Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  “Easy, I’m not going to harm you.” He said it gently as he turned her so that she was leaning against his chest, his arms around her. She stopped protesting, for the heat emanating from his body felt good.

  Sitting there, with his warm arms wrapped around her, Mara relaxed slightly. There was something about the almost complete darkness of the cave and the winking lights above, as if they were in another world, one far from strife and turmoil. A place where she felt safe, if only for a short time.

  “Do not despair, madame,” he whispered into her ear. “It should be possible to find a way for you to go home. Trust me.”

  “Trust you,” she repeated.

  “Would you rather trust Gray Wolf?”

  His words shattered her momentary peace. “They still want to kill me, don’t they?”

  His hold tightened around her. “I will not let that happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “My conscience wouldn’t allow it.” He sighed. “Whether you believe it or not, I do have a conscience.”

  “Then I am grateful.”

  His throaty voice purred in her ear. “Your gratitude is not what I want, madame.”

  Mara’s heart began to pound. “Nevertheless, you have it.”

  She refused to dwell on what it was he did want.

  Chapter 5

  “There it is,” Jacques announced. “Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin at the Beautiful River.”

  The four travelers stood on a ridge overlooking the place where two rivers met to form a third. On either side of the sparkling waterways, heavily forested hills stood against the blue sky. A green meadow stretched below to the point of land where the fort was situated.

  “It is spectacular,” Mara whispered, her voice filled with awe.

  Jacques stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder and, with the other, pointed to the river flowing from the northeast. “That is the north fork of La Belle Riviere, what the English call the Allegheny.”

  When she nodded, he pointed to the left. “The Monongahela flows north from Virginia.”

  “And then they meet to form the Ohio,” Mara said dutifully.

  He smiled at her response. He had explained it all to her last evening, and she had actually listened to him. After two weeks of traveling through the wilderness, she seemed more resigned to her captivity. Or was it his imagination?

  “Yes, and the Ohio is the real prize,” Jacques said. “Whoever commands the river controls the gateway to the interior. That is why Fort Duquesne must not fall to the English.”

  “It looks strong to me,” Mara said, shrugging off his hand and moving away.

  He let his arm drop to his side. She tolerated his touch now, but just barely. After all, she was grateful. At least she hadn’t called him a libertine or a murderer recently. She had seemed to know instinctively that attacking his honor hurt far more than her knife would have.

  Thank God the journey was almost over. It was past time to concentrate on military matters, he reminded himself.

  Jacques turned his attention to the fort, surveying the site with a critical eye. Though Duquesne was more sturdily built than the simple wooden forts of the English, it had been thrown up in a hurry. The two walls facing the rivers consisted only of massive wood pickets, more than a foot in diameter. But the other two walls were constructed of crib-like timberwork, filled with earth to a thickness of twelve feet and designed to withstand cannon fire from the landward side. Surrounding the whole was an outer stockade fence inside which a number of outbuildings had been added—barracks, storehouses and, on the south side, a hospital and magazine. To an untrained eye, it might appear invulnerable, but Jacques knew better.

  “Come!” Gray Wolf said abruptly. “We are almost there.” He and Crazy Badger set off down the path to the flood plain.

  Jacques turned to Mara. For a moment, neither said anything, though anticipation hovered in the air between them. “Well, madame, we have finally arrived. Shall we proceed?”

  Mara held back, seemingly reluctant to reach the end of her journey, and Jacques thought he knew why. As long as they had stayed in the mountains, she had hopes of being rescued. Vain, unrealistic hopes, though he didn’t tell her that. But once inside the fort, all chance of escape would be gone.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, reaching out to touch her arm.

  “No,” she said. “It’s just that the journey took so long I didn’t believe we would ever get here. Now that we have, I know not what to expect.”

  “We talked about that, back at the cave. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, of course.” He had promised to find her some kind of work when they reached the fort, something respectable. It was a promise he meant to keep.

  Jacques started down the path the Indians had taken. “Come along, madame.”

  Mara trailed behind, stopping as they approached the fort. “It’s huge,” she murmured, staring.

  “The walls are fourteen feet high,” Jacques told her. “We enter over there,” he said, pointing. A wide, deep ditch ran along the walls, requiring the use of a drawbridge at the entrance to the main gate. Inside, every man stopped what he was doing to stare at the new arrivals. Mara stepped closer to Jacques.

  He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Don’t worry, madame. I will take care of you.”

  Corbeau glared at the handful of men who were openly leering at her and swore under his breath. Would he have to protect her from the entire garrison? Not that there were very many of them. The fort seemed almost deserted. “Just a moment, private.” Corbeau held up a hand to stop a soldier. “Where is everyone?”

  The man saluted. “They left a week ago to attack the English. The rosbif are building a new fort only a few days’ march from here.” The soldier’s gaze kept sliding to Mara, his interest poorly concealed.

  “Is Lieutenant Gauthier with them?” Jacques asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied.

  After he dismissed the soldier, Mara asked, “Who is Lieutenant Gauthier?”

  “A friend,” he replied as he led Mara across the drawbridge and through the main gate. Inside, he pointed out the commandant’s quarters to their right and the trading post directly ahead. Then he gestured with pride to the southeast bastion with its large cannons atop gun platforms.

  “That is why you need not worry,” he said. “My guns command the approach to the fort. The English will have a hard time getting past them.”

  When she made no response, Jacques led her to a building on the north side of the fort. “You will be safe here,” he said, opening the door.

  She refused to look at him. “Safe, but not free,” she muttered.

  *

  Mara found herself in a small room with a packed dirt floor and two bunks built into the walls. In front of the fireplace, a crude wooden table and two benches provided the only other furniture. Clothes hung from pegs on the walls. It was much like her cabin, only smaller.

  Corbeau pushed the table to one side of the hearth and built up the fire. He then left her alone, promising to return in a few minutes. When he came back, he was followed by two soldiers carrying a wooden tub, which they placed in front of the fire.

  The men carried in buckets of water from the rain barrels outside. Some they poured into the tub, others into a large kettle hanging over the fire.

  After they left, Jacques pulled off his shirt. “Make yourself at home. I need to wash and change before reporting in, then it will be your turn.”

  “These are your quarters?” she asked in alarm. “You cannot expect me to stay here. With you?”

  His lips curled in a slow smile that carved grooves in his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes. The rogue found the situation amusing.

  “That is precisely what I expect, madame. At least until Alain Gauthier returns. He normally shares the room with me. His absence will give me time to make other arrangements for you.”

  “But everyone will think…”

 
; “That you are my woman. Yes.”

  Mara stiffened in outrage. “That’s intolerable. I will not stay here.” She marched toward the door, but was stopped by his words.

  “Where will you go?” he asked in a silky voice. “To Gray Wolf?”

  She stopped and fought for control of her temper. He was right; she had nowhere else to go.

  “Am I so repulsive to you?”

  Mara dropped her gaze to the floor. It was a question she dared not answer.

  “Relax, madame,” he said as he poured hot water into the tub. “It is better if the men think you are mine. I did not like the way they looked at you. And the sooner I report in, the sooner Captain de Ligneris can decide what is to be done with you.”

  She turned to face him and tried not to stare. He had stripped down to nothing but a breechclout. When he crouched down to rummage in a trunk she watched the play of powerful muscles in his thighs. His body was strong, sleek, and utterly beautiful, like the drawings she had seen of pagan statues in one of Emile’s books. But unlike the statues, Corbeau was made of warm flesh, not cold marble.

  He pulled several towels, a bar of soap, and a razor from the trunk. Standing up, he walked nonchalantly toward the tub.

  Was he planning to bathe right in front of her? “What…what are you doing?” she stammered.

  “Making myself presentable again,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I apologize for the lack of privacy, madame, but what other choice is there?”

  “The river?”

  He gave a Gallic shrug. “You may like washing in cold water, but I do not. I enjoy the luxuries civilization can provide, even such civilization as this.” He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the room. “You may, of course, turn your back.”

  “You have no honor.”

  “So I have been told, madame. Many times.”

  Mara bit off a retort and spun away from him. Certainly, she had no intention of watching, although she was not sure what difference it made, since she had already seen most of his anatomy.

  She flounced down on one of the bunks and resolutely turned away from the fire. Her hands were shaking, no doubt from anger, and she clenched them in her lap. She heard him chuckle, then the slosh of water as he got into the tub.

  In the quiet of the cabin, she was aware of every movement as he washed himself. Her errant imagination wondered what it would feel like to touch him, his skin slick and wet. From there, her thoughts veered to how it might feel to be touched by him, intimately, as a man touches his lover.

  She raised shaking hands to her hot cheeks. Heavens, what was wrong with her? It had been only a few weeks since she’d been widowed. But since then, her only constant, her only stability, her only reassurance had been Corbeau.

  In all that time, he had not tried to kiss her again, or take any other liberties. He still watched her, though, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Did he still want her? Would his mistress have an easier life than an unclaimed captive?

  Stop it. There was no need to contemplate such a desperate measure. At least not yet.

  “You may turn around now, madame.”

  Mara peeked over her shoulder and saw that he had finished his bath. Though he had donned a pair of red woolen breeches, he was still naked to the waist. Bent over the table, he squinted into a mirror as he attempted to shave off his beard.

  “I could do that for you,” Mara said.

  “Ouch.” Corbeau spun around to stare at her incredulously, a drop of blood on his chin where he’d cut himself. “Is that a joke, madame?”

  Mara stood and walked toward him. “I shaved my grandfather many times. As he grew older, his hands shook too much to do it himself.”

  Corbeau rolled his eyes. “I’d have to be mad to put a razor in your hand, madame. No, thank you, I have no wish to slit my throat today.”

  She flushed and looked away. “That was not my intention,” she said softly.

  He made no reply as he finished shaving. Then he donned the rest of his uniform: a white shirt, scarlet waistcoat and blue woolen uniform coat.

  “I am going to the commandant’s quarters to report in, now,” he informed her.

  Mara stared at him and struggled to hide her surprise. Clean-shaven and wearing his uniform, he appeared, well, civilized. And more handsome than she had realized. She studied his lean, tanned face, the arrogant nose, and the heavy eyebrows that shadowed his eyes. His black hair, pulled back into a queue, shone like a raven’s wing.

  Dressed as he now was, she easily believed him the son of an aristocrat. He projected an aura of authority and discipline that was powerful yet reassuring. Had he looked like that when they’d met, she might not have been quite so terrified. Fool, she chided herself, remembering that he had been part of the raiding party that killed her husband. She resolved not to soften toward him.

  He called the two soldiers back inside to refill the iron kettle. He handed Mara the soap, a clean towel, and his dressing gown. “You should have plenty of time to bathe while I’m gone. When I get back, I will take your clothes to the laundress. Bolt the door behind me,” he ordered as he exited the room.

  Mara stared at the tub, yearning for the luxury of a bath. But this was her opportunity to escape. Resolutely she walked to the door and flung it open. Outside, several men stopped what they were doing to stare at her, and she realized that leaving might be a worse alternative. She slammed the door shut and bolted it.

  While waiting for the water to heat, she considered her choices, finally deciding that when he returned she would demand to see his commanding officer.

  Finally, the water was ready, and she poured it into the tub. Unable to resist the temptation, she threw off her clothing and climbed in. She couldn’t pass up an opportunity to wash off the dirt of the trail and soak her aching feet.

  As she stepped into the warm water, it occurred to her that she was alone for the first time in weeks. She heard muffled voices from outside, but in the room the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the sloshing of water. Slowly, the tension eased from her mind and body.

  She sniffed the soap and detected a faint scent of bayberry. Corbeau did like his luxuries. What a puzzle he was! At home in the wilderness and, no doubt, equally so in the drawing rooms of the French aristocracy. Or was he? After all, he had said his father had no use for his bastard son and that he’d been told many times that he was no gentleman.

  Mara let that thought drift away. She was too comfortable to think. After washing her hair, her only wish was for freshly laundered garments.

  Standing, she dried off, and then wrapped the towel around her torso. As she began to step out of the tub, a knock sounded at the door. “Who is it?”

  “Corbeau.”

  “Just a minute.” Mara quickly donned his dressing gown and tied the sash tightly around her waist. The garment fell nearly to the floor, and the sleeves were so long they completely enveloped her hands. Quickly, she rolled them up to her elbows, went to the door, pulled the bolt, and stepped back.

  Corbeau entered the room, and his gaze raked boldly, possessively, over her.

  She clutched the gown to her breasts. “What are you staring at?”

  “You,” he replied softly. “You look adorable.” He gave her an intense look, filled with admiration and longing.

  Her heart rate picked up speed. “Please leave,” she whispered, licking suddenly dry lips. “If you have any claim to being honorable.”

  “I thought we had already established that I do not.”

  She went on the offensive. “Have you found me another place to stay? I demand…”

  Annoyance flashed across his features. “I am working on it. I’ll ask at the trading post.”

  With a relieved sigh, she walked over and sat by the fire to dry her hair.

  Corbeau grabbed her clothing, along with his dirty shirt, and then stooped to pick up her tattered stockings. “Let me see your feet.”

  She tucked them under the chair, but he
dropped the clothing and knelt in front of her. “Your feet, madame.”

  Reluctantly she stuck her legs out for his inspection. He gently ran his hands over her feet. They were callused, with evidence of recent blisters.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Would it have done any good?”

  He rubbed his neck. “I have repeatedly said I never meant to hurt you,” he answered in a gruff tone. “What must I do to convince you of that?”

  “My grandmother always said actions speak louder than words.”

  Corbeau took her hand in his. “Does your wrist still hurt?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Then it is all healed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am glad.” He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her palm. When he trailed his tongue over the sensitive skin of her wrist, she bit down on her lower lip, unable to resist the tender gesture.

  Just then the door banged open.

  “What the devil…” Corbeau cursed and spun around to face the intruders.

  Gray Wolf stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. “I have come for my bounty money,” he announced.

  Crazy Badger peered around his shoulder, a huge grin on his face. “I see Raven has already claimed his prize.”

  Mara gasped, but Corbeau laid a finger across her lips. “Later,” he murmured. “When we’re alone, you can consign me to Hades.”

  She glared at him, but said nothing, knowing it was better not to argue before this particular audience.

  Jacques turned to the two men and scowled at them. “Wait outside.”

  The two Indians exchanged amused glances before leaving.

  “Find somewhere else for me to stay.”

  “We will talk about that when I return.” With that, he turned, picked up the laundry, and stalked from the room.

  *

  Mara clenched her hands to stop their shaking. Thank heavens the Indians had come when they did, to remind her of what she was. A captive. “Corbeau’s prize.”

  How dare he think he had the right to keep her like a pet dog, or a… The word mistress leapt into her mind. Dear Lord, was that what he wanted?