Rogue's Hostage (20 page)

"Patience, my love," he murmured as he shrugged off his clothing. "For tonight I am all yours."

He undressed her slowly, worshipfully, with a gentleness he had not thought himself capable of. He paused to caress her, whispering his love for each part of her body. Though her bruises had faded, they were still visible, and he gently kissed every mark of her ordeal.

Mara’s heart ached at the silent sadness of his face, even as his hands stroked and caressed. She had waited her whole life for this one man whose touch had the power to thrill her. He had unlocked her heart and soul, and for one night she wanted to ignore the shadows that shrouded their future. But he seemed hesitant still, and she sought to reassure him.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

She blinked back tears at the heart-rending tenderness of his gaze. His lips were warm and sweet on hers, and she fervently wished that this kiss, this interlude, could last forever.

His tongue slipped into her mouth in a deep, achingly sweet exploration. His hands moved gently down the length of her back, the merest touch sending warming shivers through her. She brushed her fingers across the dark, curling hair of his chest, feeling the drumbeat of his heart. His powerful body rippled with tension, and she knew he was holding back, afraid of hurting her.

She sank down on the bed, and he joined her. They lay side by side, facing each other, arms and legs entwined. His hand on her breast moved tentatively, a light touch that unfurled streamers of sensation.

His ardor was so sweet yet touching in its restraint. He courted her with gentle persuasiveness, and she relaxed, responding to the tender touch. Her senses were filled with the strength and scent of him.

As he entered her, she moved to meet him in a burst of bittersweet passion. Their bodies merged with the reverence of love and the force of inevitability. She was filled with an amazing feeling of completeness, that wonderful sense of coming home. Tremors of rapture caught in her throat, and for a brief, transcendent moment, she was blissfully happy, fully alive.

Afterward, she lay clasped in his arms, body satiated and content. She sighed and whispered the words she had wanted to say for a week. "I love you, Jacques."

There was a long silence, then a sigh. "You’ll get over it."

She stiffened. What kind of nonsense was that? He was still determined to send her away. "Love is not a disease." Then an even more disheartening thought occurred to her. "You don’t love me, do you?"

Jacques closed his eyes. It might be kinder to let her believe that. Denying his love for her was akin to cutting off his arm. Eight years ago, he had cut all ties to his family and survived. And, as painful as it would be, he could live without Mara. As long as he knew she was safe.

But he couldn’t lie to her, not after all they’d been through. "I do love you," he said. "But sometimes love isn’t enough."

"How can that be?" she asked, puzzlement apparent in the tone of her voice.

He turned to face her. "Mara, if something else happened to you, and I thought that I hadn’t done everything possible to insure your safety…" He let the thought trail off. "I couldn’t live with myself. That is why you must go to your brother."

* * *

Jacques drove Mara to the encampment at Beauport, to the east of the city. The last day of July had dawned clear and hot, but by the time they reached the camp in the late afternoon a storm was threatening. A large, stone farmhouse with a gabled roof and five chimneys flew the
fleur-de-lys,
marking the place where Montcalm had set up his headquarters. Surrounding it were makeshift huts, wigwams, and rows of white tents gleaming in the sunlight.

Something was wrong, Jacques thought, noting the lack of activity in the camp. Ordinarily it swarmed with white-uniformed French soldiers, Canadian militia in hunting shirts, and Indians wearing war paint and little else. Four days ago, a force of militia and Indians had won a skirmish with British regulars to the east at a ford on the Montmorency River. Surely there would not be another attack so soon afterwards.

Jacques stopped in front of headquarters, where he learned that Etienne had gone to the encampment of the Chevalier de Levis to observe new British troop movements. Jacques headed the wagon further east along a road that ran parallel to the river. As they approached the camp, the sound of artillery became louder.

They found Etienne at the entrenchments overlooking the St. Lawrence. "You have chosen a good day for a visit," he greeted Jacques cheerfully. "It appears that the British are about to attack."

Mara gasped and Jacques put his arm around her.

"Have no fears, madame," Etienne reassured her. "You are perfectly safe here. We hold the high ground. They won’t make it up the cliffs."

Mara looked down on the St. Lawrence, a wide swath of blue that forked to flow on either side of the Isle d’Orleans, which the English now occupied. Several sailing ships and hundreds of small boats filled with soldiers were in the river, headed for a French battery on the north shore. But Etienne was right. Though the British might land their troops, it was highly unlikely that they had any chance of successfully scaling the cliffs.

The French on the heights traded cannon fire with the British ships of the line as the small boats moved closer to the shore. A chill passed through her as she realized the futility of the battle about to be fought. How many men would die before it was over, she wondered. And would Gideon be one of them?

She wanted to shout at them to go back, to save themselves. Why were they here at all? Was it so important who ruled in North America? Was not one earthly power much the same as the other?

In the end, none of it mattered. That had been made clear to her in her dream. There were only two things one could take into the next life—wisdom and the ability to love.

Not gold and possessions, she thought, nor fame and glory. Those were earthly matters, of fleeting duration and importance. And as for vengeance, that was best left to the wisdom of God, as she intended to tell Gideon if, no,
when
she saw him again.

Jacques’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "Etienne, I wanted to speak to you about arranging a ransom exchange."

Etienne lowered his spyglass to look at his brother. "I am afraid that is no longer possible. General Montcalm has been informed by General Wolfe that there will be no more prisoner exchanges."

Jacques’s expression became forbidding. "Why not?"

Etienne gave a Gallic shrug. "Apparently some idiot insulted the general by suggesting that the British motive for returning civilian prisoners was to avoid having to feed them."

Jacques swore under his breath. What was he to do with Mara now? Depending on where he was reassigned, he might be able to keep her with him, but how safe would she be? His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I should not have brought you here," he said to her. "Come, let us leave now."

"No," Mara insisted, an anxious expression on her face. "I must know what happens. Please, Jacques."

"Mara, I do not think you are aware of what is about to take place," Jacques said in a gentle tone.

"Of course I am," she replied. "The same thing that happened when Major Grant attacked Fort Duquesne. A slaughter."

"I know you are thinking about your brother, but there is a good chance he is not even here," he pointed out.

"Which regiment is he with?" Etienne interrupted.

"The Royal Americans," she replied eagerly.

Jacques reached for Etienne’s glass and trained it on the men in the transports. Most sported the high mitred caps of the grenadiers, but he spotted others as Royal Americans.

"He is here, isn’t he?" she asked.

"I see a regiment of Royal Americans, but that does not mean that your brother is with them."

"Let me see."

He handed her the glass reluctantly. "Do not say I did not warn you." He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, ready to shield her if necessary.

"Here they come," Etienne shouted.

The grenadiers in the lead boats jumped out, muskets held above their heads, and began wading toward shore in a wild charge. The French gunners abandoned their post and raced for the cliffs, directly into the line of fire from the top. The anxious French troops waited until their comrades were safe before raining a heavy fire down on the British. The crackling of musket fire drowned out the screams of the wounded.

Mara leaned back against Jacques for support, but resisted when he tried to turn her away from the slaughter. He, too, was unable to look away. The attackers appeared to be beyond the control of their officers, and though he had to admire the courage of the men, he cringed at the fate that awaited them.

Some of the grenadiers made it to the base of the cliffs and began to climb, their muskets slung over their backs. Their red uniforms made excellent targets for the French above.

In the midst of this, the heavens opened, and a torrent of rain poured down on all, soaking the French powder. It could have been an opportunity for the British, had the cliffs not been soaked through. Slowly the attackers slid back down to the shore, living, wounded and dead, all tumbled together.

The firing ceased. Only the drumming of the rain and occasional rumbles of thunder marked the British retreat from the north shore of the St. Lawrence.

"Mara?" he asked.

She turned into his arms then and buried her face in his shoulder. Wordlessly he held her as she cried out her grief for the fallen enemy.

Jacques never looked back once they left Quebec.

He had convinced Etienne to let him carry dispatches to Montreal, using the opportunity to get Mara out of the city. Etienne had loaned him enough money to pay for her lodging through the winter. After the battle at Montmorency, Jacques was convinced that the British had no intention of pulling out any time soon, and the situation in town continued to deteriorate daily. Last week,
Notre Dame des Victoires
had been destroyed, surely a bad omen.

He had been unable to find a horse, as most of them had been slaughtered for food. It was harvest time, and patrols of British rangers were on the prowl, burning farmhouses and fields, taking prisoners and whatever else they could think of to demoralize the
habitants.
Unless the siege was lifted, and soon, everyone left in Quebec would starve next winter.

Jacques rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, glad he had decided to carry his uniform coat and vest rather than wear them. The late August weather was hot and sultry, plagued by clouds of black flies during the day and mosquitoes at night. He was worried about Mara, who had still not completely recovered her health after the accident. Knowing she worried about her brother, Jacques had tried to get word through the lines, but to no avail.

When he tried to reassure her, she just smiled sweetly and sadly. More alarming was the fact that she cried so often. She hadn’t been like that before, he reflected. No matter what had happened—her husband’s death, being uprooted from her home and dragged into the wilderness—she had borne it all stoically. But now, he never knew when the tears would start. She even cried when they made love.

He cursed under his breath, wishing there were something he could do to make her life better. If only he’d been able to arrange an exchange sooner, she’d be with her brother behind the British lines. At least there she’d be safe.

They had no choice but to walk upriver until they were past the point where the British ships patrolled the St. Lawrence. Then he hoped to find a canoe or bateau to take them to Montreal. Jacques wiped the sweat off his brow and glanced at Mara, who was lagging behind again. If only he’d been able to find a horse and cart.

She suddenly stopped and put a hand on his arm in warning.

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard something," she whispered.

Just then, a man wearing buckskins and carrying a musket stepped out in front of them. Others materialized from the trees along the side of the road. Rangers, he thought with a sinking heart. He should have been more alert, but the weeks of shelling had damaged his already weak hearing.

"Well, well, what have we found?" the first man said in English.

Jacques pretended not to understand, hoping they’d be mistaken for
habitants.

One of the men moved closer to Mara, eyeing her up and down. "Hey, cap’n, this is the purtiest gal we’ve found yet."

Jacques tensed, knowing he’d be unable to protect her. He might get off one shot, but that left six others.

Mara darted a warning glance in Jacques’s direction and backed away from the ranger. She had to handle this situation before Jacques tried some heroic action that would get him killed. Reaching inside her pocket, she wrapped her fingers around the pouch containing Gideon’s ring. Now if only her limited English did not fail her.

"Please, sir," she said to the leader. "Take us to my brother."

The captain smiled unpleasantly. "And who might that be, little lady? General Wolfe?"

His men laughed uproariously.

"Major Gideon Harcourt," she said slowly. "He is with the Royal Americans."

The captain’s eyes narrowed at her words. She had his full attention now. Taking the ring from the pouch, she held it up. "Gideon gave me this ring. He said it would see me safely through the British lines."

The captain moved closer to examine it. "Masonic," he announced.

"How would a Frenchy get a lodge ring?" one man asked.

"Off a dead officer," another suggested.

"No," Mara insisted. "From my brother." She reached into the pouch once more. "Here is his letter."

The captain took the worn piece of paper, unfolded it and read it slowly. He scratched his head in thought. "It appears genuine."

"It is," she insisted.

"Who is that?" he asked, gesturing toward Jacques.

"Take us to my brother," Mara said. "He will reward you."

"Determined little thing, ain’t you?" he said with a grimace. "All right, lady, but if you been lying to me, well, let’s just say you’ll be real sorry."

* * *

The rangers bound Jacques’s hands before escorting him and Mara to the Royal American camp at the Etchemin River. The captain disappeared inside a tent for a few moments. Suddenly Gideon rushed outside.

"Mara, my God, what’s happened to you?"

Mara threw herself into her brother’s arms and burst into tears. They were together again.

"Thank God you’re all right," Gideon said, holding her tightly. He patted her shoulder. "Here, now, you were never one to cry much."

She stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I have changed, Gideon."
If only you knew how much,
she thought to herself, but said no more. She would have plenty of time later to fill him in on what had happened to her. For one bittersweet moment, she had forgotten her fear for Jacques in her joy at seeing her brother again.

He squeezed her shoulder, then released her. "You are so thin, Mara."

"There is not much to eat in Quebec," she said with a shrug. She stepped back and straightened her spine, aware that the rangers were gathered around, avidly watching the scene. A number of red-coated soldiers had joined them as well.

"Do you men have nothing better to do?" Gideon asked in a sharp tone.

"Begging your pardon, Major Harcourt," the captain said, "but we was just wondering what you want us to do with the prisoner."

"Prisoner?"

Mara held her breath as two rangers pushed Jacques roughly forward. They had tied his hands behind his back, but his defiance was apparent in his proud stance and haughty expression.

"Well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Corbeau." Gideon smiled, an unholy grin that chilled her despite the afternoon heat. She had dreaded the day these two met—the day she would finally have to choose between her brother and the man she loved.

"Well done, Captain Hawkins," Gideon said. "You will receive a reward for this day’s work. Place the spy under guard. I will deal with him later."

Mara ran to her brother’s side. "Spy? Gideon, what are you talking about?"

He turned to her with a stern frown. "This man is out of uniform. That makes him a spy."

"He was taken captive on the French side of the river," she protested. "We were ambushed."

Gideon scowled at her. "So you still defend him, Mara."

"I will not apologize for speaking the truth."

"Was he with the men who killed Emile?"

"You know that he was," she said, puzzled by the question.

"And was he in uniform that day?"

Mara stared at her brother, realizing that the truth would further condemn Jacques in his eyes.

"I thought not," Gideon said with a satisfied smirk. "He is a murderer as well as a spy."

"No," she cried. "He tried to save Emile’s life. It was the Indians who killed him. Jacques is not a spy. Ask the ranger for his pouch, and you will find his uniform inside."

Hawkins immediately handed over the pouch.

"Mara, no," Jacques whispered, and she suddenly remembered the official papers he had been carrying.

His attention caught now, Gideon dumped the contents onto the ground. Ignoring the uniform, he picked up a packet of papers and began looking at them. "Ah, what have we here? Dispatches from the Marquis de Montcalm. General Moncton will be most appreciative. Perhaps he will even spare your miserable life."

He turned from Jacques and gestured to a uniformed soldier. "Sergeant Bigley, place the prisoner under guard," he ordered. "I must forward these dispatches to General Moncton immediately."

Mara felt sick with disappointment. How could Gideon behave like that? She had known he was filled with hate and bitterness, but had never seen it demonstrated before, never seen him turn against her and someone she cared about.

"Gideon, please," she begged. "Do not do this."

"I must do my duty, Mara."

"Duty? That is not your duty. Listen to yourself, Gideon. You’ve become a bitter, narrow-minded man, just like Grandfather. Filled with hate, obsessed with revenge. Stop it before you destroy yourself."

"Enough!" Gideon commanded with an abrupt sweep of his arm. The expression on his face was so cold, so forbidding, that Mara no longer recognized him.

"You may stay in my tent, Mara. If you need anything, ask Sergeant Bigley. We will talk later."

With fear in her heart, Mara watched Jacques being led away and shoved into a small tent. Sinking to the ground, she gathered their possessions, including the small vial of laudanum the doctor had given her for pain, and carried them into Gideon’s tent.

She slumped onto the cot and hugged Jacques’s waistcoat to her breast, comforted by his familiar scent. Her mind was in turmoil as she tried to think of a way to help him escape.

"Oh, Mama," she whispered. "Where are you when I need you?"

Words of comfort drifted into her mind.
I am here with you, child.

Mara glanced around the tent, knowing she was alone, but certain she had not imagined the words.

Trust your heart. It will show you the way.

Mara looked down at the vial of laudanum in her hand, and a spark of hope flared inside her. Perhaps there was a way, after all.

* * *

Mara spent the afternoon in Gideon’s tent, waiting anxiously for him to return, determined to try once more to talk some sense into him before putting her escape plan into action.

She had told no one about her dream, not sure whom to trust, but she longed to confide in someone. Gideon had a university education, perhaps he could explain it to her. And she had to pass along their mother’s message to him, though she doubted it would do any good. Still, that was her only hope of turning him from his present path. She refused to sacrifice the man she loved to her brother’s sick need for vengeance.

He returned in time for the evening meal. Over salt pork and cornbread, Mara put her worries aside and made an effort to be a pleasant dinner companion. Gideon seemed to sense what she was doing, as well, so they spoke of old times and tried to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Mara knew that alienating her brother would not help the situation, and, in truth, she had no wish to quarrel with him. As children, they had been close, but now it seemed as if an immense gorge stood between them.

After dinner, she gathered the courage to broach the subject of her dream. "Gideon, have you ever heard of anyone who died and then came back to life? Like Lazarus, in the Bible."

He looked surprised at her choice of topic. "Why do you ask?"

"Something happened to me a week ago that I do not understand."

He settled back in his chair. "Tell me about it."

"The building I was in was shelled and caught fire. I was trapped on the ground floor."

He sat up straight, a horrified expression on his face. "My God, Mara, were you hurt?"

She hastened to assure him. "Mostly bruises, though I had a concussion and injured my shoulder. The worst was the smoke that made it impossible to breathe. While I was unconscious, I had a very strange dream, only…" She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Only I am not sure it really was a dream."

He frowned. "What are you trying to tell me?"

She took a deep breath, not expecting him to believe her, but knowing she had to try. "I think I died and went to heaven, only they said it was not my time to die and sent me back."

"They?"

"There were two angels in my dream. One said she had been my mother."

His eyebrows shot upward. "Mother? You never even knew her."

Mara smiled at the memory of her mother’s loving presence. "Oh, Gideon, she was so beautiful. And so loving."

"That was quite a dream you had, Mara. Is there more?"

"The other angel said he was a servant of ‘him whose existence I doubt.’ Oh, Gideon, I learned so much," she said fervently. She spoke quickly, hoping to say something that would convince him of the reality of her dream. "Do you know why there are so many different churches? Because not everyone has the same spiritual needs. That is why all churches are good and necessary."

He smiled indulgently. "Perhaps it is best if you do not tell this story to very many people. Imagine what Grandfather would have said."

He wasn’t taking her seriously. She could see it in his expression, and yet he was listening. "I know it sounds crazy, but I thought you would understand if anyone did."

He shifted in his chair. "Yes, well, when I was at university, I read accounts of the early Christians describing similar experiences. But I thought they were merely allegorical, meant to instruct the faithful."

"I see," she said, unaccountably disappointed.

His expression softened. "Dreams come in many guises, Mara. If this one has given you comfort, then surely that is a good thing."

"Yes, I suppose you are right. I am less fearful now."

He studied her gravely, but there was a hint of excitement in his eyes. "Was there anything else?"

Mara hesitated. Now they were getting to the difficult part. "The second angel told me that I had to come back because two men were waiting for me. One I would marry."

His lips tightened in disapproval. "I suppose you are referring to Corbeau. My God, how could you even think of such a thing? Did you make up this ‘dream’ to convince me that you were meant for each other?"

"I am not in the habit of making up stories," she said, hurt by his accusation.

"Just what is it you’re trying to tell me, Mara?"

"The angel said the other man was someone I must help to forgive." His gaze grew wary, but she pressed on. "Yes, you. Mother was quite worried about you."