Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  Sergeant Charvat strolled into the kitchen, a pipe in his hand. “Where is Lieutenant Corbeau?”

  Mara turned to face him. “In the private parlor with a guest. Well, not a guest, exactly. Victor, what do you know about his brother?”

  He frowned, his bristling eyebrows giving him a fierce look. “The viscount? You cannot mean he came to dirty his hands in the Canadian stable?”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  “Rumor has it that when Colonel Bougainville asked for more reinforcements, he was told by the minister for the colonies that when the house is on fire one cannot save the stables.”

  “I saw Bougainville getting off the ship. He did not look pleased, but that is not what concerns me.” She hesitated, knowing it was none of her business, but unable to keep her curiosity to herself. Once started, the words tumbled from her mouth. “Victor, what do you know of Jacques’s relationship with his brother? There seems to be a lot of animosity between them. I was almost afraid to leave them alone. Did the viscount have anything to do with the reason Jacques left France?”

  The sergeant sighed and sat down at the table in front of the hearth. “I have always suspected that was the case, but the lieutenant is not one to talk about himself. We met seven years ago when he arrived here in Quebec and he was put in charge of my battery.”

  Puffing on his pipe, Victor began to reminisce, his face taking on a faraway look. “I will never forget my first sight of him. He was so pale and thin, I doubted he’d last the winter.”

  “Jacques?” Mara scoffed. “He is as strong as an ox.”

  Victor’s face crinkled in a smile. “To be sure, he is now, but not then.”

  Mara sank into the chair opposite him. “He was sick?”

  “He had been gravely wounded, and was still recovering.”

  “Are you talking about that terrible scar on his side?” When Victor nodded, Mara asked, “How did it happen?”

  “In a duel. But that is a story he must tell you himself.”

  “Etienne,” she whispered, suddenly feeling a chill. No wonder there was such anger between them. “What in the world could make two brothers fight a duel?”

  Victor shrugged. “Who is to say? Young men are hot-blooded.”

  “And foolish.”

  Victor just laughed at her tart reply and sucked on his pipe. “Perhaps they fought over a woman.”

  She froze, remembering how Jacques had reacted when his brother referred to her as his latest conquest. It made sense, given his passionate nature and Etienne’s obvious pride. Who had the woman been? Was she waiting for Jacques in France? Did he still love her?

  Mara shook her head. No, if he had truly loved her, he would never have left her behind. And had she loved him, she would have followed him to the ends of the earth. Even to Canada.

  “Do not worry, madame,” Victor said softly. “There is no one else.”

  Flustered, Mara felt her cheeks heat up. “What are you talking about?”

  The man pointed the end of his pipe at her. “I have noticed the way he watches you, like a cat stalking its prey.”

  Mara jumped up, strode to the hearth, and began stirring the soup. “That is hardly a flattering comparison.”

  Victor let out a hearty chuckle. “Perhaps not, but it is apt. Do not worry, madame. The boy has a good heart. And he protects his own.”

  Mara shivered, despite the heat from the fireplace. It was true what Victor said about Jacques protecting his own. It was the one thing that had made her captivity bearable. He seemed to care about her, and she cared…

  The realization startled her. When had she started to care? The night he saved her from Vache, or when he had comforted her after the battle, holding her and kissing her so tenderly? Perhaps it had crept up on her during the long winter when he treated her with kindness and consideration, giving her the time she needed to grieve for the life she had lost, time for her mind and soul to be healed.

  Regardless of when it had happened and whether or not she liked it, the fact was that she did care.

  For now she refused to think about where her newly discovered feelings might lead. Tonight, he was the one who needed comforting, and she knew just what to do.

  “Victor,” she said slowly, “how would you like to help me make a special dinner for Jacques?”

  *

  Long after Etienne left, Jacques sat in the private parlor, lost in his memories. He was dimly aware when daylight faded into evening, but made no move to light a lamp. A rush of bitter remembrance filled his mind, scenes from another lifetime, one best forgotten. It all flooded back to him, in perfect detail.

  Etienne’s rage at his betrayal. His father’s cold disapproval. The triumph in Yvette’s eyes when he’d confronted her with her lies.

  For a moment, he believed himself back in the small clearing, shrouded by early morning mist. He recalled the clash of steel as he defended himself against Etienne’s savage attack, careful to avoid hurting his furious opponent. Most of all he remembered the satisfied gleam in his brother’s eyes as his blade pierced Jacques’s side.

  Other memories filled his head. The crimson stream staining his white shirt. The pain and fever that followed. The certainty he was dying, and the fear that he might survive. The guilt and humiliation he had felt afterward. Guilt and humiliation he had never been able to outrun, though he’d crossed an ocean in the attempt.

  Jacques ran his hand over his eyes, feeling an unexpected moistness. It had all been his fault, because he was an outsider, because he did not understand. Only afterwards did he realize it had all been a game, and he the only one who did not know the rules. Stupid bastard that he was.

  He was still sitting in the dark when Mara and Victor arrived. She carried a candle in one hand and a decanter of wine in the other. Victor balanced a large pewter tray containing two wine glasses, a steaming copper pot and a plate of bread cubes.

  “I have brought you supper,” she announced.

  Jacques waved her away. “I am not hungry.”

  “But I made you a special treat—Swiss fondue.”

  She set the decanter on the table and used her candle to light the oil lamp overhead, the flare of light illuminating her hair. Instead of being pulled back in her customary braid, it was tied with a blue ribbon to cascade down her back like a golden waterfall. He felt a sudden urge to run his hands through it. If she meant to distract him from Etienne’s visit, it was working.

  Victor carefully put the tray down on the table, winked at Jacques, and silently left the room, closing the door behind him. Something was afoot.

  Mara poured wine into the glasses and handed one to Jacques.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “I thought you did not drink, madame.”

  She smiled. “I am becoming accustomed to the taste. Besides, the tavern has a much better selection than that swill you drank at Fort Duquesne.”

  He took a sip and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “This is some of my best Bordeaux.”

  “Yes, and who better to drink it than the proprietor? And his cook.”

  He smiled, grateful for her presence. It was obvious she was trying to cheer him up, but it was so unlike her to tease that he was caught by surprise. “Will you eat with me?” he asked, loath to be alone again.

  “That was my intention.” She bustled over to the table and began arranging the items on the tray. “Have you ever had fondue before?”

  He shook his head and stared doubtfully at the melted cheese mixture.

  Mara picked up a fork, speared a cube of bread, dipped it in the fondue, and held it out to him.

  He took a bite and nodded his approval. “Delicious.”

  “It would be even better if I had real Gruyère cheese, but this will have to do.” She handed him the fork. “Now you try it.”

  He mimicked her actions, but when he pulled the fork out of the pot, the bread was gone.

  “Ah,” Mara said, “now you must pay a forfeit.”

  He tu
rned to her with an amused look on his face. “What kind of forfeit?”

  She cocked her head to one side, a teasing look on her face. “Sometimes it is a bottle of wine.”

  He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I knew it, you are after my vintage Bordeaux.”

  She giggled. “Since I am still not overly fond of wine, I will not demand a forfeit.”

  “Is there no alternative?” he asked. When he saw a blush creep up her face, he pressed the point. “What are you not telling me, madame?”

  “Sometimes it is a kiss.”

  He drew in a quick breath. “A much better idea, do you not agree?”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “I suppose so.”

  Jacques’s heart began to pound in his breast. It had been more than six months since he had kissed her, that last night at Fort Duquesne. Careful not to alarm her, he cupped her chin with one hand and lightly touched his lips to hers.

  “I think I am going to like fondue very much,” he decided.

  He pulled out a chair for her, and inched his own close so that their knees touched under the table. When she dipped her fork in the pot, he jostled her elbow, and she lost the bread.

  “You did that on purpose,” she accused him with a smile.

  He shrugged. “A forfeit is a forfeit. It is your turn to kiss me.”

  She shook her head but complied with his request, kissing him sweetly but tentatively.

  Jacques lost more bread than he ate, and soon he was intoxicated on wine and kisses. With each kiss, he grew bolder, slipping his tongue inside her mouth, savoring the tangy taste of cheese and Bordeaux.

  Finally she put a hand on his chest. “Enough.”

  He smiled lazily. “Oh, no, madame. I will never get enough of your kisses.”

  “I meant that there is no more fondue, just half a loaf of soggy bread.” She stood and piled the dirty dishes on the tray. “I should take this to the kitchen.”

  “No,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “I will call someone to come for it.” He walked over to a bell pull and tugged on it. A few minutes later, one of the serving girls arrived to take the tray.

  “Tell Sergeant Charvat I do not wish to be disturbed,” Jacques said. “I do not think I can deal with any more company today.”

  After the girl left, Jacques poured what was left of the wine into their glasses. Taking Mara by the hand, he led her to a bearskin rug in front of the hearth. “We can sit here and talk.”

  “All right.” She sat with her legs drawn up in front of her. Peering at him over her glass, she asked, “What did your brother want?”

  Jacques groaned, his pleasure in the evening replaced by regret. “Etienne came to tell me that our father is not well and that he wants us to put our differences behind us.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it is even possible.”

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  “Not really.” His past was the one subject he wished to avoid, but he doubted she would let it be.

  “I would like to know more about your life in France,” she insisted. “All I know is that you are a bastard and that you were born in a tavern.”

  He sighed heavily. “Very well, madame, but it is not a happy story.”

  She smiled encouragingly, the firelight illuminating one side of her face and casting the other in shadow. He wanted to make love to her, not talk about his miserable past. A past he’d kept shrouded since arriving in New France. Besides Etienne, only Alain Gauthier knew the whole sordid story.

  But perhaps Mara needed to know who he was, what he was really like. And, if she had any sense, she’d run from him, as far and as fast as possible.

  “When I was two years old,” he said, “my mother ran off with an acting troupe. The landlord of the inn contacted the count who came and took me to an orphanage.”

  “How awful for you!”

  He grinned at her indignant outburst. “It was not so bad. The sisters were strict but fair, and there were other children there. Children like me, with no parents. No one was better than anyone else, we were all the lowest of the low, but God’s creatures nonetheless, as the reverend mother was fond of saying.

  “Five years later, my father showed up again and took me to his château.” He smiled, remembering how awe-struck he’d been at the sight.

  “Why did he wait so long?”

  His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “As long as his wife was alive, he refrained from taxing her with the presence of his bastard.”

  She bit her lip. “It was good of him to take you in, at last.”

  Jacques spoke calmly, making an effort to keep all bitterness from his voice. “He did his duty. He saw that I was fed and clothed and educated, but it was not as if I had a real father. All of his love, his concern, was for his heir.”

  “Etienne?”

  He nodded. “It was not until he sent Etienne and me to school that I understood why he took me out of the orphanage, and by then I wished he had not.”

  “What happened at school?”

  He shrugged. “Unlike the orphanage, the pupils were not all equals. As a bastard, I was a natural target.”

  “And Etienne?”

  “He was a sickly child, so I found myself defending both of us. Fortunately, I was big for my age and good with my fists. They soon learned to leave us alone, but my God, how we looked forward to vacations.”

  He drained his glass of Bordeaux, wondering why it was no longer having any effect on him. He’d welcome a wine-induced stupor.

  “It sounds like school brought you and Etienne closer,” Mara observed.

  “Yes, so much so that we both went into the same regiment afterward. Of course, I was not supposed to be an officer. That is generally reserved for sons of the aristocracy, or of wealthy merchants like Colonel Bougainville. But Etienne talked Father into getting me a commission, too. It cost him a substantial amount, you may be sure.”

  “If you and Etienne were so close, what could possibly have come between you?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to go on, but knowing she would not rest until he had told the whole story. “We fought over a woman.”

  “So, Victor was right. He suspected that was the case. Did you love her?” she asked with just a hint of dread in her voice.

  He hesitated, not sure how best to answer her question. Not sure how she wanted him to answer it. “Are you afraid of competition?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, and looked adorable doing so. “No, just wondering.”

  “I thought I was in love,” he admitted, “and so did Etienne. Yvette was a young widow determined to make up for the time she’d lost wed to an old man. She was beautiful and amoral. I was good enough to warm her bed, but not good enough to marry. When Etienne proposed, she accepted him, but let me know that our affair did not have to end.”

  Jacques ran his hands through his hair. “That was when I realized I loved my brother more than I cared for her. How could I stand back and let him marry a woman like that?”

  She put down her glass of wine, untouched. “You told him about the affair.”

  “Yes. He confronted her, and she lied, said I had made up the whole story just to ruin her reputation. He chose to believe her.”

  Mara crept closer and touched his arm lightly. “You did the right thing.”

  “No, what I did was dishonorable.”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “Do not say that,” she replied fiercely. “You are a kind and loyal man. Better than any viscount.”

  He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “For that, I thank you. Nevertheless, I should have kept quiet. Etienne is so proud, and easily insulted. He challenged me to a duel.”

  “Oh, Jacques,” she murmured in a compassionate tone.

  He gazed at the fire, unable to look at her, afraid of the pity he might see in her face. “I apologized, but Etienne refused to listen to reason. I
fought defensively, but he was ruthless. Nothing less than my blood would satisfy him.”

  She crawled closer and put her arms around him. “That awful scar on your side?”

  “I nearly bled to death,” he said, trying to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “Alain took me to his rooms and found a doctor to tend my wound. He told my father but he refused to even come and see me. When I recovered, I was transferred”—he laughed and it sounded harsh even to his ears—”I was transferred to Quebec. Yesterday was the first time I have seen Etienne since the duel.”

  She hugged him tighter, her cheek pressed to his. “I am so sorry, Jacques. I know how hard it is to be estranged from one’s family. My grandfather stopped speaking to Gideon years before he died. It hurt both of them deeply.”

  Jacques closed his eyes and reveled in the sweet comfort she offered him. She hadn’t run away, he marveled. She was here in his arms, warm and soft and womanly.

  “Mara,” he murmured. “Do not leave me tonight. I need you.”

  The words were out before he could stop them. He drew back to look at her. Her eyes seemed huge, clouded by uncertainty. In the flickering firelight she appeared ethereal, more angel than woman. He had no right to her love, but could not stop himself from wanting it.

  “Mara…” He stood up and looked away, knowing he was dangerously close to begging. Not sure what he would do if she left, he stared into the fire, silently pleading with her. Don’t leave, not now when it hurts so badly.

  Mara took a deep, unsteady breath and rose to her feet as well. His softly worded plea was more urgent than a command, compelling her to respond. Reaching out to him, she smoothed her hands over his cheeks, his brow. The pain of his past was carved in merciless lines on his face, and she reached up to smooth them away. “Yes,” she whispered. “I will stay.”

  He took one of her hands in his and held it to his breast, letting her feel the drumbeat of his heart. “Are you sure, mon coeur?”

  Her heart ached at the endearment. My heart. It was the closest he had come to saying that he loved her. She could ask no more of him. “I am sure.”