Rogue's Hostage (3 page)

The unrelenting pace set by the Indians soon had Mara gasping for breath. The trail wound up a rise and the hardwood trees gave way to pine and spruce. Her breathing grew labored as she struggled to keep up. By the time they reached the top, pain pierced her side like a knife wound. They stopped at the summit, and she sank to the ground, taking in grateful gulps of the pine-scented air.

When her breathing slowed to normal, she wiped her face on her apron and looked westward. The distant mountain ranges seemed to stretch to infinity, and her heart sank at the view—an undulating sea of green, a never-ending ocean of impenetrable forest, as far as the eye could see.

"Magnificent, isn’t it?"

She turned to see Corbeau crouched beside her, a wooden canteen in his hand. "The view is beautiful," she admitted grudgingly. Beautiful but overwhelming.

He handed her the canteen. "Have some water."

She hesitated, then took a swallow, and another, letting the heavenly liquid trickle down her parched throat. As she handed the canteen back to him, she forced herself to say, "Thank you." His hand brushed hers, and she flinched.

He frowned at her reaction, but said nothing.

Mara squinted into the late afternoon sun. "Where is the fort?"

He gestured toward the horizon. "On the other side of the mountains."

She stared at him, sure he was taunting her, but the expression on his face was serious. "My God," she whispered and turned her head to look out at the vista. She clamped her teeth together to keep from blurting out her terror. Even if she could escape, how would she find her way through this vast wilderness? Once on the other side of the mountain range, she might never make her way back to civilization.

She had to escape, and soon.

* * *

The scent of death hung in the air.

Gideon Harcourt sensed it the minute he entered the clearing on the way back to camp. The Dupré’s cabin door hung open and no smoke came from the chimney. A dark premonition held him still.

The Highlanders accompanying him fanned out along the edge of the forest, muskets at the ready. Slowly, Gideon scanned the area until he discovered the figure lying beside the cabin wall. His heart gave a lurch, and he broke into a run.
Oh God, no,
he cried silently,
not Emile.

Pain and rage tore through Gideon as he stared at the mutilated body of his brother-in-law. A hand closed over his shoulder, and Gideon turned to find Lieutenant Shaw, his expression full of sympathy. The soldiers held back, no one daring to speak.

Gideon threw off the Scotsman’s hand and raced toward the cabin. At the door he braced himself, dreading what he might find inside. Guilt assaulted him. It was his fault. He’d assured Mara and Emile they would be safe. He should have insisted they leave, go to the army camp, anywhere but here.

He careened around the small room, his mind reeling in disbelief. There was no one inside, but he saw traces of blood on the floor and the table. Shock yielded quickly to fury. He pounded his fist on the table and cursed the French. The deep-buried fire of anger within him, kindled by his father’s death, flared into new life.

He started for the door, but one foot caught on a bundle of cloth and he knelt to pick it up. "Oh, Mara," he moaned as he examined his sister’s bloodstained dress. "What have they done to you?" Yet he saw no pattern to the stains and no holes or tears to indicate a wound. Was it Emile’s blood? Could she be unharmed?

The weight on his chest lifted, but only for a moment as he realized she must have been taken captive. A different kind of terror struck his heart. If only he could order the Highlanders to go after her, but they were not under his command. He could not ask Shaw to disobey orders, even for Mara’s sake.

Lifting the dress he discovered a book beneath it. His hands shook as he picked up their mother’s Bible. A ribbon marked the pages where the family history was recorded.

Dear God, Mara had left him a message. In the midst of everything, she’d had the presence of mind…His finger traced the words.
Fort Duquesne.
The French fort was miles away. There was still time to find her.

But first, he had one last thing to do for the man he had called friend and brother.

They buried Emile at the eastern edge of the land he had cleared with his own hands. The soldiers took turns digging the grave while Gideon cleaned the body and fashioned a crude shroud from a sheet. As the body was lowered into the ground, the soldiers gathered around Gideon. He held the family Bible in his hands but had no need to open it. Raising his gaze toward the western horizon, he prayed for the soul of his best friend and for the safety of his little sister. She was out there somewhere, alone with the men who had killed her husband.

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." His voice shook as he recited the psalm that had always given him comfort.

After the short service, Gideon stooped to pick up a handful of dirt and toss it into the grave. Silently he watched as the soldiers finished the job, spreading leaves over the site to conceal its location. Lieutenant Shaw ordered his men back to camp, leaving Gideon alone in his sorrow. After a few minutes, his heart heavy with grief, he turned his back on the clearing and followed them.

I will find her,
he vowed.
No matter how long it takes.

* * *

Late in the day, Mara’s captors veered onto a side path that led to a clearing next to a stream. Water cascaded down a ladder of lichen-covered rocks, interspersed with small, clear pools.

Mara sank gratefully to the ground beside the creek. Cupping her hands, she drank deeply. Her reflection in the water revealed flushed cheeks and shadowed eyes. She sighed, then splashed her face. She hurt everywhere, from her pounding head to her scratched arms and blistered toes. Pulling off her shoes and stockings she dunked her aching feet in the water, flinching at the cold but hoping to numb the pain.

Dully she sat by the stream and watched the men make camp in the small clearing, which was bordered on the far side by a barrier of tall pine trees, silent sentinels guarding the spot. While Corbeau gathered wood for a fire, the Indians seemed intent on stripping bark from one of the trees. She watched warily, wondering what they were doing.

The piece of bark measured about seven by three feet. When it was loose they cut four forked sticks, which they set in the ground, the taller ones close to the fire the Frenchman had started. Then they laid cross poles atop the sticks and stretched the bark over the top of the framework. Now Mara could see that they had fashioned a crude shelter.

Suddenly Corbeau’s deep voice rumbled from above her head. "It’s going to rain. At least we’ll stay dry tonight."

She looked up as he squatted down beside her. "Surely you don’t mean…" Panic welled inside her at the thought of sharing such a cramped space with her captors.

"Would you rather sleep outside in the storm?"

She averted her eyes. "You give me few choices. In any case, I’m not sure I could move another inch."

"I am glad to hear that. My companions think I should tie you up."

She looked up and stared at him. "What?"

"They think you will try to escape."

She shook her head. "Your friends have an exaggerated sense of my strength and stamina."

He touched her hand lightly. "You were very brave today. It takes great courage to laugh in the face of death. You have earned the respect of my companions."

She opened her mouth to explain why she’d laughed, then closed it. Let them think she was brave. It might keep her alive. The Frenchman’s words at the cabin came back to her.
I can be persuaded to act as your protector.
Her heart beat faster, and she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Please," she whispered. "Don’t let them hurt me. Let me stay by you tonight."

For a moment his expression was unguarded. In that instant she knew he wanted her. She wrenched her gaze away, and a wave of apprehension swept over her as she realized what she’d just said. Fear raced through her. Who would protect her from him?

When she glanced at him again, his face was impassive, and she wondered if she had imagined that fleeting gleam of lust.

"Very well, I will take care of you. But first, I have one condition."

Mara steeled herself for his next words, but his request startled her.

"I wish to hear you call me by my given name. Jacques."

She moistened her lips again, then whispered his name.

His jaw tightened as he stared at her mouth, but he said nothing.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

A wry smile curled his lips. "No, madame." He stood and held out a hand to her. "Come sit by the fire."

Hesitantly she rose, but then slipped on the mossy rocks. Before she fell, he caught her around the waist, lifting her against his body, her breasts pressed to his chest. She panicked and struggled to free herself.

"Stop it," he ordered. "I won’t hurt you."

She froze, then lifted her gaze to his. His eyes were the smoky gray of a foggy morning. The tension between them increased with disturbing intensity. He held her for a few more seconds, then, with an oath, let her go and stepped back. Scowling, he turned and strode to the fire.

Mara took a deep breath as she watched him stalk off. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that he desired her. It was evident in his voice, his gaze, his touch. And having felt the strength in his arms, she knew that he could take whatever he wanted.

She trembled, understanding the fear of a small animal caught in a snare, uninjured yet unable to break free, uncertain of the future, and filled with dread. She had to escape, but not tonight, while four-legged predators roamed the dark woods.

Besides, she must set her captors’ minds at ease. She must pretend to be submissive.

Mara limped over to the fire, her thoughts a crazy mixture of hope and fear. Corbeau offered her a share of his supper—parched corn meal mixed with water. She ate the bland food, forcing it down, but she had no appetite. She ate to survive, her stomach churning in dread.

Afterwards, Corbeau spread a blanket at one end of the shelter. When Mara pulled her blanket out of her pack he took it from her. "We can lie on one and use the other for a cover."

"But," she protested. "Surely there is no need…"

"Would you rather be tied to a pole?"

Unable to bear the thought of being tethered like an animal, Mara gave in. "No," she said shortly.

She crawled into the lean-to, sat on the edge of the blanket and watched him walk back to the fire. Her stays were digging painfully into her ribs. Certain no one was watching, she removed her bodice and put it in the pouch, which became her pillow. She lay on her side, facing outward, too nervous to sleep.

She listened to the three men speaking quietly as they sat and smoked, but she was too exhausted to pay attention to their words. Fog seeped through the forest, silhouetting the trees against the soft gray mist. She lay listening to the rustling of the small creatures of the night and the occasional hoot of an owl. The screech of a mountain lion echoed from afar, making her shiver with fright.

When Corbeau lay down next to her, she tensed at the nearness of his large, strong body. The smell of tobacco and wood smoke mingled with his musky, male scent, and she had a sudden urge to burrow closer to his warmth, as she had snuggled next to Emile for five years. In that moment she hated herself for her weakness, her fears.

She should hate this man, too, but he had promised to protect her. Was that only because he wanted her? What would she do if he demanded her body as the price of his protection?

He covered her with the second blanket then put his arm around her. When he pulled her closer, she flinched.

"Go to sleep, madame. I promise, on my personal honor, that you will be safe."

"What does a Frenchman know of honor?" she asked, unable to keep the scorn from her voice.

He stiffened and turned away from her.

Mara shivered in the cold night air. So Lieutenant Corbeau had a weak spot after all. Despite the anguish churning inside her, she smiled. He should never have let her know his weakness.

She would not forget.

Her ghosts came to life in a nightmare.

White mists swirled around the trees in a darkened forest. Mara caught a glimpse of her mother, a golden-haired vision in the billowing haze, before she vanished.

Then her father appeared before her, his face sad.

Papa,
Mara cried. She tried to reach out to him, but the figure eluded her grasp.
No, Papa, don’t leave me, not again.

He faded into the fog, saying,
Fear not, little one. They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.

Another voice thundered out,
The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children unto the fourth generation…

It was her grandfather, dressed in his black preacher’s robe, her grandmother standing silently beside him.

Grand-père,
Mara screamed.
Help me.

He stared at her, stern disapproval etched on his lined face.
Be strong and of good courage.

But I am afraid,
Mara pleaded.
Grand-mère.

Her grandmother gazed sorrowfully at her.
The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.

A rush of painful memories poured through Mara as they turned their backs on her and disappeared.
Someone help me,
she cried.

Emile appeared out of the swirling mist. She ran toward him but seemed barely able to move, as if some unseen force were holding her back. Before she could reach him, shots rang out and he fell to the ground.

No!
Mara screamed, but it was too late. Blood welled from his chest and his sightless eyes stared at her.

"Gideon," she moaned. Only Gideon could save her.

A pair of strong arms encircled her. Warm hands caressed her back and hair, and a low voice murmured in her ear. "It’s all right, madame, just a bad dream."

Desperately Mara clung to her rescuer, trembling as she fought her way out of the nightmare. It was cold, so cold. "There were shots," she said, tasting her own panic.

"Just thunder. A storm is coming," the voice soothed.

"No," she insisted. "It was gunfire." Her breath caught in her throat, and tears streamed from her eyes. She was sobbing so hard, she could barely speak. "Gideon. Help me…"

"Hush, it’s all right now. You had a nightmare, but it’s over."

He held her close as her tears soaked the front of his shirt. Warmth spread through her at his tenderness, and she started to relax, her sobs easing.

"Pauvre petite,"
he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "Go ahead and cry. You’ve earned the right."

* * *

Jacques woke to find the woman still cradled in his arms, her head on his shoulder. He had held her until she fell asleep, wondering who the devil Gideon was. Did she have a lover? He suddenly remembered the tall English officer who’d embraced her so warmly before leaving the clearing. Had she been flirting with her lover while her husband played host to the others?

No. He dismissed the thought as nonsensical. He’d spent too much time at Versailles. The officer was probably a close family friend or a relative. Though beautiful, she was a farm woman, not a titled harlot. Still, niggling doubts plagued him. If she was such a virtuous wife, why had she not called out her husband’s name? Not that it was any of his business, but—
par dieu!
—when he held a woman in his arms he wanted to hear his name on her lips, not some other man’s.

Was he losing his mind? He reminded himself that she was his captive, dependent on his good will. Honor demanded that he stay as far away from her as possible, but still close enough to protect her.

Conflicting emotions surged through him—desire mixed with compassion for her, guilt at his failure to save her husband’s life, and anger at her for questioning his honor.

What does a Frenchman know of honor?
she’d asked.

In truth, he knew a great deal about honor. How easy it was to lose. And how difficult to regain.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms who opened her eyes and tried to pull away. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice sounding husky even to his ears.

"Let me up." She pushed against his chest and he chuckled.

"Did you sleep well in my arms, madame?"

"It was you?"

"Who did you think?" he asked, smoothing a strand of hair from her face. "I’m glad you were able to sleep after your nightmare."

"Nightmare," she repeated with trembling lips. "You and your friends are my nightmare. Let me up."

This time he let her go, helping her to stand. She was pale, with violet shadows under her blue eyes. But when she met his gaze with a defiant tilt to her chin, he grinned. "Now, that is the Madame Dupré I know."

Her face flooded with color. Stepping away from him, she gathered her things and fled across the small clearing to the stream where she bathed her face with cold water.

From a distance, Jacques watched her tying her bodice, lacing it tightly as if donning body armor. Of course she’d feel the need to protect herself from him.

And why not? Though he’d only meant to spare her life, it hadn’t taken long for his good intentions to become more…personal. He wanted her, and she knew it.

He took a deep breath of cool, clean air and forced himself to look away. The early morning light slanted across the clearing, catching the sparkle of dewdrops on the grass. There was a special beauty to the dawn. The world seemed born anew, as if nature were trying to wipe clean the violence wrought by man in her peaceful domain. But he could not forget the events of the previous day.

The farmer’s death still haunted him. He should have been able to control the situation.

Gray Wolf joined him. "Be careful, my brother. The woman weakens you."

In no mood for criticism, Jacques glared at the older man. "That is nonsense."

"No, my young friend," Gray Wolf replied, his expression troubled. "Taking the woman was a mistake. Already your mind is on her, not on our mission."

Jacques clenched his fists. "Are you saying we should have killed her, too? You know my people do not believe in waging war on civilians."

"It is the way we have always fought," Gray Wolf replied. "And if we do not rid our land of the English now, what will happen to us? We fight for our survival in the only way we know."

"But, it is not my way," Jacques insisted. "In Europe, the armies battle only each other."

Gray Wolf looked vaguely amused. "If that is so, why do the white fathers encourage our warriors to take scalps and make prisoners of the English settlers?"

"Because there are not enough of us to meet the redcoats man to man. So when it is expedient to make war on women and children, we turn our heads and pretend it is none of our doing." Jacques spat out the words, hating the fact that they were true. In this untamed land, terror had become state policy.

"My brother is cross as a bear this morning," Gray Wolf observed drily. "Perhaps he did not sleep well last night."

Jacques rubbed his forehead. "The woman had a nightmare."

The Delaware nodded. "I heard you speaking love words to her afterward. Be forewarned, she will make a fool of you."

Jacques looked at her where she sat by the stream, brushing her hair, a golden mane gleaming in the rays of the morning sun. He longed to run his hands through the silky strands and taste the sweetness of her kisses.

But Gray Wolf was right. Only trouble could come of it.

* * *

Mara found her chance to escape late in the morning.

They stopped at a fork in the path while Jacques and the Indians considered which route to take. Gray Wolf favored the short cut over the mountains, but Corbeau preferred sticking to the longer, less strenuous path. After asking for a few minutes of privacy to take care of personal needs, she left them to their debate.

She walked to the nearby stream, the same one they had been crossing and re-crossing since yesterday. After quenching her thirst, she sat back to rest, listening to the sound of birdcalls and the gurgling of the rushing water. She heard the men still arguing in the distance and suddenly realized that this might be her chance. Her choices were few and escape the only acceptable one. The sooner she got away from her self-appointed "protector," the better off she would be.

She just had to follow the stream downhill until she regained the path. They’d passed an abandoned hut earlier where she could spend the night safe from predators. At least the four-legged variety.

She removed her shoes and stockings and stuffed them into her pouch. Standing, she pulled her skirt up and tucked the ends into the waistband.

Cautiously she listened for any sign that the Frenchman had decided to come looking for her, but she heard his voice still raised in discussion. Heart pounding with fear and anticipation, Mara slipped quietly into the water and made her escape.

By mid-afternoon she was lost. Her plan had seemed so simple, but she’d wandered into a branch of the main stream and wasted the better part of an hour before realizing what she had done. Back at the fork, she slumped on the ground to rest, her breathing labored. Her bare feet were freezing and she tucked them under her linsey-woolsey skirt.

She rubbed her temples. The pounding in her head and the rumbling of her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d last eaten. And now she was alone in the wilderness, lost, hungry and exhausted.

By the waters of Babylon, we lay down and wept.
The verse floated into her mind, but she shoved it aside.

She looked around to see if there were any edible plants. Tall fir trees lined the gently meandering stream on the other side, but here large wood ferns bordered a grassy bank. Water murmured softly around fallen tree trunks and partially submerged rocks. Emile would have appreciated the lush beauty of this spot.

Emile.

Was it just yesterday he was killed? Events blurred in her mind. How content he had been, digging in his vegetable garden. Alive one moment, then dead a few heartbeats later.

If only he hadn’t fired first, he might still be alive. If only Gideon had heard the shots. Her brother was all she had left, her one hope. She had to reach him, but how? She might never find her way back to the cabin.

Whatever had possessed her to think she could make her way home? If she didn’t find that abandoned cabin before dark, she would need a fire for warmth and to keep the animals at bay. Heavens, had she remembered to bring a flint? Frantically she began searching through her pouch.

"Did you really expect to escape from me?"

Mara jerked at the sound. The Frenchman stood on the other side of the stream. Though his voice had been soft and silky, the cold look in his eyes and the tenseness of his jaw signaled his fury.

Her hand closed over Emile’s hunting knife. Never taking her eyes off Corbeau, she pulled it from her pack and hid it within the folds of her skirt. She rose to face him, her heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer against the anvil of her ribs.

"Where are your friends?" Her gaze darted from tree to tree, searching the shadows.

"I sent them on ahead. They would have killed you otherwise. You made a grave mistake, madame."

When he took a step toward her, she brandished her weapon. It was just the two of them this time, and she had little to lose. "Don’t come any closer."

He stopped and stared at her, his implacable expression unnerving. "Do not think of threatening me. You are out-matched, and I doubt you are capable of harming anyone."

She gripped the knife tighter. "Who knows what someone will do when pushed far enough?"

"You will not survive on your own. Put the knife down and no one will get hurt." He laid his musket against a tree, removed his own knife from his belt and placed it, along with his pouch and powder horn, on the ground. When he turned back to her he held up both hands. "Would you attack an unarmed man?"

She lifted her chin and met his icy gaze straight on. "If that is what it takes to defend myself."

He waded into the stream, closing the distance between them with his long stride. "I will not hurt you."

"You will destroy me," she cried. She gripped the knife tighter in her sweaty palm.

He hesitated a second, then continued toward her. His shirt was open at the neck and a glint of gold caught Mara’s eye. Her gaze fixed on the crucifix he wore around his neck. If she aimed just below it, she could pierce him through the heart. His words reverberated through her mind,
incapable of harming
…She shook them off. What choice did she have? Willing her hand not to tremble, she raised the knife higher.

As he reached the bank of the creek, Mara lunged. But in one lightning-quick motion he snared her wrist before her blade found its target. They grappled for control of the knife. She lost her balance and fell, pulling him down with her.

They landed half-in, half-out of the icy stream, thrashing wildly, until his greater strength pinned her body beneath his. He locked his hands around her wrist and twisted.

With a cry she let go of the knife. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. Pain radiated from her wrist. Cold water splashed around her legs, soaking her skirts, but it was nothing compared to the chill in her heart.

She tried to break free but he shifted his weight to hold her down, his hips pressing against hers. Looking up at him, she flinched at the cold fury in his expression.

With a smothered curse, he released her and snatched the knife from where it had fallen. He stood and reached down to pull her up. When he grasped her arm, a sharp pain shot through her, and she cried out.

Stepping back, he let her rise on her own. "Is your wrist broken?"

"I don’t think so," she said shortly, cradling it in her left hand. As she climbed the bank of the creek, her wet skirts tangled around her legs, almost tripping her.

He stripped off his dripping shirt and draped it over a sun-warmed rock. Mara noticed a red stain on his bandaged shoulder. His wound of the previous day must have re-opened during their struggle. No more than he deserved, she thought.