Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  “Oh, no, madame, I cannot. Too much is at stake.”

  “What?” she demanded in a shrill tone. “Your bounty money? Just how much am I worth to you? What is the value placed on a human life these days?”

  “I do not care about the money, but Gray Wolf would be disappointed in me if I showed up without you. It is imperative that I retain his respect. And I have my pride to consider.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and faced him defiantly. “Are you so arrogant that you think the world revolves around your desires? Did I not know better, I might think you an aristocrat.”

  “How perceptive you are, madame,” he drawled. “It so happens that my father is the Comte d’Archambault.”

  “At least you came by your arrogance honestly. You inherited it. But tell me, Monsieur, what does your father think of his noble son?”

  For a second a glimpse of pain flashed in his eyes. “My father thinks highly of his noble son. But he has no use for his bastard.”

  So he was a bastard. No wonder he didn’t like having his honor questioned. Mara knew by the clenching of his jaw that she was treading dangerously, but she was unable to hold in her bitterness any longer. “Does your father know how many innocent people you have killed? Innocent people like my husband?”

  “I did not kill your husband,” Corbeau snapped.

  She went on, recklessly. “It was not your bullet, but you are just as responsible. And it was you who refused to let me bury him. If you think I will ever forget that, you are mad.”

  “Enough!” he commanded. “If you do not learn to curb your tongue, little shrew, I will turn you over to the tender care of Crazy Badger. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” Mara whispered, trying not to look terrified. She hated to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d frightened her again, but—dear Lord!—she had forgotten all about the Indians. She had best watch herself and learn to get along with her French captor. As bad as her situation seemed now, she feared that it could get worse. Much worse.

  *

  He needed a drink.

  Irresponsible or not, Gideon Harcourt intended to drink himself into oblivion. Perhaps then he could sleep without seeing Emile’s bloody body, without thinking of what his sister might be suffering at this moment.

  He walked into his tent and sank down on the foot of his cot. It was nearly dark outside, but he made no attempt to light a lantern. Wearily, he rested his elbows on his knees and let his head fall forward. God, but he was exhausted.

  Upon his return to camp two days ago, he had reported to Colonel Henry Bouquet, the Swiss-born officer in charge of the Royal Americans. The colonel had sympathized with his loss, and then gently but firmly chastised Gideon for going along with Shaw and his men in the first place. Such impulsiveness was unbecoming to the rank of major. Ordinarily, the rebuke would have stung, but Gideon had been too numb with shock and grief to feel anything else.

  Now embarrassed by the memory, Gideon opened the trunk at the foot of the cot and rummaged in it for a bottle of whiskey. But instead of glass, his hand brushed against leather.

  The Bible.

  His hand trembled as he lifted it onto his lap, opened it to the family records and reread Mara’s message. It was his fault she was a captive. He would never forgive himself for not taking better care of her. Perhaps he should have done what was expected of him—become a minister and stay in Geneva like their grandfather had wanted.

  But no, he had rebelled against Paul Ebersole’s tyranny, without thinking about the consequences. Not realizing Mara would be the one to suffer for it. She was now paying the price for his willfulness.

  As Gideon stared at the pages, one date stood out, for it was recorded twice. On September 21, 1735, one soul had made her entry into this world, and another her exit. He would never forget the day of his sister’s birth, for it was also the day their mother died.

  Closing his eyes, he let the memories come flooding back, unable to stop them. He had been seven years of age, old enough to know that something was terribly wrong. His mother had been cloistered in her room for hours with his grandmother and the midwife. Every time he had asked to see her, he’d been told to be a good boy and go away.

  He had wandered through the silent manse until he found his father in Grandfather’s study, on his knees, deep in prayer. Not wanting to be alone, Gideon quietly crept into the corner of the room. For hours he huddled on the hardwood floor, ignoring the cramp in his legs and the rumbling of his stomach. Not old enough to understand what was happening, he was yet wise enough to know that his presence was unwelcome by the adults in the house.

  Late in the afternoon, Grandfather Ebersole appeared in the doorway, looking older than his fifty-odd years. “It is over.”

  Melchior Harcourt looked up from his prayers. “Verena?”

  Grandfather just shook his head.

  To Gideon’s alarm, his father began to cry, tears streaming down his face. It was the first time he had ever seen his father cry, and it frightened him as nothing else ever had.

  Then his grandmother walked into the study, the new babe in her arms. “You have a daughter,” she told his father in a gentle tone. “She needs a name.”

  His father looked at her blankly for a moment, but then seemed to realize what was being asked of him. His reply was a Biblical quotation. “Call her Mara,” he said, “which means bitterness. For the Lord has dealt bitterly with me this day.”

  Only later did Gideon realize that his gentle mother had died giving birth. But in truth, he had lost both parents, for his father was never the same again. Lost in his grief, he had seemed at times to forget that his children even existed, finding meaning only in his work.

  Gideon closed the Bible that had belonged to his mother, then to Mara. It was all he had left of them now—just as a pocket watch was all he had left of his father.

  Good Lord, the watch. Gideon jerked his head up, ignoring the resulting throb behind his temple. He had given the watch, with his father’s name engraved on the cover, to Mara for safekeeping. And now it was most likely, no almost certainly, in the hands of the enemy! Melchior Harcourt’s name was still well known. If discovered, his daughter would find little mercy among the French.

  With shaking hands, Gideon set the Bible aside, hunkered down in front of the trunk, and searched until he found the whiskey. Uncorking it, he took a long swig of the fiery liquid.

  In between mouthfuls of whiskey, he wondered what his life would have been like if his father had stayed in Geneva instead of returning to France. Descendant of an exiled Huguenot family, Reverend Harcourt had felt obligated to keep the faith alive for the remaining Protestants. Preaching in forest glades and caverns, he earned a reputation as one of the most dangerous of the outlawed ministers.

  Gideon lived for his father’s infrequent appearances in his children’s lives, visits that were full of excitement, for he was a fiery man, passionate in everything he did. To his son, he was a figure of courage and legend, larger than life.

  But there was always a hint of sadness in his expression when he gazed at his daughter. And the older she grew, the more Mara began to resemble her mother.

  Unable to forget the loss of his wife, Melchior Harcourt found reasons to return to France, unmindful of the danger, leaving his children in the cheerless manse in Geneva. The contrast between his visits and day-to-day life with the strict, humorless grandparents who raised them was vivid, making Gideon long to go with his father.

  When Mara was ten years old and Gideon seventeen, their father was caught by the French and hanged like a common criminal. For the last thirteen years, rage and hatred for the French had burned steadily in Gideon’s heart.

  As the whiskey slowly warmed his insides and fogged his brain, Gideon was able to focus on only one thing—the need to find Mara and avenge the deaths of Emile and his father.

  *

  Late the next afternoon, the Frenchman led Mara to a large cave where he informed her they woul
d spend the night. Gray Wolf was waiting for them inside. He greeted Corbeau amiably, but the look he gave Mara chilled her to the bone. She moved to the other side of the entryway and sat down.

  It was dark and much cooler inside the cave, though the air was fresh and curiously invigorating. The flickering light of the campfire cast enormous, wavering shadows on the cavern walls. The quiet was complete, except for the murmured conversation of the two men and the occasional plop of a water droplet landing on the rocks below.

  Crazy Badger appeared in the entrance with several trout he had caught. He scowled when he saw Mara huddled in her corner.

  Gray Wolf laughed. “I told you not to wager against Raven. The bounty money is now all mine.”

  Mara shivered as an icy knot of dread clutched her stomach.

  Corbeau laid a hand on his heart. “I am wounded, Crazy Badger. Did you truly think me incapable of finding the woman?”

  The other man shrugged but said nothing.

  Despite her fear of the Indians, the chill finally drove Mara to seek the warmth of the fire where Corbeau cooked the mountain trout caught by Crazy Badger. When the fish were done, the men dove in with gusto, talking and joking in between bites. Skewered and roasted over the open fire, it tasted far better than Mara would have imagined, but she could only choke down a few bites.

  “What will happen to me after we reach the fort?” she finally blurted out. Her heart pounded as all three stared at her.

  “You will still be a captive,” Corbeau said. “For a while, at least.”

  “What does that mean, for a while?”

  He looked at the other two men before turning back to her. “Many captives are taken to Indian villages where they are often adopted by families who have lost a son or daughter.”

  She frowned, puzzled by his answer. All the stories she had heard in the settlements told of excruciating torture of prisoners, followed by certain death. Perhaps that was not always the case.

  Gray Wolf looked at her speculatively. “Some of the women even marry into the tribe.”

  Mara gasped. “Marry!”

  “It is possible,” Gray Wolf mused. “This one is still young and healthy. And spirited. She led Raven a merry chase.”

  “She is too pale,” Crazy Badger objected. “A woman should have dark eyes and hair. She looks like a ghost.”

  “My people find such light coloring beautiful,” Corbeau said.

  Crazy Badger sneered at the Frenchman. “Bah, Raven cannot see past his own desire.”

  “Stop it,” Mara cried, covering her ears with her hands. Leaping to her feet, she dashed out of the cave into the fading light. She was not surprised when Corbeau followed and caught her by the arm.

  “You can let go,” she told him. “I’m not trying to run away again, I just need to be alone. Please.”

  “I cannot allow that, madame.” There was regret in his tone, but he continued to hold her arm.

  She took a deep breath of the fragrant, pine-scented air. “I know, but they make me so nervous.” She turned to face him. “Must I go to the village with Gray Wolf? I could not stand being married to him.”

  Corbeau smiled. “There is little chance of that since Gray Wolf already has a wife and four, no, five children. It might be possible for you to stay at the fort, if that is what you wish, and if you are willing to work.”

  A spark of hope lightened her heart. “What kind of work?”

  “Cooking, or doing laundry.”

  “I could do that.”

  “The surgeon might need assistance, also. Have you any experience at nursing?”

  “A little, mostly onboard ship coming to America. There was a great deal of sickness among the passengers.”

  “Then I’m sure you can make yourself useful. Come, let us go back inside.”

  When she hesitated, he said, “You have yet to see the rest of the cave. There are a number of caverns, two of them quite interesting. Where is the spirit of adventure that led you to run away?”

  “Adventure?” She stared at him in disbelief. “All that has gotten me is more and more misery.”

  But despite her misgivings, Mara followed him back into the cave where he picked up a pine torch and lit it in the campfire.

  “We’re going to explore the cave,” he told the others.

  Crazy Badger looked up in alarm. “Not the Star Chamber.”

  Corbeau shrugged. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Gray Wolf frowned. “Be careful, my friend. There is powerful magic in that room.”

  “What are they talking about?” Mara asked.

  “You will see,” Corbeau replied enigmatically.

  Her curiosity roused, Mara followed him through two more caverns separated by narrow passages until they reached a larger chamber. The torchlight illuminated stylized pictures drawn on the cave walls.

  She stared curiously at the drawings. “What do they mean?”

  “I’m not sure about most of them.” He pointed to a picture of a hut with an opening. “Gray Wolf told me that this one signifies death. The body remains but the spirit is gone. And this,” he indicated a quarter moon with three stars, “means that the person died in December.”

  “Really?” She was impressed, in spite of herself.

  He scanned the room slowly. “I wish I had the time to study this, to learn what each picture means. Someone should write it all down. Perhaps even publish a book about this.”

  Now Mara was truly surprised. She had not expected the fierce warrior to have a scholarly mind. Perhaps there was more to him than she had believed.

  He took her by the hand again. “This way for the pièce de résistance.”

  Mara stopped just inside the next cavern and stared at the ceiling in amazement. Tiny pinpoints of light sparkled from overhead. “Oh, it does look like stars. What causes it?”

  “No one knows. The Indians are frightened of the Star Chamber. Even Gray Wolf refuses to come here.”

  A shiver passed down her spine as his deep voice reverberated off the cave walls. “Are the stars dangerous?”

  Corbeau shrugged. “Perhaps if you were to touch them. The lights must be caused by some special substance in the rock. But there should be no danger in just looking. I like to sit in here and pretend I’m at sea, with the entire sweep of the heavens above.” He flashed her a sheepish look. “Sometimes, I even make a wish.”

  Mara had to smile. “I used to do that, too, when I was a child.”

  “Let’s each make a wish,” he suggested.

  “But they’re not real stars.”

  “We can pretend. Wish for whatever you want most in the entire world.”

  “Very well.” Confused by his boyish manner, in that moment she almost liked him. He no longer resembled the hated enemy who had taken her prisoner, refused to bury her husband, and threatened her with scalping. It occurred to her that she was seeing a glimpse of him as he had been before battle hardened him.

  The deep resonance of his voice broke into her thoughts. “Pick a star, close your eyes and make a wish.”

  Smiling, she did as he suggested. Closing her eyes tightly, she wished with all her heart to return home. In her mind, she saw the cabin in the clearing, then she remembered Emile’s body crumpling to the ground, the blood on his chest, and tears sprang to her eyes. Quickly, she wiped them away.

  When she opened her eyes, he was staring quizzically at her. “Is something wrong?” she finally murmured.

  “No, I was just wondering what you were wishing for. You had such a look of sadness on your face.”

  Embarrassed, she looked away. “You are not supposed to tell anyone what you wished for. Otherwise the wish won’t come true.”

  He spread his hands at his sides. “But, as you said, these are not real stars. Besides, if I know what you want, I might be able to help.”

  “It is too late, Monsieur. All the wishing in the world will not bring my husband back to life.”

  He said nothing, just loo
ked at her sadly.

  “We came to America with such hope,” she said. “Emile wanted his own land, something to leave to our children.” Only there were no children.

  Corbeau raised an eyebrow. “So your husband decided to emigrate, and you came without complaint because you were a dutiful wife.”

  Mara bit her lip. “I can’t say I never complained. I was not very dutiful.”

  “Somehow that does not surprise me, little shrew.”

  Mara thought she heard a hint of laughter in his voice, but she was unable to see anything amusing in her situation. “In any case, the end result is the same. He is dead, and I am your captive.” She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  His tone changed to one of sympathy. “The war will not last forever. I will probably be sent back to France when it is over.”

  “Yes, but you are a soldier. The army will take care of you. No doubt, you will go back to France a hero,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

  He laughed harshly. “I have no intention of remaining in France. There is nothing there for me now. But what of you? Will you return to Geneva?”

  “I couldn’t afford the cost of passage.”

  “Have you no savings?”

  “It took every penny we had to cross the Atlantic. We sold everything of value to pay for our passage and to buy land. But at least we did not have to sell ourselves into servitude, as so many others have done. Emile said we were the lucky ones.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “I do not feel lucky.”

  “Is there no one to help you? Have you no family?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  “Then you are alone in the world.”

  “Yes.” Except for Gideon. When he found her, everything would be all right. She sighed and rubbed her arms for warmth.

  Corbeau propped the torch between two rocks and took her hand in his. “You’re cold.”

  “It is chilly in here. Perhaps we should go back.” She tried to extricate her hand, but he tugged her off balance, and they both sank to the floor of the cave. She was trembling now, uncertain of what he intended. For a second she considered screaming for help, but who would come to her rescue? Gray Wolf? A whimper forced its way past the constriction in her throat.