Rogue's Hostage (4 page)

Turning to her, he said, "We’re both soaked. I’ll make a fire. Take off those wet things."

Crossing the stream, he picked up his pack and removed a dry breechclout. He looked up and his gaze locked with hers. "Does madame intend to watch?"

She turned abruptly, picked up her pouch, and headed toward the forest.

"Not so fast," he called after her. "I would be a fool to let you out of my sight again."

She spun and stared at him. "You cannot expect me to change out here."

"Why not? You have nothing I have not seen before."

She gasped in outrage. "How dare you…"

He leaped across the stream, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her into gasping silence. "You have caused me enough trouble. Understand this, madame. From now on you will do as I say, without argument, without question."

Though her heart pounded in her chest, she met his gaze defiantly.

He released her and stepped back. "But because I am an officer, and supposedly a gentleman, I will allow you some privacy. You may go behind a bush, but I want to see the top of your head or hear your voice at all times, or I will come looking for you. Is that clear?"

"Yes," she hissed. When he let go of her, she glared at him, then marched behind a large fern.

Once out of sight, Mara sank down on the ground, no longer able to control the spasmodic trembling within her. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? A single tear slid down one cheek, and she brushed it away. She would die before she let him see her cry.

"I can’t hear you." The warning came from just on the other side of the fern.

"Don’t come any closer," she cried in alarm. She didn’t trust him to respect her privacy, despite the fact that he’d called himself a "gentleman." From the way he’d said the word, he didn’t believe that himself.

"Do you need some help?"

"No!" Hurriedly she pulled another chemise from her pouch. Standing, she awkwardly unfastened her skirt, using her left hand as much as possible. At last free of the dripping garment, she threw it over the fern in the direction of his voice. A sopping wet petticoat soon followed.

Then, clad only in the chemise and her shawl, Mara took a deep breath and walked back into the clearing. Corbeau had changed into a dry breechclout but wore no shirt, just the blood-stained bandage on his shoulder. It probably needed changing, but she was not going to volunteer.

After spreading their wet clothing on the grass to dry, Mara sat by the stream, soaking her aching wrist in the cold water, lost in her own dismal thoughts.

Corbeau paced the clearing, reminding her of a chained dog. He was all bronzed skin and lean, sinewy muscle. She kept silent, sensing the barely leashed fury that coiled within him.

He turned and stared at her with hooded eyes, like a bird of prey that had sighted its next meal. She shivered, unable to look away. After what seemed like an eternity, he resumed his pacing. Mara breathed a sigh of relief.

When it grew dark, Corbeau spread their blankets side by side, but not touching. "Get some sleep," he ordered in a gruff voice that left no room for argument. "I’ll keep watch."

She lay down and rolled up in her blanket, but sleep refused to come. Her mind kept replaying scenes from the last two days. What could she have done differently? What other course had been open to her? Was there no way out of this predicament?

Suddenly an unholy screech filled the night.

Mara jumped up and gripped Corbeau by the arm. "What was that?" The cry came again, long and mournful, sounding much closer.

"Mountain lion," he muttered.

"My God, we’ll be eaten alive."

Corbeau snatched his musket, checked the priming, and put more wood on the fire. When he spoke, his voice was soft but edged with steel. "Now do you see how foolish you were to run away? Would you really want to be out here alone?"

Mara shuddered at the thought but said nothing. Being here with him was just as dangerous.

Her grandfather had warned her about men like Corbeau—immoral, shameless, self-indulgent rogues who took what they wanted without a thought for the consequences. He was everything she instinctively feared—strong, virile, and dangerous. Still, he had comforted her after her nightmare, proving himself capable of tenderness, at least when it suited his purpose.

He was also ruthless and single-minded, she reminded herself. In a word, uncivilized, and she did not dare trust him.

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she moved closer to the fire. Light from the flames flared and danced, making the dark shadows of the forest seem to move. Anxiously she stared into the night, her ears alert to every sound.

Gideon’s face swam into her memory. Surely he would come after her. As long as there was hope—that the French would be defeated, that Gideon would find her—she could survive. She could endure anything fate threw at her, as long as she had hope.

"Who is Gideon?"

"What?" Startled, she turned toward Corbeau. Had he read her mind? "How do you know that name?"

Firelight flickered on the taut line of his jaw. "You called out for him in your sleep last night. Is he the reason you ran away? He must be very special if you would brave this wilderness to return to him."

"Gideon is…" The word brother was on the tip of her tongue, but why should she tell him anything? Let him think what he liked. Instead she said, "Gideon is a major in the Royal Americans."

His lip curled into a knowing sneer as he spat out the words. "The golden-haired Englishman? The one you embraced?"

A chill went through her. "How long were you spying on us?"

"Long enough," Jacques said as his lingering doubts about her virtue returned. Perhaps her relationship with the
rosbif
was not so innocent after all. "Your husband was either weak or very understanding. Not every man would be so cordial to his wife’s lover."

"Lover?" She threw back her head and laughed.

"Do I amuse you, madame?"

She tried to hide her laughter behind one hand. "Oh, monsieur, you are quite mistaken. Gideon was my husband’s best friend, and mine as well. But I cannot expect a Frenchman to understand that."

Stung by her barb, Jacques glared at her. She seemed to hold him in contempt because of his nationality. "I made a natural assumption. We French are romantic by nature."

"Decadent and immoral, you mean."

Her comment struck him like a blow to the gut. His hand automatically touched the scar on his side. What would she think of a man who had seduced another man’s betrothed? If he told her that sordid tale, she would despise him more than she already did.

However, he refused to back down. "You may think that you and this Gideon are friends, but I suspect he loves you."

"Yes, he does," she replied in a low tone, taut with emotion. "He is the only person left in this world who cares about me, thanks to you and your savage friends. He loves me so much that he will come after me, and he will have his revenge."

The knot inside Jacques’s stomach tightened. Let the redcoat come, he would welcome the challenge. No one would take this woman away from him.

Bon Dieu,
what was wrong with him? he wondered. He should be happy to have her off his hands. She had been nothing but trouble, and it had only been two days. The sooner he got her to the fort and out of his keeping, the better off he’d be.

Though he did not trust her, he admired her spirit. Despite her fragile appearance, she had proven herself a worthy adversary. Few men had the courage to challenge him, but she had faced him without flinching. She was far stronger and more cunning than he’d thought, and he wanted her. Badly. Even though, a few short hours ago, she had tried to kill him.

He was a fool, indeed.

* * *

Mara awoke feeling like she’d been trampled by a plow horse. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and she ached all over, especially her wrist. Groaning, she sat up and stretched. Taking a deep breath, she drank in the clean new scent of early morn.

"Good, you’re awake." Corbeau’s voice rumbled from the other side of the clearing. "Let’s get going. We have a long way to travel today."

Mara stared at him, her pleasure in the new day gone. He was dressed and ready to travel, her clothing draped over his arm.

She stood, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders against the chill in the air, then grabbed the bundle from him and turned toward the forest.

"No need for modesty," he muttered. "Put on your skirt and pack the rest."

Gritting her teeth, Mara did as he ordered, struggling to fasten the waistband with her sore wrist. Throwing him a glare of defiance she shrugged into her bodice as well, but lacing it was an ordeal. She winced every time she had to tighten the ties.

"Let me see that."

Corbeau took her hand in his and probed her wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

"It’s not broken," he said, "just sprained." Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a linen bandage and wrapped it around her wrist. "This should help support and protect it."

"Thank you," she whispered, disconcerted by his unexpected kindness. But she could not forget the danger of this man, or how he and his friends had shattered her life. She backed up and began tying her bodice again.

"Let me do it for you." He pushed her hands away and expertly threaded the laces through the holes.

To her annoyance, she felt herself starting to blush. She stood stiffly, arms at her side, resenting the familiarity. Apparently he was no stranger to the intricacies of female clothing. No doubt he had more experience removing it. He was probably used to having his way with a woman, when and where he wished. But if he thought she, Mara Dupré, would fall into his arms like a French tart…

When the back of his hand brushed her breast, a gasp escaped her lips. Peering at him through her lashes, she caught his slight smile. He was enjoying this, damn his soul.

Anger flooded through her, but she forced herself not to react. What would he do next? He and his friends had taken everything that mattered to her—husband, home, family, even her freedom. Surely that was enough. How much more could he demand?

When he’d finished lacing her bodice, Corbeau took her chin in his strong brown hand and tipped her face up to meet his gaze. "Do not be too proud to ask for help when you need it."

She glared up at him, her eyes narrowed with anger. "I don’t want you touching me. Not after yesterday."

Gently he stroked her face. "I never meant to hurt you."

She pulled away from him and held up her bandaged wrist. "What do you call this?"

A spark of anger flashed in his eyes. "I call it self-defense. Have you forgotten that you tried to kill me?"

"You forced me to do it," she said defiantly. "You should have let me go."

"Never. Not if I have to sleep with my back to a tree from now on."

He advanced on her and she retreated, her alarm growing.

"Will you try to stab me in the back next time?" he asked.

"No," she insisted, shaking her head wildly. "I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be free."

He stalked her until she was backed up against a tree with no room to maneuver. He moved closer, looming over her, heat emanating from his body. "I have no wish to hurt you either, madame," he said in a husky voice.

"Then what do you want?" The moment the words were out, Mara wished she could snatch them back. She saw his intent in his eyes as his gaze focused on her lips.

She pushed against the hard muscles of his chest but to no avail. Easily he encircled her in his arms, one hand at her waist, the other tangling in the hair at her nape, pulling her head back. She couldn’t miss his musky smell as he pressed closer to her. Her knees were weakened by the quivering of her limbs, and she fisted her hands in the rough linen of his shirt.

"What do I want," he whispered as he lowered his head, his breath hot against her face. "This. This is what I want."

Jacques stared at her through half-closed eyes. The anger, frustration, and desire that fired his blood merged into an overwhelming need to kiss her. He claimed her mouth with his own, smothering her lips, knowing the kiss was rough and aggressive, but unable to stop. He wanted to silence her, subdue her, and make love to her all at once.

Her hands beat against his chest in time with the wild drumming of his heart. Then she went still, enduring his embrace, lips clamped tightly together.

Desire won out over anger. He eased the pressure of the kiss, letting his tongue trace the fullness of her lower lip, coaxing her mouth to open. His hand loosened, let go of her hair, and stroked the back of her neck.

"No," she whimpered, wrenching her mouth away from his.

He drew his head back, his chest heaving, his breathing harsh and ragged.

"Why?" she asked. "What was that for?"

"That, madame, was my reward."

Mara stared at him for a moment before finding her voice. "Reward? For what?"

Jacques glared at her. "For saving your life after being shot by your husband. For worrying about a woman stupid enough to run off into the wilderness and get lost." He took a deep breath before adding. "In short, for behaving like a gentleman."

Releasing her, he turned and walked away, but on hearing her hoot of laughter, he stopped, his shoulders stiff, and spun around to face her.

"Gentleman?" she sputtered. "Savage, you mean."

He glared at her until she quit laughing. "You would do well to guard your words, Madame Captive."

She took a deep breath. "I may be your captive, and for now you can tell me where to go and what to do, but you will never have the right to dictate what I think or say. Never!" She spat out the word contemptuously.

Jacques’s temper flared again. One kiss hadn’t been enough. He began to walk toward her. "You are a woman of spirit. I find that quite…alluring."

She gasped and darted around him to grab her pouch. Oddly, she seemed more afraid of his desire than his anger. A most unusual reaction. She fascinated and baffled him.

"We had better get moving," she said, throwing him a glance over her shoulder. "You said we had a long way to go today."

"So we do. My companions await us." He walked up behind her, took hold of her braid, and gave it a gentle tug. "You really should be more grateful that it was I who found you." He kept his voice soft, despite the tangled emotions she roused in him. "Crazy Badger would have happily taken your scalp and left you to feed the mountain lions."

The look of horror on her face told him he’d made his point. He let go of her hair abruptly, walked back to their campsite, picked up his musket, and slung it over his shoulder. With his other hand, he gestured toward the forest for her to proceed him, mocking her with his broad, sweeping motion. "After you, madame."

* * *

Mara hurried down the path, but Corbeau darted ahead of her and set a bruising pace that soon had her gasping for breath. By mid-morning they arrived at the spot where they had stopped the previous afternoon.

"That way," he said, stopping and pointing to a side path. "If you had not run away yesterday, we could have taken the easier route. But now we need to make up for lost time."

Mara faltered as the narrow trail plunged deep into a grove of fir trees as dark, cold, and austere as a Gothic church. The deep shade and dense foliage shut out all traces of the world beyond the forest. The air was damp, filled with the bitter, resinous odor of the decaying hemlock needles crushed beneath their feet. She sensed solitude so all-encompassing it chilled her heart.

"Where are we?"

When Corbeau turned, she sensed the tension coming from him and suddenly knew the answer.

"The Shades of Death," she whispered, remembering the stories Gideon had told her of the dark forest dreaded by all who had to travel through it.

"It is just a forest, madame. You have nothing to fear." He held out a hand to her. "Come, we have no time to waste."

Fear made her swallow her pride. Placing her cold hand in his warm one, she let him lead her through the twisting maze. Huge tree trunks soared upwards like stone columns, and branches arched overhead, so closely intertwined the sun barely filtered through. A forest cathedral, abandoned by all gods known to man.

Growing up in Geneva, she had often stared across the lake at the far distant Alps, their white peaks jutting majestically into the blue sky. Heaven must be like that, she used to think, clean, pure and pristine. If that had been a glimpse of Heaven, then this dark, dank labyrinth must be an outpost of Hell.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the path merged with a wider trail, and the light grew brighter. She again recognized familiar beech and maple trees.

Late in the afternoon, Mara stopped suddenly. "Do you hear that?" she asked.

They listened intently for a moment. "Someone is coming," Corbeau whispered. "Quick, off the path."

He pulled her through the trees and into a thicket where they watched without being seen. As the sound of footsteps came closer, he grabbed hold of her from behind, one arm around her waist, pinning her arms to her side. His other hand covered her mouth to keep her from crying out. As a group of soldiers passed by, she saw glimpses of scarlet uniforms and heard snatches of conversation she recognized as English.

Twisting in Corbeau’s arms and arching her body, she struggled to get free, but was unable to break his ironclad hold. Tears of anger and frustration streamed silently down her face.

After a few minutes, she gave up. It was hopeless; he was too strong. She was acutely conscious of his muscular arms holding her against his hard chest. She would never get away from this man, not unless he let her go of his own accord.

He continued to hold her until long after the British were out of sight. Finally, he loosened his grip and turned her to face him, one arm still around her waist. With his free hand he brushed away her tears. "Hush," he murmured into her ear.

She opened her eyes and pleaded with him. "Let me go after them. By the time I catch up, you can be far away. I won’t tell them which way you went, I swear it. Only let me go."

"Oh, no, madame, I cannot. Too much is at stake."

"What?" she demanded in a shrill tone. "Your bounty money? Just how much am I worth to you? What is the value placed on a human life these days?"

"I do not care about the money, but Gray Wolf would be disappointed in me if I showed up without you. It is imperative that I retain his respect. And I have my pride to consider."

She placed her hands on her hips and faced him defiantly. "Are you so arrogant that you think the world revolves around your desires? Did I not know better, I might think you an aristocrat."

"How perceptive you are, madame," he drawled. "It so happens that my father is the Comte d’Archambault."

"At least you came by your arrogance honestly. You inherited it. But tell me, monsieur, what does your father think of his noble son?"

For a second a glimpse of pain flashed in his eyes. "My father thinks highly of his noble son. But he has no use for his bastard."

So he was a bastard. No wonder he didn’t like having his honor questioned. Mara knew by the clenching of his jaw that she was treading dangerously, but she was unable to hold in her bitterness any longer. "Does your father know how many innocent people you have killed? Innocent people like my husband?"

"I did not kill your husband," Corbeau snapped.

She went on, recklessly. "It was not your bullet, but you are just as responsible. And it was you who refused to let me bury him. If you think I will ever forget that, you are mad."

"Enough!" he commanded. "If you do not learn to curb your tongue, little shrew, I will turn you over to the tender care of Crazy Badger. Is that what you want?"

"No," Mara whispered, trying not to look terrified. She hated to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d frightened her again, but—dear Lord!—she had forgotten all about the Indians. She had best watch herself and learn to get along with her French captor. As bad as her situation seemed now, she feared that it could get worse. Much worse.

* * *

He needed a drink.

Irresponsible or not, Gideon Harcourt intended to drink himself into oblivion. Perhaps then he could sleep without seeing Emile’s bloody body, without thinking of what his sister might be suffering at this moment.

He walked into his tent and sank down on the foot of his cot. It was nearly dark outside, but he made no attempt to light a lantern. Wearily, he rested his elbows on his knees and let his head fall forward. God, but he was exhausted.

Upon his return to camp two days ago, he had reported to Colonel Henry Bouquet, the Swiss-born officer in charge of the Royal Americans. The colonel had sympathized with his loss, then gently but firmly chastised Gideon for going along with Shaw and his men in the first place. Such impulsiveness was unbecoming to the rank of major. Ordinarily, the rebuke would have stung, but Gideon had been too numb with shock and grief to feel anything else.

Now embarrassed by the memory, Gideon opened the trunk at the foot of the cot and rummaged in it for a bottle of whiskey. But instead of glass, his hand brushed against leather.

The Bible.

His hand trembled as he lifted it onto his lap, opened it to the family records and reread Mara’s message. It was his fault she was a captive. He would never forgive himself for not taking better care of her. Perhaps he should have done what was expected of him—become a minister and stay in Geneva like their grandfather had wanted.

But no, he had rebelled against Paul Ebersole’s tyranny, without thinking about the consequences. Not realizing Mara would be the one to suffer for it. She was still paying the price for his willfulness.

As Gideon stared at the pages, one date stood out, for it was recorded twice. On September 21, 1735, one soul had made her entry into this world, and another her exit. He would never forget the day of his sister’s birth, for it was also the day their mother died.

Closing his eyes, he let the memories come flooding back, unable to stop them. He had been seven years of age, old enough to know that something was terribly wrong. His mother had been cloistered in her room for hours with his grandmother and the midwife. Every time he had asked to see her, he’d been told to be a good boy and go away.

He had wandered through the silent manse until he found his father in Grandfather’s study, on his knees, deep in prayer. Not wanting to be alone, Gideon quietly crept into the corner of the room. For hours he huddled on the hardwood floor, ignoring the cramp in his legs and the rumbling of his stomach. Not old enough to understand what was happening, he was yet wise enough to know that his presence was unwelcome by the adults in the house.

Late in the afternoon, Grandfather Ebersole appeared in the doorway, looking older than his fifty-odd years. "It is over."

Melchior Harcourt looked up from his prayers. "Verena?"

Grandfather just shook his head.

To Gideon’s alarm, his father began to cry, tears streaming down his face. It was the first time he had ever seen his father cry, and it frightened him as nothing else ever had.

Then his grandmother walked into the study, the new babe in her arms. "You have a daughter," she told his father in a gentle tone. "She needs a name."

His father looked at her blankly for a moment, then seemed to realize what was being asked of him. His reply was a Biblical quotation. "Call her Mara," he said, "which means bitterness. For the Lord has dealt bitterly with me this day."

Only later did Gideon realize that his gentle mother had died that day. But in truth, he had lost both parents, for his father was never the same again. Lost in his grief, he had seemed at times to forget that his children even existed, finding meaning only in his work.

Gideon closed the Bible that had belonged to his mother, then to Mara. It was all he had left of them now—just as a pocket watch was all he had left of his father.

Good Lord, the watch. Gideon jerked his head up, ignoring the resulting throb behind his temple. He had given the watch, with his father’s name engraved on the cover, to Mara for safekeeping. And now it was most likely, no almost certainly, in the hands of the enemy! Melchior Harcourt’s name was still well known. If discovered, his daughter would find little mercy among the French.

With shaking hands, Gideon set the Bible aside, hunkered down in front of the trunk, and searched until he found the whiskey. Uncorking it, he took a long swig of the fiery liquid.

In between mouthfuls of whiskey, he wondered what his life would have been like if his father had stayed in Geneva instead of returning to France. Descendant of an exiled Huguenot family, Reverend Harcourt had felt obligated to keep the faith alive for the remaining Protestants. Preaching in forest glades and caverns, he earned a reputation as one of the most dangerous of the outlawed ministers.

Gideon lived for his father’s infrequent appearances in his children’s lives, visits that were full of excitement, for he was a fiery man, passionate in everything he did. To his son, he was a figure of courage and legend, larger than life.

But there was always a hint of sadness in his expression when he gazed at his daughter. And the older she grew, the more Mara began to resemble her mother.

Unable to forget the loss of his wife, Melchior Harcourt found reasons to return to France, unmindful of the danger, leaving his children in the cheerless manse in Geneva. The contrast between his visits and day-to-day life with the strict, humorless grandparents who raised them was vivid, making Gideon long to go with his father.

When Mara was ten years old and Gideon seventeen, their father was caught by the French and hanged like a common criminal. For the last thirteen years, rage and hatred for the French had burned steadily in Gideon’s heart.

As the whiskey slowly warmed his insides and fogged his brain, Gideon was able to focus on only one thing—the need to find Mara and avenge the deaths of Emile and his father.