Rogue's Hostage (8 page)

With a lazy, sensuous movement, his tongue entwined with hers. A wild surge of pleasure swept through her, and she clung to him, her arms circling his waist. Oh, yes, it was a sin—but a sweet one, the kind of sin she’d gladly pay for later.

When a small whimper escaped her throat, he broke the kiss. His lips hovered just above hers, his breathing ragged. Looking into his darkened eyes, she saw the depths of his passion and forced herself to pull away. If she didn’t stop now it would be too late, and she would be lost for certain.

Perhaps forever.

* * *

Swords. There were swords everywhere.

Gideon sat in the privacy of his tent at Fort Ligonier and stared at the cards spread before him. The dominant suit was definitely swords, which was no surprise under the circumstances.

The flickering light of a candle cast shadows on the sides of the tent and cast a yellow glow over the brilliantly colored cards. The hour was late and the camp quiet, but Gideon had been unable to sleep. He did not often consult the tarot, but his concern for Mara made him desperate to find answers in any way possible.

And matters would soon be coming to a head. A few days ago, an expedition made up of provincial and Highland troops, including his young friend Cameron Shaw, had left camp headed for Fort Duquesne. If the cards were correct—and the message they told was crystal clear—then Major Grant and his men were in trouble.

In that case, two possibilities occurred to Gideon. The French could leave the safety of the fort and attack the advancing British in force, as they had three years ago with Braddock. However, since it was late in the season, it was also possible that their native allies would tire of the white men’s war and go home to hunt for the winter, which would leave the French more vulnerable than ever. Still, a prudent soldier always prepared for the worst.

Gideon sighed and gathered the cards into a pile. His grandfather would be turning in his grave if he knew that his grandson was playing with "devil’s cards", as he had called them. Gideon’s thoughts drifted back to his first visit home from the university. He had casually mentioned that a fellow student had introduced him to the cards, and his grandfather had gone into a tirade. The old man had forbidden him to have anything more to do with the fellow.

The old man’s violent reaction had intrigued Gideon, who hated being told what to do, much less what to think. He’d gone back to school and made it a point to become involved in anything his grandfather didn’t approve of, from tarot cards to Freemasonry.

The final rebellion had come when he finished school and became a soldier instead of going into the ministry, as expected. He would have made a terrible clergyman. It was not just that he had no calling, but that he found no comfort in orthodox religion. He was still searching for the secrets of life and death.

But for the first time, Gideon questioned that decision. If he had become a minister, he’d have been able to offer a home to Mara after their grandfather’s death. Instead, it had been Emile, his old friend, who had come forward and offered to care for her. And if she hadn’t married Emile, she would still be safe in Geneva.

They would all be safe in Geneva.

Stop it, he told himself. Such thinking was pointless. The only question was what would happen to her now?

He shuffled the cards, concentrating on his sister. As he laid them out, one by one, on the small puncheon table, they seemed to tell a story. The Five of Coins spoke of loss of home, the Eight of Swords of bondage, and the Nine of Swords, death. And above them, a card that depicted a young woman holding open the jaws of a lion, Force, indicating strength of character despite difficulties.

The cards representing the future were more ambiguous. The Three of Swords could mean further separation, a definite possibility unless Grant’s expedition went better than Gideon expected. He knew that unless a ransom was paid, captives were usually not returned until after the end of a war. Chances were he’d not see his sister for several years, a prospect that caused his heart to sink even further.

Gideon turned his attention back to the cards. Judgment was upside down, perhaps symbolizing a fear of death, something that he and Mara shared, thanks to Grandfather Ebersole’s fire and brimstone teachings.

The Lightning-struck Tower next caught his eye—a potential catastrophe. Was it possible that Fort Duquesne would be destroyed? What of the inhabitants?

He groaned and rubbed his aching forehead, then picked up the next to last card—the High Priestess, which represented an unrevealed future. He knew that a chain of events had already been set in motion, but perhaps something could be done to change the final outcome.

He turned over the last card, hoping for some clear answer, but he was puzzled by the appearance of the trump card called the Lovers. Bah, he should have known better than to try reading for someone else. With a smothered oath, he swept his hand over the cards, scattering them into a haphazard pile. But before putting the cards away, Gideon picked up the one with the picture of cupid hovering over a man and woman, his bow and arrow poised.

Lovers, he murmured. How the devil did love fit into this situation?

* * *

Two days after the battle, Mara sat beside Lieutenant Shaw’s cot and wiped his face with a wet cloth. Though his wound had not been life threatening, he was running a fever. Monsieur Fourgue said it was a usual part of the healing process, but she was worried.

She rolled her shoulders and neck, trying to work out the stiffness. She’d been at the hospital for the better part of three days now, and exhaustion was beginning to set in. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d forgotten to eat again.

To make matters worse, when she had gotten away to rest, sleep eluded her. It was all Corbeau’s fault. Whenever she closed her eyes, the memory of his sweet, tender kiss consumed her thoughts. Lord, how could she long for the man who had dragged her away from her home, the man who had refused to even bury her husband?

She sighed and felt Lieutenant Shaw’s forehead again. Thanks to him, she at least knew Emile had received a proper burial. For that reason, she was determined to see that the young man recovered.

A familiar voice broke into her thoughts. "How is he doing?"

She looked up to see Corbeau standing on the other side of the cot. "Feverish."

"I came to see if he is able to travel."

"Absolutely not," Monsieur Fourgue exclaimed from the other side of the room. "Lieutenant Rider is not well enough, either."

Mara jumped to her feet. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

Corbeau folded his arms across his chest. "Captain de Ligneris is sending the other prisoners to Montreal tomorrow under guard. He told me to check on the two wounded officers."

"Isn’t that sudden?"

"Perhaps, but it is for their own protection. The sooner they are away from here, the sooner our allies will forget about them. Crazy Badger keeps asking about ‘his’ captive."

Mara gasped. "You won’t let him harm Cameron, will you?"

"Cameron?" His eyes narrowed, and his expression took on a forbidding glare.

"Lieutenant Shaw, that is." She pressed her hands together to stop them from trembling.

Corbeau rubbed the back of his neck. "Don’t worry, madame, I will see that no harm comes to your precious Scotsman."

She twisted her apron anxiously. "It’s just that he is Gideon’s friend, and…"

"And what, madame?"

"Cameron told me that he helped Gideon bury Emile," she said, a touch of defiance in her voice. "For that alone, I owe him a debt of gratitude."

Corbeau muttered under his breath, but his expression was impassive. "Does that debt include ruining your health?" He scowled at her. "I don’t like to see you wearing yourself out over a prisoner."

She glared back at him. "And why not? I am as much a prisoner as any. Have you forgotten that I was dragged forcibly from my home, against my will?"

"No, madame, I have not forgotten. You will not let me forget. Would you have preferred the alternative?"

The surgeon walked up to Mara and held out a hand toward her. "Please, madame, know that you are among friends here."

She shook her head sadly. "No. I may speak your language, but I am a stranger among you and always will be."

"You are tired, madame," Monsieur Fourgue said. "You have done enough for today. Go home and get some rest. Lieutenant Corbeau, will you see that she gets there safely?"

Corbeau nodded and gestured toward the door. "You heard the doctor’s orders, madame. You must take care of yourself now."

Mara knew better than to argue with him when he got that stubborn set to his jaw, so she allowed him to lead her outside. Besides, she was near the end of her endurance.

They walked slowly around the outer perimeter of the fort, through the main gate, and started across the parade ground. To one side, she spotted one of the wounded French soldiers she had helped bandage after the battle. Private Vache. He’d smelled of liquor and garlic, and his hair had been filthy and full of vermin. She’d scrubbed her hands afterwards, not sure they would ever be clean again. He now stared boldly at her, making her shiver.

"What is it?" Corbeau asked in a sharp tone.

"Nothing."

He looked at the wounded soldier and glared until the man turned away. "Vache," he said in a disgusted voice. "Stay away from that one."

"I will," Mara replied fervently.

When they got back to the trading post, Claude and Sophie were waiting for them. Babette lay curled up in the big bed.

Claude looked at them in surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"Madame Dupré is exhausted," Corbeau announced. "Monsieur Fourgue sent her home to rest. She needs food and some brandy, I think."

Claude handed him a bottle and mug.

"I don’t drink," she murmured, waving it away.

"Just a sip," Corbeau urged. "As a restorative. Think of it as medicine."

Her lips quirked in a smile. "Cameron would call this a terrible waste of good liquor." She took a sip and nearly choked. It burned her mouth and throat, yet warmed her insides at the same time.

Sophie set a bowl of stew in front of Mara. She stared at it dully, suddenly too tired to lift a finger.

Corbeau sat beside her on the bench, took the spoon, and dipped it into the savory food. He held it to her mouth. "Eat."

Claude and Sophie looked on, interested expressions on their faces. Mara was amused in spite of herself. "I am not a child. I can feed myself."

"Then do so."

Sighing, she took the spoon from him and began to eat. He watched her consume every bite, then urged her to take a few more sips of brandy. The combination of food and spirits worked their magic, relaxing her.

Corbeau stood up. "I will leave you now. Try to get some rest."

After he left, Mara climbed slowly up the ladder to the loft. As she lay down on her pallet, she overheard Claude and Sophie talking.

"It seems that our Lieutenant Corbeau has been hit by a lightning bolt," Claude said.

"No doubt about it," Sophie agreed.

Mara drifted off to sleep, wondering what in the world they meant.

Jacques stood stiffly in front of Captain de Ligneris’s desk, not sure why he had been summoned. It had been over a week since the attack on the fort, a week of waiting and watching. An hour ago, a British delegation flying a flag of truce had arrived, and shortly afterward, Jacques had been ordered to report. Uncertain about why, he waited stoically while his superior finished studying the piece of paper spread before him.

A moment later, the captain looked up, a scowl on his face. "Colonel Bouquet of the Royal Americans is inquiring about his officers. I cannot believe that Swiss mercenary had the impudence to lecture me about humane treatment of prisoners."

Jacques cleared his throat, not sure what he was supposed to say to that. "Is that why you summoned me, sir?"

"What? No." De Ligneris picked up another piece of paper. "Bouquet sent along another letter from one Gideon Harcourt who believes that his sister, a Madame Dupré, is one of our captives. An unofficial query, of course, but honor demands that we respond. I am told that you are acquainted with her."

Jacques made an effort to keep his expression impassive. "Yes, captain. She was taken captive by two Indians and myself."

"Her brother asks if she is in good health and if it is possible to ransom her."

Jacques groaned inwardly as a trickle of perspiration ran between his shoulder blades. He had no desire to release his hostage. They had unfinished business. No matter how the little Puritan tried to deny it, there was passion between them, and he meant to have a taste of it before setting her free. But he would have no choice if his commanding officer decided otherwise.

"She is unharmed," he said finally.

Captain de Ligneris leaned back in his chair. "Good, good. Don’t want Bouquet to think we mistreat any of our prisoners, military or civilian. I wonder why he’s so interested in this particular woman, though."

"It is my understanding that Madame Dupré is also Swiss."

The captain nodded. "What do you think? Shall we demand a ransom, or be magnanimous and allow her to return to her brother?"

Jacques’s jaw tightened. "I cannot recommend the latter."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and why is that?"

Jacques racked his brain for an acceptable reason. He could hardly say it was because he wanted her for himself.

Suddenly an answer came to him. "It would not be a good precedent to set in front of our allies. They might be even more reluctant to turn captives over to us if they think we will free them so easily. And the Crown has already paid bounty money for her capture."

"Reprehensible," de Ligneris muttered under his breath.

"My intention was to save her life," Jacques replied stiffly. "If my conduct has been—"

"Eh?" The captain looked up at him and waved his hand. "Not that, Corbeau. This whole war is an abomination. No honor in it for anyone. Still, you have a point. We cannot afford to alienate our native allies. I have no objection to keeping her captive, but…"

Jacques saw the speculation in the older man’s eyes and shifted his gaze to stare at the wall behind the captain’s shoulder. Where Mara Dupré was concerned, his thoughts were all too transparent. Had de Ligneris heard the rumors of his infatuation with his captive?

"Corbeau, your background is a bit unusual, shall we say. I make no judgments, what you do on your own time is your business, but do try not to set too bad an example for the men."

Jacques nodded stiffly, once again staring at the back wall. The old resentment stirred to life inside him. De Ligneris would never have said that to Alain Gauthier, and certainly not to Jacques’s esteemed brother, the viscount.

The captain cleared his throat. "Perhaps a ransom demand is the best idea, at least recoup our investment in the prisoner. In any case, you will inform Madame Dupré that her brother is asking after her, and that we will convey any message she has for him."

It was an order, not a suggestion. "Yes, sir." Hoping he was dismissed, Jacques saluted and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Corbeau," the captain called after him. "Bring her to dinner."

Jacques swung around on his heel. "Sir?"

"I’m having a small dinner here tonight, to entertain the English emissary. A little feminine company would not go amiss,
n’est-ce-pas?
I confess I am anxious to meet such a favored young woman."

Jacques left the office, his mind and gut in turmoil. What was the matter with him? Why was the thought of parting from the difficult Madame Dupré so upsetting? She had been nothing but trouble from the beginning, he reminded himself as he walked across the parade ground toward the trading post.

Oh, she was beautiful, but inside that seductive body beat the heart of a Puritan. She would never willingly give him what he wanted. And what Jacques wanted—no needed—was a woman.

But Fort Duquesne was not Paris, or even Quebec. He could not walk into a convenient tavern or brothel and find release in the body of a willing woman. He cursed the fate that had brought him to this place—and more importantly—to that woman.

He stopped and took a deep breath before entering the store where Mara sat at a desk behind the counter, her back to the door. Papers were spread out in front of her. At least she was here, not at the surgery, with
Cameron.
Was she on a first name basis with half of the garrison? he wondered.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "What do you want, Corbeau? As you can see, I’m busy."

Grinding his teeth at her brusque words, he walked to the desk and leaned against the side. "Too busy for news of Gideon?"

She jumped up, jostling the desk, then grabbed an inkwell before it tipped over. "What are you talking about? Is he all right?"

"Calm down. He appears to be fine. Captain de Ligneris received a letter from him inquiring about your welfare."

"May I see it?" she asked, eagerness apparent in her voice. "Please, Corbeau."

"Call me Jacques."

With that single directive, he let her know he wanted something in exchange. And she understood. Nervously, she licked her lips, then whispered, "Please, Jacques."

Her blue eyes were wide, her expression filled with pleading. Desire shot through him like cannon fire. He needed every ounce of self-control he could muster to keep from reaching for her. He wanted to feel her soft breasts crushed against his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist…The devil, he had to get this woman out of his system somehow.

"Stop it!" Mara cried. "Stop looking at me like that." She nervously brushed a wisp of hair off her face, leaving an ink stain on her cheek.

He pulled out his handkerchief and moistened it with his tongue. Gently holding her chin with one hand, with the other he dabbed at the ink stain. "You don’t want a smudge on your face tonight." His breath stirred the hair at her temples. "You’ve been invited to have dinner with the commanding officer and the English emissary."

"What?"

"You heard me. De Ligneris wants to meet the captive who is important enough to attract the notice of the British second-in-command. All of the officers will be there."

"I can’t," she objected. "I have nothing appropriate to wear."

"Have you forgotten about your blue silk? I knew you would wear it for me one day."

She sniffed and pulled away from him. "Your arrogance astounds me," she said, her tone filled with contempt. "I will wear the silk, but for the English officer. Not for you or any other Frenchman."

* * *

She looked gorgeous in the damn gown.

Jacques glared at Mara, who sat across the room, flirting with the English emissary, an impossibly young-looking ensign. They spoke quietly in English, and Jacques wondered what secrets she was imparting to him. Not that the young man in the scarlet uniform was paying attention to what she said. He was obviously too dazzled by her beauty.

The deep blue of the silk brought out the color of her eyes, and the low-cut bodice made her bosom look as white as cream and as soft as down.

Jacques swore under his breath. It was inevitable that one day they would be separated. But not yet, he swore, not while he still hungered for her so.

"Stop scowling," Alain’s voice murmured in his ear. "It’s not wise to wear your heart on your sleeve."

"What makes you think my heart is the interested part?" Jacques quipped.

Alain roared with laughter. "Is your
petit soldat
at attention again? Ah, my friend, you must try not to be so obvious."

"I know." Jacques grimaced. "This afternoon de Ligneris told me to ‘try not to set too bad an example’ in front of the men."

Alain clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically. "Come, a glass or two of wine may cheer you up."

Mara watched Corbeau and Alain Gauthier out of the corner of her eye. In their blue artillery coats, they stood out like a pair of peacocks among a flock of doves. Thank heavens Corbeau had quit staring at her bosom, although he was not the only man to do so. She was self-conscious, unused to being the center of attention. Belatedly, she wished she had thought to bring a fichu with her.

There was another reason she was relieved to be free of Corbeau’s scrutiny. Surreptitiously, she pulled the small leather pouch containing her father’s watch out of her pocket. Though the French had not discovered it, she would feel safer without it.

"Ensign Blane, may I ask a favor of you?"

"Anything, madame. But please, call me Archie."

"Archie? A most unusual name."

"It is short for Archibald, a good English name."

Mara smiled and handed the pouch to the young Englishman. "Would you give this to my brother when you see him next? It is a family heirloom."

"Of course. That is a very good idea," he said approvingly.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand."

"I just meant that receiving something of a personal nature will be a reassurance to your brother that you are well."

"Surely that is unnecessary, since we have met."

"True," the young man agreed. "But stop and think about it for a moment. I have never seen you before today. I have no proof that you are who you say you are, except your word and that of Lieutenant Corbeau." He leaned toward her confidentially. "And I understand that Corbeau’s background is not of the best."

The last thing Mara wanted to do was defend Corbeau, but her conscience demanded that she set the record straight. "He may be a scoundrel, but I have never known him to be less than honest." It was true, though it pained her to admit it. Even when he had said there was passion between them, he had said it with such conviction that she had not doubted he meant it. In some twisted fashion, he believed he had a claim on her.

The ensign frowned. "Nevertheless, the French could have presented me with any young woman and claimed she was Madame Dupré. I would have never known the difference, and your brother might have ended up paying ransom for a stranger."

"Ransom? What are you talking about?"

The young man looked confused. "I thought you knew. The French are demanding a ransom for your return. Apparently, they have already paid the Indians for your capture and want to be reimbursed."

Mara was stunned. Then she remembered Gray Wolf and Crazy Badger barging into Corbeau’s quarters, demanding their bounty money. At the time, she’d been too flustered to understand, but now she realized that she was just a commodity to Corbeau, like a bolt of cloth or a valuable fur.

So, that was the claim he had on her.

Humiliation suffused her face with heat. He’d bought and paid for her, like a slave. Or a courtesan. Her breath quickened, and she raised shaky hands to her face.

"Madame, are you all right?"

She stood and tried to smile at the young man. "I have the beginning of a headache. If you will excuse me?"

He stood and offered her his arm. "Of course. May I walk you to your quarters?"

"Lieutenant Corbeau will do that. After all, I am his ‘responsibility,’ as he so often reminds me."

Inwardly fuming, she allowed the young ensign to escort her across the room to where Corbeau and Alain Gauthier stood talking.

Mara smiled sweetly at her nemesis. "Jacques, would you please escort me back to the store?"

"Of course, madame," he agreed, but a certain wariness in his expression warned her that he saw through her mask.

She held out a hand to Ensign Blane. "Thank you, Archie, for everything."

Archie lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back. "It was entirely my pleasure, Madame Dupré."

Corbeau stiffened at her side, but did not speak a word as they walked across the parade ground. When they arrived at the trading post, he opened the door and followed her inside. Claude had thoughtfully left a lamp burning at the desk.

"You are angry with me," Jacques observed. "What have I done this time?"

She whirled to face him. "How much am I worth to you, Corbeau? What is the price of the ransom?"

Resignation clouded his expression. "Ah, the ransom. I meant to tell you about that."

Mara paced the length of the room. "It’s been about money all along, hasn’t it?"

"On the contrary, madame, the ransom was Captain de Ligneris’s idea. I merely pointed out that we had already paid bounty money for you."

"Yes, I know. To the men who killed my husband," she said bitterly. "How could I have been so stupid? I thought…"

He caught her by both arms. "You thought what? That I saved your life out of the goodness of my heart?"

She tried to laugh, but it sounded brittle. "No, I doubt you are that altruistic. Nor are you squeamish."

He stepped closer, looking at her intently. "Then what did you think, madame? That I was mad with desire for you?"

She looked away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

"Well, you were right,
chérie."

"Don’t call me that," she cried.

He pulled her into his embrace. His eyes were darkened with desire, his voice a velvet murmur in her ear. "What shall I call you, Mara?
Ma belle petite?"

She pushed against his chest. "Stop it. I am a respectable widow, not one of your Paris courtesans."