Rogue's Hostage (16 page)

While he waited for Ned Barham to explain, Gideon stared at the shoreline. A light breeze wafted over him, and he squinted in the sun. Though a haze hung over the mountains in the distance, the air around the river was clear, giving him a good view of neat little farms with stone houses.

The fleet was anchored off Isle aux Coudres, an island in the St. Lawrence River. The British ships had made good progress down the river and were now only sixty miles from Quebec. What they needed was intelligence, and that meant that someone had to find out what was going on in Quebec. Because French was his native language, Gideon had volunteered his services as a spy. Ned, who was passably fluent in the language in part thanks to Gideon’s coaching, had offered to go with him.

Ned spoke at last. "It should be no problem to steal a boat from one of the locals. Most of them are hiding further inland. What we need now is a cover."

"I may have a solution to that," Gideon said. He had hesitated to suggest it because he had an ulterior motive, but Ned was familiar with Mara’s story and might agree to the notion. "I could pretend to be a farmer looking for a runaway wife, or servant. It is an old story, a young woman who runs off with a soldier."

Ned looked at him with raised eyebrows. "This runaway wouldn’t happen to look like your sister, would she?"

Gideon grinned. "Of course. It seems like a plausible cover, and if I happen to find Mara, no one will think it odd when she leaves with us."

Ned pinned him with a glare. "It just might work, but only if you remember that our primary purpose is to gather information."

Gideon stiffened. How dare the young pup question his commitment to duty? "I give you my word that I will not let my search for Mara interfere with our mission. Duty must come first, of course."

Ned had the good grace to blush. "I meant no disrespect, sir, but this is a chancy enterprise. Spies are generally hanged, I believe."

"So they are," Gideon murmured. He tugged at his stock, suddenly feeling constricted. What an irony that would be, he thought, if he were to share his father’s fate. But he could not let fear stop him. He was uniquely qualified for the role of spy, and he had vowed to play his part in the defeat of the French. Not only would he do his duty, but he would risk death to find his sister. And if he had the chance to kill that bastard Corbeau, so much the better.

He turned to Ned. "Let’s do it."

* * *

Jacques watched as Mara held a mug of steaming coffee under her nose and inhaled the aroma before taking a sip. He had returned the day before with a bag full of treasures—sugar, chocolate, and coffee beans newly arrived from France.

Her delight in the unexpected luxuries had pleased him. Upon waking, she had set to work, enthusiastically grinding the beans. Jacques chuckled. "Am I correct in assuming that my wine cellar is now safe from your depredations?"

She smiled. "Only as long as you keep me supplied with coffee and chocolate."

"If only I had known you were so easy to please."

"Easy? Such luxuries are rare on the frontier."

"And expensive." He had enjoyed his usual run of good luck at the gaming tables and had taken his winnings in goods rather than coin. It was no secret in Quebec that most of the choice goods ended up on the black market, and therefore under Bigot’s control. The level of corruption in New France was impressive, even by Parisian standards, and Jacques had long ago concluded that the most expedient thing to do was to make the system work for oneself whenever possible.

He took a sip of the strong brew, then remarked casually, "I made an appointment for you this morning with a dressmaker."

She frowned. "Surely that is unnecessary."

"Are you saying that you do not wish to have a new gown?"

"Of course I do, but I am capable of sewing my own clothing."

"But as long as you are head cook, your time is limited. Besides, Bigot has invited us to dine with him at his Palace when Etienne returns from Montreal. For that you will need a more elaborate gown than I suspect you are accustomed to making."

Her eyes grew wide. "I do not know if I ever want to go there again. It is very irresponsible of him to be so extravagant when the
habitants
are starving."

Jacques sighed. "Bigot never lets that stop him. The man is completely without principles, but he is a power in the colony. In any case, I wish for you to become better acquainted with Etienne, not the
Intendant."

"Yes, but your brother could come here, could he not?"

Jacques sighed. "I suppose, though he hates the idea of my running a tavern. And I rather thought you would enjoy an evening of dancing."

She frowned. "I did enjoy dancing with Alain, but…Grandfather would not approve."

Her words took Jacques by surprise. Poor little Puritan. Apparently there was very little that her grandfather had approved of. He smiled indulgently. "But I did not have the pleasure of dancing with you."

"We shall see," was her reply.

* * *

Arm in arm, they strolled the short distance to the dressmaker’s shop. Madame Delphine was a sharp-faced little woman who quickly spirited Mara away for measurements. While he waited for the women, he examined various bolts of cloth and the fashion dolls on display. In his pocket, he carried the scrap of blue silk he had salvaged from the shreds of Mara’s gown in hopes of matching the color.

In Madame Delphine’s back room, Mara, stripped to her chemise, endured the dressmaker’s prodding and prying with as much good grace as she could manage.

"Your young man is so handsome," she cooed, a sly smile on her face.

Mara murmured an agreement, but paid little attention to the woman’s chatter. It was obvious that Madame Delphine thought her nothing more than a courtesan. And why not? She was behaving as one.

The guilt she had successfully repressed began to gnaw at her. Up until now, she had convinced herself that her reasons for going to him had been unselfish because he had needed her. But she had made little protest when he offered to buy her a fancy gown…a harlot’s gown. Thank heavens her grandparents were not alive to see how low she had fallen.

She wished with all her heart that she could say it was love that drew her to him, but she forced herself to be honest. She had gone to him once out of desperation. Was their joining now a matter of loneliness coupled with need? Or worse, nothing more than physical attraction magnified by forced proximity?

And yet, she could not banish her feelings for Jacques, nor would she regret the time she had spent in his arms. Though their joining violated all rules of morality, being with him somehow felt right.

So she held her head up proudly and looked Madame Delphine in the eye. The other woman blinked, then turned away.

"You may dress now, Madame Dupré, then I will design a beautiful gown for you, no?"

Head held high, Mara followed her back to the front of the shop.

When Jacques saw her, his welcoming smile warmed her to the core. Madame Delphine was right about one thing, Mara thought. He was handsome, even resplendent, in his uniform, with his black felt hat tucked under one arm. His raven hair was pulled back in a queue, highlighting the lean face, aristocratic nose and angular jaw.

With an effort, Mara forced her attention to Madame Delphine who was pointing to various styles of dress. She picked up a fashion doll clothed in an elaborate fitted gown of cream silk embroidered with gold thread.

"Madame has such a tiny waist," she crooned. "This style would be lovely on her."

"Yes, it would," Jacques agreed.

"I do not require anything quite so elaborate. The gold embroidery is not necessary. Perhaps this would do," Mara suggested, lightly touching a bolt of rose silk.

"As you wish," Jacques agreed. "But, I hoped we might try to match this." He reached into his pocket and drew out a scrap of cloth.

For a long moment Mara stared at the remnant of her blue silk dress. The one she had destroyed on that last awful night at Fort Duquesne. "Where did you get that?" She forced the words out through the rising bile in her throat.

He turned to smile at her, seemingly pleased with himself. "I found it in the trading post and saved it. The color looked so lovely on you, I thought—"

"No!" she cried in a hoarse voice. Tears welled in her eyes. Feelings she had denied for so long rushed to the surface—guilt, shame, humiliation.

"Madame Delphine, if you would allow us to speak privately?" Jacques asked. When the woman left the room, he took Mara’s hand in his. "What is wrong,
mon coeur?
What have I done to upset you?"

She shook her head sadly. "If you have to ask, you do not understand me at all." Then she turned and dashed to the door of the shop.

"Mara, wait!" Jacques called, but she paid him no heed. How could she face him now?

Mara ran through the streets of Lower Town as if the devil himself were after her. When she almost collided with an old woman, she stopped and looked around her. Where could she go? Not back to the tavern. He would be looking for her there.

She began to wander up one street and down the next. Tears ran down her cheeks but were quickly dried by the gentle spring breeze. The warm sunlight failed to dispel the chill inside.

Above the roofs of the buildings, she glimpsed a church spire silhouetted against the bright blue sky. It drew her like a beacon until she stood on the steps of
Notre Dame des Victoires,
the little church whose name celebrated two French victories over the English. Small, but pretty, it was solidly built of stone, with a round stained glass window perched above the high wooden doors.

She hesitated, not sure she should go in. She had never been inside a Roman Catholic church, but there were no other houses of worship in Quebec, and she was badly in need of solace.

After a few moments, she opened the door and peeked in. It was quiet inside, her footsteps the only sound on the wooden floor. The nave was long and narrow in the Gothic style, the ceiling high and pointed.

She sat by the aisle in a back pew, folded her hands, and closed her eyes. It had been months since she had prayed, even longer since she had been inside a church.

She tried to pray, but too many questions filled her mind, questions that had no answers.
Why? Why did Emile have to die? Why was I spared? Why was I brought here? What is it I am supposed to do?

If it were all a test, she had surely failed. She had let herself be seduced. No, her conscience derided her.
You cannot blame him for what happened. You went to him of your own free will. There is no one else to blame.

Was it such a terrible sin?

Jacques would point out that since neither of them was married, in truth, they had broken no commandments. But did that excuse their behavior?

Gideon would not think so. Of course, his hatred for the French clouded his judgment. No, he’d never understand. In his eyes she would not only be a whore, but a traitor. But whom had she betrayed? The memory of her father, of Emile? Nothing she did now would bring either of them back, and she could not make herself hate Jacques for their sake.

She should end the affair now, but doubted she had the strength to do so. She clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms.

If only things were different. If only she and Jacques were not fated to be enemies.

But I say unto you, love your enemies…

The quote echoed in her mind, and she frowned, trying to remember the source. It had not been one of her grandfather’s favorites. New Testament, she thought. Of course, Matthew, the Sermon on the Mount.

Love your enemies…
The thought comforted her, though in truth she no longer thought of Jacques as an enemy but a man. A good, kind man whom she had come to care for deeply. She knew the quote did not refer to physical desire, but was that not a part of love? And what she felt for Jacques was much more than just desire.

If that was a sin, then it was one she’d gladly pay for. But she would not act the whore for him in public, not if she wanted to keep her self-respect. There would be no ball gowns, no dancing at the
Intendant’s
palace. Whatever happened between them was private, and she intended to keep it that way.

It was not a compromise her grandparents would approve of, she thought with a sigh, but it was the best she could do at the moment. Her conscience eased, she stood up to leave. On the way out, she dropped two of her precious coins in the poor box. Though she had been unable to pray, the hushed quiet of the church had calmed and soothed her.

It was dark when she returned to the inn. Jacques, who was waiting in the taproom, jumped up the moment she entered. "Mara, are you all right?"

"I needed time to think," she said as she darted a glance around the crowded room. "May we speak privately?"

"Of course." He led her to the parlor where they had first made love. How appropriate, she thought sardonically.

Inside, he took both of her hands in his. "Forgive me,
mon coeur.
My intentions were good, but…"

She smiled at him. "Let us say no more about it. But there will be no ball gown."

"I have already explained that to Madame Delphine," he said quickly. Then a sheepish look skittered across his face. "She was so disappointed that I ordered two dresses for you."

She opened her mouth to protest.

"Work dresses," he said quickly. "After all, I cannot have my cook wearing rags."

She did not ask if he paid for the clothing worn by the other workers, afraid she might not like the answer. "Very well."

"Then you are no longer angry with me?"

She touched his cheek lightly. "I was never angry, just hurt and ashamed."

Jacques leaned his face into her hand and kissed her palm. How could he convince his little Puritan that she had done nothing wrong? "You must not feel that way. There is nothing shameful in the way we feel about each other."

She drew her hand away. "I know, but it is our business and no one else’s. I will not be paraded about in public like a scarlet woman. If you must go to Bigot’s palace to gamble, you will have to do so alone. Are we agreed?"

"As usual, madame, you strike a hard bargain." He sighed. "I will ask Etienne to come here to dine instead. And I was so looking forward to showing you off in front of my brother and the other officers."

"The bastard’s lady?" she asked with a quirk of her brow.

"Something like that."

There was another choice, he thought. She could become the bastard’s bride, but he knew it was too soon to propose. He’d come close to losing her today, and he dared not suggest anything that might chase her away.

Not until he was sure that he possessed her heart, not just her body.

* * *

Jacques laid down his cards and gathered up the pile of coins in the middle of the table. Over the last week, he had made several trips to the
Intendant’s
palace to gamble, always careful to keep his winnings at a modest level. There was no point in attracting Bigot’s attention.

"What is this, Corbeau? You cannot leave now," one of the other players protested. "Give us a chance to win back some of that!"

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I just saw my brother come in, and I must speak to him." Ignoring their grumbling, he strolled across the crowded room toward Etienne.

"What news, brother?"

Etienne turned to greet him. "Jacques, I was hoping to find you here. It looks like the campaign is about to begin. General Montcalm has arrived from Montreal. He has closeted himself with Bigot to see what has been accomplished while he was gone."

Jacques snorted. "I doubt anything has been done. Bigot is a disgrace."

"I was afraid of that," Etienne said with a sigh. "Come, walk with me back to Headquarters."

Jacques followed his brother out of Bigot’s pleasure palace into brilliant sunshine. They crossed under the stone arch of the
Porte de Palais
and climbed to the ramparts where they stopped to gaze toward the east. The wide river was bordered on both sides by cliffs sporting a fresh covering of spring green. This was the route the English had to take, but for now all was peaceful, just the clear waters of the St. Lawrence flowing toward the Atlantic.

Jacques adjusted his hat to shield his eyes from the glare and took in a deep breath of warm air. May was a month for love, not war, he thought rebelliously, then felt ashamed. War was his business, after all. It was what he was good at.

Abruptly he turned to face his brother. "What can I do?"

"Montcalm wants to put a battery in Lower Town. I am sure your experience would be much appreciated."

"Of course," Jacques replied, relieved to be stationed near the tavern. He could not have wished for a better assignment, and he knew it was Etienne’s doing. In his position, he would never have dared ask for such a favor. "Then there is no question the English are on their way?"

"None." Etienne turned and began walking again.

"They have tried twice before," Jacques said, quickening his pace to keep up with his brother. "Both times they failed to navigate the channel in the river."

"We cannot count on that," Etienne said. "The British navy is a formidable foe. We must be prepared for them."

They soon arrived at Montcalm’s headquarters, a three-story wooden home situated near the ramparts and in close proximity to the barracks. Though modest in appearance, it was an attractive dwelling, with gabled windows in the steep roof, though hardly appropriate for a lieutenant general, let alone a marquis. But then, Montcalm had never been truly welcomed in Canada, Jacques mused, especially by the governor general.

Before entering, Etienne clapped him on the shoulder. "I will have your orders drawn up and delivered to the tavern."

Jacques nodded. "By the way, I was hoping you could dine with us soon. At the tavern. I still want you and Mara to get acquainted."

"It may be awhile until I can get free," Etienne warned. "How is your lovely widow? Dare I hope that you took my advice?"

Jacques sighed. "No, I have not proposed. I do not know what to say."

Etienne shrugged. "You pledge your undying love. That is usually what they want to hear."

"But Mara is not like other women; she is practical."

"No woman is that practical," Etienne said with a grin. "Tell her you love her. You do, don’t you?"

Jacques rubbed a hand over his chin. "I am not a good judge of such things. I thought I was in love once before…"

"Yvette." Etienne sighed. "You must not judge all women by her, though I understand how you feel. It is not easy to trust again, eh?"

"No, it is not," Jacques said softly. He knew that Mara was worth a hundred of Yvette, but did that mean he loved her? There was no question that he desired her, needed her, but…

"I cannot lie to her," he said. "I have too much respect for her to do that."

"Then bide your time," Etienne advised. "When you are sure, ask her. And for God’s sake, don’t forget to tell her how you feel."

For a few moments Jacques stared after his brother, pondering these latest words of advice. He continued to brood over them as he walked back to the tavern.

Tell her how you feel.
But, how did he feel? He felt guilty for making Mara his mistress. She was a virtuous woman and should be treated as such. Yet, the truth was that he was afraid to propose.

Afraid she would say no.

* * *

Gideon shuffled along the Quebec waterfront, confident of his ability to blend in with the sailors and townspeople. Instead of his usual bright scarlet uniform, he was garbed in a rough linen shirt, brown woolen vest and loose trousers. His yellow bag hose were fastened with woven red and blue garters that matched the sash around his waist. He wore wooden
sabots
that protected his feet from the mud of the street.

By God, he had a talent for the spy business, he thought. His own sister would not recognize him.

He still had hopes of finding Mara, though he had kept his word to Ned that he would take care of the Crown’s business first. The first day in Quebec, he and Ned had scouted the French positions as best they could from a distance, noting that the army had been working feverishly since news of the British fleet had reached town.

In the evenings, they loitered in taverns, listening to drunken conversations. They learned that the French had begun digging entrenchments to the east, that the regular troops who wintered in Montreal were now encamped around the farmhouse Montcalm had chosen for his siege headquarters, and that seven or eight vessels were being converted to fire ships to give the British an especially warm welcome.

When no one had given the rustic looking "farmers" a second glance, Gideon had grown bolder and begun asking questions, all in the guise of looking for a wayward wife.

Ned warned him to be more careful, with vivid descriptions of a hanging he’d once attended back in England. But too exhilarated by their success, Gideon ignored him.

Now, he and Ned had accomplished most of their mission. They planned to leave at dawn, which left only a few hours of daylight for Ned to make a reconnaissance into Upper Town and to allow Gideon a final attempt to find Mara.

The last tavern he’d visited had finally turned up a lead. Once again he had played the part of betrayed husband, claiming that his pretty young wife had run off with a soldier by the name of Corbeau. The innkeeper had scoffed at him, saying that the only one he knew by that name was an officer, and not likely to be interested in the wife of a peasant. Besides, he had recently returned from Fort Duquesne and could not possibly be the right man. Gideon had insisted on checking for himself, and learned that Corbeau was part owner of a tavern called
Le Diable.

Gideon found it easily enough and made his way in. This time he sat and observed for a while. As taverns went, it was not too bad, he acknowledged grudgingly. At least the serving maids offered nothing beyond food and drink. Still, it was no place for a respectable woman like Mara.

When a sailor sat down at the table across from him, Gideon opened up a conversation. "Good stew," he remarked.

The older man agreed. "Best food in Lower Town. Corbeau found himself a good cook."

"He did, indeed. Is Corbeau here by the way?" Gideon asked casually.

The sailor waved his spoon to point to a table across the room. "The tall one," he mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Gideon studied his nemesis. Garbed in a blue and red uniform, darkly handsome, and, in Gideon’s opinion, arrogant looking, Corbeau reminded him of a peacock. "The devil," he muttered.

The sailor looked at him quizzically. "Eh?"

"I bet he’s a devil with the ladies."

The sailor grinned. "Not any more. Not since he came back from the wilderness with his new ‘cook.’"