Rogue's Hostage (12 page)

She hesitated, as if reconsidering. "I came to propose a new bargain."

He raised his eyebrows. This was one woman who never bored him. He never knew what she’d think of next. "Are you willing to trust me this time?"

She bent her head and blond strands of hair fell forward to hide her expression from him. "That is a chance I will have to take."

"Very well, madame. What is the nature of this proposal?"

She stared at the floor instead of answering. Jacques heard the tramp of feet and the murmur of voices from outside on the parade ground. But inside, the only sounds were a faint crackling from the fire and the blood pounding inside his brain. "Talk to me, Mara. What the devil is this all about?"

She nervously brushed the hair back from her face, then looked him directly in the eye. "I will lie with you tonight if you agree to set me free tomorrow."

His heart slammed against his ribs. Of all the possible things she might have said, this was the last he expected. So she was willing to endure his touch once, but only once, in order to be free of him forever. He was stunned by her bluntness, his desire for her mixed with an aching disappointment. "You cannot be serious."

"Why not?" she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "It is a simple bargain, after all. My body for my freedom."

He shook his head in denial. It was not simple at all, and put that way, it sounded tawdry. "You drive a hard bargain, madame. I cannot believe you really mean to go through with this travesty."

"Oh, but I do," she insisted.

"Mara, " he urged, "leave now, before it is too late. I agree to no bargains. I make no promises. Is that clear?"

She took a deep breath, and her breasts threatened to spill out of the low cut bodice. His body stiffened. God, how he still wanted her.

She began to unlace the front of her dress.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"I want you to see what you will miss if you decline my offer."

Rooted to the spot, he could only stand and watch her remove the blue silk dress. Honor demanded that he stop this charade. If he only had the strength to do so. He did not want her in this way, but in truth, he wanted her in any way. He had thought that if he had the chance to be with her, just once, it would be enough. Nothing could be further from the truth.

When she reached for the tie on her chemise, he sprang forward and grabbed both her hands in one of his.

"Mara," he said in a voice so hoarse he hardly recognized it as his. "Why are you so hell-bent on carrying out this stunt?"

She gazed at him earnestly, a pleading look in her blue eyes. "I have thought about this for the last few days. And I have decided that I am willing to do whatever it takes to obtain my freedom."

"But I am not willing to grant it," he countered with a firm tone that belied his raging need to give her what she wanted. Exactly what she wanted, and more. He took a deep breath and grappled for control. "Stop this now before it is too late."

She did nothing for a long moment. Then, with an enigmatic smile, she moved his hand to her breast. He groaned aloud, as his body reacted to the feel of her soft flesh. Dear God, he was tempted to take what she offered and damn the consequences. He had wanted her for so long, wanted her so intensely.

Cupping her head with his left hand, he gazed into her eyes and saw not passion but a feral look, like that of a cornered animal. In that instant, he realized her offer was born of true desperation. With regret, he let his hands fall to his side and took a step back. He had no desire to bed a martyr.

Undaunted, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. His heart pounded under her fingertips, his breathing grew rapid, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Unable to take any more, he pushed her hands away.

"Stop it," he ordered, searching for the right words to end this charade. "You disappoint me, madame. I never thought to see you act the whore."

* * *

Whore.

The word blazed through the haze of desperation and desire that had engulfed her. What had she almost done? Shame and disgust filled her. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began to shake. It would have been kinder if he had slapped her.

Jacques picked up her shawl, draped it over her shoulders and led her to his cot. Sitting next to her, he put an arm around her, but she shrugged it off.

"Leave me alone."

"Forgive me, Mara. I did not mean it, but I could think of no other way to reach you."

She made no reply, just huddled on the cot, head down and shoulders bowed, sunk in the depth of her humiliation.

He got up, walked to his trunk, pulled out a bottle of brandy, and poured some into a mug. Kneeling before her, he forced it into her hands and ordered her to drink. "It will steady you."

Blindly, Mara did as she was told. The fiery liquid stung her lips, burned her throat, and warmed her insides. In a few moments, she stopped shaking, though nothing penetrated the chill in her heart.

He set the brandy aside and held her hands. "Feeling better now?"

She nodded, but avoided looking at him. How could she face him? He must think her the greatest of fools.

But to her surprise, he lifted one of her hands and tenderly kissed the palm. With his other hand, he tilted her chin so she was forced to look at him. His expression was a mixture of tenderness and regret.

"Mara, Mara," he murmured, "you delude yourself if you believe that one time together would be enough. For either of us."

"You are arrogant," she whispered.

"No, merely honest. You say that staying with me is distasteful, but your body tells me that you want me as much as I desire you. I do not think I am asking too much when I say that the next time you come to me, it must be because you want me, not because you want to escape."

A sob forced its way out of her throat. "If I do that, I will never be free."

He gazed at her, a rueful expression on his face, the lines around his eyes showing clearly against his tan skin. "Would that be so awful?" he asked softly. "Am I such a monster?"

Mara stared at him, unable to answer. With a crushing despair, she realized that her gamble had been doomed to fail. If he had not stopped her, she would have given everything and gained nothing. She pulled her hand out of his grasp. "What will happen now?"

"Nothing has changed. You are still my captive."

Humiliation turned into anger, and she lashed out at him. "How can you live with yourself? Do you like holding the power of life and death over another person’s head? How does that make you feel? Stronger perhaps, more powerful?"

He surged to his feet. "Do you really think I enjoy this situation? I assure you that I do not. You still do not trust me, do you? Otherwise you would have believed me when I said no bargain."

"But surely, now that the Indians are gone, there is no need to keep me with you. That is why I thought you would agree to my bargain."

"You forgot to consider my pride."

She clenched her fists, wanting to slap the arrogant look off his face. "Your pride be damned! Is that all you care about?"

He paced the small room, his long stride carrying him from one end to the other and back in just a few steps. Once again, she was reminded how dangerous he could be. How easily she had forgotten that fact!

He stopped in front of her. "Is your freedom all you care for, without a thought for the consequences? What if you had conceived a child?"

A child. His child.
The thought made Mara’s insides twist into a knot. "A babe would make all of this worthwhile."

His eyes flashed with anger. "And you would have no scruples about keeping my son from me? Understand this, madame, I will sire no bastards, not with you or any other woman."

She bit her lip and fought back the tears that welled in her eyes. "Do not worry, there is no chance of that. I am barren."

He drew in a quick breath. "Mara, you do not know that."

"I was married for five years. I know." She blinked and a tear trickled out of the corner of her eye.

He brushed it away with all the tenderness of a lover, but there was nothing he could do to comfort her.

* * *

Mara was angry, frightened, and humiliated. But underlying all the emotions churning inside her was a deep sense of shame.

Alone again at the trading post, she ripped off the blue silk and threw it on the floor, knowing she could not bear to wear it ever again. It was a symbol of her degradation.

She had taken such pains to look beautiful and desirable. Why not, after all? If one intended to sin, why not do so on a grand scale? The worst of it was that a part of her had wanted him, truly desired him. Oh, dear heaven, she was still shocked by how she had behaved. No better than a cheap wanton.

What a fool she had been, she thought. The laugh that spilled from her throat had a hysterical quality. How had she convinced herself she could beat Jacques at his own game? Had she taken leave of her senses?

But, sure of her power over him, certain of his desire for her, she had ignored his warning.
No bargain,
no promises.
Still, she had persisted, certain that once he had gotten what he wanted, he would be more agreeable. Then he had uttered the harsh word, the only word that could have stopped her.

Whore.

Only one other person had ever called her that. Her grandfather. She had been all of fifteen and in love for the first time. The only time. Dear heaven, what was his name? He’d been a cobbler’s apprentice who attended services at the church. Knowing her grandfather would not approve, she’d still arranged to meet him in the graveyard where they shared one sweet but, she now realized, chaste kiss. And her grandfather had caught them.

After dragging her home, he’d locked her in her room, but not until he had called her every vile name he could think of—scarlet woman, harlot, whore, jezebel.

After a week of bread and water, and frequent doses of verbal abuse, she had broken down and begged for forgiveness. Had her grandfather been right? Was she weak-willed and immoral?

"No," she cried, pounding her fist on the table. "I am not a whore!"

She tried to deny what Corbeau had said, but it was true. She had behaved like a whore, and not a very good one. After all, she had not even been able to seduce a man who had admittedly wanted her for months. A scarlet woman dressed in blue. Well, that would never happen again.

Picking up Emile’s knife, she slashed at the material, stabbing and tearing at it, until strips of silk littered the floor. Tears welled in her eyes, her hands trembled, and sobs choked her throat. Dropping the knife, she threw herself face down on the bed and cried as if her heart might break.

As perhaps it already had.

"I understand you had a visitor last night."

Jacques squinted at the light pouring into his quarters. A miniature drum kept up a staccato beat inside his aching head, and his mouth felt like it was lined with wool. But what could he expect after downing an entire bottle of brandy last night?

"Close the door, Alain," he grumbled. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to be on duty."

He glared at the intruder through bleary eyes. Two Alains stared back at him, wearing identical expressions of disgust. He squinted, and the images wavered and merged into one. The accusing look remained.

"Madame Dupré was here over an hour," Alain observed in a neutral tone of voice. "One cannot help wondering…"

Jacques hoisted himself to a sitting position and groaned. "Nothing happened." That was a lie. A great deal had happened, but none of it was Alain Gauthier’s business.

"Nothing?" Alain spoke quietly, but there was a challenge in his gaze.

Jacques swore under his breath. His friend’s doubts stabbed him in the heart. "I still have some honor left, as I discovered last night."

Alain let out a breath of air. "I did not mean to question…"

"I know exactly what you meant." Jacques rose to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. "Given my reputation, it is no more than I can expect from most. But I did not expect it from you."

To his credit, Alain flushed. "Forgive me, but I cannot stand by and watch a friend destroy his career over a woman."

"Leave it alone, Alain. My career, and my relationship with Madame Dupré, are none of your business."

Alain grimaced and left the room.

Jacques groaned. Now he had alienated his best friend as well as the woman he desired. How much worse could this day get?

He walked to the table, pulled his shaving mirror out of his pouch and peered at it. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair hung lankly around his face, and his shirt was wrinkled beyond redemption. He reeked of sweat and stale liquor. In short, he looked and smelled worse than he felt. He groaned again, and reached for his razor.

At least he had some vestige of honor left, Jacques consoled himself as he shaved.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control to refuse Mara. His pride still stung at the thought that she would prostitute herself just to be free of him.

He winced as the razor cut into his chin. His hand trembled so badly he set the razor on the table and took a deep breath. Was he so unworthy that there was not one soul on earth who could stand him? Not his slut of a mother, who had abandoned him when he was just a small child. Nor the aristocratic father who’d put him in an orphanage until he was old enough to be useful. Certainly not the privileged half-brother who chose to take the word of a scheming bitch instead of his own flesh and blood. And as for the women he’d known, most of them were little better than whores.

Except for Mara.

Jacques cursed under his breath. It could not have been easy for her to come to him and make that kind of offer. And though his intentions had been honorable, he had responded in the cruelest way possible.

She must despise him, but no more than she would have hated him, as well as herself, had he let her seduce him. Without a doubt, he would have despised himself as well. The only consolation he could find in last night’s work was the fact that he had spared them the bitter regrets that would follow in the morning’s light.

Or had he? Was he not already full of regret for everything that had happened since they met? Regret for the nature of her husband’s death, for refusing to bury the man, for frightening and hurting her during their journey.

He would not touch her again, he vowed. And no else would ever know what happened that night. It was their secret. He owed her that much.

* * *

A short time later, Jacques left his quarters, having scraped off his beard and donned his woolen uniform. It was important to keep up appearances for the sake of the men, who were already demoralized by the desertion of the Indians as well as some of the soldiers. And it was no secret that they were greatly outnumbered by the approaching British.

Jacques glanced at the trading post as he walked by, wondering how Mara fared this morning. He was tempted to stop, but decided that she would not want to see him. Perhaps later he would ask Alain to look in on her.

In the early afternoon, the fort was roused from its lethargy by the arrival of a scout. He disappeared into Captain de Ligneris’s office, and a few minutes later, Jacques and the rest of the fort’s officers were summoned to a council of war.

The scout, de Linctot, looked anxious and exhausted. By the fine coating of dust on his clothing, it was obvious that he had run hard and far.

"Gentlemen," the captain said in a booming voice, "the hour of decision is here. De Linctot has just informed me that the British are half a day’s march away."

Jacques exchanged a pointed look with Alain. Decision time, indeed. There was but one choice left to de Ligneris, and all present knew it. Destroy the fort.

Still, the captain insisted on the formalities. "My orders at this post were to do all in my power to harry the enemy, disrupt their communications, and intercept their convoys. I have never failed to do my duty." The older man clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his head for a moment. "But the present circumstances dictate a different course. My orders also state that, on the approach of the English, we are to burn or remove the artillery and all provisions of war. I see no other possible course of action." He sighed heavily and spread his hands. "Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"

"We cannot let the fort fall into the hands of the English," Alain said finally. The rest of the officers nodded in agreement.

"Very well," de Ligneris said in a weary tone. "Gauthier, you and Corbeau are in charge of removing the guns. Have your men load them onto
bateaux
for shipment to Fort Chartres. Then prepare to blow up the fort."

Jacques and Alain nodded in understanding.

De Ligneris turned to his other officers. "See that your men are given eight days rations, and have them ready to march out of here on my orders."

Jacques followed Alain out of the captain’s quarters. There was much to do before nightfall, but first he had to make sure Mara was aware of what was happening.

He caught Alain’s arm to detain him. "I will be with you shortly. Mara will need time to pack."

Alain nodded. "But be quick about it."

* * *

Mara was sitting behind the desk in the trading post, yarn and knitting needles in her hands, when Jacques burst in. Startled, she jumped up. "What is it?"

"The English are half a day away. De Ligneris has just given the order to abandon and destroy the fort."

Mara frowned and forced herself to concentrate. She had not wanted to face him so soon, but was unable to turn away from the urgency in his tone. Could she not be spared the torment of his presence for even one day?

"Some of the men will be coming here to pack up what is left of the trade goods. I advise you to stay out of their way."

Wordlessly, she stared at him, unable to focus or respond.

His voice grew impatient. "Madame, are you listening to me? There is no time to delay. Pack only what you can carry yourself. We’ll be leaving soon. Bring the warmest clothing you can find. It will be cold where we are going."

She dragged herself out of her stupor. "You mean at Fort Machault?"

He shook his head. "I doubt we will be there long. Once the guns are sent down river to the Illinois country, de Ligneris has no need of artillery officers. I suspect that Alain and I will be sent to Niagara, perhaps even to New France. And you will go with me."

At first, her mind refused to register the significance of his words. "New France?" She heard the faint thread of hysteria in her voice and tried to control her response.

"Don’t worry. You will be safe with us."

She forced herself to mask her fear with a deceptive calmness. "What about the ransom? Gideon must know where to find me."

"Any messages from him will be forwarded," Jacques assured her. "Now hurry and pack. I will return when it is time to leave."

Mara followed him to the door and watched him stride across the parade ground toward the ramparts.
New France.
The word kept repeating in her mind until she was reeling with it.
New France.

Dear Lord, how much farther must she travel? New France was far to the north, and winter was fast approaching. She might freeze to death on the journey, and Gideon would never know what happened to her. Would she ever find her way home?

Numb and bewildered, she stood for a long time, her knitting clutched in her hands. All around her, chaos took over the fort. Everywhere she looked, she saw a whirlwind of activity. Officers shouted orders and the men rushed to obey. Some dashed in and out of the barracks, carrying doors, tables, chairs, slats of wood that had been bunks. Roofs were torn from buildings. Stockades that were no longer needed for defense were cut down. Anything that would burn was chopped up and piled against the wooden palisades of the fort.

On the ramparts, groaning, sweating gun crews tied ropes around the cannon and hoisted them off their platforms, then dragged them toward the river. She heard Jacques and Alain urging them on, cursing loudly when a cannon slipped off its gun carriage and fell in the dirt. By the time they were done, the parade ground looked as if it had been ploughed by a madman. Furrowed tracks led every which way, and clumps of mud dotted the ground. All was overlaid with tracks of black powder.

A group of soldiers arrived to pack up the trade goods, and Mara retreated to the living area. There was little for her to do except wait since she had already packed her things, anticipating her freedom. Fool, she berated herself.

She fought against the certainty that she would never see Gideon again. There was a heavy feeling in her chest, like a millstone crushing the last grain of hope inside her. Her throat ached with unshed tears. She felt vacant, spent, all emotions worn away.

The future looked vague and shadowy, even more so than her past ordeals. How much could a person suffer without going mad? With a whimper, she sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the unrelenting torment of the past few months.

Stop it, she ordered herself. The important thing was to survive. Blindly, she reached for her knitting, finding in the homey task a mindless comfort, a sense of normality. It was something to cling to while the world fell apart around her.

* * *

Only three hours later, everything was ready.

Jacques and his men had manhandled the artillery pieces off the ramparts and into the waiting
bateaux.
The small store of trade goods had been packed up and sent to the nearby Indians as an inducement to oppose the English, but Jacques doubted the gesture would have the desired effect.

He surveyed the troops lined up in the parade ground. With a final attempt at ceremony, the
fleur-de-lys
was lowered from the flagpole, and the men marched out.

The deserted fort was an eerie sight. The remnants of roofs, furniture, and firewood, anything that would burn, were stacked against the log palisades of the fort. He and Alain had left about fifty barrels of spoiled gunpowder in the fort’s magazine. It should make for a satisfactory bonfire, a warm welcome for the enemy.

Jacques strode into the trading post and through to the living quarters. Mara sat on the bed, humming to herself, her hands busily plying her needles. He frowned, surprised by her apparent calmness. "It is time."

She nodded, stuffed the knitting into the pouch by her side, and rose, picking up her belongings.

"There is space for you in the first
bateau.
Alain and I will follow in the final boat after we blow up the fort."

Her eyes widened. "Be careful."

He was surprised, yet touched, by her warning. "I am always careful. I will see you when we stop for the night."

She left the room, and he looked around one last time. His gaze fell on a pile of blue material left on the floor by the hearth. The blue silk. He reached for it and came away with a frayed piece. Puzzled, he knelt to examine the material. A chill went through him when he realized the dress had been deliberately slashed to pieces.

When he pressed the cloth to his lips, his nostrils were filled with Mara’s scent. With a rush, he remembered how beautiful she had looked last night, how delicious she had felt in his arms. How cruelly he had pushed her away.

Conflicting emotions surged through him—guilt, longing, regret. His selfishness, his stubbornness, had pushed her to take last night’s desperate gamble. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, just to make her stop before he lost all control.

Perhaps he should have let her stay at the fort and wait for the English. But it was too late to change things now.

Saddened, he stood and stuffed the scrap of cloth into his pocket.

"Mara," he murmured in a choked voice. "What have I done to you?"

* * *

Mara sat in the bateau, facing backwards, staring downstream toward the fort. No one spoke. The only sound was the splashing of the oars in the water.

The last boat pushed away from the landing and headed their way. Suddenly, an explosion rent the air, and clouds of black smoke poured up from the fort.

Dry-eyed and defeated, Mara watched her future be destroyed with it. She was beyond pain, just hanging on to survival, but for what purpose, she did not know. Bereft of hope, she buried her shame and anguish deep in her heart where no one could see it. Pride was all she had left, no matter how false it seemed.

Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
She could almost hear her grandfather’s voice intoning the old proverb. She smiled with sardonic weariness. How ironic that pride alone could survive disaster.

When the fort was no longer in sight, she turned around to face north—and her uncertain future.