Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  He smiled. “Yes, but it is such a pleasure to hear you talk back to me, I could not resist. As for earning your keep, that is not necessary. Have I not promised to take care of you? Do you not have everything you need?”

  “Oh, yes, everything except my freedom and my good name.” All she had left was her self-respect, and she’d nearly lost that at Fort Duquesne. Had Jacques not held to his honor that night, she’d have lost everything. For that, she was grateful to him.

  “When I have something useful to do, as I did at Fort Duquesne, I can forget my situation, my captivity, at least for a while. Is that so much to ask?”

  He held up a hand. “Very well, you may work off your captivity.”

  She stared at him. Was this another trick? “Don’t tease me. Not if you don’t meant it.”

  He winced. “You do not trust me at all, do you? Have I not been honest with you?”

  And so he had, she allowed silently. “What shall I do to earn my freedom?”

  He rubbed his chin with his long narrow fingers. “You are far too lovely to be a serving maid. I have no wish to break up a fight every evening. However, if you are willing to help in the kitchen…”

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed quickly. She was relieved to hear that she would not have to be around drinking customers. Gideon would be furious if he knew she was working in a tavern, and her grandfather was probably turning in his grave already.

  “Agreed. I am not averse to hard work, and I am a very good cook. I must have my own room, however.”

  His lips curved into a rueful smile. “I would expect no less, madame.”

  She offered her hand. “Say no more, Jacques. I agree to your offer.”

  Solemnly he shook her hand to seal the bargain.

  *

  Gideon threaded his way through the crowded waterfront tavern, looking for an empty table. It was his last night in Philadelphia, and he intended to celebrate his transfer.

  He sat down at a small table in a corner of the room. Most of the customers were sailors, but there was a smattering of redcoats as well. The place smelled of sweat, smoke, and ale. It was hardly the type of establishment he usually frequented, but for the few hours until his ship sailed, it would do.

  In a few weeks, he would arrive in Canada. When he’d heard that two battalions of Royal Americans were scheduled to take part in the planned British expedition against Quebec, he had requested a transfer, which Colonel Bouquet had reluctantly granted. Gideon was sorry to leave his old comrade, but he was certain Mara had been taken north.

  After the fall of Fort Duquesne, he had questioned one of the Delaware Indians. The warrior, Gray Wolf, had told him that Mara’s French captor expected to be transferred back to Canada. Gray Wolf had been equally sure that Corbeau would take her with him. The bastard! Gideon’s eyes narrowed. One day he intended to find this Frenchman and deal with him as he deserved.

  “What will ye have, sir?”

  Gideon looked up to see a comely, brown-haired wench smiling at him. She bent over the table, giving him a good view of her considerable cleavage.

  “Well,” he drawled, still staring at the lavish display, “that depends. What are my choices?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “We have fine ale, captain.”

  “Major,” he corrected absently, then shook his head. “Ale is a common brew. What else?”

  “Good corn whiskey.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing more… intoxicating than that?”

  She flashed him a saucy smile, and a dimple appeared in one cheek. “Just me.”

  He smiled and reached out to caress her ample bottom. “Ah, the ultimate in aphrodisiacs.”

  She blinked at him. “Eh?”

  “Never mind,” he said and stood up. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  She put down her serving tray and took his hand. “Right this way, Major. Don’t you worry none, Peg will take care of you right and tight.”

  She led him upstairs to a small room containing a bed and a small table. He helped her undress, dropping kisses on her shoulders and breasts. Under the rough linen shift, her skin was fair and smooth as silk. She was young and nubile, and his body responded, though his long-buried Calvinist conscience protested.

  The spiraling need in his loins soon drowned out all else. He undressed quickly and joined her on the bed, stopping only to pull a cundum from his pocket and smooth it over his aroused shaft. Young though she was, he doubted it was her first time and it never paid to take chances.

  She was as soft, warm, and welcoming as he’d expected, and as enthusiastic as he’d hoped. Her lips flickered over his skin with heated desire while her hands caressed him with the sure movements of a woman who knew how to please a man.

  All he wanted to do was enjoy her as greedily as possible. His knee moved to part her thighs, then he buried himself in her softness. She arched her hips to meet his passion, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. His release came in a tremor of satisfaction that shook his body.

  Afterwards, they lay on the tangled sheet, arms and legs entwined.

  “You’re a beautiful man, major,” she said, playing with the hair on his chest.

  Gideon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly, Peg. Men aren’t beautiful.”

  “‘Tisn’t silly,” she insisted. “You ‘mind me of a fallen angel.”

  He was amused in spite of himself. “Just how did you come to that conclusion?”

  She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him, an earnest expression on her young face. “Me mam always said that angels were real pretty, with gold hair and blue eyes, just like yours. Only, you look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

  He sighed. “You’re right about that, but I’m not at all certain I’ve come back.”

  “That’s why I figure you’re a fallen angel.”

  He chuckled. She was sweet and funny, and it was hard to be serious around her. “Like Lucifer, you mean.”

  “Well, you are a devil with the ladies, ain’t you?” she asked, her brown eyes twinkling.

  “If it’s deviltry you want, miss,” he said, stroking her thigh, “I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Two hours later, Gideon reluctantly rose, leaving a sated-looking Peg sprawled in the bed. After donning his uniform, he pulled the agreed amount out of his pocket, hesitated, and added another guinea before heading for his ship. His last night in the city had turned out to be memorable after all. It just might be the last earthly pleasure granted him.

  *

  Mara soon fell in love with Quebec. During her first three weeks there, she took every opportunity to explore the town. She peeked into shop windows, listened in on conversations, and absorbed all the sights, sounds, and smells of a city.

  She climbed the rutted, muddy road to Upper Town and happily wandered the streets, enjoying the pale sun that peeked between the tall buildings and around the church spires that seemed to reach right to heaven. At last she had found her way back to civilization.

  She smiled at passersby, most of whom looked at her askance. She could not blame them, knowing that in her worn linsey-woolsey she must appear the lowliest of peasants. If only she had a new dress. Perhaps when she finished working off her captivity Jacques would pay her real wages, enough to buy material for a gown. Her fingers itched to take up needle and thread again.

  She passed by the Ursuline Convent and stopped to stare. What induced a young woman to enter into that kind of cloistered existence, to vow never to marry? Not that marriage was so wonderful, but to voluntarily give up any chance of having a child of one’s own, that she could not understand.

  Since the weather had warmed up a little, green buds were starting to appear on the trees lining the river. Occasional patches of snow still dotted the cliffs, but spring was in the air, and as the earth awakened from its winter sleep, so did her senses. All she had needed was hope. A person could live indefinitely on hope, she decided.

  Free. Soon she’d be free.

&
nbsp; Earlier that morning, the city had buzzed with excitement when the sails of a ship were spotted upriver. When she returned to Lower Town, she saw that a crowd had gathered at the docks to greet the arrivals. Several high-ranking French officers were among the passengers. Mara gaped at their fine, white, woolen uniforms.

  The crowd called out to the shortest of the men.

  “Bougainville, what news from France?”

  The officer just grimaced and shook his head. Disappointed murmurs swept through the onlookers, and they began to disperse. Ah, Mara thought. The war must not be going well for the French. She smiled to herself, trying to hide her satisfaction. Perhaps it would all be over soon and she could return to Geneva.

  She had started to head back to the tavern when her attention was caught by the taller officer. He was slender, with gray eyes, and there was something about him that seemed familiar. Puzzling.

  He turned to a soldier in the crowd. “You, there. I am looking for a particular officer. His name is Jacques Corbeau. Do you know him?”

  As the soldier shrugged and shook his head, Mara stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir. I know where Lieutenant Corbeau can be found.”

  The man turned toward her. His nose was long and aquiline, his brows straight and black, his lips finely etched. “Can you take me to him, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes. Follow me.”

  Silently, she led the way, occasionally peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. He was the picture of elegance from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. His hair was immaculately styled and powdered under his gold-braided felt tricorne hat. His uniform was of the finest white wool, lighter than the gray worn by the Canadian troops. Brass buttons gleamed in the sun. His well-shaped calves were covered with fine silk stockings, and his black leather shoes were polished to perfection. No doubt, some hard-working valet had spent hours preparing his master for his resplendent arrival in the colonial capital.

  He was everything Mara had imagined a French aristocrat to be: elegant, arrogant, and full of himself. Well, she did not plan to cater to him.

  When they arrived at Le Diable, he took one look at the sign, and a grimace twisted his elegant features. “A tavern?”

  “Lieutenant Corbeau is one of the owners,” Mara explained as she led him inside to the private room.

  The gentleman swore under his breath.

  Mara ignored his bad manners. “You can wait here while I find Lieutenant Corbeau.” She hesitated. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Tell him Viscomte d’Archambault wishes to speak with him.”

  Mara’s mouth dropped open as understanding dawned. He was a finer, slimmer, more elegant version of Jacques. He had to be his half-brother. The legitimate brother. There would be hell to pay now.

  She found Jacques in his office, but hesitated in the doorway.

  He looked up from his desk and smiled at her. “What is it, Mara? You are staring at me as if you have seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What the devil?”

  “There is a fine gentleman to see you. He came from the ship that just docked.” She took a deep breath for courage. “He said to tell you that he is Viscomte d’Archambault.”

  He froze, shock etched on his features. “Etienne is here?”

  “In the private parlor.”

  He rubbed his hand over his face. “I see. Take him a bottle of our best brandy and tell him I will be there shortly.”

  “Are you all right?”

  His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “I will survive, madame. I always do.”

  He touched his side, the one that was scarred, and she wondered if that had anything to do with his brother. Heavens, what had happened between them?

  He stood. “Go on, Mara. It is best not to keep aristocrats waiting.”

  She hurried to do his bidding, aware of a growing sense of unease. Jacques had said little of his past, just that he was a bastard, but others—Claude and Brother Denys—had hinted that he left France under some kind of cloud. Intuition told her it had something to do with his father or brother.

  She had just finished pouring the viscount a glass of cognac when Jacques came into the room. She stepped to a corner, reluctant to leave them alone.

  “Etienne. To what do I owe this singular honor?” Jacques asked with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  His brother stood up and looked around him, distaste apparent on his aristocratic face. “A tavern? Really, Jacques!”

  Jacques sauntered over to the table and poured some cognac for himself. “Surely it is not such a surprise, brother. I am merely returning to my origins.” He tossed back the contents of the glass and poured another. “Besides, as the only bastard in the officer corps, I have a reputation to maintain.”

  The viscount slammed his glass on the table, spraying droplets of the amber liquid. “And what am I supposed to tell Father?”

  Jacques shrugged. “Whatever you like. As always.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The two men, so alike yet so different, glared at each other across the table. Mara wrung her hands. Neither one would back down, of that she was certain. A few more insults, and they were liable to come to blows. She took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, please…”

  Jacques jumped at her words. “Mara, I did not realize you were still here.” He held out a hand to her.

  She walked to stand beside him. “You have not introduced me to your guest.”

  “Madame Dupré, this is my brother, Etienne, Viscomte d’Archambault.”

  She nodded, but refused to curtsy. He might be an aristocrat, but so far the viscount had not behaved very nobly.

  “Very pretty, Jacques. Your latest conquest, I take it.”

  Mara felt Jacques stiffen, and she placed her hand on his arm. “Do not take offense,” she whispered. “That is what he wishes you to do.”

  He covered her hand with his. “As always, you are wise, madame.” Turning to his brother, he replied in an offhand way. “I do not appreciate you insulting my cook, Etienne.”

  “Speaking of which,” Mara said lightly, “I should be in the kitchen preparing for this evening’s meal. Can I trust the two of you to behave yourselves?”

  Jacques smiled and escorted her to the door. Thanks to Mara’s good sense, the situation had been defused. “We should be able to manage now,” he murmured.

  He turned back to face his brother. Arms folded across his chest, he decided to get to the point. “You have still not told me why you are here.”

  Etienne raised one eyebrow. “I have been assigned to the Marquis de Montcalm’s staff. I accompanied Colonel de Bougainville back from Paris.”

  Jacques grunted. Naturally, his highborn brother would receive a plum assignment on the staff of the commanding general. “I did not think you came all this way to pay me a visit. What news from France?”

  “The British are sending an expedition against Quebec.”

  Jacques nodded slowly. “I am not surprised. Quebec is the key to New France. And now that Fort Duquesne has fallen—”

  “When?”

  “In November. Don’t worry, brother. We left the English nothing but a smoking shell. Nevertheless, we have lost the Ohio, at least for the time being.”

  Etienne poured himself another glass of brandy. “For good, I fear. Paris grows weary of war.”

  “Did they send supplies and reinforcements?”

  “A few.” Etienne shrugged. “For all intents and purposes, New France is on her own.”

  Jacques laughed. “A lost cause, in other words. So, tell me, dear brother, what indiscretion did you commit to be sent to this hellhole?”

  Etienne cleared his throat before speaking. “I requested this assignment.”

  Jacques raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I was unable to get you transferred back to France.” Etienne held up a hand. “Father is not well. He wants us to reconcile our differences before he d
ies.”

  Jacques’s stomach began to churn. Did this mean that the old man had forgiven him, or was he just trying to atone for his own sins before dying? “Is he that ill?”

  “It is his heart. He could live for years, or die tomorrow. But since he wishes it, I am willing to forgive and forget.”

  “Ever the dutiful son,” Jacques observed with a sneer. “It is not as easy as that for me, you know. I was the one who almost died, the one who was disinherited and banished.”

  “And I was the one cuckolded.”

  Jacques clenched his teeth. How many times did he have to beg for forgiveness? “I had no right to interfere in your life, and for that I apologize.”

  Etienne’s body seemed to relax, and he laughed softly. “Ah, brother, if only I had listened to you then. Yvette has made my life a living hell. You were just the first. Since our son was born—”

  “You have a son?”

  Etienne nodded, a proud look on his face. “Didier is a fine boy. He will be six years old in December.”

  Jacques let out a breath. It had been seven years since he left France. Thank heaven, there was no doubt the boy was Etienne’s. “Father must be pleased.”

  Etienne’s smile faded. “He will be more so if you and I can come to terms. Are you willing to try?”

  Jacques rubbed his aching forehead. “I will give the matter some thought.”

  “Fair enough,” Etienne agreed. “I leave soon for Montreal but expect to return in a few weeks.”

  After he left, Jacques pulled out a chair and sat down, his arms resting on his knees, head and shoulders bowed, lost in memories he did not want to face.

  Chapter 13

  Mara loved the tavern kitchen. On the ground floor of the tavern, it was nestled back against the cliffs leading to Upper Town. The fireplace was almost as high as she was tall, with a separate bake oven off to one side. From a wooden strip above the hearth hung an assortment of copper and pewter pans and utensils. A large soup pot hung from an iron bar built into the back of the fireplace.

  It was such a pleasure to have everything she needed. On the frontier, she’d had to make do with the bare minimum—wooden utensils and no oven. But today she hurried through her preparations, settling for the standard Canadian fare of pea soup and bread. She was concerned about Jacques, not sure he should be left alone to brood over his brother’s visit.