Rogue's Hostage (21 page)

His eyes narrowed. "All right, Mara. What do you want of me?"

She leaned forward and spoke quietly. "I want you to quit trying to avenge Father’s death. It is not your place to do so. Mother said that when you learned to forgive, you would find someone special, too."

He barked a laugh, but his expression was not amused. "What is the message here, love conquers all? Is that not a bit trite?"

Stung by his words, Mara clamped her mouth together. It was clear that he was not going to listen to her. When had her beloved brother turned into this cold, haughty officer? Her heart ached for the loss of her childhood companion.

He stood up suddenly. "Is that all? I have work to do."

Anger suddenly forced her to her feet to face him across the table. "No, that is not all. I want you to stop blaming Jacques for what happened to me, and accept that I love him. Treat him as you would any other prisoner of war, not as a spy."

"It is too late for that. Moncton has ordered him transferred to Wolfe’s headquarters first thing tomorrow morning. There is a very good chance the general will want to make an example of him."

His words sent a chill through her. She had a vision of Jacques standing under a tree, a noose around his neck. No, she could not allow that to happen!

Gathering her courage, she looked Gideon in the eye. "May I see him one more time? In private?"

He sighed heavily. "If you must. Tell Sergeant Bigley I gave my permission for you to visit the prisoner."

"Thank you."

Mara picked up the pouch containing Jacques’s uniform and other personal belongings. The time to choose had arrived. She just hoped that her plan would work.

* * *

By the time Mara returned to Gideon’s tent, her choice had been made, her plan finalized.

Sergeant Bigley had been a great help. The garrulous soldier had insisted on accompanying her and willingly answered all of her questions. Now she knew the layout of the camp and the time the prisoner’s guard was set to change.

The hardest part had been convincing Jacques to go along with her plan. He hadn’t wanted her to take any risks, but finally agreed, sure that her brother would see she came to no harm. She had not voiced her own doubts on that subject.

Walking back into the tent, she was dismayed to see Gideon sitting at the table in his shirtsleeves, writing some kind of report. Probably an account of the day’s events, she guessed. A mug and a porcelain teapot sat on the end of the table.

Her heart rate accelerated. Her plan might be harder to carry out than she’d thought.

"Aren’t you getting sleepy?" she asked.

Gideon looked up at her and smiled. "I often work late at night. It is the only time I can count on not being interrupted."

"I see," she replied in a faint tone. What was she to do now? It was imperative that Gideon sleep very soundly tonight. She reached into her pocket and touched the bottle of laudanum she had hidden there. She had intended only to use it on the sentry, but…

She removed her hand. How could she contemplate drugging her own brother? He would never forgive her when he found out. But what choice did she have? She had to save Jacques.

"Would you like more tea?" she asked.

"Please," Gideon said in a distracted voice.

With a shaking hand, she reached into her pocket for the bottle of laudanum. Keeping an eye on Gideon, she shook a few drops of the drug into his mug, then added the tea.

When he picked it up, she almost blurted out for him to stop, but as he drank, she sat pondering the wisdom of what she was about to do. Yet, surely Gideon had forced her into it, had he not? She couldn’t stand by and see Jacques wrongfully hanged as a spy.

The visit with him had nearly broken her heart. It had been stifling in the small tent, and with his hands tied, he had been unable to even swat at the mosquitoes that buzzed around, nipping at will. The first thing she had done was to cut his bonds with Emile’s hunting knife. The irony of that was not lost on her.

Gideon’s eyes soon grew heavy and his head began to nod.

"Why don’t you lie down for a while?" Mara suggested. "Here, let me help you." She guided him to his cot where he fell asleep immediately. Only then did she reach into his waistcoat pocket for their father’s watch, a necessary part of her plan.

She stared at her brother, feeling a mixture of affection, guilt, and sadness. In his sleep, he appeared younger, more like the boy she remembered. How she had adored him—her hero, her champion, the only person who tried to protect her from their grandfather’s wrath. Those days were gone forever, she realized, and Gideon was now more stranger than brother. Though she still loved him, she was no longer sure that she liked him. Otherwise she never could have done such a deed.

Love for another man filled her heart. Gideon represented her past, but Jacques was her future.

Returning to the table she poured tea into another mug, added some laudanum, then left.

She walked swiftly to the tent where Jacques was being held prisoner. The young sentry stood at attention when he saw her coming.

"Mrs. Dupré," he acknowledged.

"Private Green. I thought you might be thirsty," she said, handing him the mug.

"Thank you, ma’am." The young man drained the mug in a few gulps, then handed it back to her.

"May I see the prisoner?"

He scratched his head. "I suppose it’s all right. You being the major’s sister and all."

"Thank you." She flashed him a grateful smile and ducked into the tent. It was nearly as hot inside as the last time she’d visited, but Jacques looked more comfortable now that he was no longer tied up.

She crawled into his arms, and he kissed her with a hunger born of desperation. With a small whimper, she opened her mouth and her tongue met his in a final attempt to meld his soul with hers. When she could no longer breathe, she drew back and rested her head on his shoulder, knowing they would be separated soon, perhaps forever.

After a few moments, she pulled away from him and took the watch from her pocket. Attempting a lighthearted smile despite the sorrow in her heart, she said, "Much as I love your kisses, we cannot afford to lose track of time."

He smiled ruefully. "Ever the practical Swiss."

She grinned back at him. "Part of me will always be Swiss, but I have become a daring American, now." The European in her would never have helped a prisoner escape the British army.

He squeezed her shoulder. "I have always admired your courage, Mara."

"I wish I could go with you," she said softly.

"It is too dangerous."

"Yes, and I would slow you down."

When he opened his mouth to protest, she covered his lips with her fingers. "No, that much is true." Earlier, they had discussed his escape route. Success was dependent on finding an unguarded canoe or rowboat. Failing that, he would have to swim the river, a feat she could not hope to match.

Jacques dug his red waistcoat from the pouch she had brought earlier and put it on. "Mara, are you sure about this? It is not too late to change your mind."

Just then they heard a thud outside the tent. "That would be Private Green," Mara remarked with a smile.

The sentry was stretched out in front of the tent, snoring softly, his musket lying beside him on the ground. Jacques darted out, pulled the sentry inside, and divested him of his hat and coat, which he put on.

Outside again, Jacques picked up the musket and stood at attention. Mara picked up the telltale mug and stuffed it into Jacques’s pouch, which she slung over her shoulder. They waited only a few minutes before Private Green’s replacement showed up. Just then, the moon went behind a cloud, aiding their deception. "Everything all right?" the man asked.

Jacques coughed and nodded.

"The prisoner is sleeping like a babe. Come along, Private Green," Mara said, taking Jacques by the arm. "I’ll give you something for that cough."

Jacques followed her through the camp until they were on the outskirts. This was as far as she would go. She stopped in a wooded area to say good-bye to him. Only God knew how long it would be before she looked on his dear face again.

"Please be careful, my love."

He drew her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could hardly breath. His mouth mated with hers in a bittersweet kiss that tasted equally of love and sadness. When he drew back, his gaze searched her face in the moonlight.

"What is it?"

"I want to memorize you for a lifetime."

She shook her head. "Don’t say that. When this is all over, I will find you," she vowed.

His expression grew troubled. "Mara, I am no good for you. Promise that you’ll forget about me. You are still young, you can marry again."

She gripped his coat by the lapels and shook him. "I will marry you or no one. Whatever happens, you must stay alive."

He took her hands and flashed a cocky grin that failed. "Do not worry, I’m a lucky bastard." He kissed both of her palms, then dropped her hands and left without a backward glance.

"Take care," she whispered, her voice muffled by the tears that clogged her throat.

Arms wrapped around herself for comfort, she watched him fade into the forest, leaving her life as swiftly and quietly as he had come into it.

Jacques paddled the stolen canoe into the shallow water of the Anse au Foulon. His shoulders ached with the effort it had taken to navigate the wide St. Lawrence, but he was grateful he had not had to swim across as so many deserters had done. He climbed out and pulled the canoe onto the bank. Standing up, he stretched, flexing his arms and shoulders, then turned to look across the river.

The early morning sun spread its weak rays through a soft mist, casting a faint golden glow over everything. Behind him, in the trees, a squirrel chattered and a songbird greeted the dawn with a joyous trill. The sweet sound pierced the wall he’d tried to build around his senses to keep the pain locked inside.

He stared at the wooded south shore where he had left Mara, and his heart with her. In its place sat a ball of icy regret. Regret for the peril he’d brought into her life. For the stubbornness that had kept her at his side when it would have been kinder to let her go. Most of all, regret for the rash, arrogant, and futile promises he’d made to protect her.

The image of the first time he had seen her flashed into his mind’s eye—that glorious blond hair shining in the sunlight as she laughed with her brother. As long as they had been together, he’d never seen her as carefree as that first day. Right before the world came crashing down around her.

He clenched his jaw until he heard his teeth grind together. If only…The words pounded incessantly in his brain. If only he could have talked Gray Wolf out of attacking the cabin. But then, they would never have met.

If only he had let her go free back in the wilderness. No, he decided, she’d never have survived on her own.

If only he had sent her away with Claude and Sophie. But then, he’d never have had the chance to hold her soft, naked body next to his and make love to her until she whimpered with pleasure. And that he could never regret, though now it would be but a lovely memory to him.

He sucked in a deep breath of cool, damp air. Dear God, he missed her already. But it was better this way, for her at least. He had brought her nothing but fear, pain, and exile, and she had repaid him with her love and loyalty.

I’ll marry you or no one.

He shook his head to dispel the memory of her words. In time she would forget him, find someone else. Someone worthy. And, he assured himself, until then, her brother would take care of her.

Mara deserved something better than a dishonored bastard. With a sigh, Jacques turned his back to the river and began to climb the path to the Plains of Abraham. Thank God, this time he’d had the strength to walk away from her.

It was not something he could ever do again.

* * *

Gideon awoke to a pounding headache and an uneasy stomach. He lay on his cot, shading his eyes against the light streaming through the open tent flap. What in the world was wrong with him? Good God, was he coming down with some dread disease? There was more than enough of that to go around in the camp.

He lifted his head and groaned aloud. Had he not known better, he’d have thought he was hung over. But he’d been drinking tea last night, hadn’t he? His memory of the evening was hazy at best.

He looked around for Mara, but she was nowhere in sight. Probably gone to see her Frenchman, he thought sourly. That was all she had seemed to care about.

Slowly he pushed himself to a sitting position and realized he’d slept in his shoes.
What the devil?
He shook his head, a terrible mistake, as a sharp pain shot through it.

Before he could stand, Sergeant Bigley burst into the tent, a frantic look on his face. "Major Harcourt, the prisoner has escaped!"

Gideon jumped to his feet and almost passed out. He grabbed hold of Bigley’s arm until the blackness on the edge of his vision receded. The world slowly righted itself. When Bigley ceased looking like twins, Gideon released his arm, took a deep breath and said quietly, "What did you say, sergeant?"

Bigley stood at attention. "Sir, the prisoner has escaped."

Gideon cursed loudly. "How in hell did that happen?"

"We’re not exactly sure, sir. Private Green appears to have fallen asleep at his post."

"Bring him in."

Private Green entered minus musket, uniform coat and hat. He looked as bad as Gideon felt, not to mention terrified. "What happened, private?"

The young man stared down at the ground. "I don’t rightly know, sir. I must’ve passed out."

"If you felt sick, why did you not ask to be relieved?"

"But I didn’t feel sick. Not ’til I woke up in the tent."

"In the tent?"

Sergeant Bigley stepped forward. "Near as I can figure, the prisoner managed to untie himself and knock Private Green over the head. After dragging him into the tent, that Frenchy must have picked up his musket and took his place outside until the next sentry came on duty. Then he walked out of the camp as cool as you please."

Gideon frowned. There was something wrong here. "Did you check his bonds, sergeant?"

"Yes, sir, that I did. I’d swear they was tight enough to keep him trussed up for days."

"What are you not telling me, Bigley?"

The sergeant hesitated, his tanned face reddening, and Gideon suddenly knew what the missing ingredient was. "Did my sister visit the prisoner last night, private?"

Green swallowed noisily. "Yes, sir. Twice."

Gideon sank onto a chair. Mara. She had betrayed him for the sake of her Frenchman. Bile rose in his throat but he forced it down.

"I thought you knew, sir," Private Green stammered. "She brought me a mug of tea."

"Tea?" Dear Lord, she must have drugged the tea.

Green hung his head. "It was right after that I fell asleep."

Gideon sighed. "You’re confined to quarters, Private Green. And the cost of the musket and uniform will be taken out of your pay. Now get out of here, and be more careful in future."

"Yes, sir!" Private Green saluted and left, obviously relieved.

"You were awful easy on him, sir."

"I’ll not have the boy flogged for something that is not his fault, sergeant. Now, what are the chances of locating the prisoner?"

"I’ve sent out patrols, Major, but he’s been gone six hours or more."

"Very well, keep me informed. And sergeant, if you can find my sister, bring her to me. Immediately."

* * *

Mara stood on the edge of a cliff, watching sunrise spread its radiance over the St. Lawrence. Light glittered on the water, turning it silver. Across the river, Quebec loomed out of the mist, like an enchanted castle in a fairy tale, one that would disappear if the seeker got too close. Out of reach, untouchable, just like the tarnished knight who had stolen her heart.

A voice from behind startled her out of her reverie. "Mrs. Dupré?"

She turned around to find a grim looking Sergeant Bigley. "Have you come for me?"

"Yes, ma’am. Major Harcourt wants to see you."

She sighed. "I am sure he does. Very well, sergeant. Lead on."

The sergeant said nothing more as they walked back to camp. Mara debated about whether or not she should apologize for taking advantage of his good nature, but the stony look on his face discouraged any attempt at conversation. Perhaps later. First she had to face her brother.

"How could you?" Gideon asked when Mara entered the tent. His tone of voice was soft, but the look on his face chilled her.

She tried to reason with him. "I have been a captive. It is not something I wish on my worst enemy, much less the man I love."

"You drugged me," he accused. "Your own brother. By all that’s holy, I should turn you over to Moncton for trial. How am I to explain the fact that a bound prisoner was able to escape?"

"Perhaps the rope was rotten. I am not very strong, but I did not have any trouble cutting through it."

He ran his hands through his hair. "Why, Mara? Just tell me that."

"Gideon, can you not see that what you were doing was morally wrong? Jacques was no spy, just a prisoner of war."

"Give me one good reason why I should not turn you in."

"Because your actions were based on your irrational hatred of the French. You were not just doing your duty, you intended to make Jacques pay for Emile’s death and Father’s, as well. I could not let him suffer because of your personal desire for vengeance."

"I cannot believe that I have been betrayed by my own sister. God, Mara, where do we go from here?"

She saw with abrupt clarity what their mother had intended. Searching his face for a hint of softness, she said, "Gideon, up to now, your enemy has been faceless and nameless. It is easy to hate under those circumstances. But if you cannot forgive me, then there is no hope for you."

* * *

By the time August turned into September, Mara knew she was expecting. The signs were unmistakable: it had been at least six weeks since her last monthly, her breasts were sore and swollen, and she now suffered from morning sickness.

She touched her abdomen, hardly able to believe that a child was growing there. Jacques’s child. After so many years of believing herself to be barren, her most fervent wish was to be granted—truly a miracle. How she longed to tell Jacques. Surely it was a sign from God that their love was not wrong. But now they were separated by a river, and a war, not to mention his obstinacy.

She lay on her bunk, willing her stomach to behave. How she hated waking up with little to look forward to but nausea and boredom. Though the days were growing shorter, they seemed endless to her, pariah that she was. None of the English soldiers would speak to her unless absolutely necessary.

But Gideon was the worst of all.

She had tried to make it up to him at first—cooking for him, cleaning, waiting on him, trying to anticipate his every need. For a week, she had tiptoed around, afraid of inadvertently saying or doing the wrong thing, and always managing to do just that. Gideon had responded with all the charm of a grizzly bear with a backside full of buckshot. Finally, she had given up all hope of forgiveness and requested a tent of her own. He had agreed with alacrity.

A lump formed in her throat but she ruthlessly swallowed it down. No more tears, she vowed. She had shed too many already. For the last three weeks she had lived in self-imposed isolation, alternately re-living her dream, fervently wishing it had never ended, and daydreaming of a mythical happy future with Jacques and their child.

Oh, Jacques,
she thought, picturing his dear face in her mind, remembering every expression. How his gray eyes darkened with desire when he made love to her. How fiercely he scowled when he was angry, his thick black eyebrows knit into a frown. It was that scowl that had so frightened her at first, but that was before she realized how much emotion he had bottled up inside him. Hurt, shame, guilt. But most of all the need to be loved for who he was, the neglected bastard child of privilege.

Gingerly she sat up, hoping her stomach would stay where it belonged. If he knew about the babe, he would surely marry her. Had he not been adamant about not siring another bastard? But romantic fool that she was, she did not want him to marry her for that reason alone.

I love you, you imbecile. Isn’t that enough?

But perhaps it wasn’t, male pride being what it was. His childhood had been even bleaker than her own, for she at least had had Gideon. And he was living proof that, to the male of the species, pride was more important than love.

With a sigh, she got up and dressed in the same shabby clothing she’d worn for the last month. Never in her life had she been so needy. How was she to care for a babe when she had so little herself?

Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. Underneath the sadness and lethargy, she seethed with a desperate rage. She was furious with Jacques, with Gideon, and with life.

Jacques had left his blue uniform coat behind when he made his escape. Mara picked it up and hugged it to her breast, breathing in the scent of wool mixed with his own musky odor. It was all she had left of him now, and she decided to wear it. The sleeves were much too long, so she turned back the cuffs twice. Not only was the coat warmer than her threadbare shawl, wearing it gave her the courage to face Gideon once more.

Thus armed, she stepped outside into the cool September morn. Time was running out, winter would be upon them soon, and decisions needed to be made. Squaring her shoulders, she headed for her brother’s tent.

He was eating breakfast when she poked her head inside. The smell of bacon assaulted her nose, and her stomach lurched. With a gasp she turned and left, hand covering her mouth.

She stumbled to a nearby tree and leaned against it until her stomach settled again.

"Mara, what is wrong?" Gideon asked from behind her.

She turned to face him. "Nothing, just an upset stomach."

He touched his hand to her forehead. "Are you ill?" he asked, his voice sharp. "My God, you’re so pale."

"I am not ill," she said. "Just nauseated." She swallowed hard, dreading his reaction when he found out she was with child. Still, it was better he learn it from her than camp gossip. "Gideon, I think you should know that I am expecting."

"Expecting?" He looked confused for a moment then the color drained from his face. "My God! Is it Corbeau’s?"

"No, one of my other lovers," she snapped, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. "Of course it is Jacques’s child."

"I didn’t mean…" He pursed his lips. "Could you pretend Emile is the father?"

She rolled her eyes. "Emile has been dead for a year now. Anyone who can count will know that is impossible."

His face turned red. "I was just thinking of what is best for the child."

"Gideon, we need to talk."

"Yes, I agree."

There was a moment of silence during which they studied each other. His face was somber, but without a trace of the anger and petulance she had become accustomed to. Did that mean…?

He cleared his throat. "I have thought about what you said, that I have become like Grandfather."

"Bitter and narrow-minded."