and certainly not her grandfather. Unbidden, words spilled from her lips. "What do you want me to do?"

A wry smile softened his expression. "That is a different question. Of course I want you to stay here. With me. But it is possible that you will be safer in an Indian village, so if you choose to go with them, I will not stop you."

He still refused to decide for her. A wicked impulse made her ask, "What if I choose to go to the British?"

His brows shot upward. "That is not possible, and you know it."

She moved toward him, determined to press her point. "Why not? If you are willing to let me go at all, why should it matter where?"

"I have not kept you here for my convenience, you know." His voice was laced with amusement. "In truth, madame, you have been anything but convenient."

She felt a flush creeping up her face. "What did you expect, that I would fall into your arms at the first opportunity? Become your love slave?"

He gave a Gallic shrug. "A man can but dream."

Her face had to be flaming now, and it was her own fault. Love slave, indeed. Whatever had possessed her to say that? He had said before that he dreamed of her. Why had she taunted him? It was not as if she wanted him to want her. Or did she? Never had she been so confused. She turned away from him and stared at the spilled flour.

"You have still not answered my question," he reminded her.

Mara hesitated. How ironic that of all the men in her life, Jacques would be the one to offer her that opportunity. A feeling of warmth and surprised gratitude coursed through her, and she smiled at him. "I will stay."

He walked up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and said simply, "I am glad." His thumbs kneaded her tense muscles. "You should know, however, that our situation will likely grow worse before it gets better."

She turned her head to look at him. "Why do you say that?"

"We received the news that Fort Frontenac has fallen to the English."

Mara frowned. "I do not understand. Why should that affect us here?"

"I will show you." Draping his left arm across her shoulders, he picked up a knife and began to draw a map in the spilled flour. He then grabbed a handful of blueberries and placed them at intervals. Pointing with the knife, he started with the berry on the far right.

"This represents Quebec, capital of New France and guardian of the St. Lawrence. The next is the city of Montreal. West of here is a string of forts—Frontenac and Niagara on Lake Ontario, Presque Isle, here on Lake Erie, then Venango, Machault, and finally Fort Duquesne on the Ohio." As he spoke, the knife arced from right to left, northeast to southwest.

"Every fort is an important link in the chain of command and supply. Without Frontenac," he picked up the third berry from the right, "the western forts are cut off from New France. There will be no more convoys from Montreal." He popped the dried blueberry into his mouth.

"Then we cannot afford to waste food, can we?"

He flashed her a boyish grin that carved deep grooves on both sides of his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. When he looked at her like that she could no more resist than she could stop breathing. Her heart began to beat faster.

His smile faded quickly to be replaced with a frown. "Mara, when the western Indians leave, the fort will be more vulnerable. If the British get close enough to fortify the heights on the other side of the Monongahela, this place will not be safe."

"Where are these Indian villages Greta spoke of?" she asked, thinking that perhaps she should leave while she had the chance.

Picking up the knife again, he extended the line representing the Ohio River and pointed to a spot much further west. "They are approximately in this area."

The thought of going so far into the wilderness made her blood run cold. When her shoulders shook with an involuntary shudder, he hugged her closer to his side.

"So far from civilization," she murmured.

His eyebrows quirked. "Fort Duquesne hardly qualifies as civilization."

"True," she agreed. "But it could be worse. Things can always be worse."

He dropped his arm and turned sideways to face her. "That is what I like about you, madame. Your eternal optimism."

Mara looked at him in surprise and realized that he was teasing her. Again, his grin faded quickly, replaced by a solemn expression. "Are you sure about staying?"

Mara nodded.

"It may not be safe," he warned.

"I am not afraid," she said without hesitation. "I know you will protect me."

"So, I have finally earned your trust."

He held out his hand, and she allowed him to gently draw her into his arms. He moved his mouth over hers, caressing it with slow, sweet kisses that tasted of blueberry. With patience and tenderness, he coaxed a response from her until she parted her lips and let him take full possession of her mouth.

She wound her arms around his neck and tangled her hands in the hair at his nape. For a brief time, she forgot everything but the taste and feel of this man who stirred her senses.

When she thought she would faint from lack of air, he drew back for both of them to gulp in a needed breath.

"Mara," he said, his voice a husky rasp against her ear, "how far do you trust me?"

A small whimper escaped her throat. Unable to answer him, she buried her face against his shoulder.

His hands stroked her hair, her back, then moved down to cup her buttocks. "Just let me love you," he urged, "and I will be
your
slave."

It would have been so easy to give in to his plea. Just one little word.
Yes.
But some small bit of sanity surfaced from deep within.

"I cannot." She backed out of his embrace with reluctance, almost afraid to look at him. But he did not appear to be angry. Just resigned.

His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Ah, Mara, who will protect you from me? That has been the question all along, has it not?"