Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  Bigley stood at attention. “Sir, the prisoner has escaped.”

  Gideon cursed loudly. “How in hell did that happen?”

  “We’re not exactly sure, sir. Private Green appears to have fallen asleep at his post.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Private Green entered minus musket, uniform coat and hat. He looked as bad as Gideon felt, not to mention terrified. “What happened, private?”

  The young man stared down at the ground. “I don’t rightly know, sir. I must’ve passed out.”

  “If you felt sick, why did you not ask to be relieved?”

  “But I didn’t feel sick. Not ‘til I woke up in the tent.”

  “In the tent?”

  Sergeant Bigley stepped forward. “Near as I can figure, the prisoner managed to untie himself and knock Private Green over the head. After dragging him into the tent, that Frenchy must have picked up his musket and took his place outside until the next sentry came on duty. Then he walked out of the camp as cool as you please.”

  Gideon frowned. There was something wrong here. “Did you check his bonds, sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir, that I did. I’d swear they was tight enough to keep him trussed up for days.”

  “What are you not telling me, Bigley?”

  The sergeant hesitated, his tanned face reddening, and Gideon suddenly knew what the missing ingredient was. “Did my sister visit the prisoner last night, private?”

  Green swallowed noisily. “Yes, sir. Twice.”

  Gideon sank onto a chair. Mara. She had betrayed him for the sake of her Frenchman. Bile rose in his throat but he forced it down.

  “I thought you knew, sir,” Private Green stammered. “She brought me a mug of tea.”

  “Tea?” Dear Lord, she must have drugged the tea.

  Green hung his head. “It was right after that I fell asleep.”

  Gideon sighed. “You’re confined to quarters, Private Green. And the cost of the musket and uniform will be taken out of your pay. Now get out of here, and be more careful in future.”

  “Yes, sir!” Private Green saluted and left, obviously relieved.

  “You were awful easy on him, sir.”

  “I’ll not have the boy flogged for something that is not his fault, sergeant. Now, what are the chances of locating the prisoner?”

  “I’ve sent out patrols, Major, but he’s been gone six hours or more.”

  “Very well, keep me informed. And sergeant, if you can find my sister, bring her to me. Immediately.”

  *

  Mara stood on the edge of a cliff, watching sunrise spread its radiance over the St. Lawrence. Light glittered on the water, turning it silver. Across the river, Quebec loomed out of the mist, like an enchanted castle in a fairy tale, one that would disappear if the seeker got too close. Out of reach, untouchable, just like the tarnished knight who had stolen her heart.

  A voice from behind startled her out of her reverie. “Mrs. Dupré?”

  She turned around to find a grim looking Sergeant Bigley. “Have you come for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Major Harcourt wants to see you.”

  She sighed. “I am sure he does. Very well, sergeant. Lead on.”

  The sergeant said nothing more as they walked back to camp. Mara debated about whether or not she should apologize for taking advantage of his good nature, but the stony look on his face discouraged any attempt at conversation. Perhaps later. First she had to face her brother.

  “How could you?” Gideon asked when Mara entered the tent. His tone of voice was soft, but the look on his face chilled her.

  She tried to reason with him. “I have been a captive. It is not something I wish on my worst enemy, much less the man I love.”

  “You drugged me,” he accused. “Your own brother. By all that’s holy, I should turn you over to Moncton for trial. How am I to explain the fact that a bound prisoner was able to escape?”

  “Perhaps the rope was rotten. I am not very strong, but I did not have any trouble cutting through it.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Why, Mara? Just tell me that.”

  “Gideon, can you not see that what you were doing was morally wrong? Jacques was no spy, just a prisoner of war.”

  “Give me one good reason why I should not turn you in.”

  “Because your actions were based on your irrational hatred of the French. You were not just doing your duty, you intended to make Jacques pay for Emile’s death and Father’s, as well. I could not let him suffer because of your personal desire for vengeance.”

  “I cannot believe that I have been betrayed by my own sister. God, Mara, where do we go from here?”

  She saw with abrupt clarity what their mother had intended. Searching his face for a hint of softness, she said, “Gideon, up to now, your enemy has been faceless and nameless. It is easy to hate under those circumstances. But if you cannot forgive me, then there is no hope for you.”

  *

  By the time August turned into September, Mara knew she was expecting. The signs were unmistakable: it had been at least six weeks since her last monthly, her breasts were sore and swollen, and she now suffered from morning sickness.

  She touched her abdomen, hardly able to believe that a child was growing there. Jacques’s child. After so many years of believing herself to be barren, her most fervent wish was to be granted—truly a miracle. How she longed to tell Jacques. Surely it was a sign from God that their love was not wrong. But now they were separated by a river, and a war, not to mention his obstinacy.

  She lay on her bunk, willing her stomach to behave. How she hated waking up with little to look forward to but nausea and boredom. Though the days were growing shorter, they seemed endless to her, pariah that she was. None of the English soldiers would speak to her unless absolutely necessary.

  But Gideon was the worst of all.

  She had tried to make it up to him at first—cooking for him, cleaning, waiting on him, trying to anticipate his every need. For a week, she had tiptoed around, afraid of inadvertently saying or doing the wrong thing, and always managing to do just that. Gideon had responded with all the charm of a grizzly bear with a backside full of buckshot. Finally, she had given up all hope of forgiveness and requested a tent of her own. He had agreed with alacrity.

  A lump formed in her throat but she ruthlessly swallowed it down. No more tears, she vowed. She had shed too many already. For the last three weeks she had lived in self-imposed isolation, alternately reliving her dream, fervently wishing it had never ended, and daydreaming of a mythical happy future with Jacques and their child.

  Jacques. She pictured his dear face in her mind, remembering every expression. How his gray eyes darkened with desire when he made love to her. How fiercely he scowled when he was angry, his thick black eyebrows knit into a frown. It was that scowl that had so frightened her at first, but that was before she realized how much emotion he had bottled up inside him. Hurt, shame, guilt. But most of all the need to be loved for who he was, the neglected bastard child of privilege.

  Gingerly she sat up, hoping her stomach would stay where it belonged. If he knew about the babe, he would surely marry her. Had he not been adamant about not siring another bastard? But romantic fool that she was, she did not want him to marry her for that reason alone.

  I love you, you imbecile. Isn’t that enough?

  But perhaps it wasn’t, male pride being what it was. His childhood had been even bleaker than her own, for she at least had had Gideon. And he was living proof that, to the male of the species, pride was more important than love.

  With a sigh, she got up and dressed in the same shabby clothing she’d worn for the last month. Never in her life had she been so needy. How was she to care for a babe when she had so little herself?

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. Underneath the sadness and lethargy, she seethed with a desperate rage. She was furious with Jacques, with Gideon, and with life.

  Jacques
had left his blue uniform coat behind when he made his escape. Mara picked it up and hugged it to her breast, breathing in the scent of wool mixed with his own musky odor. It was all she had left of him now, and she decided to wear it. The sleeves were much too long, so she turned back the cuffs twice. Not only was the coat warmer than her threadbare shawl, wearing it gave her the courage to face Gideon once more.

  Thus armed, she stepped outside into the cool September morn. Time was running out, winter would be upon them soon, and decisions needed to be made. Squaring her shoulders, she headed for her brother’s tent.

  He was eating breakfast when she poked her head inside. The smell of bacon assaulted her nose, and her stomach lurched. With a gasp she turned and left, hand covering her mouth.

  She stumbled to a nearby tree and leaned against it until her stomach settled again.

  “Mara, what is wrong?” Gideon asked from behind her.

  She turned to face him. “Nothing, just an upset stomach.”

  He touched his hand to her forehead. “Are you ill?” he asked, his voice sharp. “My God, you’re so pale.”

  “I am not ill,” she said. “Just nauseated.” She swallowed hard, dreading his reaction when he found out she was with child. Still, it was better he learn it from her than camp gossip. “Gideon, I think you should know that I am expecting.”

  “Expecting?” He looked confused for a moment then the color drained from his face. “My God! Is it Corbeau’s?”

  “No, one of my other lovers,” she snapped, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Of course it is Jacques’s child.”

  “I didn’t mean…” He pursed his lips. “Could you pretend Emile is the father?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Emile has been dead for a year now. Anyone who can count will know that is impossible.”

  His face turned red. “I was just thinking of what is best for the child.”

  “Gideon, we need to talk.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  There was a moment of silence during which they studied each other. His face was somber, but without a trace of the anger and petulance she had become accustomed to. Did that mean…?

  He cleared his throat. “I have thought about what you said, that I have become like Grandfather.”

  “Bitter and narrow-minded.”

  He winced. “Don’t forget ‘filled with hate, obsessed with revenge’.”

  “I was upset that day,” Mara said. “I spoke in anger.”

  “No, Mara, you spoke the truth.”

  Her heart filled with hope. “Does this mean you have forgiven me?”

  His crooked grin was all the answer she needed.

  “And when were you going to tell me that?”

  His grin widened. “Thought I’d let you suffer a little longer.”

  She made a face at him, and then held out a hand. “I have missed you, brother.”

  He hesitated for a second then drew her into his arms, his chin resting on the top of her head. “And I you.”

  Mara hugged him tightly around the waist and let her tears flow freely while he rubbed her back and made soothing noises. For a moment, she felt like a little girl again, leaning on the big brother she adored.

  “You are soaking my shirt,” he complained in a mild tone.

  She stepped back, laughing and crying at the same time. There was indeed a large wet mark on the front of his fine linen shirt.

  “Here, use this instead.”

  He handed her a handkerchief, which she used to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “What happens now?”

  He stared across the encampment, a thoughtful look on his face. “That is in the hands of God, and General Wolfe.”

  “You know something, Gideon. Tell me.”

  He turned back to her and raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say.”

  Mara bit her lower lip. “But I thought you had forgiven me.”

  “That does not mean I trust you with military secrets.” He tweaked her nose as he used to do when they were children.

  She smiled at him fondly. It felt good to have her brother back. “I am not a spy,” she protested mildly.

  “No, but you have demonstrated a certain sympathy for the enemy.”

  “I no longer think of them as the enemy. I have learned that the French are like everyone else. Some are good, some bad. Most of the people I met are likable. They do not deserve to suffer any more than the English settlers did. But it is war, so one side must win and the other must lose, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, that is the way of things.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Come to my tent, little sister. Let us see what the cards have to say.”

  “Oh, Gideon, you do not still have that deck of Devil’s Cards?” she cried, hurrying to keep up with him. “Grandfather will be turning in his grave.”

  Gideon laughed recklessly, and the sound chilled her. Was he still living his life in defiance of their grandfather? The man had been dead for six years now, but his tyranny continued to rule them both.

  No, she thought. She no longer judged everything in life by her grandfather’s standards. Unlike her, Gideon had been rebellious by nature, refusing to live by anyone’s dictates. Especially their grandfather’s. Perhaps his solution was the better of the two.

  As long as it did not lead him to an early grave. She shivered and resolved to speak to him about that the next chance she had. He was all the family she had left. Perhaps, besides her child, all the family she’d ever have.

  Slowly, she followed Gideon into his tent, thankfully noting that the remains of his breakfast had been cleared away.

  He reached into his trunk and drew out the pack of cards, which he had carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief, then spread them out on the table for Mara’s inspection. Surprised by their beauty, she stared at the colorful pictures, painted in brilliant shades of red, blue and gold.

  “You see, Mara, they are just cards with pictures on them.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Then why was Grandfather so opposed to them?”

  Gideon snorted. “Because he was afraid of anything he did not understand.”

  “There must be more to it than that.”

  He handed her the cards. “Shuffle them.”

  As she did so awkwardly, he said, “To some, the cards are just a game. Others believe they can tell the future.”

  Mara gasped and handed them back to him. “Surely that is not possible, Gideon.”

  He shrugged and began to lay the cards face down in a geometric pattern. “Why not judge for yourself?”

  Putting the rest of the deck aside, he turned over the chosen cards.

  Fascinated despite her misgivings, Mara joined him at the table to watch. “What does it mean?”

  He stared at the layout for a few moments. “I know it makes no sense, but some of these same cards turn up every time. This one, for example. The Destroyed Tower. I thought it represented the fall of Fort Duquesne, but here it is again.”

  Mara stared at the card and felt a chill go through her. “It is Quebec,” she whispered. “The city has already been nearly destroyed. What do the cards around it mean?”

  Gideon studied them for a moment. “In the past, the Tower has been surrounded by the suit of Swords, but this time it is the Coins. They tell of greed, jealousy, deception and treachery.”

  “Yes, that is right. Bigot has bled the colony dry, and the Governor-General has let him. Together they have blocked Montcalm at every turn. New France will fall to the English.”

  Gideon stared at her with upraised eyebrows. “Will it, by God?” He turned over all but the last card, naming each in turn: the Chariot, the Nine of Swords, and the Five of Cups. “Perhaps you are right, after all. The Chariot could mean victory, but the next card indicates it will come at a price.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” Mara asked.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Death is the price of war.”

  She reached out to touch his hand. “Promise me you’ll be
careful.”

  He smiled, but the look in his eyes was serious. “I will try. In any case, you will be taken care of. I have written a will naming you as my heir.”

  “Not you, too. Corbeau has said the same thing.”

  “Ah? Perhaps he cares for you after all.”

  Mara sighed. “I know he does, but he is too stubborn to admit it. Somehow he has gotten it into his head that he is not good enough for me.”

  Gideon chuckled. “For once he and I agree.” Before she could protest, he held up a hand. “But this I promise you. If we meet again, I will make sure he does right by you.”

  She held her head up proudly. “I do not want him under those terms.”

  Gideon’s eyes narrowed in a stern glare. “Mara, you have to think about your child, now. Surely that is more important than hurt feelings.”

  “You are right, of course,” she said, suddenly tired. She pointed at the card depicting five golden goblets. “And what does this one mean?”

  His face relaxed in a smile. “In this case, it means the return of a long-lost relative.”

  Mara returned his smile with a lightening in her heart. “So it does. What does the last card say?”

  Gideon turned over the last card and his frown returned. “The Lovers,” he said with a sigh. “This has been the other constant. I can only conclude that it refers to you. And Corbeau.”

  His frown deepened as he reached out and mixed the cards together. “Bah, it is just a game. It means nothing.” Rising, he strode from the tent.

  Left alone, Mara picked up the card that had triggered his reaction, and warmth spread through her.

  The Lovers. Her Lover. Jacques. If this were not just a game, then perhaps there was still a chance for them to be together.

  *

  During the first week of September, the camp on the Etchemin River expanded to accommodate the bulk of Wolfe’s army.

  Mara knew something was afoot, but when she asked her brother for confirmation, he just shook his head. By the tense look on his face, she gathered that he knew little more than she.

  They were both taken by surprise when General Wolfe appeared in Gideon’s tent one day. Gideon leaped to attention, and Mara curtsied when she was introduced.