Rogue's Hostage (13 page)

* * *

Dear Lord, don’t let it be too late, Gideon prayed.

Fort Duquesne was only a few miles away, and he trod in fear of what he might find there. Or what he might not find.

Three columns of troops marched steadily through the forest, led by the tapping of a drum at the head of each file. A carpet of damp leaves deadened the sound of their footsteps. A biting November wind blew through the bare tree branches overhead, making them sigh and moan in the lingering afternoon light. Gideon caught a slight whiff of smoke, and his fears grew.

Late yesterday afternoon, Indian scouts had reported seeing clouds of black smoke from the direction of the fort. Cold, wet, and exhausted after marching forty miles in four days, he had spent a sleepless night, uncertain what the dawn might bring. The defeats of Braddock and Grant were never far from his mind.

A few miles back, they had stumbled on the dead of Grant’s ill-fated expedition, left where they lay to feed the scavengers. Gideon tried to ignore the decaying bodies, some partially hidden by the fallen leaves. Monuments to French humanity, he thought. The cruelty of it infuriated and sickened him.

At dusk, the head of the column emerged upon the open plain that led to the fort. There was a rumbling from the Highlanders in the middle column when they saw poles set in the ground with the heads of their dead comrades stuck on top, their kilts draped beneath, in imitation of petticoats.

Fury engulfed Gideon, but it was all in vain—the enemy was gone.

Aghast, he stared at what was left of Fort Duquesne. In the fading light, it resembled a scene from hell. Thirty chimneys towered out of the rubble of the fort, but not one building remained intact. The French had not left them so much as a foot of shelter.

The acrid smell of charred wood overpowered his senses. The Lightning-struck Tower, he realized, just as the cards had predicted. And no Mara.

In the end, though they were reminded of past defeats, the British were cheated of the chance to even the score. This was no French victory. Not this time, Gideon reminded himself. But it was a personal loss. The campaign was ended, but the fight was not over. Not for him. Not for Mara.

He wanted to throw back his head and howl like a wounded animal. Instead, he cursed the French under his breath, the ransom they had demanded weighing heavily in his pockets. He feared that Mara would slip through his grasp again. Somehow, he had to find her.

No matter how long it took or how far he had to go, he would find her.

Quebec, Canada,
April 1759

The journey was almost over.

Eyes narrowed against the glare off the water, Jacques stared at the approaching skyline of Quebec as the
bateau
rushed downriver. Perched on the north side of the Saint Lawrence River, its walls and fortifications guarded the way into the interior of New France. Though the British had tried twice, the city had never fallen. But Jacques knew that sooner or later they would try again.

He glanced at Mara, who sat beside him, huddled in her shawl, shivering slightly. When he put an arm around her and pulled her closer, she burrowed against him. Guilt and regret stirred inside him. She was the reason he had requested a transfer back to Quebec. Since leaving Fort Duquesne, she had been a different woman—quiet, submissive, and obedient.

To his surprise, he missed her sharp tongue and pointed opinions. All through the long Canadian winter, he had watched and waited for her to revert to her normal self, but it was as if she were a different woman. On occasion, Jacques had been tempted to bait her, but his guilt kept him from doing so. Her state of mind was his fault, after all.

In the last four months, she had followed him over a route seen by few white men, much less a woman. Together they had traveled by
bateau,
canoe, sled, and snowshoe. Mara had witnessed the mighty power of Niagara Falls, traversed Lake Ontario, and braved the Lachine Rapids—all without complaining. But also without any sense of wonder or enthusiasm for the places she’d seen, just a wistful remark about how much Emile would have liked to see the Falls.

It had been an arduous journey, and now she deserved some comfort.

A raw wind off the river threw pellets of rain in his face, and he pulled up the woolen muffler Mara had knitted for him. That was all she had done at Niagara, her needles clicking incessantly until he had thought he would go mad. But something about the rhythmic nature of the task seemed to comfort her, so he’d said nothing.

Another blast of wind reminded him of how long and severe Canadian winters could be. In this northern country, rivers and lakes froze over completely. There was a wild beauty in it that he used to find exhilarating. Until an equally impervious chill took up residence around his heart.

The
bateau
docked at the part of the city called Lower Town, below the cliffs of Cap Diamant. Above them towered the ramparts guarding the government and church buildings that comprised Upper Town. Jacques helped Mara onto the dock and led her down a street lined with warehouses and taverns. He stopped in front of a sign picturing a leering devil with a forked tail.

"
Le Diable?
What are we doing here?" she asked, a surprised look on her face.

"This is home, madame. Welcome to my humble establishment."

"Surely you are teasing me," she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

"On the contrary, you are looking at one of the owners of this fine tavern. My first winter here, I won enough money playing cards to buy a partnership."

Her lips pressed together primly. "But why this one? Why
Le Diable?"

He flashed her an unrepentant grin. "All my life, people have been wishing me to the devil. It seemed appropriate."

Mara shook her head. "And where am I to stay? Surely you do not expect me to live here?"

Jacques caught his breath. This was the most life he’d seen in her in months. Perhaps she was ready to come out of her doldrums. "Does it offend your sense of propriety, little Puritan?"

She sniffed. "It is a den of iniquity."

His lips twitched at her disdain. "Must we stand out here in the rain? Come, let me show you around."

Mara gave in with as much grace as she could muster. It would do no harm to go inside and get warmed up. Her feet were wet and cold, despite her heavy woolen stockings, and she was beginning to shiver again.

Jacques led her up a short flight of stairs, opened the door, and motioned her inside a small entry, then into the large taproom. A fire blazing in the hearth on the far side of the room made her realize how chilled she was. Taking her hand, he urged her closer to the fire.

She looked around the room curiously. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling rafters, providing additional illumination to the weak sunlight coming through the windows. The scent of burning oil combined with wood smoke and liquor. A few customers sat at scarred wood tables, drinking ale or playing a hand of cards. The place was surprisingly quiet, just a low hum of voices in the background.

She glanced at Jacques who was watching her with an amused expression on his face. "It does not seem too terrible," she remarked in amazement.

"It is just a tavern, Mara, not a brothel."

She felt herself blush at his words.

"In fact, madame, it is one of the better taverns in Lower Town, in part due to my friend Corbeau."

Mara turned to stare at the man who had just spoken. No taller than she, he was grizzled-looking, his enormous gray mustache seeming out of place with his bald pate. Over his linen shirt and brown breeches, he wore a leather apron.

Jacques chuckled. "Madame Dupré, may I present my partner, Sergeant Victor Charvat."

Amusement twinkling in his dark eyes, Charvat made her a bow. "My pleasure, madame. What can I do to make your stay more pleasant?"

Mara had to smile at the man. There was something infectious about his good spirits. "Nothing, sergeant. Jacques will take care of me in his own fashion, as he always does."

Charvat cocked his head at Jacques, a quizzical look on his face.

Jacques just sighed. "I will explain later, Victor. It is a long story. For now, I want to show Madame Dupré around and get her settled in."

Jacques led her out of the taproom and down a dark narrow hall to a smaller chamber. "This is a private room for officers and other gentlemen."

The walls of the room were decorated with various pelts of fur, fox and beaver, for the most part. An enormous bear rug lay in front of the fireplace. She stepped around the large oak table in the center of the room, headed for the warmth of the fire. As she held her hands out to warm them, she pondered her situation. How could she possibly stay here? Yet, as a captive, what other choice did she have?

She remembered Claude Bernard speaking of Jacques’s gaming. Claude had claimed it was the reason he’d been banished to the wilderness. Well, it was one thing for him to live in a tavern, if that was what he wished, but she had no intention of doing so.

She spun around, fisted her hands on her hips, and tapped her foot on the stone hearth. "I do not wish to insult you or your partner, but my family would never approve, and I am surprised that yours would. Running a tavern seems an odd occupation for the son of an aristocrat."

He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. "My mother was a tavern maid." He laughed but the sound had a bitter edge to it. "I was born under the Sign of the Raven, hence my name. I have merely come full circle."

A bastard and the son of a tavern maid. She had known that was why some of the other French officers seemed to hold him in contempt. She felt a sudden rush of indignation on his behalf. A man should be judged on his own merits and not the circumstances of his birth.

She touched his arm briefly. "There is no stigma in honest employment. I know I would welcome the opportunity to work and earn my keep. Otherwise, everyone will think I am your mistress."

A gleam came into his eyes. "That could be arranged."

Mara felt her face grow hot again. She should never have brought up the subject. After all, he had been the perfect gentleman all winter. "Stop it, Jacques. You know what I meant."

He smiled. "Yes, but it is such a pleasure to hear you talk back to me, I could not resist. As for earning your keep, that is not necessary. Have I not promised to take care of you? Do you not have everything you need?"

"Oh, yes, everything except my freedom and my good name." All she had left was her self-respect, and she’d nearly lost that at Fort Duquesne. Had Jacques not held to his honor that night, she’d have lost everything. For that, she was grateful to him.

"When I have something useful to do, as I did at Fort Duquesne, I can forget my situation, my captivity, at least for a while. Is that so much to ask?"

He held up a hand. "Very well, you may work off your captivity."

She stared at him. Was this another trick? "Don’t tease me. Not if you don’t meant it."

He winced. "You do not trust me at all, do you? Have I not been honest with you?"

And so he had,
she allowed silently. "What shall I do to earn my freedom?"

He rubbed his chin with his long narrow fingers. "You are far too lovely to be a serving maid. I have no wish to break up a fight every evening. However, if you are willing to help in the kitchen…"

"Yes, of course," she agreed quickly. She was relieved to hear that she would not have to be around drinking customers. Gideon would be furious if he knew she was working in a tavern, and her grandfather was probably turning in his grave already.

"Agreed. I am not averse to hard work, and I am a very good cook. I must have my own room, however."

His lips curved into a rueful smile. "I would expect no less, madame."

She offered her hand. "Say no more, Jacques. I agree to your offer."

Solemnly he shook her hand to seal the bargain.

* * *

Gideon threaded his way through the crowded waterfront tavern, looking for an empty table. It was his last night in Philadelphia, and he intended to celebrate his transfer.

He sat down at a small table in a corner of the room. Most of the customers were sailors, but there was a smattering of redcoats as well. The place smelled of sweat, smoke, and ale. It was hardly the type of establishment he usually frequented, but for the few hours until his ship sailed, it would do.

In a few weeks, he would arrive in Canada. When he’d heard that two battalions of Royal Americans were scheduled to take part in the planned British expedition against Quebec, he had requested a transfer, which Colonel Bouquet had reluctantly granted. Gideon was sorry to leave his old comrade, but he was certain Mara had been taken north.

After the fall of Fort Duquesne, he had questioned one of the Delaware Indians. The warrior, Gray Wolf, had told him that Mara’s French captor expected to be transferred back to Canada. Gray Wolf had been equally sure that Corbeau would take her with him. The bastard! Gideon’s eyes narrowed. One day he intended to find this Frenchman and deal with him as he deserved.

"What will ye have, sir?"

Gideon looked up to see a comely, brown-haired wench smiling at him. She bent over the table, giving him a good view of her considerable cleavage.

"Well," he drawled, still staring at the lavish display, "that depends. What are my choices?"

She cocked her head to one side. "We have fine ale, captain."

"Major," he corrected absently, then shook his head. "Ale is a common brew. What else?"

"Good corn whiskey."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Nothing more…intoxicating than that?"

She flashed him a saucy smile, and a dimple appeared in one cheek. "Just me."

He smiled and reached out to caress her ample bottom. "Ah, the ultimate in aphrodisiacs."

She blinked at him. "Eh?"

"Never mind," he said and stood up. "Shall we go upstairs?"

She put down her serving tray and took his hand. "Right this way, Major. Don’t you worry none, Peg will take care of you right and tight."

She led him upstairs to a small room containing a bed and a small table. He helped her undress, dropping kisses on her shoulders and breasts. Under the rough linen shift, her skin was fair and smooth as silk. She was young and nubile, and his body responded, though his long-buried Calvinist conscience protested.

The spiraling need in his loins soon drowned out all else. He undressed quickly and joined her on the bed, stopping only to pull a cundum from his pocket and smooth it over his aroused shaft. Young though she was, he doubted it was her first time and it never paid to take chances.

She was as soft, warm, and welcoming as he’d expected, and as enthusiastic as he’d hoped. Her lips flickered over his skin with heated desire while her hands caressed him with the sure movements of a woman who knew how to please a man.

All he wanted to do was enjoy her as greedily as possible. His knee moved to part her thighs, then he buried himself in her softness. She arched her hips to meet his passion, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. His release came in a tremor of satisfaction that shook his body.

Afterwards, they lay on the tangled sheet, arms and legs entwined.

"You’re a beautiful man, major," she said, playing with the hair on his chest.

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Don’t be silly, Peg. Men aren’t beautiful."

" ’Tisn’t silly," she insisted. "You ’mind me of a fallen angel."

He was amused in spite of himself. "Just how did you come to that conclusion?"

She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him, an earnest expression on her young face. "Me mam always said that angels were real pretty, with gold hair and blue eyes, just like yours. Only, you look like you’ve been to hell and back."

He sighed. "You’re right about that, but I’m not at all certain I’ve come back."

"That’s why I figure you’re a fallen angel."

He chuckled. She was sweet and funny, and it was hard to be serious around her. "Like Lucifer, you mean."

"Well, you are a devil with the ladies, ain’t you?" she asked, her brown eyes twinkling.

"If it’s deviltry you want, miss," he said, stroking her thigh, "I’ll be happy to oblige."

Two hours later, Gideon reluctantly rose, leaving a sated-looking Peg sprawled in the bed. After donning his uniform, he pulled the agreed amount out of his pocket, hesitated, and added another guinea before heading for his ship. His last night in the city had turned out to be memorable after all. It just might be the last earthly pleasure granted him.