Rogue's Hostage (9 page)

"I know you are virtuous, but tell me, do you never tire of being good?" He nibbled on her earlobe, then trailed a path of kisses down her neck to the edge of her bodice.

Her flesh tingled at the brush of his lips, the warmth of his breath, and her eyes drifted shut. Slowly, softly, exquisitely, she became oblivious to all but the primitive yearnings triggered by his touch.

His lips captured hers in a kiss full of passion and need. His tongue moved into her mouth with an urgency that demanded a response. Her hands crept up to cling to his broad shoulders as a storm of sensations took hold of her will, leaving her powerless to fight his advances.

He pulled her closer, one hand against the small of her back, until the buttons of his coat pressed into her breasts. With the other hand he cupped her head, kneading her scalp with rhythmic strokes of his fingers. He tasted like heated wine, heady and intoxicating.

At last he ended the kiss, but continued to hold her tightly. She felt his uneven breathing on her cheek and knew he was as affected as she.

He raised his head to look at her. "Oh, Mara what do we do now?"

Her heart beat frantically as she stared into his gray eyes. An image of him, clad only in breechclout, flashed into her mind. She remembered the touch of his hands and mouth on her skin, the feel of his hard muscles beneath her hands. Would it be so wrong to give in to the pleasure his darkened gaze promised?

Of course it would be wrong, her conscience scolded. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why.

You will just have to pay for it later.
True, Mara thought, but she always seemed to be paying for something, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong.

"Is a virtuous woman ever tempted to sin?" he asked in a husky voice. "Do I tempt you?"

He was a devil, the serpent in the garden, sent to tempt her. She steeled herself against the tide of pleasure that threatened to carry her away. The word "yes" hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not utter it. If she did, she would assuredly surrender to him here and now.

She sucked in a breath of air, and whispered, "You frighten me."

He stiffened, then stepped back. The shocked expression on his face quickly changed to a mask of indifference. Without a word he spun around and walked out the door.

Mara wrapped her arms around her middle, shaken by what had just happened. Though it was for her own self-preservation, she had lied to him.

She was not afraid of Jacques, but of herself.

* * *

Mara was too agitated to sleep.

After Corbeau left, she paced around the store, her thoughts in a jumble. She had come so close to giving in to his urging. Why now, when any day she might gain her freedom?

Gideon was nearby and would soon know that she was unharmed. All he needed to do was pay the ransom Captain de Ligneris demanded, and she’d be returned to her brother’s side. Thinking about it should have filled her with anticipation, but it did not. Why? It was what she most wanted, wasn’t it?

Sighing, she decided to do some paperwork. Lighting a candle, she went to the desk and tried to concentrate on making sense of Claude’s haphazard record keeping. There was something wrong here. None of the numbers added up, and she was beginning to wonder if someone were making an excess profit off the trading at the fort. She had said nothing so far, hesitant to accuse her benefactor of wrongdoing. Perhaps she should ask Corbeau’s advice. That is, if he was still speaking to her after tonight.

She’d been furious with him when she’d learned of the ransom. Worse, it was galling to admit, even to herself, that her anger had come from the belief that he was more interested in money than in her person. As if his interests meant anything to her. The last thing she wanted was to be seduced by him, but the moment he touched her…

She rested her head in her hands and moaned. Heavens, what was wrong with her? He was a scoundrel, she told herself fiercely, an accomplished rogue, and no gentleman. Even his peers recognized that.

How could she think about wanting another man when her husband was barely cold in his grave? The weight of her guilt pressed on her chest, an invisible burden.

In truth, she’d had enough of men and their empty promises. Hadn’t her father promised to come home to Geneva? And hadn’t Emile, the eternal optimist, assured her they would have a better life in America? Even Gideon had sworn the British army would protect them.

Mara picked up a penknife and began sharpening a quill, muttering under her breath. They were all the same. No matter how earnestly they might vow to love and honor, or pledge their protection, in the end they would invariably leave to do something foolish and get themselves killed. She had seen it happen to her father and to Emile. It could happen yet to Gideon.

And Corbeau was the worst of the lot, surely destined for a bad end, though why she cared was a mystery.

No, the only man who’d been different was her grandfather, and all he had promised her was eternal damnation.
That
was the only promise she believed.

A sudden draft of air stirred her hair. She turned, expecting to see Corbeau, but jumped up at the sight of Vache standing in the doorway. "What do you want? The store is closed."

He stepped inside and shut the door. He said nothing, just stood there, breathing heavily.

A frisson of fear crawled up her spine. Surreptitiously, she tightened her grip on the knife. It was not large, but it was sharp and, more importantly, the only weapon available.

Hiding it in a fold of her skirt, Mara stood and began to edge toward the door to Claude and Sophie’s quarters. Vache kept pace with her on the other side of the counter, his manner menacing.

"Don’t leave,
mamselle.
Jus’ want some company," he muttered.

The stale odor of whiskey wafted from him, and she realized he was very drunk. She watched him warily, unsure what to do.

"Saw you," he said, smirking at her. "With Corbeau."

Heavens, how was that possible?
she wondered. He must have been spying on them through the window.

He leered at her. "You kissed him. Now how about a kiss for Vache?"

Realizing he was too drunk to reason with, she ran for the door. Before she could reach safety, he lunged over the counter and grabbed her sleeve, tearing her dress at the shoulder, and knocking her to the floor.

Mara opened her mouth to scream, but he silenced her with one hand. She squirmed, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy. There was nothing left to do but use her weapon. She drove the blade into his side. When she heard him grunt, she knew it had penetrated his heavy wool uniform.

He grabbed his side, then stared at the blood on his fingers. His momentary shock gave her the chance she needed. She gulped, then screamed as loudly as she possibly could.

He swore and slapped her across the face. "
Putain!
Do you whore only for officers?"

She continued to struggle, but his weight held her down. The reek of his unwashed body and the staleness of his breath were almost enough to make her pass out. Just as she thought she would faint, the door flew open and Corbeau ran inside.

* * *

Jacques took one look at what was happening, let out a roar of rage, and using one hand for balance, vaulted over the counter. Vache looked up in surprise and tried to stand. Jacques grabbed him by the back of the coat and hauled him off Mara.

He spun Vache around and slammed a fist into his nose, feeling a grim satisfaction when he heard it crack. Blood splattered over the man’s gray uniform coat.

But it wasn’t enough. Rage welled up from deep within him, blood pounded in his ears, and he lost awareness of everything but his need to strike back. Jacques pummeled Vache with his fists, punishing him, not only for what he had done to Mara, but for all the wrongs that had never been avenged. Through the haze of fury, he was dimly aware of someone shouting at him to stop, but he kept striking out until strong arms restrained him.

"Enough, Corbeau! You’ll kill him."

Jacques turned his head to find Claude Bernard holding his arms. Slowly, very slowly, his reason returned.

Vache now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, moaning and retching. Sophie stood in the doorway, a horrified look on her face. When Babette cried out, she turned and left.

Alain burst into the room, followed by two sentries. "What’s going on here?"

Jacques pointed at Vache. "That vermin attacked Madame Dupré."

Alain walked over and examined the man. "My God, Corbeau, did you try to kill him?" Stooping, he picked up a knife.

Jacques frowned. "That is not…"

"It is mine."

The sentries gaped at Mara, their eyes wide.

Alain’s lips twisted in a smile. "I heard that you were a dangerous woman, madame."

"Let this be a lesson to all," Jacques said, looking sternly at the soldiers crowding into the store. "Any man here who tries to harm Madame Dupré will answer to me."

"Jacques," Alain hissed a warning. "Remember what we discussed."

Jacques spun to glare at his friend. Didn’t the man realize that Mara’s life was more important than his reputation? "Do not presume to tell me what to do, Alain."

Without another word, Jacques hurried to Mara, who was huddled on the floor. Her hair had come undone and was tumbled around her shoulders.

He knelt beside her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and brushed her hair away from her face. When Jacques saw the angry red mark on her cheek, new rage surged through him. "I should have killed him," he seethed through gritted teeth.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to shake. He pulled her into his embrace, rocking her back and forth. "I should never have left you,
chérie.
Forgive me."

"My fault," she stammered between stifled sobs. "Forgot to lock the door after you left." She pulled back to look at him. "He watched us through the window. Said he wanted a kiss, too."

Jacques bit back a curse. "Don’t worry. I’ll see that he never bothers you again."

Turning to Alain, he barked an order. "Get that piece of filth out of here."

Alain nodded stiffly and ordered two of the soldiers to pick up the injured man.

Jacques waited until the others were gone, then stood and helped Mara up. When her legs gave out under her, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the Bernard’s quarters. He heard Sophie crooning to Babette up in the loft, but otherwise all was quiet. He set Mara on the bed and knelt in front of her. Gently, he touched her face. "You will have a bruise tomorrow."

She grimaced. "It could have been much worse. Thank you for coming to my rescue."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She picked up his hands and examined the bloody knuckles. "No, but you are."

He shrugged. "A small price to pay."

Her dress was torn at one seam, revealing a creamy shoulder. Jacques stifled a groan. The game was over. He was no longer playing at love with her. The need to claim her had become primal. He had to fight a primitive urge to strip her of her ruined garment, lay her back on the bed, and hold her, comfort her, love her until she forgot what had just happened. Until she knew she belonged to him.

Regretfully, he admitted that if he did, he would be no better than the monster who attacked her.

Reining in his desire, he reminded himself that she was hurt, frightened, and vulnerable. He squeezed her hands lightly. "Your dress is ruined. I will buy you another."

"No, you will not," she said firmly, pulling away.

"It would be my pleasure."

"So you can add that to the price of your ransom demand? I think not."

Her words pierced him to the core. "Must you always think the worst of me?"

"Forgive me," she said. "You didn’t deserve that. You saved me from…" A shudder racked her body. "Thank you."

"That will never happen to you again," he vowed. "I swear it."

She placed her fingers over his mouth to stop his words. "Don’t swear, Jacques. Please, no more promises."

He took hold of her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Silently, he made a vow to protect this lady—his lady—if he had to die in the attempt.

Gideon Harcourt sat outside his tent at the advanced British camp at Loyalhanna Creek, taking advantage of the late September sunshine. Though the trees were still green, autumn was on its way. Time was running out for the expedition against Fort Duquesne, and Grant’s defeat weighed heavily on his spirits.

Gideon sighed and looked up to see Ensign Blane approaching with a man wearing the gray uniform of the
Compagnie Franche de la Marine.
Hoping against hope for news of Mara, Gideon felt his heart rate increase.

He stood as they approached. "Welcome back, Ensign."

"Major Harcourt, may I present Lieutenant de Rocheblave from Fort Duquesne?"

"Pleased to meet you, monsieur," Gideon said with a slight nod of his head. "Well, gentlemen, do not keep me in suspense. Have you news of my sister?"

Ensign Blane reached into a pocket of his uniform jacket, pulled out a familiar-looking pouch, and handed it to Gideon. "Your sister asked me to give you this. She said it was a family heirloom."

Gideon accepted the pouch but didn’t open it. He knew what it was—their father’s watch. "Thank you, ensign. Then she is well?"

When Blane hesitated, Gideon’s stomach clenched. He took a step forward. "Is something wrong? Is she ill?"

Archie stared at the ground and swallowed hard before looking at Gideon. "The other evening, after I spoke with your sister, she was attacked in the trading post by a common soldier."

"My God," Gideon exclaimed.

"She was not badly hurt, monsieur," Lieutenant de Rocheblave assured him. "Just roughed up a bit. Some bruises, nothing more."

A wave of relief tinged with guilt flooded through Gideon. This was all his fault. He should have taken better care of her. "I must get her away from there before something like this happens again."

"You need not worry about that," de Rocheblave said. "After the attack, Corbeau made it clear that anyone who harms her will have to answer to him."

Gideon frowned. "Corbeau?"

Blane and de Rocheblave exchanged a glance. "He is the officer who took her captive," Archie explained.

De Rocheblave removed a piece of paper from his inside pocket. "I have a message for you from Captain de Ligneris. As I understand the situation, it will be necessary for you to pay a ransom for the return of your sister."

Gideon quickly perused the note, then swore, softly but violently. The amount was more than he had expected. "Why so high?"

De Rocheblave’s face was impassive. "I believe that our Indian allies were paid a bounty for both your sister and her husband. We regret…" He waved a hand. "Surely, sir, you are acquainted with the realities of war."

Fury washed over Gideon as the memory of Emile’s bloody body flashed through his mind. His fist tightened, crumpling the ransom note. It was all he could do to keep from shoving the paper down the Frenchman’s throat.

He sucked in a deep breath and regained control. "Lieutenant, I am but a poor soldier. I cannot come up with such a princely sum today, but I will do what I can."

"I understand," de Rocheblave replied.

"In the meantime, perhaps you will allow me to write a note to my sister. You may read it first if you wish."

"I am sure that is not necessary, monsieur. I shall be glad to wait."

Gideon went inside the tent to compose his message in private. If only there were something he could send Mara, something that would ensure her safety among the British if he did not survive the campaign. He thought for a moment until the answer came to him.

Removing the watch from the pouch, he replaced it with his Masonic ring. The British army was full of field lodges, and the Masons looked after each other.

Relieved, he sat down at his traveling desk, picked up his quill, and wrote a short message. After sanding the paper, he folded it into a small square and put it in the pouch with the ring.

Outside, he handed the pouch to de Rocheblave. "If you would give this to my sister, I will be forever in your debt."

"It is my pleasure." The Frenchman started to leave, then hesitated, turning back to Gideon. "Monsieur, I urge you to make haste in assembling the ransom."

Gideon was puzzled. "From what you said, I assumed that Mara is no longer in danger. That the officer who took her captive will protect her."

De Rocheblave cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, but who will protect her from Corbeau?"

"Surely, he is an officer and a gentleman."

The two young men exchanged another pointed look.

"What are you not telling me, ensign?"

Blane reddened and began to speak rapidly. "By all reports, Corbeau is no gentleman. I didn’t get the whole story, but apparently, he is the bastard son of a count. Had to leave France after getting involved in some kind of scandal. Affair of honor, you know. His father wanted nothing to do with him afterward."

"That much is common knowledge," de Rocheblave put in. "He was sent to Canada some years ago. Has a reputation as a gamester with the devil’s own luck."

Gideon tensed. "Is he the kind of man who would force himself on an unwilling woman?"

Ensign Blane looked at de Rocheblave questioningly.

"I do not believe he will hurt your sister," the Frenchman hastened to say. "If it is any consolation, I believe Corbeau is genuinely smitten with her."

Gideon forced himself to smile, though his blood ran cold. He hated to think of Mara being that rogue’s hostage. "My sister is a woman of strong character. I feel quite sure she will have no trouble resisting one French bastard."

Ensign Blane grinned. "You’re right there, sir. Rumor has it she’s already led him a merry chase."

After the two young men left, Gideon slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands and groaned. A missing piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.

Now he knew why the card called the Lovers kept showing up whenever he asked about Mara.

* * *

Mara unfolded Gideon’s letter and read it again. She had heard nothing more since Lieutenant de Rocheblave returned from the English camp three weeks ago, bringing the letter and ring.

It was quiet in the trading post, the only sound the insistent drumming of rain on the roof. October had brought one storm after another, raising the level of the rivers and turning the parade ground into a sea of mud. The inhabitants of the fort, those who were left, stayed indoors as much as possible.

She sighed and laid the letter on the table. The gloomy weather and forced isolation accounted for some of her moodiness and restlessness, but by no means all.

Tension at the fort was high. Scouts reported that the English were on the move, though hampered by the weather. Rather than sit and wait for the British to arrive, a large party of French soldiers and Indian warriors had marched out to attack first. They had been gone nearly three weeks now, and she could not help wondering, and worrying, about what would happen. Her fate depended on which side ultimately emerged victorious.

Hopeful of seeing her brother again soon, she had read his letter over and over again. It contained more promises, promises that she knew were only possibilities. Gideon would start raising the ransom money right away. He would find a way to deliver it before the final battle. Failing that, if the French were defeated, the ring would ensure her safety in the British ranks.

Mara knew what that meant. The ring would assure her safety, even if Gideon died in battle. Not that, she prayed.
Dear Lord, not Gideon.
She had lost everyone she’d ever loved, except him.

Never before had she been so alone. Until now, there had always been someone, some man, to tell her what to do, what to say, even what to think. First it was her father, grandfather, and brother, then Emile, and finally Lieutenant Corbeau.

Even Corbeau was gone, raiding the British camp. Who knew when, or if, he would return. To her shock, she actually missed the scoundrel. It was a sign of how lonely she was.

Her first taste of freedom should have been exhilarating, but somehow it was not. It galled her to realize how much she had come to depend on him. She missed his strength, his unexpected tenderness, the hundred small kindnesses he had performed for her without expecting anything in return. The moccasins she wore, for instance. And she had repaid him with suspicion, doubt, and shrewishness.

Exasperated with herself, she rose and strode to the door. Opening it, she stared out across the parade ground, noting that the rain had softened to a drizzle. She sucked in a breath of crisp, fresh air and suddenly could not stand being cooped up for another moment. Impulsively, she kicked off her moccasins and, grabbing her shawl, threw it over her head and shoulders.

As she crossed to the ramparts, the cold mud squelched between her toes, but she welcomed the sensation. After being inside so much, she was energized by the chilly dampness. The wet, wooden ladder was slick under her fingers, and she had to grip tightly with hands and toes as she climbed to the top.

She startled a sodden sentry who gaped at her before turning away. Since the incident with Vache, none of the rank and file had said a word to her, and this man was no exception.

What a night that had been! Her emotions had run the gamut—from hope to anger to fear. Hope that she would be allowed to rejoin her brother, anger over the ransom demand, and fear for her life. She had seen Jacques almost kill another man with his bare hands, then turn to her with a gentleness that took her breath away.

She should have been appalled by his lack of control, but she had felt a primitive satisfaction at seeing her tormentor soundly thrashed. She closed her eyes, ashamed of her reaction. She, too, was turning into a savage, stripped of all layers of civilization. Dear Lord, what had become of her?

Sighing, she moved to stand next to one of Jacques’s precious cannon. The view from the ramparts was magnificent. Under a leaden sky, the green of bushes and grasses seemed more intense than ever. The turbulent waters of the river tumbled past the fort, frothing over the rocks along the shore.

She glanced toward the hills on the other side of the Monongahela. The heavily forested slopes were dappled by drifts of gossamer mist, but not thickly enough to obscure the colors of autumn. Among the green shone clusters of gold and orange. Occasional patches of red were visible, as if stained by the blood of the men who had died trying to possess this cursed spot.

Lord, but she was morbid today. Her mood was due to a combination of weather and circumstance and surely would be temporary. She glanced at the view again, wishing Emile were here to see it. He would have been enchanted by the vista.

The fragrance of autumn, clear, crisp, and tangy, wafted on the air. Soon, very soon, winter’s frost would snuff out autumn’s fire, leaving the landscape bleak and brown until the first snowfall came to shield it with a pristine layer of white.

A flock of birds flew overhead, heading south for the winter. Mara watched them with envy, wishing she, too, could soar over the treetops. She would fly all the way back to Geneva, she thought, smiling at her fancy.

A shout from the sentry drew her attention to the plain in front of the fort. Her heart raced at the sight of the raiding party straggling back. In the lead group, she spotted a tall officer in a blue and red uniform. Jacques.

She hurried to the ladder and scurried swiftly but carefully down the slippery rungs, then ran to the main gate, straight for him. When she skidded to a stop about a foot from him, he grinned at her.

"What, so eager, madame? Can it be that you missed me?"

She felt her face flush, but refused to acknowledge the truth of his words. "Do not flatter yourself, monsieur. It is merely that I am bored. I have had no one to argue with for weeks now."

He laughed aloud and took off his hat. That was when she noticed the bandage tied around his forehead.

She placed her hand over her suddenly pounding heart. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"It is nothing. Merely a graze," he assured her hastily. His gaze swept over her, his expression changing to a frown when he saw her bare feet. "What are you doing out in this weather? And barefoot?"

She smiled. "Would you have me ruin my good moccasins?"

He rolled his eyes. "Women! I will buy you more moccasins if you need them. Come." He took her by the arm and steered her toward the trading post.

Mara glanced at Jacques out of the corner of her eye. Heavens, she ought not be so glad to see him, but nonetheless she felt her spirits lifting. "Are you always so extravagant, lieutenant?" she asked with mock disapproval.

He smiled at her warmly. "Only where a beautiful woman is concerned,
chérie."
The huskiness of his voice warmed her down to her frozen hands and feet.

They passed Claude Bernard, who was talking to Alain Gauthier. Sophie stood nearby, holding Babette by the hand.

Mara stopped beside the door to the trading post where a rain barrel had been placed. Scooping up a bucketful, she rinsed her feet, wincing as the cold water sluiced over them.

"You should take better care of yourself," Jacques chided her gently.

"I am not the one with a bandage wrapped around my head." With that pronouncement, she entered the building, picking up her moccasins on the way.

In the kitchen area, she urged Jacques to sit on a bench, his back to the table. Standing before him, she unwrapped the bandage. With tentative fingers, she traced the scab-covered wound on his forehead. "It seems to be healing nicely, but you may have a scar," she murmured.

"It will just make me that much more dashing," he joked.

"Oh, Jacques," she murmured, resting one hand on his shoulder. With the other she lightly touched the side of his face.

When he turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm, warmth flooded through her. Before she could protest or back away, his arms encircled her, one at her waist, the other around her thighs, drawing her closer to him. The expression on his face was a mixture of lust and longing, and the huskiness of his voice made her shiver with anticipation.