Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  She struggled to keep her voice soft and even. “Emile, I know how important this farm is to you. But what will it matter if we’re killed tomorrow?”

  He held up a hand. “Can we discuss this later? Now I must go back to work.” He handed her the musket and headed to the small vegetable garden beside their cabin.

  As she watched him walk away, resentment and guilt churned inside her. Resentment for the dreams she’d given up for him. And guilt, that even when he came to her in the night, her heart still longed for those dreams.

  Slowly Mara followed him with the musket that was their constant companion. Like the rest of the frontier settlers, they kept a state of constant vigilance, never knowing when danger might swoop down on them from the other side of the mountains. They did not fear the wild creatures of the forest, though mountain lions, wolves, and bears roamed the woods in search of food. No, the real peril walked on two legs and carried muskets and tomahawks.

  A drop of perspiration trickled down her face and she swiped at it with her hand. She felt restless and edgy, unaccountably so, and her clothes clung to her skin. She was still not accustomed to the extremes of weather in America—hot, breathless summers when the sweat never dried on her body, and winters so cold the chill penetrated to her soul. But she looked forward to winter, for only then did she feel safe. The threat of sudden death diminished while snow clogged the passes, keeping the French and their savage allies on the other side of the mountains.

  Again Mara focused her attention on the edge of the clearing and tensed when she realized the forest was unnaturally silent. Not even a birdcall sounded in the still air. Fear pricked the back of her neck.

  “Emile,” she called softly. “It is too quiet.”

  He glanced at her, his head cocked, and then he jumped up and grabbed the musket from her hands. “Get inside. Vite!”

  Mara ran toward the front of the cabin, Emile close behind. But before they could reach safety, a man emerged from the other side and blocked the door. Tall and dark haired, he wore a breechclout and buckskin leggings. She skidded to a stop, her breath rasping in short shallow gasps.

  Emile lifted his weapon to his shoulder and pointed it. “Run, Mara,” he cried. “Save yourself.”

  She swung to her left and saw an armed Indian appear from out of the forest. She looked frantically behind her and saw another. There was no escape.

  Death had come for them.

  Emile’s musket wavered as he caught sight of the two Indians. The first man stepped closer until he stood less than ten feet from them. His face was long and narrow, with a prominent nose and heavy black brows. He was shirtless, his chest covered with black hair. That and his whiskered jaw told her he was French, not Indian.

  “Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot,” Emile warned.

  The stranger paid no heed to Emile’s threat. His implacable gaze flashed from Mara to Emile. “Put the gun down, monsieur,” he said in perfect French. “I only wish to talk to you.”

  Emile glanced at Mara out of the corner of his eye. Then, a determined look hardened his features and he pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the clearing.

  A scream caught in Mara’s throat. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Through the gray smoke she saw the intruder, down on one knee, clutching his right shoulder as blood oozed between his fingers. Two more shots rang out, echoing in her ears like thunder.

  Emile’s body crumpled. He hit the ground, his weapon falling beside him. She ran to his side and gathered him in her arms. Blood gushed from his chest and trickled from his mouth.

  “Please, God,” she sobbed. “Don’t let him die.”

  Emile opened his mouth but only a strangled moan issued from between his lips. One last ragged breath racked his body, his eyes rolled upward, and he went limp in her embrace.

  Mara rocked back and forth, Emile’s body still cradled in her arms. She couldn’t let him go. Once she did, her past was over, and only an uncertain future lay ahead.

  Suddenly someone grasped her braid and jerked her head back. She looked up into a grinning, painted face and gasped. Oh Lord, would the Indians kill her, too? Emile was dead, and she was alone. Helpless at the mercy of these savages. Her heart pounded so hard it nearly burst from her chest.

  “No!” A voice of command rang out, and another figure stepped into view. It was the white man, blood streaming down his arm. “Let her go, Crazy Badger. She is our prisoner.”

  Her breath caught as the Indian held a knife to her throat.

  “Bah!” The other man spat. “My brother is too softhearted.”

  Slowly but firmly, the white man said, “Let the woman go.”

  The older Indian spoke for the first time. “Perhaps our brother wants the woman for himself,” he said, a sly expression on his face.

  Mara’s gaze flew to the white man. Dear Lord, what was going to happen to her? Would a swift death be more merciful after all?

  “Surely Raven does not desire a woman with pale skin and hair,” Crazy Badger said.

  “The woman must not be harmed. The British major may have told her something of importance.”

  The British major. Gideon. A shudder passed through Mara at the realization these enemies had been watching them.

  The two men glared at each other. For a tense moment each tested the other’s resolve.

  “The commander will pay as much for captives as for scalps,” the white man said.

  Listen to him, please, Mara begged silently.

  Crazy Badger tightened his grip, almost ripping her hair out by the roots. “Captives are too much trouble,” he replied. “Scalps do not have to be fed.”

  Bile rose in Mara’s throat and she swallowed convulsively. God help me, she prayed. But when had God ever listened to her pleas? A harsh laugh broke from her throat.

  Abruptly Crazy Badger let go of her braid. Mara slumped to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. Her life had been spared, but to what purpose? She’d heard tales of how the Indians tortured their prisoners. And the French were reputed to be worse.

  She spotted Emile’s musket on the ground beside him. It was empty, but she grabbed it and jumped up, wielding it like a club.

  Crazy Badger started toward her, but the Frenchman motioned him back. “Don’t be a fool, madame. Put the gun down.”

  She stared at him, praying silently for a glimmer of hope. Then she noticed the crucifix glinting on his chest. Was he capable of mercy? She looked up into eyes as gray as the morning mist, eyes that compelled her to obey. Slowly she let the musket slide to the ground.

  He held out a bloody hand, and she shrank back in horror. Everywhere she looked, she saw blood—on Emile’s chest, on her skirt, her hands, the ground. Dear Lord, she was drowning in the sight and scent of it. The world grew dim and distant as blackness descended on her.

  *

  Lieutenant Jacques Corbeau caught the woman before she fell. Bon Dieu, this day was not going well. He and his two Delaware companions had been part of a large French and Indian raiding party sent to harry the British, but during an early morning skirmish they had become separated from the rest of the group. They’d been headed back to Fort Duquesne, until they came upon this isolated cabin and saw the farmer and his wife talking to the English soldiers.

  He looked up to see Crazy Badger grinning at him, scalping knife in hand. At his feet lay the farmer’s lifeless body.

  Jacques glared back. “Why did you kill him? We agreed not to risk a shot. The English soldiers may have heard it.”

  The young warrior shrugged. “He fired first.”

  While waiting for the British soldiers to leave the area, Jacques had tried to talk Gray Wolf and Crazy Badger into taking captives instead of scalps and thought he’d succeeded. Until the farmer shot him.

  Cursing under his breath, Jacques hoisted the woman’s body over his left shoulder and headed for the cabin. She would come out of her faint in a few minutes, and he wanted to spare her the sight of her husband’s fate.<
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  He entered the one-room cabin and paused on the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A two-legged puncheon table attached to the opposite wall came into focus, followed by the fireplace to his left. On the right, a wood-slat bed filled the far corner.

  Jacques laid the woman on the bed.

  Noticing blood on her dress, he wondered if it were her husband’s or his own. His shoulder burned like hell. Though little more than a scratch, the damn thing was still bleeding, and he had no wish to leave a trail even the dull-witted English could follow.

  Jacques stood and eased his knapsack over his shoulder with a strained grunt. After dropping it on the table, he looked around the room. On the hearth, he found a bucket of water and a towel. He folded the cloth and pressed it on the wound until the bleeding stopped, then rinsed his hands and arm.

  For a moment he wondered about the people who lived here. They spoke French, so they must be Swiss, or perhaps Huguenots, descendants of the Protestants driven out of France many years ago. What had their lives been like in Europe? What despair had driven them to brave the wilderness? Or had they foolishly thought they were better off here?

  Holding the towel to his shoulder, he walked over and stood by the bed to check on the woman, who was still in a faint. Despite her pallor, he noted that her skin was fine, her nose straight and thin. She had a lower lip just full enough to entice a man to taste it, and a stubborn chin that dared him to try. Under different circumstances…

  She was perhaps not as lovely as he’d thought when he first saw her standing in the clearing—her hair, the color of corn silk, shining in the sunlight. Still, she was tall and fair, with slender curves and shapely ankles visible beneath the short skirts of a farm wife.

  And now she was a widow. He stared down at the woman and silently vowed to see that no more innocents died today.

  The woman gave a soft moan and opened her eyes. When she spotted him, she shrank back against the wall, arms folded defensively across her breast. His gut tightened. He didn’t enjoy terrifying women, but fear should make her easier to control. She had already proven unpredictable.

  Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Jacques Corbeau, lieutenant in the army of France. And you are my captive.”

  *

  Mara inhaled sharply, panic building inside her. This couldn’t be real. It was all a bad dream. She would wake up soon and tell Emile about it, and they would laugh. And laugh and laugh and… She swallowed the hysteria engulfing her.

  “Madame, are you listening to me?”

  The Frenchman’s voice, sharp and insistent, demanded her attention. “There is not much time. My companions are not patient men. We must leave soon, but first I want you to bind my shoulder. Where do you keep bandages?”

  Her mouth and throat were dry when she swallowed, but she choked out an answer. “The trunk. Under the bed.”

  He squatted beside the bed, pulled out the trunk and rummaged through it. She watched his every move, unable to take her eyes off him, alarmed by the physical threat he represented.

  He was a tall man who dominated the cabin as Emile never had, and his state of undress revealed nearly every inch of his lean and powerful form. Not only was he bare to the waist, but his breechclout and leggings failed to completely cover his thighs and buttocks. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body and long, sinewy legs. He looked strong, virile, and dangerous.

  A cold knot formed in Mara’s stomach. The French had killed her father and now her husband. What would they do to her?

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her grandfather would say whatever happened was God’s will, but she rejected that idea. What kind of God allowed such awful things to happen?

  Fearfully, she watched as the Frenchman shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood. He held out the bandages, and she froze. She couldn’t touch him, she just couldn’t.

  The man’s heavy black brows drew together in a fierce frown, but his voice was without emotion. “Madame, I am all that stands between you and the men who killed your husband. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. It is to your advantage to do what I command.”

  He dropped the bandages beside her on the bed and reached out to touch her hair. “Must I remind you, in my companion’s eyes, scalps are more valuable than live captives?”

  Horror sliced through her fear. “Emile!” She shot off the bed and bolted for the door. The Frenchman caught her around the waist before she could reach it.

  “It is too late, madame,” he said in a hushed voice. “It is done.”

  “No,” she moaned, as she fought to banish the image of a bloody scalp, raw flesh.

  The Frenchman turned her toward him, holding her by the shoulders, and spoke in an insistent voice. “Listen to me and be sensible. You must be strong now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Dazed, she stared at him. “A journey? To where?”

  “Fort Duquesne.”

  Mara gasped. The dreaded enemy stronghold deep in the wilderness. She struggled to get free, clawing at his powerful arms.

  He gripped her tighter, grimacing as he did. “Stop it! What chance do you think you have against three men? Do as I say and you will live. Refuse and…” He let the implication hang in the air between them.

  Live. Yes, that was what she must do. She must bide her time and stay alive. Her brother would find her and exact revenge. But for now, she was on her own.

  She straightened her spine and stared into the Frenchman’s eyes. “How do I know I can trust you, monsieur?”

  He met her gaze, but a shadow darkened his eyes. “You have my word of honor.”

  Bitterness filled her. “The word of a Frenchman? What is that worth?”

  “For the moment, madame, your life.”

  Chapter 2

  Jacques watched as the woman walked to the bed, grabbed the bandages in her trembling hands and carried them to the table. She picked up a bucket by the hearth and poured water into a bowl.

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  He did as told, amazed at her sudden transformation from terrified victim to willing nurse. Was she up to something? He might be a fool to trust her, but his shoulder burned like hell.

  Her hands shook as she cleaned his wound and washed the blood from his arm. Without thinking, he relaxed his guard, lulled by her touch, the soft sound of her breathing near his ear, and her scent… When had he last smelled lavender?

  “I see this is not the first time you’ve been injured,” she said suddenly.

  Jolted out of his reverie by her words, he grunted and fingered the jagged scar on his right side. It was an all too visible reminder of that morning on the field of honor, nearly eight years ago. At times, it seemed like yesterday. His gut twisted at the memory of cold steel slicing through his flesh. In that moment, his life had been forever changed.

  Only a handful of people knew the truth of what had led to that duel, knew why he could never go back to France, and Jacques intended to keep it that way. Let the woman think it an honorable scar, won in battle, not a mark of shame.

  Forcibly banishing the memory, he reached into his knapsack with his left hand, pulled out a small leather pouch, and gave it to her. “Use this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, as she poured some of the cinnamon-brown powder into the palm of her hand.

  “Hemlock.”

  Her eyes widened. “But that’s poison.”

  He smiled at the alarmed look on her face. “It is from the bark of the hemlock tree, not the poisonous plant. The Indians use it to stop bleeding.”

  Frowning, she sprinkled some of the powder on his wound. When she finished wrapping the bandage she reached for a knife on the table. Jacques tensed, ready to snatch it from her hand. She glanced at him and her lips twisted. She wouldn’t dare…

  Quickly she slit the end of the linen strip and put the knife down. She ripped a section of the cloth then tied the bandage firmly in plac
e.

  Jacques let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you.” He took a linen shirt out of his knapsack and gingerly pulled it on. Aware that a change of dressing would be necessary before reaching the fort, he scooped up the rest of the bandages and put them in the knapsack, along with the kitchen knife. He glanced around, but saw no other potential weapons.

  He stood, then walked to the hearth and doused the fire with a bucket of water. Smoke billowed from the fireplace. “You have five minutes to prepare for our journey. Bring only what you can carry easily—a change of clothing and a blanket.”

  She stared at him, blue eyes huge in her pale face. “Please, can you not leave me here?”

  For a second he was tempted to do so, not that he was moved by her plea, but because she’d be trouble. Women always were.

  “So you can run and tell the redcoats about us?” he asked, keeping his tone even. “I think not. In any case, my superiors will be interested to know what your English friend had to say to you.”

  Her breath caught in a gasp. So the Englishman had confided in her. He’d ask her about that later.

  “Five minutes,” he warned and stalked out of the cabin.

  Outside, Jacques dragged the farmer’s bloody body around the side of the cabin. The woman didn’t need to see her husband’s scalped head.

  Jacques flexed his sore shoulder. He should have stayed at the fort, with his cannons, where he belonged. But no, he’d thought to curry favor with the commandant by volunteering for the war party. As if it would make any difference to his career.

  He glanced down at the farmer’s body. Despite his years in the wilderness, the reality of frontier warfare troubled him. Oh, he knew some civilian casualties were inevitable, but the tactics used by France’s Indian allies shocked him. Lightning raids on isolated settlements, a quick death for some, and captivity for the rest.

  He still remembered his first sight of victims being dragged to the fort, hollow-eyed after seeing their loved ones killed and their homes destroyed. And they were the fortunate ones.

  Still, he had found much to like and admire in his Delaware companions. Jacques had learned much from Gray Wolf—how to survive in the forest, which paths to take, and how to track game, both animal and human. And they accepted Jacques—the Raven—without question.