Rogue's Hostage (2 page)

Emile lifted his weapon to his shoulder and pointed it. "Run, Mara," he cried. "Save yourself."

She swung to her left and saw an armed Indian appear from out of the forest. She looked frantically behind her and saw another. There was no escape.

Death had come for them.

Emile’s musket wavered as he caught sight of the two Indians. The first man stepped closer until he stood less than ten feet from them. His face was long and narrow, with a prominent nose and heavy black brows. He was shirtless, his chest covered with black hair. That and his whiskered jaw told her he was French, not Indian.

"Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot," Emile warned.

The stranger paid no heed to Emile’s threat. His implacable gaze flashed from Mara to Emile. "Put the gun down, monsieur," he said in perfect French. "I only wish to talk to you."

Emile glanced at Mara out of the corner of his eye. Then, a determined look hardened his features and he pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the clearing.

A scream caught in Mara’s throat. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Through the gray smoke she saw the intruder, down on one knee, clutching his right shoulder as blood oozed between his fingers. Two more shots rang out, echoing in her ears like thunder.

Emile’s body crumpled. He hit the ground, his weapon falling beside him. She ran to his side and gathered him in her arms. Blood gushed from his chest and trickled from his mouth.

"Please, God," she sobbed. "Don’t let him die."

Emile opened his mouth but only a strangled moan issued from between his lips. One last ragged breath racked his body, his eyes rolled upward, and he went limp in her embrace.

Mara rocked back and forth, Emile’s body still cradled in her arms. She couldn’t let him go. Once she did, her past was over, and only an uncertain future lay ahead.

Suddenly someone grasped her braid and jerked her head back. She looked up into a grinning, painted face and gasped. Oh Lord, would the Indians kill her, too? Emile was dead, and she was alone. Helpless at the mercy of these savages. Her heart pounded so hard it nearly burst from her chest.

"No!" A voice of command rang out, and another figure stepped into view. It was the white man, blood streaming down his arm. "Let her go, Crazy Badger. She is our prisoner."

Her breath caught as the Indian held a knife to her throat.

"Bah!" The other man spat. "My brother is too softhearted."

Slowly but firmly, the white man said, "Let the woman go."

The older Indian spoke for the first time. "Perhaps our brother wants the woman for himself," he said, a sly expression on his face.

Mara’s gaze flew to the white man. Dear Lord, what was going to happen to her? Would a swift death be more merciful after all?

"Surely Raven does not desire a woman with pale skin and hair," Crazy Badger said.

"The woman must not be harmed. The British major may have told her something of importance."

The British major. Gideon.
A shudder passed through Mara at the realization these savages had been watching them.

The two men glared at each other. For a tense moment each tested the other’s resolve.

"The commander will pay as much for captives as for scalps," the white man said.

Listen to him, please,
Mara begged silently.

Crazy Badger tightened his grip, almost ripping her hair out by the roots. "Captives are too much trouble," he replied. "Scalps do not have to be fed."

Bile rose in Mara’s throat and she swallowed convulsively. God help me, she prayed. But when had God ever listened to her pleas? A harsh laugh broke from her throat.

Abruptly Crazy Badger let go of her braid. Mara slumped to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. Her life had been spared, but to what purpose? She’d heard tales of how the Indians tortured their prisoners. And the French were reputed to be worse.

She spotted Emile’s musket on the ground beside him. It was empty, but she grabbed it and jumped up, wielding it like a club.

Crazy Badger started toward her, but the Frenchman motioned him back. "Don’t be a fool, madame. Put the gun down."

She stared at him, praying silently for a glimmer of hope. Then she noticed the crucifix glinting on his chest. Was he capable of mercy? She looked up into eyes as gray as the morning mist, eyes that compelled her to obey. Slowly she let the musket slide to the ground.

He held out a bloody hand, and she shrank back in horror. Everywhere she looked, she saw blood—on Emile’s chest, on her skirt, her hands, the ground. Dear Lord, she was drowning in the sight and scent of it. The world grew dim and distant as blackness descended on her.

* * *

Lieutenant Jacques Corbeau caught the woman before she fell.
Bon Dieu,
this day was not going well. He and his two Delaware companions had been part of a large French and Indian raiding party sent to harry the British, but during an early morning skirmish they had become separated from the rest of the group. They’d been headed back to Fort Duquesne, until they came upon this isolated cabin and saw the farmer and his wife talking to the English soldiers.

He looked up to see Crazy Badger grinning at him, scalping knife in hand. At his feet lay the farmer’s lifeless body.

Jacques glared back. "Why did you kill him? We agreed not to risk a shot. The English soldiers may have heard it."

The young warrior shrugged. "He fired first."

While waiting for the British soldiers to leave the area, Jacques had tried to talk Gray Wolf and Crazy Badger into taking captives instead of scalps and thought he’d succeeded. Until the farmer shot him.

Cursing under his breath, Jacques hoisted the woman’s body over his left shoulder and headed for the cabin. She would come out of her faint in a few minutes, and he wanted to spare her the sight of her husband’s fate.

He entered the one-room cabin and paused on the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A two-legged puncheon table attached to the opposite wall came into focus, followed by the fireplace to his left. On the right, a wood-slat bed filled the far corner.

Jacques laid the woman on the bed.

Noticing blood on her dress, he wondered if it were her husband’s or his own. His shoulder burned like hell. Though little more than a scratch, the damn thing was still bleeding, and he had no wish to leave a trail even the dull-witted English could follow.

Jacques stood and eased his knapsack over his shoulder with a strained grunt. After dropping it on the table, he looked around the room. On the hearth, he found a bucket of water and a towel. He folded the cloth and pressed it on the wound until the bleeding stopped, then rinsed his hands and arm.

For a moment he wondered about the people who lived here. They spoke French, so they must be Swiss, or perhaps Huguenots, descendants of the Protestants driven out of France many years ago. What had their lives been like in Europe? What despair had driven them to brave the wilderness? Or had they foolishly thought they were better off here?

Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances…

She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife.

And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today.

The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable.

Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive."

* * *

Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and…. She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.

"Madame, are you listening to me?"

The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. "There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?"

Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. "The trunk. Under the bed."

He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.

He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and infinitely dangerous.

A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?

She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?

Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.

The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. "Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command."

He dropped the bandages beside her on the bed, then reached out to touch her hair. "Must I remind you, in my companion’s eyes, scalps are more valuable than live captives?"

Horror sliced through her fear. "Emile!" She shot off the bed and bolted for the door. The Frenchman caught her around the waist before she could reach it.

"It is too late, madame," he said in a hushed voice. "It is done."

"No," she moaned, as she fought to banish the image of a bloody scalp, raw flesh.

The Frenchman turned her toward him, holding her by the shoulders, and spoke in an insistent voice. "Listen to me and be sensible. You must be strong now. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Dazed, she stared at him. "A journey? To where?"

"Fort Duquesne."

Mara gasped. The dreaded enemy stronghold deep in the wilderness. She struggled to get free, clawing at his powerful arms.

He gripped her tighter, grimacing as he did. "Stop it! What chance do you think you have against three men? Do as I say and you will live. Refuse and…" He let the implication hang in the air between them.

Live. Yes, that was what she must do. She must bide her time and stay alive. Her brother would find her and exact revenge. But for now, she was on her own.

She straightened her spine and stared into the Frenchman’s eyes. "How do I know I can trust you, monsieur?"

He met her gaze, but a shadow darkened his eyes. "You have my word of honor."

Bitterness filled her. "The word of a Frenchman? What is that worth?"

"For the moment, madame, your life."

Jacques watched as the woman walked to the bed, grabbed the bandages in her trembling hands and carried them to the table. She picked up a bucket by the hearth and poured water into a bowl.

"Sit down," she ordered.

He did as told, amazed at her sudden transformation from terrified victim to willing nurse.
Was she up to something?
he wondered. He might be a fool to trust her, but his shoulder burned like hell.

Her hands shook as she cleaned his wound and washed the blood from his arm. Without thinking, he relaxed his guard, lulled by her touch, the soft sound of her breathing near his ear, and her scent…When had he last smelled lavender?

"I see this is not the first time you’ve been injured," she said suddenly.

Jolted out of his reverie by her words, he grunted and fingered the jagged scar on his right side. It was an all too visible reminder of that morning on the field of honor, nearly eight years ago. At times, it seemed like yesterday. His gut twisted at the memory of cold steel slicing through his flesh. In that moment, his life had been forever changed.

Only a handful of people knew the truth of what had led to that duel, knew why he could never go back to France, and Jacques intended to keep it that way. Let the woman think it an honorable scar, won in battle, not a mark of shame.

Forcibly banishing the memory, he reached into his knapsack with his left hand, pulled out a small leather pouch, and gave it to her. "Use this."

"What is it?" she asked, as she poured some of the cinnamon-brown powder into the palm of her hand.

"Hemlock."

Her eyes widened. "But that’s poison."

He smiled at the alarmed look on her face. "It is from the bark of the hemlock tree, not the poisonous plant. The Indians use it to stop bleeding."

Frowning, she sprinkled some of the powder on his wound. When she finished wrapping the bandage she reached for a knife on the table. Jacques tensed, ready to snatch it from her hand. She glanced at him and her lips twisted. She wouldn’t dare…

Quickly she slit the end of the linen strip and put the knife down. She ripped a section of the cloth then tied the bandage firmly in place.

Jacques let out the breath he’d been holding. "Thank you." He took a linen shirt out of his knapsack and gingerly pulled it on. Aware that a change of dressing would be necessary before reaching the fort, he scooped up the rest of the bandages and put them in the knapsack, along with the kitchen knife. He glanced around, but saw no other potential weapons.

He stood, then walked to the hearth and doused the fire with a bucket of water. Smoke billowed from the fireplace. "You have five minutes to prepare for our journey. Bring only what you can carry easily—a change of clothing and a blanket."

She stared at him, blue eyes huge in her pale face. "Please, can you not leave me here?"

For a second he was tempted to do so, not that he was moved by her plea, but because she’d be trouble. Women always were.

"So you can run and tell the redcoats about us?" he asked evenly. "I think not. In any case, my superiors will be interested to know what your English friend had to say to you."

Her breath caught in a gasp. So the Englishman had confided in her, he thought. He’d ask her about that later.

"Five minutes," he warned and stalked out of the cabin.

Outside, Jacques dragged the farmer’s bloody body around the side of the cabin. The woman didn’t need to see her husband’s scalped head.

Jacques flexed his sore shoulder. He should have stayed at the fort, with his cannons, where he belonged. But no, he’d thought to curry favor with the commandant by volunteering for the war party. As if it would make any difference to his career.

He glanced down at the farmer’s body. Despite his years in the wilderness, the reality of frontier warfare troubled his European conscience. Oh, he knew that some civilian casualties were inevitable, but the tactics used by France’s Indian allies shocked him. Lightning raids on isolated settlements, a quick death for some, captivity for the rest.

He still remembered his first sight of victims being dragged to the fort, hollow-eyed after seeing their loved ones killed and their homes destroyed. And they were the fortunate ones.

Still, he had found much to like and admire in his Delaware companions. Jacques had learned much from Gray Wolf—how to survive in the forest, which paths to take, and how to track game, both animal and human. And they accepted Jacques—the Raven—without question.

To be sure, their earthy approach to life appealed to him more than the arrogance of the French aristocracy who looked down their noses at his scandalous past. Nor was he at home with the Canadian
habitants,
who instinctively distrusted anyone from the Mother Country.

He walked back to the front of the cabin where Gray Wolf and Crazy Badger appeared to be arguing over possession of the farmer’s scalp. Jacques picked up his musket and went to mediate.

"There is no way to know which bullet came from which rifle," he told them. "The only solution is to share the reward. As we will share the reward for the captive. Now let us wipe away our tracks, so the redcoats cannot follow us."

* * *

Mara stared after the Frenchman, her mind in turmoil. He had seen her talking to Gideon. Did he think she knew the British plans? She tried to recall what her brother had said to her, but could only remember that they had talked about their father.

Heavens, she still had his watch. She thrust her hand in her skirt pocket and felt for it. She must not let the French see it. Someone might recognize the name Harcourt. But she could not leave it behind, for it was all she had to remember her father.

Mara sank down into a chair, her hands shaking. For a moment, when she’d held the knife, she’d been tempted to slit the Frenchman’s throat, cut out his lying tongue. Then she’d remembered his savage companions and that had stayed her hand.

Could she have done it? Killed a man? A shudder of revulsion passed through her. If she had, she’d be no better than he. This Corbeau was right about one thing. She was helpless against three men. Common sense dictated she do as they said, at least for the time being. Be sensible, he’d said.

She stood and saw blood on her clothing. With a grimace, she stripped off her skirt and bodice and left them in a pile on the floor. She pulled clean clothes from a peg on the wall and quickly donned them, her fingers trembling so badly she had difficulty fastening the bodice.

Next she grabbed Emile’s hunting pouch off the wall and gathered the things she would need for the trip—a clean chemise, shawl, stockings, and a blanket. What else?

Mara rushed to the bed and knelt down. She reached underneath for the trunk and felt wood instead of leather.

The cradle.

She pulled it out and ran her hand over the smooth wood, remembering the hours Emile had spent working on it. A deep sorrow settled over her as it always did when she allowed herself to dwell on what couldn’t be. But always, deep inside, an abiding sadness lurked.

She touched her abdomen, and that familiar ache settled in her heart. Emile had had visions of founding a New World dynasty, but she had not conceived. If only she could have given him the child they both wanted. A babe would have made it all worthwhile. The hard work, the sacrifices, the loneliness.

But now it was too late.

Too late, too late.
The words echoed in her mind. She gave the cradle a push and watched as it rocked back and forth, as empty as her womb, as empty as her life had been or ever would be.

A shout from outside the cabin penetrated her misery and she remembered the Frenchman. He’d be furious if she wasn’t ready when he returned.

Hastily, she pushed the cradle back under the bed and grabbed the trunk. Opening it, her hand touched a soft bundle and she paused. Slowly, she picked up the length of dark blue silk and buried her face in it, breathing in the scent of lavender. Her one good dress. The one she had worn to her grandfather’s funeral and on her wedding day. A lump formed in her throat as she set the gown aside. She had no need of it now.

Again she reached into the trunk and took out a book, holding it to her breast. The family Bible, with its record of births, marriages and deaths. She had never been without it, but it was too heavy to carry.

She opened it to the family history. Their names were all there, her grandparents, her mother and father, Gideon, and herself. And Emile. A fresh pain gripped her heart at the thought of her husband’s death.

Only she and Gideon were left. What would Emile’s death and her disappearance do to her brother? He was already so full of hatred and bitterness, she feared for his soul. She had to survive, for his sake if not for her own.

If only there were some way for her to get a message to him. He had promised to stop on his way back. Suddenly an idea came to her. She searched through the trunk until she found a pencil. Quickly she wrote the date in the space reserved for Emile’s death. Beside her own name she wrote
Fort Duquesne.
If her brother remembered to look for the Bible he would know where to find her. She closed the book and shoved it under her bloody discarded dress on the floor.

Gideon would find her. He had to. And when he did, she’d find a way to return to Geneva. She’d had enough of this wretched land.

She walked back to the table and began packing her things in the pouch. Then she remembered the watch. Perhaps she should leave it with the Bible for Gideon to find. But she desperately needed some reminder of who she was, where she came from. Vague memories arose of sitting in her father’s lap, playing with his watch. Of laying in bed, listening to him read from the Bible. He chose nice stories—the lost lamb, the good Samaritan, the raising of Lazarus. Not like the frightening passages her grandfather chose, like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Still, Jonah had survived. Would she be as lucky?

Deciding to take the watch with her, she knelt and pulled it from the pocket of her bloody dress. When she shoved the watch to the bottom of the pouch under her clothing, her hand touched cold metal. Emile’s hunting knife. For a moment, she gripped the handle, testing its weight. The knowledge that now she possessed a weapon comforted her.

By the time the Frenchman came back into the cabin, she was waiting for him, her pouch sitting ready on the table. He glanced around the cabin and spotted her blue silk gown puddled by the trunk. Squatting down, he picked it up and fingered the material, a speculative look on his face.

He stood and looked from her to the dress and back again, "You do not intend to leave this lovely gown behind, do you?" he asked in a husky voice. "You may have need of it."

"That is a dress for a special occasion. If I wear it again, it will be to celebrate a French defeat."

Seemingly amused by her defiance, he reached for her pouch. "Nevertheless, I insist you take it."

She snatched the gown from his hand. She couldn’t let him look inside the pouch and find Emile’s knife. "Give it to me! You’re crushing the material." With shaky hands, she folded the dress and placed it in the pouch.

"What is your name?" he asked.

She turned to look at him, surprised that he had bothered to ask. "Mara Dupré."

"Ah Marie, a lovely name."

"No," she corrected, "Mara. It is from the Bible. It means bitter."

He frowned. "I have never heard that name before. You are French, are you not?"

Mara’s heart beat frantically. "No, I am Swiss. From Geneva." She dared not mention that her father’s family had been Huguenots.

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. "Come," he said. "It is time to leave."

Mara started to follow him then stopped. "Wait. First we must bury my husband."

"There is no time."

She heard the regret in his voice, saw the compassion in his expression. "How long could it take? It is our Christian duty."

"It is too dangerous to linger here. And we have a long way to travel before dark." He grabbed her arm and she shuddered. "Remember what I said earlier, madame. You must obey me. Your life depends upon it."

Mara stared into his steely gray eyes and knew there was no point in opposing his will. He was obviously a man used to having his orders obeyed and would not be swayed by her pleas. Defeated, she followed him outside.

She looked around the clearing and saw that Emile’s body had been moved. "What have you done with my husband?"

The Frenchman’s grip tightened on her arm, and he steered her toward the forest where the Indians awaited them. "You do not want to see him. Believe me, it is better this way."

With a sickening certainty she knew why he would not let her see Emile’s body. When one of the Indians turned to lead the way, she spotted a bloody scalp hanging from his belt. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a scream.

"Be strong," the Frenchman whispered.

Mara swallowed hard and took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to fall on the ground and cry and moan.
Be strong,
she told herself.
Be strong and survive. Some day, they will pay for this.

She took one last look at the cabin, longing to remain. Though she had often been afraid here, it was as nothing compared to the terror her life had become.

When the Frenchman tugged on her arm, she allowed him to lead her into the forest. Her eyes were unaccustomed to the deep shade and she tripped over a tree root. Only his grip on her elbow kept Mara on her feet.

Angrily she pulled away from him. "I can walk on my own."

He raised an eyebrow, and his lips twisted in a slight smile. "As you wish, but I shall be right behind you, if you need me."

It was a threat, not a promise. This man would not be easy to outwit, but Mara intended to try. Gideon had once told her it was a prisoner’s duty to escape. She planned to bide her time and wait for the right opportunity.

As they wound their way through the forest, Mara tried to keep her bearings, but soon realized the futility. The narrow path twisted through dense strands of trees, up and down the slopes of hills, crossing and re-crossing streams until she was thoroughly lost. Tall maple and birch trees shut out most of the sunlight and made it impossible to maintain a sense of direction.