To be sure, their earthy approach to life appealed to him more than the arrogance of the French aristocracy who looked down their noses at his scandalous past. Nor was he at home with the Canadian habitants, who instinctively distrusted anyone from the Mother Country.
He walked back to the front of the cabin where Gray Wolf and Crazy Badger appeared to be arguing over possession of the farmer’s scalp. Jacques picked up his musket and went to mediate.
“There is no way to know which bullet came from which rifle,” he told them. “The only solution is to share the reward. As we will share the reward for the captive. Now let us wipe away our tracks, so the redcoats cannot follow us.”
*
Mara stared after the Frenchman, her mind in turmoil. He had seen her talking to Gideon. Did he think she knew the British plans? She tried to recall what her brother had said to her, but could only remember that they had talked about their father.
Heavens, she still had his watch. She thrust her hand in her skirt pocket and felt for it. She must not let the French see it. Someone might recognize the name Harcourt. But she could not leave it behind, for it was all she had to remember her father.
Mara sank down into a chair, her hands shaking. For a moment, when she’d held the knife, she’d been tempted to slit the Frenchman’s throat, cut out his lying tongue. Then she’d remembered his savage allies and that had stayed her hand.
Could she have done it? Killed a man? A shudder of revulsion passed through her. If she had, she’d be no better than he. This Corbeau was right about one thing. She was helpless against three men. Common sense dictated she do as they said, at least for the time being. Be sensible, as he’d said.
She stood and saw blood on her clothing. With a grimace, she stripped off her skirt and bodice and left them in a pile on the floor. She pulled clean clothes from a peg on the wall and quickly donned them, her fingers trembling so badly she had difficulty fastening the bodice.
Next she grabbed Emile’s hunting pouch off the wall and gathered the things she would need for the trip—a clean chemise, shawl, stockings, and a blanket. What else?
Mara rushed to the bed and knelt down. She reached underneath for the trunk and felt wood instead of leather.
The cradle.
She pulled it out and ran her hand over the smooth wood, remembering the hours Emile had spent working on it. A deep sorrow settled over her as it always did when she allowed herself to dwell on what could never be. But always, deep inside, an abiding sadness lurked.
She touched her abdomen, and that familiar ache settled in her heart. Emile had had visions of founding a New World dynasty, but she had not conceived. If only she could have given him the child they both wanted. A babe would have made it all worthwhile. The hard work, the sacrifices, the loneliness.
But now it was too late.
Too late, too late. The words echoed in her mind. She gave the cradle a push and watched as it rocked back and forth, as empty as her womb, as empty as her life had been or ever would be.
A shout from outside the cabin penetrated her misery and she remembered the Frenchman. He’d be furious if she wasn’t ready when he returned.
Hastily, she pushed the cradle back under the bed and grabbed the trunk. Opening it, her hand touched a soft bundle and she paused. Slowly, she picked up the length of dark blue silk and buried her face in it, breathing in the scent of lavender. Her one good dress. The one she had worn to her grandfather’s funeral and on her wedding day. A lump formed in her throat as she set the gown aside. She had no need of it now.
Again she reached into the trunk and took out a book, holding it to her breast. The family Bible, with its record of births, marriages and deaths. She had never been without it, but it was too heavy to carry.
She opened it to the family history. Their names were all there, her grandparents, her mother and father, Gideon, and herself. And Emile. A fresh pain gripped her heart at the thought of her husband’s death.
Only she and Gideon were left. What would Emile’s death and her disappearance do to her brother? He was already so full of hatred and bitterness, she feared for his soul. She had to survive, for his sake if not for her own.
If only there were some way for her to get a message to him. He had promised to stop on his way back. Suddenly an idea came to her. She searched through the trunk until she found a pencil. Quickly she wrote the date in the space reserved for Emile’s death. Beside her own name she wrote Fort Duquesne. If her brother remembered to look for the Bible he would know where to find her. She closed the book and shoved it under her bloody discarded dress on the floor.
Gideon would find her. He had to. And when he did, she’d find a way to return to Geneva. She’d had enough of this wretched land.
She walked back to the table and began packing her things in the pouch. Then she remembered the watch. Perhaps she should leave it with the Bible for Gideon to find. But she desperately needed some reminder of who she was, where she came from. Vague memories arose of sitting in her father’s lap, playing with his watch. Of laying in bed, listening to him read from the Bible. He chose nice stories—the lost lamb, the Good Samaritan, the raising of Lazarus. Not like the frightening passages her grandfather reveled in, like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Still, Jonah had survived. Would she be as lucky?
Deciding to take the watch with her, she knelt and pulled it from the pocket of her bloody dress. When she shoved the watch to the bottom of the pouch under her clothing, her hand touched cold metal. Emile’s hunting knife. For a moment, she gripped the handle, testing its weight. The knowledge that now she possessed a weapon comforted her.
By the time the Frenchman came back into the cabin, she was waiting for him, her pouch sitting ready on the table. He glanced around the cabin and spotted her blue silk gown puddled by the trunk. Squatting down, he picked it up and fingered the material, a speculative look on his face.
He stood and looked from her to the dress and back again, “You do not intend to leave this lovely gown behind, do you?” he asked in a husky voice. “You may have need of it.”
“That is a dress for a special occasion. If I wear it again, it will be to celebrate a French defeat.”
Seemingly amused by her defiance, he reached for her pouch. “Nevertheless, I insist you take it.”
She snatched the gown from his hand. She couldn’t let him look inside the pouch and find Emile’s knife. “Give it to me! You’re crushing the material.” With shaky hands, she folded the dress and placed it in the pouch.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She turned to look at him, surprised that he had bothered to ask. “Mara Dupré.”
“Ah Marie, a lovely name.”
“No,” she corrected, “Mara. It is from the Bible. It means bitter.”
He frowned. “I have never heard that name before. You are French, are you not?”
Mara’s heart beat frantically. “No, I am Swiss. From Geneva.” She dared not mention that her father’s family had been Huguenots.
Her answer seemed to satisfy him. “Come,” he said. “It is time to leave.”
Mara started to follow him then stopped. “Wait. First we must bury my husband.”
“There is no time.”
She heard the regret in his voice, saw the compassion in his expression. “How long could it take? It is our Christian duty.”
“It is too dangerous to linger here. And we have a long way to travel before dark.” He grabbed her arm and she shuddered. “Remember what I said earlier, madame. You must obey me. Your life depends upon it.”
Mara stared into his steely gray eyes and knew there was no point in opposing his will. He was obviously a man used to having his orders obeyed and would not be swayed by her pleas. Defeated, she followed him outside.
She looked around the clearing and saw that Emile’s body had been moved. “What have you done with my husband?”
The Frenchman’s grip tightened on her arm, and he steered her toward the
forest where the Indians awaited them. “You do not want to see him. Believe me, it is better this way.”
With a sickening certainty she knew why he would not let her see Emile’s body. When one of the Indians turned to lead the way, she spotted a bloody scalp hanging from his belt. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a scream.
“Be strong,” the Frenchman whispered.
Mara swallowed hard and took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to fall on the ground and cry and moan. Be strong, she told herself. Be strong and survive. Someday, they will pay for this.
She took one last look at the cabin, longing to remain. Though she had often been afraid here, it was as nothing compared to the terror her life had become.
When the Frenchman tugged on her arm, she allowed him to lead her into the forest. Her eyes were unaccustomed to the deep shade and she tripped over a tree root. Only his grip on her elbow kept Mara on her feet.
Angrily she pulled away from him. “I can walk on my own.”
He raised an eyebrow, and his lips twisted in a slight smile. “As you wish, but I shall be right behind you, if you need me.”
It was a threat, not a promise. This man would not be easy to outwit, but Mara intended to try. Gideon had once told her it was a prisoner’s duty to escape. She planned to bide her time and wait for the right opportunity.
As they wound their way through the forest, Mara tried to keep her bearings, but soon realized the futility. The narrow path twisted through dense strands of trees, up and down the slopes of hills, crossing and re-crossing streams until she was thoroughly lost. Tall maple and birch trees shut out most of the sunlight and made it impossible to maintain a sense of direction.
The unrelenting pace set by the Indians soon had Mara gasping for breath. The trail wound up a rise and the hardwood trees gave way to pine and spruce. Her breathing grew labored as she struggled to keep up. By the time they reached the top, pain stabbed at her side. They stopped at the summit, and she sank to the ground, taking in grateful gulps of the pine-scented air.
When her breathing slowed to normal, she wiped her face on her apron and looked westward. The distant mountain ranges seemed to stretch to infinity, and her heart sank at the view—an undulating sea of green, a never-ending ocean of impenetrable forest, as far as the eye could see.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
She turned to see Corbeau crouched beside her, a wooden canteen in his hand. “The view is beautiful,” she admitted grudgingly. Beautiful but overwhelming.
He handed her the canteen. “Have some water.”
She hesitated, but then took a swallow, and another, letting the cool liquid trickle down her parched throat. As she handed the canteen back to him, she forced herself to say, “Thank you.” His hand brushed hers, and she flinched.
He frowned at her reaction, but said nothing.
Mara squinted into the late afternoon sun. “Where is the fort?”
He gestured toward the horizon. “On the other side of the mountains.”
She stared at him, sure he was taunting her, but the expression on his face was serious. “My God,” she whispered and turned her head to look out at the vista. She clamped her teeth together to keep from blurting out her terror. Even if she could escape, how would she find her way through this vast wilderness? Once on the other side of the mountain range, she might never make her way back to civilization.
She had to escape, and soon.
*
The scent of death hung in the air.
Gideon Harcourt sensed it the minute he entered the clearing on the way back to camp. The Dupré’s cabin door hung open and no smoke came from the chimney. A dark premonition held him still.
The Highlanders accompanying him fanned out along the edge of the forest, muskets at the ready. Slowly, Gideon scanned the area until he discovered the figure lying beside the cabin wall. His heart gave a lurch, and he broke into a run. Oh God, no, not Emile.
Pain and rage tore through Gideon as he stared at the mutilated body of his brother-in-law. A hand closed over his shoulder, and Gideon turned to find Lieutenant Shaw, his expression full of sympathy. The soldiers held back, no one daring to speak.
Gideon threw off the Scotsman’s hand and raced toward the cabin. At the door he braced himself, dreading what he might find inside. Guilt assaulted him. It was his fault. He’d assured Mara and Emile they would be safe. He should have insisted they leave, go to the army camp, anywhere but here.
He careened around the small room, his mind reeling in disbelief. There was no one inside, but he saw traces of blood on the floor and the table. Shock yielded quickly to fury. He pounded his fist on the table and cursed the French. The deep-buried fire of anger within him, kindled by his father’s death, flared into new life.
He started for the door, but one foot caught on a bundle of cloth and he knelt to pick it up. “Oh, Mara,” he moaned as he examined his sister’s bloodstained dress. “What have they done to you?” Yet he saw no pattern to the stains or any holes or tears to indicate a wound. Was it Emile’s blood? Could she be unharmed?
The weight on his chest lifted, but only for a moment as he realized she must have been taken captive. A different kind of terror struck his heart. If only he could order the Highlanders to go after her, but they were not under his command. He could not ask Shaw to disobey orders, even for Mara’s sake.
Lifting the dress he discovered a book beneath it. His hands shook as he picked up their mother’s Bible. A ribbon marked the pages where the family history was recorded.
Dear God, Mara had left him a message. In the midst of everything, she’d had that much presence of mind. His finger traced the words. Fort Duquesne. The French fort was miles away. There was still time to find her.
But first, he had one last thing to do for the man he had called friend and brother.
They buried Emile at the eastern edge of the land he had cleared with his own hands. The soldiers took turns digging the grave while Gideon cleaned the body and fashioned a crude shroud from a sheet. As the body was lowered into the ground, the soldiers gathered around Gideon. He held the family Bible in his hands but had no need to open it. Raising his gaze toward the western horizon, he prayed for the soul of his best friend and for the safety of his little sister. She was out there somewhere, alone with the men who had killed her husband.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” His voice shook as he recited the psalm that had always given him comfort.
After the short service, Gideon stooped to pick up a handful of dirt and toss it into the grave. Silently he watched as the soldiers finished the job, spreading leaves over the site to conceal its location. Lieutenant Shaw ordered his men back to camp, leaving Gideon alone in his sorrow. After a few minutes, his heart heavy with grief, he picked up the leather trunk containing his sister’s few possessions, turned his back on the clearing and followed them.
I will find her, he vowed. No matter how long it takes.
*
Late in the day, Mara’s captors veered onto a side path that led to a clearing next to a stream. Water cascaded down a ladder of lichen-covered rocks, interspersed with small, clear pools.
Mara sank gratefully to the ground beside the creek. Cupping her hands, she drank deeply. Her reflection in the water revealed flushed cheeks and shadowed eyes. She sighed and then splashed her face. She hurt everywhere, from her pounding head to her scratched arms and blistered toes. Pulling off her shoes and stockings she dunked her aching feet in the water, flinching at the cold but hoping to numb the pain.
Dully she sat by the stream and watched the men make camp in the small clearing, which was bordered on the far side by a barrier of tall pine trees, silent sentinels guarding the spot. While Corbeau gathered wood for a fire, the Indians seemed intent on stripping bark from one of the trees. She watched warily, wondering what they were doing.
The piece of bark measured about seven by three feet. When it was loose they
cut four forked sticks, which they set in the ground, the taller ones close to the fire the Frenchman had started. Then they laid cross poles atop the sticks and stretched the bark over the top of the framework. Now Mara could see that they had fashioned a crude shelter.
Suddenly Corbeau’s deep voice rumbled from above her head. “It’s going to rain. At least we’ll stay dry tonight.”
She looked up as he squatted down beside her. “Surely you don’t mean…” Panic welled inside her at the thought of sharing such a cramped space with her captors.
“Would you rather sleep outside in the storm?”
She averted her eyes. “You give me few choices. In any case, I’m not sure I could move another inch.”
“I am glad to hear that. My companions think I should tie you up.”
She looked up and stared at him. “What?”
“They think you will try to escape.”
She shook her head. “Your friends have an exaggerated sense of my strength and stamina.”
He touched her hand lightly. “You were very brave today. It takes great courage to laugh in the face of death. You have earned the respect of my companions.”
She opened her mouth to explain why she’d laughed, then closed it. Let them think she was brave. It might keep her alive. The Frenchman’s words at the cabin came back to her. I can be persuaded to act as your protector. Her heart beat faster, and she wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t let them hurt me. Let me stay by you tonight.”
For a moment his expression was unguarded. In that instant she knew he wanted her. She wrenched her gaze away, and a wave of apprehension swept over her as she realized what she’d just said. Fear raced through her. Who would protect her from him?
When she glanced at him again, his face was impassive, and she wondered if she had imagined that fleeting gleam of lust.
Rogue's Hostage Page 3
