Rogue's Hostage (18 page)

Jacques drew her into his arms and held her tightly. "Marry me," he urged her. "I will take good care of you, I promise."

She burrowed into his warmth, needing his strength, his safety. He was as big and strong as an oak, and she knew he would shelter her from whatever storm was to come. But she could not continue to cower from life, always afraid, ever fearful. Slowly she backed out of his embrace.

"I do not want a widow’s pension."

Jacques drew in a deep breath. She was going to say no. His instincts had told him to go slowly, but he was so afraid of losing her, he had just blurted it out without thinking. Well, there was no going back now.

"But marriage is the most logical thing to do. You are always sensible, are you not?"

"Perhaps I do not wish to be sensible. I married once out of necessity. I have no wish to do so again."

Necessity.
Did that mean what he thought it did? "But Emile, was that not a love match?"

"No." She smiled sadly and, with a shaky hand, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Sit down." He guided her to a chair and hunkered down before her. "Tell me about Emile."

"He was more Gideon’s friend than mine," she began. "When Grandfather died, I had nowhere to go. Since the house we lived in was owned by the church, I had to leave when the new minister and his family arrived. Gideon was off somewhere, fighting, and we had no close relatives. So when Emile offered to marry me, I accepted."

"But you came to love each other, did you not?"

"We were fond of each other," she said, "but I did not wish to immigrate to America. Toward the end, we did nothing but argue. I was a disappointment to him."

Jacques took her cold hands in his. "I find that hard to believe."

"It is true," she insisted. "I am barren." Her fingers tightened around his. "Jacques, you must marry a woman who can give you children. Not me."

"That is not important."

Her expression grew pensive as she looked away. "It was to Emile. I wanted to give him a child, but I was never able to conceive. I still feel guilty about that. And other things."

He let go of her hands to turn her face toward his. "He still stands between us, does he not? Yet you say you did not love him."

"He was a good man, and deserved a better fate."

"We cannot change the past," he pointed out gently. Would the shade of her dead husband always come between them? And could she ever forgive
him
for not burying the man? If only he could wipe out her memory of that fateful day. "You are young and have your whole life ahead of you."

"Jacques, I found out later that Gideon had asked Emile to look after me. He only married me out of obligation. Now you have proposed for the same reasons."

"It is not the same at all."

"Yes, it is," she insisted stubbornly. "You have already said that you feel responsible for me. Believe me when I say that is no basis for a marriage."

"There is one difference," he pointed out. "You cannot deny the passion we feel for each other."

She hesitated and a blush crept up her face. "I should not tell you this, but no man has ever made me feel as you have."

Desire surged through Jacques at her confession. Heart pounding, he struggled to tame the urge to take her now, on the floor. Instead he stood and held out a hand to her. "Come to bed,
chérie.
Let me show you just how good you can feel."

He held his breath until she took his hand and let him guide her to the bed, relieved that she had not rejected him, just his proposal. He was not ready to concede defeat, though he knew it was not the time to push her. All he need do was try a different type of persuasion. Perhaps his touch could sway her where his words could not.

He undressed her slowly, kissing and caressing every inch of skin that was laid bare until she stood in front of him naked and trembling. Gently he laid her down on the bed, her pale body warm and welcoming in the fading light. His weariness was gone, replaced by an excitement only she could ignite in him.

Mara watched through lowered lids as he tore his robe off. The sight of his strong, aroused body made her heart beat more rapidly. It was wrong to want him so, and she would pay for it one day. But for now, all she wanted was to lose herself in the heat of their passion.

Lying beside her, he teased her with his hands and mouth, searching out all her secret, sensitive places—the side of her neck, the tender skin on the inside of her arms, the tips of her breasts, and the most private spot of all. When his finger entered her, she gasped at the intimacy of his touch.

A flash of triumph flitted across his face before he lowered his head towards hers, his breath softly fanning her cheek. When she murmured his name, he responded with a kiss that was wet and deep and thorough.

She opened her mouth with a small whimper, knowing that she would never want another man as she did him. She clung to him, glorying in the familiar touch and scent of this man who had awakened her senses as no other had done.

Need turned into a white-hot passion. With clever hands and lips, he stoked the fire within her. Instinctively she arched toward him, seeking release for the urgent ache building between her thighs. He parted her bent legs and knelt between them, his fingertips skimming over the sensitive skin inside her knees.

A slow warmth spread through her limbs, and she shifted on the bed. "Now, Jacques, I want you now."

With a muffled groan, Jacques did as she bade him. Using all the skill at his command, he brought her to the brink of fulfillment, determined to brand her as his. With each deepening thrust, he forged a new bond between them until a furnace of passion raged. Her legs suddenly tightened around him and she called his name. His arousal was beyond control. Blood pounded in his head, clouding his brain, and he climaxed inside her.

Shaken to the core by the explosiveness of their lovemaking, he held her next to him, snug against his side, one arm over his chest.

It was where she belonged, he thought. Almost reverently, he pressed his lips to her head, the soft silk of her hair caressing his face, his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of their lovemaking. She smiled in her sleep, content for the moment, her body satiated, her heart no doubt as full of tenderness as his was. But for how long?

Tonight, he held her precious soul in his keeping. But as long as her brother was nearby, there was no guarantee she’d stay. Not unless she were irrevocably his. Not unless they were married.

He had to find a way to change her mind about that.

Point Levis,
July 1759

Gideon paced back and forth behind the British batteries lobbing a last round of shot and shell across the St. Lawrence and into Quebec. He stopped and stared at their target, one hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare of the rising sun reflected off the river. With the boom of each cannon, one thought pounded in his brain.

He had to get Mara out of the city.

Since the placement of the battery on the south side of the river, he had watched with mixed feelings as the big guns pounded Quebec every night.

A gunnery sergeant bawled, "Cease fire!"

Ears still ringing in the sudden silence, Gideon lifted his telescope to inspect the damage that had been wrought. Every morning he walked out to the battery to look and to pray that Mara was still safe.

Though their main target was supposed to be the defenses of Upper Town, no effort had been made to spare the docks and warehouses of Lower Town. Gideon trained his spyglass on that area, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tavern, but the distance was too great for detail.

Why did the French not fire back? Why did Montcalm allow the destruction of the Canadian capital? Perhaps they were short of powder. It was hard to believe that even the French could be so negligent.

Gideon cursed under his breath. If only he had been more insistent that she leave, even if that meant throwing her over his shoulder and forcibly carrying her to the boat.

He still had one card up his sleeve, however. It was time to send the ransom note.

With that decision made, he walked back to his tent. Despite his woolen uniform, he shivered in the cool air blowing off the river. Back in Pennsylvania, his colleagues were probably sweating in the heat, but so far, and despite the long hours of daylight, the Canadian summer barely deserved the name.

Inside, he got out his writing desk and penned a short note reminding that bastard Corbeau of the ransom demand made the previous fall, and offering to pay the amount immediately. He sanded and folded the paper, then set it aside to send with the next prisoner exchange.

Because of his fluent French, Gideon had been assigned to the staff of General Monckton. His duties included acting as an interpreter, which meant questioning the prisoners brought in by the British patrols. Since the shelling began, there had been a steady stream of Canadians fleeing the city, only to end up in British hands. It was a job that had given him a glimpse of hell on earth.

He rested his head in his hands, thinking of the horror stories he’d heard about the devastation of the town, the lack of provisions, the terror of a civilian population under siege, never forgetting that his sister shared their fate. Because of that, he had begun to see them as people, not enemies, even though they were French.

At that realization, he wearily rubbed a hand over his face. For the first time in his career, he could not find pride in his choice of profession. Perhaps he was getting too old for the game. He thought back to the day he had donned his first uniform. How puffed up with pride he had been, thinking himself a fine fellow in his shiny buttons and gold braid, his head full of dreams of glory.

Gideon snorted at the memory. He was older and wiser now, having turned thirty last November. And one thing he had learned was that there was no glory in war, just death and destruction, and that civilians always paid the price.

When would it end? Would he see Mara again, or would she be one of the victims of this bloody, misbegotten conflict?

Reaching into his trunk, he pulled out his pack of cards. It had been a long while since he’d used them, not since last fall when they had warned him about the demolition of Fort Duquesne, not to mention his sister’s love for her captor. At the time he had refused to acknowledge that possibility, but after seeing them together, he knew the cards had not lied about that.

Gideon was not sure he wanted to know what the future held, but he was desperate enough to look for hope anywhere he could find it.

As he shuffled the deck, he concentrated on Mara. When will I see her again? he asked silently. Deliberately, he laid out the cards in the prescribed pattern, and began turning them over to see what he had drawn.

Some of the same cards reappeared, indicating further separation and danger. No surprises there. Nor was he surprised to see the Lovers. His mouth twisted into a sneer.
One day, Corbeau. One day you and I will have a reckoning. And then I will have my revenge.

The Lightning-struck Tower was repeated, making him wonder if its presence in the original reading had foreshadowed the bombardment of Quebec. Lord knew the British guns were doing a creditable job of that. Though he understood the military strategy involved, he could find no joy in the ruin of the charming little city.

He had not expected a cheerful reading, but the last four cards chilled his heart.

A skeleton with a scythe walked over the bodies of the dead. The Grim Reaper was followed by the Wheel of Fortune, relentlessly turning, never stopping until fate played out its hand.

The Hanged Man came next, dangling upside down by one foot from a scaffold, hands tied behind his back. Gideon traced the figure with one finger. Did it represent him? His inability to help his own sister galled him. There must be something he could do.

Judgment was last. Gideon stared at the figures on the card, climbing out of the grave to greet a winged angel and meaning…what? Resurrection of the dead? Victory of the spirit?

Gideon rubbed his eyes and reminded himself that the presence of Death and Judgment in the cards should not always be taken literally. But in this combination, the message was clear. Loss, destiny, sacrifice, atonement.

Good Lord, no matter how he looked at it, the picture was grim. If the cards were right, he might never see his sister alive again.

With a loud oath, Gideon rose to his feet, knocking over the table and scattering the cards on the floor. Leaving them, he rushed outside and sucked in a breath of cool air to clear his head. It might not be too late, he told himself. Perhaps it was only a warning, merely a possibility.

It might not be his destiny to save her, but by God, he had to try. It was time to find out how much Corbeau valued his captive.

* * *

Jacques picked his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Lower Town. The sun was ready to set, which meant the British shelling could start at any moment. He had left his battery in the capable hands of Victor Charvat, not that there was much that could be done.

Jacques clenched his fists in frustration. If only he could pay the English back, shot for shot. But powder was in short supply, another lack that could no doubt be laid at the feet of
Intendant
Bigot.

And now this. A note from Gideon Harcourt had been delivered earlier by one of Etienne’s messengers. Jacques had forgotten about the ransom demand of the previous fall, but Harcourt obviously had not, for he was now offering to pay it.

His jaw clenched. Whether he liked it or not, and he didn’t, it was time to let her go. That was the only way to ensure her survival, for there was no safe spot left in Quebec.

The tavern had escaped damage so far, but it was only a matter of time until it, too, caught a shell, or was set on fire by a wayward spark. On his advice, Mara had moved her things to the ground floor kitchen, even sleeping on a pallet before the hearth. Now he entered by that door, stopping as a welcoming smile lit up her face. She ran into his arms, and he buried his face in her hair. She smelled of herbs and flour, the sweet scents of everyday life.

Dear Lord, he thought, letting her go would be like tearing out his heart. It was what he must do, but first he had to be sure of one thing.

"Mara," he said, drawing back to look at her. "Is there any chance you could be with child?"

She pulled away, a remote look on her face, her hand automatically touching her abdomen. "I told you it was impossible," she whispered. "Why on earth must you remind me?"

He sighed with regret. A babe would bind them as nothing else could, but it was not to be. He pulled Gideon Harcourt’s note from his pocket. "Your brother sent this, offering to pay ransom for you. I told Etienne to arrange an exchange."

The color drained from her face, and she caught the back of a chair for support. "Exchange? You are trading me for money?"

He winced. "I do not care about the ransom, but I am interested in getting you out of Quebec. You will be safer in the British camp with your brother."

The expression on her face was filled with reproach. "You said one day I would have to choose between you and Gideon, but you are not giving me a choice, are you? You have already made the decision."

He moved toward her. "Mara, please understand. Your safety is more important to me than anything in the world. Especially if there is any chance you could be carrying my…our child."

"And if I were, would that make any difference in what you do?"

"Yes. In that event I would insist we be married before you left."

She waved her hand in an abrupt gesture. "I have said I am barren. Please, let us not speak of this again."

"Mara," he murmured, drawing her stiff body into his arms. "I promised to take care of you, but the situation here is untenable. As much as it pains me to admit it, only Gideon can keep you safe now. There is no point in both of us losing our lives."

She looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. "Do not even think it."

He smoothed a wisp of hair off her cheek. "I must. I am a soldier, after all. But know this, when the war ends, if I survive, I will find you. That is a promise."

* * *

After Jacques left, Mara paced the kitchen, her mind in turmoil.

Though she had known that sooner or later they would have to part, she had not expected the prospect to be so wrenching. The future stretched out before her, dim and bleak, and above all, lonely.

A screaming sound overhead told her the shelling had resumed. She closed her eyes and clapped her hands over her ears, not sure how much longer she could bear the constant noise, the ever-present fears. Was the din as overwhelming in the British camp?

The British camp. Gideon. They had quarreled when she’d refused to leave Quebec with him. Since he’d offered to pay the ransom, he must have forgiven her. A weight lifted from her shoulders at that realization. She should be overjoyed at the thought of being reunited with her brother—and she was, truly, but…

But Jacques.

Had someone told her last fall that she would grieve at parting from her captor, she would have laughed aloud. Yet, slowly, inexorably, her feelings for him had changed, and deepened, until life without him seemed unthinkable.

It had started at the cave, she decided, when he had promised to find her respectable work at the fort. Of course, it was Brother Denys who had actually done that, but Corbeau’s intentions had been good. She smiled ruefully, wondering whom she was trying to fool. He had wanted her almost from the first. Until recently, his intentions had been anything but honorable, and she had refused to even consider marriage.

Fool, she berated herself. Now it was too late. She gave no weight to his promise to find her after the fighting ended. Such promises were easily made and easily forgotten. No, if she wanted to bind him to her, she’d have to marry him.

She stopped pacing to consider the matter, staring blankly at the kitchen sideboard. All she need do was tell him she might be with child. What was one little lie added to the list of her sins?

"Shame on you," she said out loud to her reflection in a gleaming copper plate. Jacques was an honorable man who deserved nothing less than complete honesty from her. She had already deceived him once, on the day Gideon had come to town. How angry he had been when he thought she had run off with another man. If she did not know better, she might think he truly loved her.

At that she smiled. Jacques had spoken often of the passion they shared, but never had he used the word love. Oh, he called her
mon coeur,
but such words tripped lightly off his silver tongue, and she refused to take the endearments seriously.

Another shell shrieked overhead, followed by a loud explosion. She screamed as the floor lurched, knocking her off balance. She stumbled backwards and fell, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs.

Looking up, she saw the sideboard swaying above her. She froze. Plates and tankards flew at her, striking her about the head and shoulders. She blacked out just as the sideboard came crashing down on her.

* * *

When Mara awoke, she was lying on her back in the kitchen. She stifled a groan at the ache in her head and left shoulder. When she moved her arm, a sharp pain radiated down to the wrist. She tried moving her legs, but they were pinned under the heavy, wooden sideboard.

Trapped. Fear bubbled from her gut, and her breathing quickened. Closing her eyes, she took a slow deep breath and tried to calm herself. There was nothing she could do but wait for someone to pull her out of the wreckage. She tried to quell a second wave of panic at the thought of how long that might be.

Rest, she told herself, closing her eyes.
Jacques will come and everything will be all right.
It was not as if she were hurt badly, just some aches and pains.

But that was not all. Dimly, she became aware of an acrid smell and opened her eyes to see tendrils of smoke seeping around the door to the hallway.

At that, terror exploded. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she screamed for help. No one came. She screamed while the room filled with smoke. She screamed until her throat was raw and her eyes streamed with tears, then fell back on the floor, her breathing shallow and painful.

"Oh, Jacques," she whispered. "Now I’ll never know if you love me."

Sheer black fright swept through her. She was going to die here, she thought, alone in the kitchen of a tavern, in a French city. She would never see Jacques again, and he would spend the rest of his life blaming himself for her death. If only there were some way to let him know she did not blame him. Tell him she loved him.