Rogue's Hostage (15 page)

"Yes, so much so that we both went into the same regiment afterward. Of course, I was not supposed to be an officer. That is generally reserved for sons of the aristocracy, or of wealthy merchants like Colonel Bougainville. But Etienne talked Father into getting me a commission, too. It cost him a substantial amount, you may be sure."

"If you and Etienne were so close, what could possibly have come between you?"

He hesitated, not wanting to go on, but knowing she would not rest until he had told the whole story. "We fought over a woman."

"So, Victor was right. He suspected that was the case. Did you love her?" she asked with just a hint of dread in her voice.

He hesitated, not sure how best to answer her question. Not sure how she wanted him to answer it. "Are you afraid of competition?"

She wrinkled her nose at him, and looked adorable doing so. "No, just wondering."

"I thought I was in love," he admitted, "and so did Etienne. Yvette was a young widow determined to make up for the time she’d lost wed to an old man. She was beautiful and amoral. I was good enough to warm her bed, but not good enough to marry. When Etienne proposed, she accepted him, but let me know that our affair did not have to end."

Jacques ran his hands through his hair. "That was when I realized that I loved my brother more than I cared for her. How could I stand back and let him marry a woman like that?"

She put down her glass of wine, untouched. "You told him about the affair."

"Yes. He confronted her, and she lied, said I had made up the whole story just to ruin her reputation. He chose to believe her."

Mara crept closer and touched his arm lightly. "You did the right thing."

"No, what I did was dishonorable."

She placed her fingers over his lips. "Do not say that," she replied fiercely. "You are a kind and loyal man. Better than any viscount."

He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. "For that, I thank you. Nevertheless, I should have kept quiet. Etienne is so proud, and easily insulted. He challenged me to a duel."

"Oh, Jacques," she murmured in a compassionate tone.

He gazed at the fire, unable to look at her, afraid of the pity he might see in her face. "I apologized, but Etienne refused to listen to reason. I fought defensively, but he was ruthless. Nothing less than my blood would satisfy him."

She crawled closer and put her arms around him. "That awful scar on your side?"

"I nearly bled to death," he said, trying to keep his tone matter-of-fact. "Alain took me to his rooms and found a doctor to tend my wound. He told my father but he refused to even come and see me. When I recovered, I was transferred…" he laughed and it sounded harsh even to his ears. "I was transferred to Quebec. Yesterday was the first time I have seen Etienne since the duel."

She hugged him tighter, her cheek pressed to his. "I am so sorry, Jacques. I know how hard it is to be estranged from one’s family. My grandfather stopped speaking to Gideon years before he died. It hurt both of them deeply."

Jacques closed his eyes and reveled in the sweet comfort she offered him. She hadn’t run away, he marveled. She was here in his arms, warm and soft and womanly.

"Mara," he murmured. "Do not leave me tonight. I need you."

The words were out before he could stop them. He drew back to look at her. Her eyes seemed huge, clouded by uncertainty. In the flickering firelight she appeared ethereal, more angel than woman. He had no right to her love, but could not stop himself from wanting it.

"Mara…" He stood up and looked away, knowing he was dangerously close to begging. Not sure what he would do if she left, he stared into the fire, silently pleading with her.
Don’t leave, not now when it hurts so badly.

Mara took a deep, unsteady breath and rose to her feet as well. His softly worded plea was more urgent than a command, compelling her to respond. Reaching out to him, she smoothed her hands over his cheeks, his brow. The pain of his past was carved in merciless lines on his face, and she reached up to smooth them away. "Yes," she whispered. "I will stay."

He took one of her hands in his and held it to his breast, letting her feel the drumbeat of his heart. "Are you sure,
mon coeur?"

Her heart ached at the endearment. My heart. It was the closest he had come to saying that he loved her. She could ask no more of him. "I am sure."

He swept her into his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath a warm wave on her throat. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling a wave of tenderness for the tormented man in her arms. Once she had thought him proud, arrogant even, but that was just a shield he wore to protect the wounded boy within. Her childhood had been far from ideal, but compared to his, it was a haven of peace and security. Something she now wished to give him—needed to give him.

Murmuring softly, she soothed him with her voice and her hands, kneading the tension from his taut muscles. Slowly, she felt him begin to relax in her arms, felt his body mold to hers.

When he raised his head to gaze at her, his expression was uncertain, his smoky eyes shaded by thick, black brows. The shadow of his beard darkened his jawline, making him seem dangerously male. But the real peril was to her heart, and that, she realized, was already lost.

For a moment, they just stared at each other quietly, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the harsh, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

Finally he spoke. "Mara, do you want me?"

She knew he was referring to that last night at Fort Duquesne when she had gone to him and offered herself like a human sacrifice.
The next time you come to me,
he had said,
it must be because you want me.
She moistened her lips with her tongue and whispered, "Yes."

A shudder shook his body, and he pulled her closer, cradling her in his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him, filled with a sweet yearning. The die had been cast; there could be no turning back now.

He pulled the ribbon from her hair and combed it with his fingers, fanning it around her like a cape. Slowly, he began to remove her clothing, his touch sure but gentle, almost unbearable in its tenderness. The caress of his hands was followed by the warmth of his mouth as he brought her dormant senses to life. His fingertips traced heated paths up and down her body, gradually stoking the fire inside.

Mara’s skin tingled, her body felt heavy and warm. With a moan, she yielded to the searing need that had been building between them for months. The brush of his wool clothes abraded her skin, and she murmured a protest. She reached to unbutton his waistcoat, and he hastened to help until his clothing had joined hers in a pile on the floor.

The sight of his naked body made her heart beat faster. She had forgotten how beautiful he was, all planes and angles, lean and sleekly muscled. She ran her hands over the smooth skin of his shoulders, down his hair-roughened chest to his narrow waist. The only flaw to mar his perfection was the ugly scar on his side, illuminated by the fire’s amber glow. She reached out, and he drew in a sharp breath when she touched it, gently tracing the hard ridge of flesh. If only she could take away the anguish it still caused him—ease the pain he still felt.

He crushed her to him, his mouth swooping down on hers in a possessive, demanding kiss that took her breath away. Her senses were filled with the dark-tasting wine and the sinewy feel of him mixed with the musky scent of his arousal—and hers.

He lowered her to the floor, pressing her into the thick softness of the fur rug. His hands stroked and urged, until she was caught up in the turbulence of his passion. Her blood coursed through her veins like a rain-swollen river, washing away all doubts, all uncertainty.

She gasped when he entered her, arching instinctively to welcome him. Their joining felt so right, as if she had found something she’d been missing her whole life.

Arms and legs wrapped around his sweat-slick body, she clung to him, her whole being flooded with desire. Involuntary tremors of arousal shook her body, taking her higher and higher until she reached the crest and floated over the edge.

Crying her name, he thrust once more and found his own release.

He turned onto his back, and held her closely. She snuggled up to him, listening to his heartbeat and the crackling of the fire, marveling at what had just happened.

Never in her life, not even in her wildest dreams, had she known anything so soul-shattering.

Jacques stood at the window of his third-floor bedchamber staring at the wet morning. Rain drummed on the roof and soaked the street below, churning it into a muddy morass. The dismal weather matched his mood perfectly.

Making love to Mara had been a mistake, he thought morosely. He had wanted her for so long, but had never dared believe she would come to him willingly. Nor had he expected their union to be so intense.

After the first time, he and Mara had thrown on their clothes and hurried up the back stairs of the inn, laughing like a pair of naughty children. Once in his room, he had undressed her again and made love to her slowly and thoroughly. Afterward, she’d curled up in his arms and fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep, with a small, satisfied smile on her lips.

His passionate Puritan, he thought with amazement. But then he had suspected there was fire in her, just waiting for the right man to stoke it.

He had awakened at dawn from a troubled sleep, tempted to kiss her awake, every lovely, tantalizing inch of her. But with the dawn, his conscience had awakened as well, taunting him with the certainty that he did not deserve her. When he sighed, his breath fogged the window. He swiped at the chilly glass with one hand.

After thinking over his brother’s words, he realized he should send her to his father in France, but how could he let her go now? He wanted her right where she was, in his bed. Having had so little in his life he could call his own, when he did find something, or someone, he valued, his inclination was to hold on with both hands.

On the other hand, what right had he to keep her here? She was not the type of woman to indulge in an affair lightly. Sooner or later her conscience would trouble her. All the more reason to send her to France.

A gust of wind off the river spattered raindrops against the glass panes. He shivered in the draft and rubbed his hand across his unshaven jaw. Then he heard Mara stir in the bed.

"Jacques?"

He turned to see her propped up on one elbow, her unbound hair streaming around her like a golden mist. There was a tentative smile on her face.

"What are you doing awake so early?" she asked.

"I’ve been thinking."

"What about?"

He moved toward her and sat on the edge of the bed. "I was thinking about going to see Etienne."

She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. "Oh, Jacques, your father will be so pleased."

He returned her embrace, burying his face in her hair. "I am not doing it for him, but for you."

She pulled back to look at him, a frown wrinkling her forehead. "I do not understand."

He brushed tendrils of hair from her cheek. "Canada is not safe,
mon coeur.
I would feel better if you were in France, with my father."

The color drained from her face. "No," she protested. "I cannot go there."

She said it as if it were an outpost of hell. "Do not worry, you will be safe under my father’s protection."

"You do not understand. My father was Melchior Harcourt."

Jacques frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but surely she had told him her father’s name at some time. "What does this have to do with your going to France?"

"Do you not recognize the name? Perhaps you were too young to notice."

"What are you talking about, Mara?"

"My father was a Huguenot minister."

He raised his eyebrows. "You told me you were Swiss."

"My mother’s family was Swiss. Gideon and I were born in Geneva, but our father was French. He was hanged, for preaching illegally. What if someone finds out I am his daughter?"

He pulled her into his arms and stroked her back. "Hush,
mon coeur.
No one will blame you for what your father did. I will tell no one about this. It will be our secret."

She looked up at him, a pleading look on her face. "Jacques, no, do not send me away."

"I just want you to be safe."

"But travel itself is hazardous," she pointed out. "Ships sink."

"That is true," he admitted. It was even more likely now. Any ship flying the
fleur-de-lys
was a target for the British navy. Which was the greater risk? He could not guarantee her safety here, but neither could he bear knowing that he might be sending her to her death.

"Please, Jacques," Mara begged, pressing herself against him. "Everyone who has ever cared about me has left, or died. Last night you said you needed me. Was that a lie?"

"No," he groaned. "I just want to do the right thing."

"Then hold me," she whispered. "Hold me and never let go."

He laid her down on the bed and made love to her. This time their joining was tempestuous, but with a desperate edge to it. Mara clung to him as if she’d never let go.

He knew in his heart that she deserved better, but for as long as she wanted him, he was hers.

* * *

Mara had never seen anything like the
Intendant’s
palace.

The large ugly building squatted outside the city walls on the bank of the St. Charles River, which flowed into the St. Lawrence. Lights glittered from every window, and a steady stream of people made their way inside: officers in white or gray uniforms, ladies in elegant gowns over wide panniers, and common people in their Sunday best.

On the way to the mansion, Jacques had explained that the
Intendant,
Francois Bigot, was a corrupt but generous man whose capacity for excess was legendary. It was his habit to entertain lavishly, seldom inviting less than twenty to dine.

Oh, yes, Jacques had said ruefully, Bigot did everything on a grand scale, including his own gambling. Rumor had it that he had once lost over two hundred thousand
francs,
which he had no doubt recouped, for he had carried corruption in New France to unimagined heights.

This evening, the palace was filled with Quebec’s pleasure seekers. Jacques had disappeared in search of his brother, leaving Mara on the gallery above the ballroom where the townsfolk were allowed to stand and observe. Down below, French officers, civil servants, gentlemen of the town, and their wives and mistresses pirouetted in a stately minuet. The women were garbed in silk and satin gowns which Mara had no doubt would pass muster at Versailles. Her Calvinist conscience was both appalled and fascinated by the scene, so alien to everything she had ever known.

But she would never understand why the townspeople seemed so accepting of the situation. Except, of course, that the fun-loving
Intendant
had provided the masses with their very own dancing hall inside the palace. Apparently such gestures did much to endear him to the
habitants,
even as he took advantage of his position to further impoverish them.

When she spotted a blue and red uniform, she leaned over the balcony to wave. Jacques was accompanied by Etienne and another artillery officer. When he glanced up, she realized it was Alain Gauthier. On seeing her, he bounded up the stairs to embrace her.

"Mara, how good to see you again!"

She laughed and hugged him back. When Jacques and Etienne joined them, Mara noticed that Jacques sent a quelling glance in Alain’s direction.

"Mara, Etienne and I need to talk," Jacques said. "But I hate to leave you here unescorted."

"Allow me to entertain Madame Dupré," Alain offered. "I am greatly in need of feminine solace."

Jacques rolled his eyes, and Etienne coughed behind his hand.

Mara put her hands on her hips and looked skeptically at Alain. "And just why is that?"

He put his hand over his heart. "I am desolate. I have just received news from France that I have been jilted."

"Poor Alain," she said, placing her hand on his arm.

He covered her hand with his. "Your tender sympathy is just what I need to heal my broken heart."

"Did you love her very much?" she asked, barely able to contain a giggle.

His eyes began to twinkle. "In truth, I never met her. It was an arranged marriage."

She pulled her hand away and shook her finger at him. "Oh, you. It is not your heart that is injured, but your pride."

He drew himself up straighter. "A man’s pride is very important, is it not?"

Etienne gave up the effort to hold back his laughter. "Tell the truth, Gauthier. It is your pocketbook which hurts the most." Turning to Mara, he explained, "His fiancée was a very rich heiress."

"And she found a richer husband?" Mara asked.

"It is worse than that," Jacques said with a grin. "She decided that she preferred the convent to Gauthier’s rather questionable charms."

Etienne chuckled but Mara smiled at Alain. "If she had met you, I am sure she would have felt differently."

"That is precisely what I need to hear," Alain said, a look of deep gratitude on his face. "Jacques, will you trust me with your lady for awhile?"

"Trust you? Never," Jacques replied. "But I have great faith in Mara."

Alain grinned and grabbed her hand. "Come with me, madame. You look like you want to dance."

"But I do not know how."

"I will teach you," Alain said firmly and steered her toward the common dance hall.

Jacques and Etienne wandered downstairs to the gaming room where they found an empty table. While Etienne shuffled a deck of cards, Jacques decided to waste no time on preliminaries. "I am ready to forgive, if you are."

Etienne’s face broke into a huge smile. "That is indeed good news. It will be like old times, eh?" he asked as he dealt the cards.

Jacques shrugged. "We will see." It would never be like old times, too much had happened between them.

But despite Jacques’s cautious remark, Etienne was not discouraged. "What has happened to turn you into such a pessimist?"

"I have changed, Etienne. Adversity does that to people."

Etienne sobered immediately. "I know your life cannot have been easy these last years."

Jacques smiled ruefully. "When has my life ever been easy? Do not trouble yourself about me. I have all I need."

"Your tavern?" Etienne’s tone took on a sharper edge.

Jacques sucked in a deep breath. So much for reconciliation, he thought. "Not now, Etienne. There is something I want to show you."

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it on the table. "I have written a new will naming Madame Dupré as my heir."

Etienne’s eyebrows flew upward. "Indeed? I knew there was something going on there."

"It is a long story. Suffice it to say that I owe her."

"Tell me more," Etienne said, picking up his hand.

"Mara is Swiss. She and her husband emigrated to Pennsylvania where…" Jacques hesitated, not sure how Etienne would react to his part in what happened. "In short, I was with the raiding party that killed her husband and took her captive."

"Good God!"

Jacques leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "She has nothing now, and it is my fault. Oh, I saved her life by calling her my captive. Still, I tore her away from her home, leaving her husband lying in his own blood."

Etienne swore softly but eloquently. "Deplorable."

"That is nothing compared to some of the stories you will hear. Now you see why I feel responsible for her. If something happens to me, I want to be sure that she will be taken care of."

Etienne steepled his fingers. "Is Madame Dupré the only captive for whom you feel responsible?"

Jacques sat back in his chair, putting some distance between them. "What are you trying to say?"

"There is something you are not telling me. She is your mistress, no?"

"No!"

"Then you have not taken her to bed?"

Jacques avoided his brother’s eyes by picking up his cards and pretending to study them. "She is a respectable woman, and I intend to treat her as one."

Etienne whistled softly. "Is this the same man who swore never to let another woman make a fool of him?"

Jacques grimaced at his brother. "Is it so obvious?"

"That you are besotted? I am afraid so."

Jacques thought back to the way he had acted at Fort Duquesne, remembering his jealousy of Alain and the Scottish officer, even of the man who turned out to be Mara’s brother. Were those the reactions of a rational man? He sighed. "How did this happen?" he wondered out loud. "It is not as if I never had a mistress before."

His brother grinned. "True, but none, I think, that you loved."

With rising heat in his blood, Jacques recalled his fury when Vache had attacked her. "I almost killed a man over her," he admitted.

Something flickered in Etienne’s eyes. "Perhaps now you understand my actions when I thought you had insulted Yvette."

Jacques leaned forward, anxious to make amends for that indiscretion. "I have regretted that for a long time. I had convinced myself that it was for your own good. You were not yet wed and my intention was to save you from what I knew would be an unfortunate marriage."

"As it turned out, you were right," Etienne said slowly. "But a young man’s pride often gets in the way of truth."

Jacques murmured an agreement. "The only question now is whether Mara will play me false as Yvette did you."

"I doubt it," Etienne assured him. "Unless I am greatly mistaken, your heart has chosen more wisely than mine. And if you are smart, you will marry her."

Jacques just stared at him.

"That is the only way to ensure her respectability," Etienne said. "And if something happened to you, she would be eligible for a widow’s pension."

"I will consider it," Jacques said finally. It was the logical solution, and yet he was reluctant to ask her. She was so unpredictable. Their lovemaking had been unplanned, spontaneous, and a complete surprise. Why had she come to him, he wondered. Was it out of pity, or loneliness, or some strange feminine reason that only she could comprehend?

The truth was that nothing had changed, there was too much in the past that could come between them, and his instincts told him that she was not ready to accept him as a husband.

* * *

"I have a plan."

Gideon turned to the young naval lieutenant who had come to stand next to him at the rail of the ship. "Go on."