Rogue's Hostage (7 page)

Mara woke to the sounds of drums and shouting. She hadn’t slept much since being taken captive, but last night, with Babette’s warm little body curled up next to her, she had fallen into a deep sleep. Sunlight peeked into the loft through chinks in the roof, and she realized that dawn was long past.

Why hadn’t Sophie awakened her sooner? Why was the fort in such a stir?

Hurriedly, she dressed and climbed down the ladder to the kitchen where she found the Bernards. Once again, Babette clung to Sophie’s skirt, her head buried in the folds.

"What’s going on?" Mara asked.

"The British are outside the gates," Claude said. "Only a mile away."

Mara’s heart began to pound in her chest. The attack had come. Perhaps Gideon was out there now. A surge of hope that her ordeal might be almost over brought tears to her eyes.
Please, God. Lead the British to victory. Deliver me from mine enemy.

Unexpectedly, Corbeau’s face flashed into her mind. But she realized with a jolt of shock that the vision was not the forbidding face of her captor. Instead, she saw the man who used his strength and authority to protect her.

She choked back an angry sob. He was her enemy, but she had no wish to see him hurt. Nor did she wish any harm to the Bernards or Brother Denys or Alain Gauthier. Why did everything have to be so confusing?

"Madame Dupré, are you all right?"

Mara looked up to see Sophie looking at her, a worried frown creasing her brow. "I’m just worried about what will happen."

Claude bent to lift the now-sobbing Babette and cradled her in his arms, crooning to her. "Poor little thing, she has seen too much death for one so young. There is nothing to fear," he assured her. "Our soldiers will beat back the English."

That is what I am afraid of, Mara thought. Or was it what she wished for? Either way, she had to find out what was happening. She would go crazy if she stayed inside.

"I’m going out," she said and turned to go.

"Wait, madame," Sophie called after her. "Monsieur Fourgue will need our help in the surgery."

"Very well, I will meet you there," Mara said. "Please understand—I have to find out what is going on for my own peace of mind. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash."

With that assurance she dashed out of the trading post.

* * *

Jacques stood on the ramparts, squinting into the sun, deciding whether to order an artillery barrage. To his left stood the remnants of a storehouse the British had set afire early that morning. Straight ahead, less than a mile away, was the enemy: about four hundred men, half Highlanders, half colonials, drawn up in ranks. Jacques hadn’t seen such a textbook formation since arriving in America.

He glanced down inside the walls at the fort’s defenders—Canadian and Louisiana militia, and Indians, about eight hundred in all, mingled together, blood fired and ready for battle. No, his big guns would be unnecessary today.

A furtive movement caught his eye. A woman was making her way toward the ramparts. It couldn’t be, but it was—Mara. What the devil was she up to?

Jacques hurried to meet her at the top of the ladder. "What do you think you’re doing?" he yelled at her. "Go back to the trading post."

"Sophie said that we will soon be needed in the surgery. But first I have to see what’s going on." She glanced up at him, a pleading look on her face.

"Are you mad?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea of what is about to happen?"

He grabbed her arm and tried to steer her back to the ladder, but the little minx eluded him. He followed her to the ramparts where his attention was caught by the sight of the enemy. The British had begun to advance, scarlet uniforms ablaze in the sunlight, drums beating and pipes skirling. It was a brave and beautiful sight, he thought, and altogether foolish. Had their commander lost his mind?

Before he could guide her away, the gates of the fort flew open and a flood of men ran out, firing their muskets and shouting.

Mara took one look at the charging horde and buried her face in Jacques’s shoulder. For all her brave talk, she was unable to watch. He held her tightly, but didn’t move as the French and Indians overwhelmed the smaller British force. The colonials faltered first and ran for the rear. A valiant few put up a spirited resistance in an attempt to protect the retreat, but they were soon driven back toward the river. The air filled with the crack of musket fire, war whoops, and the screams of the wounded.

Mara pushed away from him and clapped her hand to her ears. He took hold of her arms and forced her to look up at him. "Mara," he rasped. "What were you thinking of to come up here?"

She sobbed and pulled away, then bent over and retched.

He helped her to straighten up. "Come, I will take you back to the trading post."

"I can’t." She grabbed hold of his lapels. "Don’t you understand? Gideon could be out there!"

Gideon. Always Gideon.
Jacques felt his jaw clench. "I will look for him."

"But you don’t know what he looks like."

"I know, I saw him. He is tall and blond and—" Something struck him suddenly. Something wonderful. "He looks like you."

She wet her lips and nodded. "He is my brother."

Her brother.
He’d been jealous of her brother? What a fool he was, and a lovesick fool at that! How Alain would laugh at his folly. "Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?"

"I did not think it was any of your business."

"But now you do?"

She flushed, but made no reply.

Jacques gripped her by the elbow and steered her none too gently toward the ladder. "Fear not, madame. I will save your brother if I can, whether it is my business to do so, or not."

Back on the ground, he escorted Mara to the surgery located in the outer perimeter of the fort, then left the fort to look for her brother, the infamous Gideon.

The field of battle was a scene straight out of hell. Warriors swooped down on wounded men, looting and scalping. The screams of the dying rent the air, and the acrid scent of gunpowder mingled with the metallic smell of blood.

Grimly, Jacques wove his way through the field, watching his back all the while. But he saw no one resembling Mara’s brother. He came across Crazy Badger, who had collared a Highland officer with a bleeding wound in his thigh. The Delaware had one hand at the man’s throat and brandished his bloody tomahawk with the other. Something about the man was familiar. Jacques suddenly realized that he was the same young lieutenant they had seen at Mara’s cabin. With her brother.

"Stop," Jacques shouted and grabbed the Indian’s arm. "That man is an officer."

With an incredulous glare, Crazy Badger yanked out of Jacques’s grasp. "He is my captive."

"Yes, of course," Jacques agreed. "But let us escort him to the fort for questioning. He may have information we need."

The wounded Highlander roused enough to glare at them. "I won’t tell you a thing, you bloody frog," he shouted.

Crazy Badger waved his tomahawk threateningly.

"Shut up, you fool," Jacques hissed at the soldier. "I’m trying to save your worthless hide." The Highlander looked from Jacques to the Indian and back, then closed his mouth.

Turning to Crazy Badger, Jacques tried once again to placate him. "You know you can trust me. I will see that you receive ransom for this prisoner."

Crazy Badger grunted his assent and moved off.

Jacques threw an arm around the other officer’s waist and started toward the fort. "A wise choice," he told the man. "Madame Dupré would have been most disappointed had you decided not to live."

"Madame Dupré?" The man’s pain-filled eyes focused on Jacques’s face. "She is alive?"

"Yes, and concerned about her brother. Have you seen him?"

"Not in weeks."

"Then he was not here today?"

"No," the man mumbled. "Wish I wasn’t, either."

Jacques grunted his agreement. He imagined most of the attackers felt that way. Thank God, Mara’s brother had been absent. Jacques doubted she could bear any more tragedy right now.

He half-led, half-carried the wounded man to the surgery where Mara, Sophie, and several other women helped Monsieur Fourgue.

Mara ran to Jacques the moment she saw him enter with the wounded officer. "Did you find him?"

Jacques shook his head. "The lieutenant assures me he is not here."

Mara turned to his companion and recognition lit her face. "Lieutenant Shaw!"

"Madame Dupré. We meet again." He managed a weak smile before passing out.

* * *

Late that afternoon Jacques went back to the surgery, took one look at Mara’s wan face and led her from the building. He should never have left her there for so long. No matter the atrocities the war had dealt her so far, she wasn’t used to the violence she’d witnessed this day. Ignoring her protests, he took her behind the fort, beside the river.

They clambered down the bank and watched the water flowing peacefully downstream. After a few minutes, Mara knelt and splashed her face with water. But when she reached for her apron to dry off, she froze at the sight of the dried blood on it.

Jacques saw the look of horror, her glazed eyes, and trembling lips. He knelt beside her and gently wiped her face with his own handkerchief, smoothing back tendrils of hair that had escaped from her braid.

"How do you stand it?" she asked in a choked voice. "The f-fighting. The blood." A shudder shook her frame, and she clenched her trembling hands together.

"It is my job."

Her eyes filled with tears. "It’s barbaric."

Jacques could stand it no more. He drew her into his arms, her head on his shoulder. Smoothing her hair with one hand, he tried to comfort her. She felt so fragile in his arms, slender and fine-boned. But she had an iron will, he knew, probably the only thing that had kept her on her feet all day.

It was a moment to cherish, to give thanks for just being alive. The sun was setting in the distance, turning the river golden. A light breeze freshened the air, filling his nostrils, washing away the stench of blood, if not the memory. On this side of the fort, it was deceptively easy to forget the morning’s battle where nearly three hundred men had died. Easy to forget everything but the soft, warm woman in his arms.

Mara clung to him, soaking up the comfort he offered until she stopped shaking. He could have held her forever, but all too soon she drew away, and Jacques reluctantly let her go. He urged her to her feet and led her to a rock large enough for them to sit on.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For saving Lieutenant Shaw’s life."

Jacques shrugged. "One does what one can." He and his comrades had tried but managed to save only a half dozen of the British officers. The western Indians had taken one young ensign prisoner and refused to give him up.

"Alain came by earlier to see how I was doing," Mara said.

Jacques felt his gut tighten.
Alain.
So she and that rogue were on a first name basis, yet she still called him Corbeau. He could keep still no longer. "Madame, I feel I must warn you about Alain Gauthier."

Her brows knit in a puzzled frown. "Whatever do you mean? He seems very charming to me."

Jacques ground his teeth. "That is precisely my point. He is an accomplished rogue who will take advantage of you if given half the chance."

She smiled faintly. "Unlike yourself, of course. Why should I be more wary of Alain than of you?"

"For one thing, I do not have a fiancée in Paris."

Her smile faded. "I see. Well, thank you for the warning, though I can assure you I was in no imminent danger of succumbing to Alain’s charm."

Did that mean she was vulnerable to his charm? Jacques breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Mara, I worry about you. Do you like your new situation? Have the Bernards been good to you?"

"Yes." Her eyebrows raised. "Why do you care?"

He touched her hand lightly. "I feel responsible for you, and I cannot help but sense that there is something between us, even if it is only hate on your part."

Mara saw the troubled look on his face and, in a dawning revelation, knew she did not hate him after all. "It is not you I detest, but what you stand for."

"What is that?"

"The nation that killed my…husband."
And my father, and his father, and so many other Huguenots. So many deaths, already. Will the fighting and the hatred ever end?
She wrapped her arms around her middle and looked away.

When he spoke, his voice was gentle and tinged with regret. "I cannot change who I am."

"Neither can I." She choked out the words as she tried to banish the tumultuous images in her head. Her father’s memorial stone covering an empty grave. Emile dying in her arms. The bodies of the British soldiers strewn across the field of battle.

Corbeau took her chin in his hand and turned her toward him. "Mara, is there any chance that one day you may begin to like me? Perhaps a little?"

She shivered at the husky tone of his voice. "Does it really matter what I think of you?"

"Oh, yes, it matters."

As he caressed her lower lip with his thumb, she realized he was going to kiss her. "No," she whispered, remembering that overpowering kiss after she’d run away. She had felt violated afterwards. Punished. But why would he wish to punish her now?

She tried to pull away, but he took her face between his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. The abrasion of his unshaven jaw rubbed against her cheek. Lightly, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was warm and tender, full of a bittersweet yearning that she was unable to resist. This gentle persuasion was no punishment, no punishment at all. She felt herself relaxing, leaning into the comfort of his embrace.

She was so tired in body, so sick in heart and mind, so soul-starved that she drank in everything he had to offer her. His strength, his vitality, his passion, brought her battered senses to life. She felt the gentle breeze fanning her hot face and listened to the rhythm of the river as it flowed on, unmindful of human pain.

Her lips parted under the tentative probing of his tongue. She placed her hands on his chest and felt the furious pounding of his heart, echoing her own. His scent filled her nostrils, a heady combination of soap, wool, leather, and man.