Rogue's Hostage (14 page)

* * *

Mara soon fell in love with Quebec. During her first three weeks there, she took every opportunity to explore the town. She peeked into shop windows, listened in on conversations, and absorbed all the sights, sounds, and smells of a city.

She climbed the rutted, muddy road to Upper Town and happily wandered the streets, enjoying the pale sun that peeked between the tall buildings and around the church spires that seemed to reach right to heaven. At last she had found her way back to civilization.

She smiled at passersby, most of whom looked at her askance. She could not blame them, knowing that in her worn linsey-woolsey she must appear the lowliest of peasants. If only she had a new dress. Perhaps when she finished working off her captivity Jacques would pay her real wages, enough to buy material for a gown. Her fingers itched to take up needle and thread again.

She passed by the Ursuline Convent and stopped to stare. What induced a young woman to enter into that kind of cloistered existence, to take a vow never to marry? Not that marriage was so wonderful, but to voluntarily give up any chance of having a child of one’s own…that she could not understand.

Since the weather had warmed up a little, green buds were starting to appear on the trees lining the river. Occasional patches of snow still dotted the cliffs, but spring was in the air, and as the earth awakened from its winter sleep, so did her senses. All she had needed was hope. A person could live indefinitely on hope, she decided.

Free. Soon she’d be free.

Earlier that morning, the city had buzzed with excitement when the sails of a ship were spotted upriver. When she returned to Lower Town, she saw that a crowd had gathered at the docks to greet the arrivals. Several high-ranking French officers were among the passengers. Mara gaped at their fine white woolen uniforms.

The crowd called out to the shortest of the men.

"Bougainville, what news from France?"

The officer just grimaced and shook his head. Disappointed murmurs swept through the onlookers, and they began to disperse. Ah, Mara thought. The war must not be going well for the French. She smiled to herself, trying to hide her satisfaction. Perhaps it would all be over soon and she could return to Geneva.

She had started to head back to the tavern when her attention was caught by the taller officer. He was slender, with gray eyes, and there was something about him that seemed familiar. Puzzling.

He turned to a soldier in the crowd. "You, there. I am looking for a particular officer. His name is Jacques Corbeau. Do you know him?"

As the soldier shrugged and shook his head, Mara stepped forward. "Excuse me, sir. I know where Lieutenant Corbeau can be found."

The man turned toward her. His nose was long and aquiline, his brows straight and black, his lips finely etched. "Can you take me to him,
mademoiselle?"

"Yes. Follow me."

Silently, she led the way, occasionally peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. He was the picture of elegance from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. His hair was immaculately styled and powdered under his gold-braided felt tricorn. His uniform was of the finest white wool, lighter than the gray worn by the Canadian troops. Brass buttons gleamed in the sun. His well-shaped calves were covered with fine silk stockings, and his black leather shoes were polished to perfection. No doubt, some hard-working valet had spent hours preparing his master for his resplendent arrival in the colonial capital.

He was everything Mara had imagined a French aristocrat to be: elegant, arrogant, and full of himself. Well, she did not plan to cater to him.

When they arrived at
Le Diable,
he took one look at the sign, and a grimace twisted his elegant features. "A tavern?"

"Lieutenant Corbeau is one of the owners," Mara explained as she led him inside to the private room.

The gentleman swore under his breath.

Mara ignored his bad manners. "You can wait here while I find Lieutenant Corbeau." She hesitated. "Who shall I say is calling?"

"Tell him
Viscomte
d’Archambault wishes to speak with him."

Mara’s mouth dropped open as understanding dawned. He was a finer, slimmer, more elegant version of Jacques. He had to be his half-brother. The legitimate brother. There would be hell to pay now.

She found Jacques in his office, but hesitated in the doorway.

He looked up from his desk and smiled at her. "What is it, Mara? You are staring at me as if you have seen a ghost."

"Perhaps I have."

His eyebrows shot up. "What the devil?"

"There is a fine gentleman to see you. He came from the ship that just docked." She took a deep breath for courage. "He said to tell you that he is
Viscomte
d’Archambault."

He froze, shock etched on his features. "Etienne is here?"

"In the private parlor."

He rubbed his hand over his face. "I see. Take him a bottle of our best brandy and tell him I will be there shortly."

"Are you all right?"

His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "I will survive, madame. I always do."

He touched his side, the one that was scarred, and she wondered if that had anything to do with his brother. Heavens, what had happened between them?

He stood. "Go on, Mara. It is best not to keep aristocrats waiting."

She hurried to do his bidding, aware of a growing sense of unease. Jacques had said little of his past, just that he was a bastard, but others—Claude and Brother Denys—had hinted that he left France under some kind of cloud. Intuition told her it had something to do with his father or brother.

She had just finished pouring the viscount a glass of cognac when Jacques came into the room. She stepped to a corner, reluctant to leave them alone.

"Etienne. To what do I owe this singular honor?" Jacques asked with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

His brother stood up and looked around him, distaste apparent on his aristocratic face. "A tavern? Really, Jacques!"

Jacques sauntered over to the table and poured some cognac for himself. "Surely it is not such a surprise, brother. I am merely returning to my origins." He tossed back the contents of the glass and poured another. "Besides, as the only bastard in the officer corps, I have a reputation to maintain."

The viscount slammed his glass on the table, spraying droplets of the amber liquid. "And what am I supposed to tell Father?"

Jacques shrugged. "Whatever you like. As always."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The two men, so alike yet so different, glared at each other across the table. Mara wrung her hands. Neither one would back down, of that she was certain. A few more insults, and they were liable to come to blows. She took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, please…"

Jacques jumped at her words. "Mara, I did not realize you were still here." He held out a hand to her.

She walked to stand beside him. "You have not introduced me to your guest."

"Madame Dupré, this is my brother, Etienne,
Viscomte
d’Archambault."

She nodded, but refused to curtsy. He might be an aristocrat, but so far the viscount had not behaved very nobly.

"Very pretty, Jacques. Your latest conquest, I take it."

Mara felt Jacques stiffen, and she placed her hand on his arm. "Do not take offense," she whispered. "That is what he wishes you to do."

He covered her hand with his. "As always, you are wise, madame." Turning to his brother, he replied in an offhand way. "I do not appreciate you insulting my cook, Etienne."

"Speaking of which," Mara said lightly, "I should be in the kitchen preparing for this evening’s meal. Can I trust the two of you to behave yourselves?"

Jacques smiled and escorted her to the door. Thanks to Mara’s good sense, the situation had been defused. "We should be able to manage now," he murmured.

He turned back to face his brother. Arms folded across his chest, he decided to get to the point. "You have still not told me why you are here."

Etienne raised one eyebrow. "I have been assigned to the Marquis de Montcalm’s staff. I accompanied Colonel de Bougainville back from Paris."

Jacques grunted. Naturally, his highborn brother would receive a plum assignment on the staff of the commanding general. "I did not think you came all this way to pay me a visit. What news from France?"

"The British are sending an expedition against Quebec."

Jacques nodded slowly. "I am not surprised. Quebec is the key to New France. And now that Fort Duquesne has fallen…"

"When?"

"In November. Don’t worry, brother. We left the English nothing but a smoking shell. Nevertheless, we have lost the Ohio, at least for the time being."

Etienne poured himself another glass of brandy. "For good, I fear. Paris grows weary of war."

"Did they send supplies and reinforcements?"

"A few." Etienne shrugged. "For all intents and purposes, New France is on her own."

Jacques laughed. "A lost cause, in other words. So, tell me, dear brother, what indiscretion did you commit to be sent to this hellhole?"

Etienne cleared his throat before speaking. "I requested this assignment."

Jacques raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I was unable to get you transferred back to France." Etienne held up a hand. "Father is not well. He wants us to reconcile our differences before he dies."

Jacques’s stomach began to churn. Did this mean that the old man had forgiven him, or was he just trying to atone for his own sins before dying? "Is he that ill?"

"It is his heart. He could live for years, or die tomorrow. But since he wishes it, I am willing to forgive and forget."

"Ever the dutiful son," Jacques observed with a sneer. "It is not as easy as that for me, you know. I was the one who almost died, the one who was disinherited and banished."

"And I was the one cuckolded."

Jacques clenched his teeth. How many times did he have to beg for forgiveness? "I had no right to interfere in your life, and for that I apologize."

Etienne’s body seemed to relax, and he laughed softly. "Ah, brother, if only I had listened to you then. Yvette has made my life a living hell. You were just the first. Since our son was born…"

"You have a son?"

Etienne nodded, a proud look on his face. "Didier is a fine boy. He will be six years old in December."

Jacques let out a breath. It had been seven years since he left France. Thank heaven, there was no doubt the boy was Etienne’s. "Father must be pleased."

Etienne’s smile faded. "He will be more so if you and I can come to terms. Are you willing to try?"

Jacques rubbed his aching forehead. "I will give the matter some thought."

"Fair enough," Etienne agreed. "I leave soon for Montreal but expect to return in a few weeks."

After he left, Jacques pulled out a chair and sat down, his arms resting on his knees, head and shoulders bowed, lost in memories he did not want to face.

Mara loved the tavern kitchen. On the ground floor of the tavern, it was nestled back against the cliffs leading to Upper Town. The fireplace was almost as high as she was tall, with a separate bake oven off to one side. From a wooden strip above the hearth hung an assortment of copper and pewter pans and utensils. A large soup pot hung from an iron bar built into the back of the fireplace.

It was such a pleasure to have everything she needed. On the frontier, she’d had to make do with the bare minimum—wooden utensils and no oven. But today she hurried through her preparations, settling for the standard Canadian fare of pea soup and bread. She was concerned about Jacques, not sure he should be left alone to brood over his brother’s visit.

Sergeant Charvat strolled into the kitchen, a pipe in his hand. "Where is Lieutenant Corbeau?"

Mara turned to face him. "In the private parlor with a guest. Well, not a guest, exactly. Victor, what do you know about his brother?"

He frowned, his bristling eyebrows giving him a fierce look. "The viscount? You cannot mean he came to dirty his hands in the Canadian stable?"

"What in the world does that mean?"

"Rumor has it that when Colonel Bougainville asked for more reinforcements, he was told by the minister for the colonies that when the house is on fire one cannot save the stables."

"I saw Bougainville getting off the ship. He did not look pleased, but that is not what concerns me." She hesitated, knowing it was none of her business, but unable to keep her curiosity to herself. Once started, the words tumbled from her mouth. "Victor, what do you know of Jacques’s relationship with his brother? There seems to be a lot of animosity between them. I was almost afraid to leave them alone. Did the viscount have anything to do with the reason Jacques left France?"

The sergeant sighed and sat down at the table in front of the hearth. "I have always suspected that was the case, but the lieutenant is not one to talk about himself. We met seven years ago when he arrived here in Quebec and he was put in charge of my battery."

Puffing on his pipe, Victor began to reminisce, his face taking on a faraway look. "I will never forget my first sight of him. He was so pale and thin, I doubted he’d last the winter."

" Jacques?" Mara scoffed. "He is as strong as an ox."

Victor’s face crinkled in a smile. "To be sure, he is now, but not then."

Mara sank into the chair opposite him. "He was sick?"

"He had been gravely wounded, and was still recovering."

"Are you talking about that terrible scar on his side?" When Victor nodded, Mara asked, "How did it happen?"

"In a duel. But that is a story he must tell you himself."

"Etienne," she whispered, suddenly feeling a chill. No wonder there was such anger between them. "What in the world could make two brothers fight a duel?"

Victor shrugged. "Who is to say? Young men are hot-blooded."

"And foolish."

Victor just laughed at her tart reply and sucked on his pipe. "Perhaps they fought over a woman."

Mara froze, remembering how Jacques had reacted when his brother referred to her as his latest conquest. It made sense, given his passionate nature and Etienne’s obvious pride. Who had the woman been? Mara wondered. Was she waiting for Jacques in France? Did he still love her?

Mara shook her head. No, if he had truly loved her, he would never have left her behind. And had she loved him, she would have followed him to the ends of the earth. Even to Canada.

"Do not worry, madame," Victor said softly. "There is no one else."

Flustered, Mara felt her cheeks heat up. "What are you talking about?"

The man pointed the end of his pipe at her. "I have noticed the way he watches you, like a bird stalking its prey."

Mara jumped up, strode to the hearth, and began stirring the soup. "That is hardly a flattering comparison."

Victor let out a hearty chuckle. "Perhaps not, but it is apt. Do not worry, madame. The boy has a good heart. And he protects his own."

Mara shivered, despite the heat from the fireplace. It was true what Victor said about Jacques protecting his own. It was the one thing that had made her captivity bearable. He seemed to care about her, and she cared…

The realization startled her. When had she started to care? The night he saved her from Vache, or when he had comforted her after the battle, holding her and kissing her so tenderly? Perhaps it had crept up on her during the long winter when he treated her with kindness and consideration, giving her the time she needed to grieve for the life she had lost, time for her mind and soul to be healed.

Regardless of when it had happened and whether or not she liked it, the fact was that she did care.

For now she refused to think about where her newly discovered feelings might lead. Tonight, he was the one who needed comforting, and she knew just what to do.

"Victor," she said slowly, "how would you like to help me make a special dinner for Jacques?"

* * *

Long after Etienne left, Jacques sat in the private parlor, lost in his memories. He was dimly aware when daylight faded into evening, but made no move to light a lamp. A rush of bitter remembrance filled his mind, scenes from another lifetime, one best forgotten. It all flooded back to him, in perfect detail.

Etienne’s rage at his betrayal. His father’s cold disapproval. The triumph in Yvette’s eyes when he’d confronted her with her lies.

For a moment, he believed himself back in the small clearing, shrouded by early morning mist. He recalled the clash of steel as he defended himself against Etienne’s savage attack, careful to avoid hurting his furious opponent. Most of all he remembered the satisfied gleam in his brother’s eyes as his blade pierced Jacques’s side.

Other memories filled his head. The crimson stream staining his white shirt. The pain and fever that followed. The certainty he was dying, and the fear that he might survive. The guilt and humiliation he had felt afterward. Guilt and humiliation he had never been able to outrun, though he’d crossed an ocean in the attempt.

Jacques ran his hand over his eyes, feeling an unexpected moistness. It had all been his fault, because he was an outsider, because he did not understand. Only afterwards did he realize it had all been a game, and he the only one who did not know the rules. Stupid bastard that he was.

He was still sitting in the dark when Mara and Victor arrived. She carried a candle in one hand and a decanter of wine in the other. Victor balanced a large pewter tray containing two wine glasses, a steaming copper pot and a plate of bread cubes.

"I have brought you supper," she announced.

Jacques waved her away. "I am not hungry."

"But I made you a special treat—Swiss fondue."

She set the decanter on the table and used her candle to light the oil lamp overhead, the flare of light illuminating her hair. Instead of being pulled back in her customary braid, it was tied with a blue ribbon to cascade down her back like a golden waterfall. He felt a sudden urge to run his hands through it. If she meant to distract him from Etienne’s visit, it was working.

Victor carefully put the tray down on the table, winked at Jacques, and silently left the room, closing the door behind him. Something was afoot.

Mara poured wine into the glasses and handed one to Jacques.

He lifted his eyebrows. "I thought you did not drink, madame."

She smiled. "I am becoming accustomed to the taste. Besides, the tavern has a much better selection than that swill you drank at Fort Duquesne."

He took a sip and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "This is some of my best Bordeaux."

"Yes, and who better to drink it than the proprietor? And his cook."

He smiled, grateful for her presence. It was obvious she was trying to cheer him up, but it was so unlike her to tease that he was caught by surprise. "Will you eat with me?" he asked, loath to be alone again.

"That was my intention." She bustled over to the table and began arranging the items on the tray. "Have you ever had fondue before?"

He shook his head and stared doubtfully at the melted cheese mixture.

Mara picked up a fork, speared a cube of bread, dipped it in the fondue, and held it out to him.

He took a bite and nodded his approval. "Delicious."

"It would be even better if I had real Gruyère cheese, but this will have to do." She handed him the fork. "Now you try it."

He mimicked her actions, but when he pulled the fork out of the pot, the bread was gone.

"Ah," Mara said, "now you must pay a forfeit."

He turned to her with an amused look on his face. "What kind of forfeit?"

She cocked her head to one side, a teasing look on her face. "Sometimes it is a bottle of wine."

He clapped a hand to his forehead. "I knew it, you are after my vintage Bordeaux."

She giggled. "Since I am still not overly fond of wine, I will not demand a forfeit."

"Is there no alternative?" he asked. When he saw a blush creep up her face, he pressed the point. "What are you not telling me, madame?"

"Sometimes it is a kiss."

He drew in a quick breath. "A much better idea, do you not agree?"

She looked at him uncertainly. "I suppose so."

Jacques’s heart began to pound in his breast. It had been more than six months since he had kissed her, that last night at Fort Duquesne. Careful not to alarm her, he cupped her chin with one hand and lightly touched his lips to hers.

"I think I am going to like fondue very much," he decided.

He pulled out a chair for her, and inched his own close so that their knees touched under the table. When she dipped her fork in the pot, he jostled her elbow, and she lost the bread.

"You did that on purpose," she accused him with a smile.

He shrugged. "A forfeit is a forfeit. It is your turn to kiss me."

She shook her head but complied with his request, kissing him sweetly but tentatively.

Jacques lost more bread than he ate, and soon he was intoxicated on wine and kisses. With each kiss, he grew bolder, slipping his tongue inside her mouth, savoring the tangy taste of cheese and Bordeaux.

Finally she put a hand on his chest. "Enough."

He smiled lazily. "Oh, no, madame. I will never get enough of your kisses."

"I meant that there is no more fondue, just half a loaf of soggy bread." She stood and piled the dirty dishes on the tray. "I should take this to the kitchen."

"No," he said, placing his hand over hers. "I will call someone to come for it." He walked over to a bell pull and tugged on it. A few minutes later, one of the serving girls arrived to take the tray.

"Tell Sergeant Charvat I do not wish to be disturbed," Jacques said. "I do not think I can deal with any more company today."

After the girl left, Jacques poured what was left of the wine into their glasses. Taking Mara by the hand, he led her to a bearskin rug in front of the hearth. "We can sit here and talk."

"All right." She sat with her legs drawn up in front of her. Peering at him over her glass, she asked, "What did your brother want?"

Jacques groaned, his pleasure in the evening replaced by regret. "Etienne came to tell me that our father is not well and that he wants us to put our differences behind us."

"Is that what you want?"

He shook his head. "I doubt it is even possible."

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" she asked, her voice tentative.

"Not really." His past was the one subject he wished to avoid, but he doubted she would let it be.

"I would like to know more about your life in France," she insisted. "All I know is that you are a bastard and that you were born in a tavern."

He sighed heavily. "Very well, madame, but it is not a happy story."

She smiled encouragingly, the firelight illuminating one side of her face and casting the other in shadow. He wanted to make love to her, not talk about his miserable past. A past he’d kept shrouded since arriving in New France. Besides Etienne, only Alain Gauthier knew the whole sordid story.

But perhaps Mara needed to know who he was, what he was really like. And, if she had any sense, she’d run from him, as far and as fast as possible.

"When I was two years old," he said, "my mother ran off with an acting troupe. The landlord of the inn contacted the count who came and took me to an orphanage."

"How awful for you!"

He grinned at her indignant outburst. "It was not so bad. The sisters were strict but fair, and there were other children there. Children like me, with no parents. No one was better than anyone else, we were all the lowest of the low, but God’s creatures nonetheless, as the reverend mother was fond of saying.

"Five years later, my father showed up again and took me to his château." He smiled, remembering how awe-struck he’d been at the sight.

"Why did he wait so long?"

His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "As long as his wife was alive, he refrained from taxing her with the presence of his bastard."

She bit her lip. "It was good of him to take you in, at last."

Jacques spoke calmly, making an effort to keep all bitterness from his voice. "He did his duty. He saw that I was fed and clothed and educated, but it was not as if I had a real father. All of his love, his concern, was for his heir."

"Etienne?"

He nodded. "It was not until he sent Etienne and me to school that I understood why he took me out of the orphanage, and by then I wished he had not."

"What happened at school?"

He shrugged. "Unlike the orphanage, the pupils were not all equals. As a bastard, I was a natural target."

"And Etienne?"

"He was a sickly child, so I found myself defending both of us. Fortunately, I was big for my age and good with my fists. They soon learned to leave us alone, but my God, how we looked forward to vacations."

He drained his glass of Bordeaux, wondering why it was no longer having any effect on him. He’d welcome a wine-induced stupor.

"It sounds like school brought you and Etienne closer," Mara observed.