Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  Resignation clouded his expression. “Ah, the ransom. I meant to tell you about that.”

  Mara paced the length of the room. “It’s been about money all along, hasn’t it?”

  “On the contrary, madame, the ransom was Captain de Ligneris’s idea. I merely pointed out that we had already paid bounty money for you.”

  “Yes, I know. To the men who killed my husband,” she said bitterly. “How could I have been so stupid? I thought…”

  He caught her by both arms. “You thought what? That I saved your life out of the goodness of my heart?”

  She tried to laugh, but it sounded brittle. “No, I doubt you are that altruistic. Nor are you squeamish.”

  He stepped closer, looking at her intently. “Then what did you think, madame? That I was mad with desire for you?”

  She looked away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

  “Well, you were right, chérie.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she cried.

  He pulled her into his embrace. His eyes were darkened with desire, his voice a velvet murmur in her ear. “What shall I call you, Mara? Ma belle petite?”

  She pushed against his chest. “Stop it. I am a respectable widow, not one of your Paris courtesans.”

  “I know you are virtuous, but tell me, do you never tire of being good?” He nibbled on her earlobe, and then trailed a path of kisses down her neck to the edge of her bodice.

  Her flesh tingled at the soft brush of his lips, the warmth of his breath, and her eyes drifted shut. Slowly, she became oblivious to all but the primitive yearnings triggered by his touch.

  His lips captured hers in a kiss full of passion and need. His tongue moved into her mouth with an urgency that demanded a response. Her hands crept up to cling to his broad shoulders as a storm of sensations took hold of her will, leaving her powerless to fight his advances.

  He pulled her closer, one hand against the small of her back, until the buttons of his coat pressed into her breasts. With the other hand he cupped her head, kneading her scalp with rhythmic strokes of his fingers. He tasted like heated wine, heady and intoxicating.

  At last he ended the kiss, but continued to hold her tightly. She felt his uneven breathing on her cheek and knew he was as affected as she.

  He raised his head to look at her. “Oh, Mara what do we do now?”

  Her heart beat frantically as she stared into his gray eyes. An image of him, clad only in breechclout, flashed into her mind. She remembered the touch of his hands and mouth on her skin, the feel of his hard muscles beneath her hands. Would it be so wrong to give in to the pleasure his darkened gaze promised?

  Of course it would be wrong, her conscience scolded. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why.

  You will just have to pay for it later. True, but she always seemed to be paying for something, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Is a virtuous woman ever tempted to sin?” he asked in a husky voice. “Do I tempt you?”

  He was a devil, the serpent in the garden, sent to tempt her. She steeled herself against the tide of pleasure that threatened to carry her away. The word yes hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she dared not utter it. If she did, she would assuredly surrender to him here and now.

  She sucked in a breath of air, and whispered, “You frighten me.”

  He stiffened, and then stepped back. The shocked expression on his face quickly changed to a mask of indifference. Without a word he spun around and walked out the door.

  Mara wrapped her arms around her middle, shaken by what had just happened. Though it was for her own self-preservation, she had lied to him.

  She was not afraid of Jacques Corbeau, but of herself.

  *

  Mara was too agitated to sleep.

  After Corbeau left, she paced around the store, her thoughts in a jumble. She had come so close to giving in to his urging. Why now, when any day she might gain her freedom?

  Gideon was nearby and would soon know that she was unharmed. All he needed to do was pay the ransom Captain de Ligneris demanded, and she’d be returned to her brother’s side. Thinking about it should have filled her with anticipation, but it did not. Why? It was what she most wanted, wasn’t it?

  Sighing, she decided to do some paperwork. Lighting a candle, she went to the desk and tried to concentrate on making sense of Claude’s haphazard record keeping. There was something wrong here. None of the numbers added up, and she was beginning to wonder if someone were making an excess profit off the trading at the fort. She had said nothing so far, hesitant to accuse her benefactor of wrongdoing. Perhaps she should ask Corbeau’s advice. That is, if he was still speaking to her after tonight.

  She’d been furious with him when she’d learned of the ransom. Worse, it was galling to admit, even to herself, that her anger had come from the belief that he was more interested in money than in her person. As if his interests meant anything to her. The last thing she wanted was to be seduced by him, but the moment he touched her…

  She rested her head in her hands and moaned. Heavens, what was wrong with her? He was a scoundrel, she told herself fiercely, an accomplished rogue, and no gentleman. Even his peers recognized that.

  How could she think about wanting another man when her husband was barely cold in his grave? The weight of her guilt pressed on her chest, an invisible burden.

  In truth, she’d had enough of men and their empty promises. Hadn’t her father promised to come home to Geneva? And hadn’t Emile, the eternal optimist, assured her they would have a better life in America? Even Gideon had sworn the British army would protect them.

  Mara picked up a penknife and began sharpening a quill, muttering under her breath. They were all the same. No matter how earnestly they might vow to love and honor, or pledge their protection, in the end they would invariably leave to do something foolish and get themselves killed. She had seen it happen to her father and to Emile. It could happen yet to Gideon.

  And Corbeau was the worst of the lot, surely destined for a bad end, though why she cared was a mystery.

  No, the only man who’d been different was her grandfather, and all he had promised her was eternal damnation. That was the only promise she believed.

  A sudden draft of air stirred her hair. She turned, expecting to see Corbeau, but jumped up at the sight of Private Vache standing in the doorway. “What do you want? The store is closed.”

  He stepped inside and shut the door. He said nothing, just stood there, breathing heavily.

  A frisson of fear crawled up her spine. Surreptitiously, she tightened her grip on the knife. It was not large, but it was sharp and, more importantly, the only weapon available.

  Hiding it in a fold of her skirt, Mara stood and began to edge toward the door to Claude and Sophie’s quarters. Vache kept pace with her on the other side of the counter, his manner menacing.

  “Don’t leave, mamselle. Jus’ want some company,” he muttered.

  The stale odor of whiskey wafted from him, and she realized he was very drunk. She watched him warily, unsure what to do.

  “Saw you,” he said, smirking at her. “With Corbeau.”

  Heavens, how was that possible? He must have been spying on them through the window.

  He leered at her. “You kissed him. Now how about a kiss for Vache?”

  Realizing he was too drunk to reason with, she ran for the door. Before she could reach safety, he lunged over the counter and grabbed her sleeve, tearing her dress at the shoulder, and knocking her to the floor.

  Mara opened her mouth to scream, but he silenced her with one hand. She squirmed, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy. There was nothing left to do but use her weapon. She drove the blade into his side. When she heard him grunt, she knew it had penetrated his heavy wool uniform.

  He grabbed his side and stared at the blood on his fingers. His momentary shock gave her the chance she needed. She gulped, and then screamed as loudly as she possibly could.

/>   He swore and slapped her across the face. “Putain! Do you whore only for officers?”

  She continued to struggle, but his weight held her down. The reek of his unwashed body and the staleness of his breath were almost enough to make her pass out. Just as she thought she would faint, the door flew open and Corbeau ran inside.

  *

  Jacques took one look at what was happening, let out a roar of rage, and using one hand for balance, vaulted over the counter. Vache looked up in surprise and tried to stand. Jacques grabbed him by the back of the coat and hauled him off Mara.

  He spun Vache around and slammed a fist into his nose, feeling a grim satisfaction when he heard it crack. Blood splattered over the man’s gray uniform coat.

  But it wasn’t enough. Rage welled up from deep within him, blood pounded in his ears, and he lost awareness of everything but his need to strike back. Jacques pummeled Vache with his fists, punishing him, not only for what he had done to Mara, but for all the wrongs that had never been avenged. Through the haze of fury, he was dimly aware of someone shouting at him to stop, but he kept striking out until strong arms restrained him.

  “Enough, Corbeau! You’ll kill him.”

  Jacques turned his head to find Claude Bernard holding his arms. Slowly, very slowly, his reason returned.

  Vache now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, moaning and retching. Sophie stood in the doorway, a horrified look on her face. When Babette cried out, she turned and left.

  Alain burst into the room, followed by two sentries. “What’s going on here?”

  Jacques pointed at Vache. “That vermin attacked Madame Dupré.”

  Alain walked over and examined the man. “My God, Corbeau, did you try to kill him?” Stooping, he picked up a knife.

  Jacques frowned. “That is not…”

  “It is mine.”

  The sentries gaped at Mara, their eyes wide.

  Alain’s lips twisted in a smile. “I heard that you were a dangerous woman, madame.”

  “Let this be a lesson to all,” Jacques said, looking sternly at the soldiers crowding into the store. “Any man here who tries to harm Madame Dupré will answer to me.”

  “Jacques,” Alain hissed a warning. “Remember what we discussed.”

  Jacques spun to glare at his friend. Didn’t the man realize that Mara’s life was more important than his reputation? “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Gauthier.”

  Without another word, Jacques hurried to Mara, who was huddled on the floor. Her hair had come undone and was tumbled around her shoulders.

  He knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and brushed her hair away from her face. When Jacques saw the angry red mark on her cheek, new rage surged through him. “I should have killed him,” he seethed through gritted teeth.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to shake. He pulled her into his embrace, rocking her back and forth. “I should never have left you, chérie. Forgive me.”

  “My fault,” she stammered between stifled sobs. “Forgot to lock the door after you left.” She pulled back to look at him. “He watched us through the window. Said he wanted a kiss, too.”

  Jacques bit back a curse. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that he never bothers you again.”

  Turning to Alain, he barked an order. “Get that piece of filth out of here.”

  Alain nodded stiffly and ordered two of the soldiers to pick up the injured man.

  Jacques waited until the others were gone, then stood and helped Mara up. When her legs gave out under her, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the Bernard’s quarters. He heard Sophie crooning to Babette up in the loft, but otherwise all was quiet. He set Mara on the bed and knelt in front of her. Gently, he touched her face. “You will have a bruise tomorrow.”

  She grimaced. “It could have been much worse. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  She picked up his hands and examined the bloody knuckles. “No, but you are.”

  He shrugged. “A small price to pay.”

  Her dress was torn at one seam, revealing a creamy shoulder. Jacques stifled a groan. The game was over. He was no longer playing at love with her. The need to claim her had become primal. He had to fight a primitive urge to strip her of her ruined garment, lay her back on the bed, and hold her, comfort her, love her until she forgot what had just happened. Until she knew she belonged to him.

  Regretfully, he admitted that if he did, he would be no better than the monster who attacked her.

  Reining in his desire, he reminded himself that she was hurt, frightened, and vulnerable. He squeezed her hands lightly. “Your dress is ruined. I will buy you another.”

  “No, you will not,” she said firmly, pulling away.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “So you can add that to the price of your ransom demand? I think not.”

  Her words pierced him to the core. “Must you always think the worst of me?”

  “Forgive me,” she said. “You didn’t deserve that. You saved me from…” A shudder racked her body. “Thank you.”

  “That will never happen to you again,” he vowed. “I swear it.”

  She placed her fingers over his mouth to stop his words. “Don’t swear, Jacques. Please, no more promises.”

  He took hold of her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Silently, he made a vow to protect this lady—his lady—if he had to die in the attempt.

  Chapter 9

  Gideon Harcourt sat outside his tent at the advanced British camp at Loyalhanna Creek, taking advantage of the late September sunshine. Though the trees were still green, autumn was on its way. Time was running out for the expedition against Fort Duquesne, and Grant’s defeat weighed heavily on his spirits.

  Gideon sighed and looked up to see Ensign Blane approaching with a man wearing the gray uniform of the Compagnie Franche de la Marine. Hoping against hope for news of Mara, Gideon felt his heart rate increase.

  He stood as they approached. “Welcome back, Ensign.”

  “Major Harcourt, may I present Lieutenant de Rocheblave from Fort Duquesne?”

  “Pleased to meet you, monsieur,” Gideon said with a slight nod of his head. “Well, gentlemen, do not keep me in suspense. Have you news of my sister?”

  Ensign Blane reached into a pocket of his uniform jacket, pulled out a familiar-looking pouch, and handed it to Gideon. “Your sister asked me to give you this. She said it was a family heirloom.”

  Gideon accepted the pouch but didn’t open it. He knew what it was—their father’s watch. “Thank you, ensign. Then she is well?”

  When Blane hesitated, Gideon’s stomach clenched. He took a step forward. “Is something wrong? Is she ill?”

  Archie stared at the ground and swallowed hard before looking at Gideon. “The other evening, after I spoke with your sister, she was attacked in the trading post by a common soldier.”

  “My God,” Gideon exclaimed.

  “She was not badly hurt, monsieur,” Lieutenant de Rocheblave assured him. “Just roughed up a bit. Some bruises, nothing more.”

  A wave of relief tinged with guilt flooded through Gideon. This was all his fault. He should have taken better care of her. “I must get her away from there before something like this happens again.”

  “You need not worry about that,” de Rocheblave said. “After the attack, Corbeau made it clear that anyone who harms her will have to answer to him.”

  Gideon frowned. “Corbeau?”

  Blane and de Rocheblave exchanged a glance. “He is the officer who took her captive,” Archie explained.

  De Rocheblave removed a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “I have a message for you from Captain de Ligneris. As I understand the situation, it will be necessary for you to pay a ransom for the return of your sister.”

  Gideon quickly perused the note, and then swore, softly but violently. The amount was more than he had expected. “Why so
high?”

  De Rocheblave’s face was impassive. “I believe that our Indian allies were paid a bounty for both your sister and her husband. We regret…” He waved a hand. “Surely, sir, you are acquainted with the realities of war.”

  Fury washed over Gideon as the memory of Emile’s bloody body flashed through his mind. His fist tightened, crumpling the ransom note. It was all he could do to keep from shoving the paper down the Frenchman’s throat.

  He sucked in a deep breath and regained control. “Lieutenant, I am but a poor soldier. I cannot come up with such a princely sum today, but I will do what I can.”

  “I understand,” de Rocheblave replied.

  “In the meantime, perhaps you will allow me to write a note to my sister. You may read it first if you wish.”

  “I am sure that is not necessary, monsieur. I shall be glad to wait.”

  Gideon went inside the tent to compose his message in private. If only there were something he could send Mara, something that would ensure her safety among the British if he did not survive the campaign. He thought for a moment until the answer came to him.

  Removing the watch from the pouch, he replaced it with his Masonic ring. The British army was full of field lodges, and the Masons looked after each other.

  Relieved, he sat down at his traveling desk, picked up his quill, and wrote a short message. After sanding the paper, he folded it into a small square and put it in the pouch with the ring.

  Outside, he handed the pouch to de Rocheblave. “If you would give this to my sister, I will be forever in your debt.”

  “It is my pleasure.” The Frenchman started to leave, but then hesitated, turning back to Gideon. “Monsieur, I urge you to make haste in assembling the ransom.”

  Gideon was puzzled. “From what you said, I assumed that Mara is no longer in danger. That the officer who took her captive will protect her.”

  De Rocheblave cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, but who will protect her from Corbeau?”

  “Surely, he is an officer and a gentleman.”

  The two young men exchanged another pointed look.

  “What are you not telling me, ensign?”

  Blane reddened and began to speak rapidly. “By all reports, Corbeau is no gentleman. I didn’t get the whole story, but apparently, he is the bastard son of a nobleman. Had to leave France after getting involved in some kind of scandal. Affair of honor, you know. His father wanted nothing to do with him afterward.”