Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  1

  Rogue’s Hostage

  By Linda McLaughlin

  Copyright 2002, 2013 by Linda McLaughlin

  Cover Art copyright 2013 by Lex Valentine

  ISBN: 978-0-9891101-0-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced electronically or in any form, or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All situations, characters and concepts are the sole invention of the author or are used fictitiously.

  Smashwords Edition

  His hostage…

  In 1758 the Pennsylvania frontier is wild, primitive and dangerous, where safety often lies at the end of a gun. Mara Dupré’s life crumbles when a French and Indian war party attacks her cabin, kills her husband, and takes her captive. Marching through the wilderness strengthens her resolve to flee, but she doesn’t count on her captor teaching her the meaning of courage and the tempting call of desire.

  Her destiny…

  French lieutenant Jacques Corbeau’s desire for his captive threatens what little honor he has left. But when Mara desperately offers herself to him in exchange for her freedom, he finds the strength to refuse and reclaims his lost self-respect. As the shadows of his past catch up to him, Jacques realizes that Mara, despite the odds, is the one true key to reclaiming his soul and banishing his past misdeeds forever.

  Praise for Rogue’s Hostage

  4 1/2 stars and a Top Pick from Romantic Times!

  2nd Place—Lorie Awards—Best Historical Romance!

  Romantic Times Nominee—Best Small Press Romance of 2003!

  “The frontiers of Pennsylvania are not for the faint of heart, as Mara Dupré and her husband of five years, Emile, discover. Mara, whose parents are dead and whose brother, Gideon, is serving in the English army, married Emile so she would not be alone. But when a French raiding party led by Jacques Corbeau kills Emile, Mara becomes Jacques’s captive… Jacques and Mara travel to Quebec after the destruction of Fort Duquesne, and their journey quickly becomes more than just escape. It is a time of discovery, love, healing, growth, forgiveness and sacrifice for the greater good. Though this is not a favorite time period of mine, I was captivated and read Ms McLaughlin’s tale in one sitting. The characters are believable and well drawn, the research is impeccable and the description of the pristine wilderness breathtaking.” — Deborah Brent, Romantic Times

  “Reminiscent of THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS but with an even more personal touch, ROGUE’S HOSTAGE is a must read book for lovers of adventure and romance.” — Jani Brooks, Romance Reviews Today

  4 1/2 Stars!…”A wonderful story. It was obviously well researched as well. I fell in love with the characters and struggled along with them as they sought to understand their feelings for each other. I would highly recommend picking this book up. You won’t regret it.” — Melissa M. Curran, Scribes World

  4 Roses… “…rich in plot and character development” — A Romance Review

  “…a potent and magnificent read… This author has painstakingly done her research and manages to convey it in a fascinating and descriptive style that one can envision and remember for a long time to come! Great read!” — Viviane Crystal, Crystal Reviews

  “Terrific—very compelling and dramatic. I really got wrapped up in the story and characters.”—Suzanne Forster, Best-selling Author

  “A wonderfully romantic tale, rich in love, intricately woven with historical detail. A story definitely on a par with The Last of The Mohicans!”—Catherine Snodgrass, Award-Winning Author

  Dedication

  In memory of my father, Wade W. McLaughlin, who never told me I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl!

  And to the memory of two remarkable women:

  Winifred McLaughlin, Mother, Mentor and Friend. I still miss you, Mom.

  Bertha McLaughlin, Grandmother and Storyteller Extraordinaire who inspired my life-long love of history.

  Writing is a solitary business but it’s not done in a vacuum. Thanks go to my husband, Bob Wilkinson, for love and tech support, and to my writer friends who held my hand during this laborious process: Annee Chartier, Anne Farrell, Suzanne Forster, Helen Haddad, Linda Prine and Patricia Thayer Wright.

  In addition, I want to thank Sheri Fentress and Catherine Snodgrass for editorial guidance, Dee Ann Palmer for proofreading, and Cassandra Curtis for help with the tarot card scenes.

  Linda McLaughlin

  February 2013

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Bonus Material

  Chapter 1

  Cumberland County, Pennsylvania, August 1758

  For too long now, she had lived on the edge of fear and uncertainty.

  By pure force of will, Mara Dupré roused herself from the numbness that weighed her down. She was tired, so tired. For months she had lain awake at night, listening to the sounds of the forest, wondering if she would survive the morrow.

  Blinking to ease the burning of her dry eyes, she shook off her morbid thoughts and scanned the edge of the clearing. It was her turn to keep watch, listening for strange noises, while her husband, Emile, weeded the small vegetable garden they had planted beside the crude, one-room log cabin they called home.

  She glanced his way. As if sensing her scrutiny, he looked up at her, his hazel eyes squinting in the sun, and smiled before turning his attention back to the soil. His face and hands had darkened over the summer, and there were new lines in his face. He no longer resembled the schoolmaster she had married nearly five years ago, but the farmer he’d become.

  Awkwardly, she shifted the musket she held in her arms. Though it was not heavy, barely ten pounds, her shoulders ached from the strain of holding it for long periods. But she did not complain, for she was comforted that it was loaded and ready to use if need be.

  Mara hated living in the wilderness where enormous trees shut out the light, creating a barrier that cut off each frontier cabin from the sight of its neighbors. She longed to return to her Swiss homeland, the bustling city of Geneva, and their cozy rooms above the bakery. It had been lovely to wake up every morning to the aroma of freshly baked bread. Instead, she and Emile struggled to eke an existence from this unforgiving land. She grimaced at the thought and then glanced over her shoulder at the cabin.

  Home, she thought scornfully. Here, there were no busy streets filled with people, just the dark encroaching forest that begrudged every square foot of land they cleared so laboriously. Even the light seemed different here. Back in Geneva, the sunlight would glint off the lake and brighten the snowcapped peaks of the Alps in the far distance. Here, tall trees and trailing vines blocked the sunlight, creating ever-present shadows.

  And danger, Mara knew, lurked in the shadows.

  A flock of birds flew up out of the trees, twittering excitedly. A chill rippled down Mara’s spine. “Emile,” she called in a soft voice. “Something is wrong.”

  Emile stood quickly and took the musket from her just as a group of soldiers emerged from the woods. Mara and Emile stared a
t them, relieved to see that they were dressed in British scarlet. The officers wore breeches with their waistcoats, but the men were curiously dressed in knee-length skirts. All carried muskets and swords.

  “Emile, Mara.” One of the officers took off his black felt hat and waved it. Sunlight glinted on his blond hair.

  “Gideon,” Mara cried out and ran to embrace her brother.

  He hugged her to him with one arm, and then released her to shake Emile’s hand. “It is good to see you both.” He motioned to one of his companions. “This is Lieutenant Shaw, who kindly allowed me to join his expedition.”

  The young officer swept off his hat and bowed to Mara. His auburn hair reminded her of maple leaves in the fall.

  “Major Harcourt did not tell me he had such a beautiful sister,” he remarked in fluent French.

  Mara felt herself blushing under the compliment.

  “Behave yourself, Shaw,” Gideon warned half seriously.

  The lieutenant smiled, his green eyes twinkling. “I meant no offense.”

  “None taken, young man,” Emile said, offering his hand. “But I am curious to know what brings you here.”

  Gideon turned to Mara, concern written on his face. “A French and Indian war party has been reported in the vicinity. A man was killed yesterday not far from here.”

  “My God,” Mara exclaimed, her hand at her throat.

  Gideon nodded. “General Forbes has ordered three hundred soldiers into the forest to chase them out of the area, so you should be safe. When I heard that a group of Highlanders would be headed this way I asked to come along.”

  “Highlanders,” Emile repeated, “ah, les Ecossais.” He beamed at his brother-in-law’s companions and switched to English. “Welcome, gentlemen. I wager you’re all a bit thirsty. Come fill your canteens.”

  The soldiers followed Emile to the well, but Mara put a hand on Gideon’s arm to detain him. “How much danger are we in?”

  He covered her hand with his. “Don’t worry, little sister, the general intends to drive the French and their allies back to Canada. Soon there will be a battle.”

  “Do you think the British will win this time?” Mara made no attempt to disguise the concern in her voice. Three years earlier, the British decided to drive the French from the forks of the Ohio. The resulting defeat had been the signal for the Natives to begin raiding the frontier, leaving a trail of death and destruction from Pennsylvania to Virginia.

  Gideon motioned to Mara to sit beside him in the shade of the cabin. “Who wins may depend on how much Indian support the French can muster. The politicians in Philadelphia are trying to work out a peace treaty with the Delaware and Shawnee. If successful, we’ll have no trouble ridding ourselves of the French.”

  Mara touched one of the gold buttons on the sleeve of her brother’s uniform. “I worry about you, Gideon. I still do not understand why you became a soldier. Life is uncertain enough without deliberately courting danger.”

  A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “We have been through this before. The French killed our father, and I will do my part in defeating them.”

  On the day they had learned of their father’s death, Gideon had sworn revenge. He’d been seventeen to Mara’s ten. After completing his education, he had become a soldier, despite the fact that their maternal grandfather had insisted he follow in the family tradition and become a minister instead. To the best of her knowledge, Gideon was the only person who had ever won an argument with Reverend Ebersole.

  Mara sighed. “It is not your place to seek revenge. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ It is up to God to punish the French for their sins.”

  “And the British army is his instrument. You are a woman and cannot be expected to understand such matters.”

  Mara bit her lower lip to keep from speaking. I understand all too well. Man was born to fight and woman to mourn.

  Gideon touched her hand lightly. “Let us not argue, little one. I have a request of you.” He reached into a pocket of his scarlet waistcoat, pulled out a leather pouch and handed it to her. “I want you to keep this for me.”

  Opening the pouch, she removed a man’s watch, the metal cold to the touch. With one finger she traced the name engraved on the silver case, Melchior Harcourt, and a shiver of foreboding passed through her at this reminder of the father she had barely known. She looked up at Gideon. “Won’t you need it?”

  “I have grandfather’s as well. If I’m captured, I don’t want the French to lay hands on Papa’s watch.”

  Turning the watch over, she touched the raised silver repoussé work depicting the Holy Family on their flight into Egypt. She’d always thought it a tragically appropriate image for an outlawed Huguenot minister, hunted down and hanged like a common criminal. “Why did Papa go back to France?”

  Her brother sighed. “For several reasons. He felt it was his mission to keep the faith alive. And, I think, it took his mind off Mama’s death.”

  Mara felt a pang at the mention of the woman who had died giving her life. From all accounts, her parents had shared a deep and abiding love, the kind Mara had always longed for.

  Carefully, she put the watch back in its pouch and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “Father blamed me for her death. That is why he left us.”

  “No.” Gideon tilted her chin up to face him. “He never blamed you, but the older you got, the more you reminded him of what he’d lost. He couldn’t look at you without seeing her.”

  “Do I really look like Mama?” Mara asked wistfully, fingering her blonde braid. “Papa always said she was beautiful.”

  “Indeed she was,” Gideon said, a teasing glint in his blue eyes, so like her own. “And yes, you resemble her. Emile is a lucky man.”

  Mara turned her head away but said nothing. Gideon had been happy, and undoubtedly relieved, when she had married his best friend. But did Emile ever regret…?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Lieutenant Shaw. “We’d best get moving, Major Harcourt.”

  “Of course.” Gideon stood up. “I’d not intended to stay so long.”

  He reached down to help Mara to her feet. She caught his sleeve as he turned to go. “Gideon, if the British are defeated again, what should we do?”

  “It is the French who will be defeated this time. But should the unthinkable happen, I want you and Emile to go to the nearest fort immediately. Will you promise me that?”

  “I’ll try, Gideon. That’s the best I can do.” Mara lifted her hands in a gesture of futility. “You know Emile. He lives for this farm.”

  “And you do not?”

  “Look at this place.” She waved her arm to take in the log cabin, the small vegetable garden, the makeshift cow shed, and the small field of corn. “He is a good man, but if I had known he would drag me here, I might not have married him.”

  Gideon frowned. “I realize this life is hard, but what other choice did you have when grandfather died so suddenly?”

  “None,” she admitted. Her grandfather’s death when she was eighteen had left her homeless and nearly penniless. The proposal from her brother’s best friend had seemed heaven sent at the time.

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to make you unhappy.”

  Mara spoke without thinking, repeating the words drummed into her in childhood. “We were not put on this earth to be happy.”

  Gideon raised an eyebrow. “Now that is our grandfather speaking. I know some of his teachings rubbed off on you, but don’t let Emile hear you say such things. He does not hold with grandfather’s message of gloom and doom.”

  “No, if anything, he is too optimistic.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I know,” Mara said. “I just wish we had stayed in Geneva.”

  Gideon put his arm around her and pulled her close till her head rested on his shoulder. “Everything will be all right. I’ll ask Shaw if we can stop on our way back to camp, just to be sure.”

  “Thank you, Gideon.” Mara hugged
her brother one last time. She waved until the soldiers were out of sight, wanting to run after Gideon and beg him to take her with him. A flicker of apprehension coursed through her.

  She and Emile were alone again.

  For the short time visiting with her brother, her thoughts had been filled with memories of another time, another place. When they had been children in the old manse in Geneva. When her grandparents had still been alive, before Gideon had gone off to school. A time when she had felt safe, if not happy. A time when she had looked to the future with hope in her heart.

  She glanced at her husband, and he grinned at her. “It was good to see your brother again. What did you talk about for so long?”

  “He said we should go to the fort if there is more trouble.”

  Smiling with condescension, Emile moved toward her. “You worry too much. We’ll be safe now that the Highlanders have chased off the French war parties.”

  “But the army cannot patrol every mile of this great forest.”

  “Must you always borrow trouble?”

  “You are a fine one to talk about borrowing trouble. We are caught in the middle of a war.” Her voice rose an octave and she fought for control. “Perhaps coming here was not such a good idea after all. I am so frightened.”

  Emile sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “A life of fear is not worth living.”

  He was right, but oh, Lord, it was so hard not to be afraid. Determined to have her say, Mara clasped her hands tightly. “I don’t want to die in this barbarous land. Please, Emile, if we hear of further trouble…”

  His mouth set in the stubborn way that she knew so well. “We spent the last two summers hiding out at Fort Augusta while the land lay fallow. This is the first crop we’ve produced in three years. I will not leave it to rot.”