“That much is common knowledge,” de Rocheblave put in. “He was sent to Canada some years ago. Has a reputation as a gamester with the devil’s own luck.”
Gideon tensed. “Is he the kind of man who would force himself on an unwilling woman?”
Ensign Blane looked at de Rocheblave questioningly.
“I do not believe he will hurt your sister,” the Frenchman hastened to say. “If it is any consolation, I believe Corbeau is genuinely smitten with her.”
Gideon forced himself to smile, though his blood ran cold. He hated to think of Mara being that rogue’s hostage. “My sister is a woman of strong character. I feel quite sure she will have no trouble resisting one French bastard.”
Ensign Blane grinned. “You’re right there, sir. Rumor has it she’s already led him a merry chase.”
After the two young men left, Gideon slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands and groaned. A missing piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
Now he knew why the card called the Lovers kept showing up whenever he asked about Mara.
*
Mara unfolded Gideon’s letter and read it again. She had heard nothing more since Lieutenant de Rocheblave returned from the English camp three weeks ago, bringing the letter and ring.
It was quiet in the trading post, the only sound the insistent drumming of rain on the roof. October had brought one storm after another, raising the level of the rivers and turning the parade ground into a sea of mud. The inhabitants of the fort, those who were left, stayed indoors as much as possible.
She sighed and laid the letter on the table. The gloomy weather and forced isolation accounted for some of her moodiness and restlessness, but by no means all.
Tension at the fort was high. Scouts reported that the English were on the move, though hampered by the weather. Rather than sit and wait for the British to arrive, a large party of French soldiers and Indian warriors had marched out to attack first. They had been gone nearly three weeks now, and she could not help wondering, and worrying, about what would happen. Her fate depended on which side ultimately emerged victorious.
Hopeful of seeing her brother again soon, she had read his letter over and over again. It contained more promises, promises that she knew were only possibilities. Gideon would start raising the ransom money right away. He would find a way to deliver it before the final battle. Failing that, if the French were defeated, the ring would ensure her safety in the British ranks.
Mara knew what that meant. The ring would assure her safety, even if Gideon died in battle. Not that, she prayed. Dear Lord, not Gideon. She had lost everyone she’d ever loved, except him.
Never before had she been so alone. Until now, there had always been someone, some man, to tell her what to do, what to say, even what to think. First it was her father, grandfather, and brother, then Emile, and finally Lieutenant Corbeau.
Even Corbeau was gone, raiding the British camp. Who knew when, or if, he would return. To her shock, she actually missed the scoundrel. It was a sign of how lonely she was.
Her first taste of freedom should have been exhilarating, but somehow it was not. It galled her to realize how much she had come to depend on him. She missed his strength, his unexpected tenderness, the hundred small kindnesses he had performed for her without expecting anything in return. The moccasins she wore, for instance. And she had repaid him with suspicion, doubt, and shrewishness.
Exasperated with herself, she rose and strode to the door. Opening it, she stared out across the parade ground, noting that the rain had softened to a drizzle. She sucked in a breath of crisp, fresh air and suddenly could not stand being cooped up for another moment. Impulsively, she kicked off her moccasins and, grabbing her shawl, threw it over her head and shoulders.
As she crossed to the ramparts, the cold mud squelched between her toes, but she welcomed the sensation. After being inside so much, she was energized by the chilly dampness. The wet, wooden ladder was slick under her fingers, and she had to grip tightly with hands and toes as she climbed to the top.
She startled a sodden sentry who gaped at her before turning away. Since the incident with Vache, none of the rank and file had said a word to her, and this man was no exception.
What a night that had been! Her emotions had run the gamut—from hope to anger to fear. Hope that she would be allowed to rejoin her brother, anger over the ransom demand, and fear for her life. She had seen Jacques almost kill another man with his bare hands, then turn to her with a gentleness that took her breath away.
She should have been appalled by his lack of control, but she had felt a primitive satisfaction at seeing her tormentor soundly thrashed. She closed her eyes, ashamed of her reaction. She, too, was turning into a savage, stripped of all layers of civilization. Dear Lord, what had become of her?
Sighing, she moved to stand next to one of Jacques’s precious cannon. The view from the ramparts was magnificent. Under a leaden sky, the green of bushes and grasses seemed more intense than ever. The turbulent waters of the river tumbled past the fort, frothing over the rocks along the shore.
She glanced toward the hills on the other side of the Monongahela. The heavily forested slopes were dappled by drifts of gossamer mist, but not thickly enough to obscure the colors of autumn. Among the green shone clusters of gold and orange. Occasional patches of red were visible, as if stained by the blood of the men who had died trying to possess this cursed spot.
Lord, but she was morbid today. Her mood was due to a combination of weather and circumstance and surely would be temporary. She glanced at the view again, wishing Emile were here to see it. He would have been enchanted by the vista.
The fragrance of autumn, clear, crisp, and tangy, wafted on the air. Soon, very soon, winter’s frost would snuff out autumn’s fire, leaving the landscape bleak and brown until the first snowfall came to shield it with a pristine layer of white.
A flock of birds flew overhead, heading south for the winter. Mara watched them with envy, wishing she, too, could soar over the treetops. She would fly all the way back to Geneva, she thought, smiling at her fancy.
A shout from the sentry drew her attention to the plain in front of the fort. Her heart raced at the sight of the raiding party straggling back. In the lead group, she spotted a tall officer in a blue and red uniform. Jacques.
She hurried to the ladder and scurried swiftly but carefully down the slippery rungs, then ran to the main gate, straight for him. When she skidded to a stop about a foot from him, he grinned at her.
“What, so eager, madame? Can it be that you missed me?”
She felt her face flush, but refused to acknowledge the truth of his words. “Do not flatter yourself, monsieur. It is merely that I am bored. I have had no one to argue with for weeks now.”
He laughed aloud and took off his hat. That was when she noticed the bandage tied around his forehead.
She placed her hand over her suddenly pounding heart. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“It is nothing. Merely a graze,” he assured her hastily. His gaze swept over her, his expression changing to a frown when he saw her bare feet. “What are you doing out in this weather? And barefoot?”
She smiled. “Would you have me ruin my good moccasins?”
He rolled his eyes. “Women! I will buy you more moccasins if you need them. Come.” He took her by the arm and steered her toward the trading post.
Mara glanced at Jacques out of the corner of her eye. Heavens, she ought not be so glad to see him, but nonetheless she felt her spirits lifting. “Are you always so extravagant, lieutenant?” she asked with mock disapproval.
He smiled at her warmly. “Only where a beautiful woman is concerned, chérie.” The huskiness of his voice warmed her down to her frozen hands and feet.
They passed Claude Bernard, who was talking to Alain Gauthier. Sophie stood nearby, holding Babette by the hand.
Mara stopped beside the door to the trading post where a rain barr
el had been placed. Scooping up a bucketful, she rinsed her feet, wincing as the cold water sluiced over them.
“You should take better care of yourself,” Jacques chided her gently.
“I am not the one with a bandage wrapped around my head.” With that pronouncement, she entered the building, picking up her moccasins on the way.
In the kitchen area, she urged Jacques to sit on a bench, his back to the table. Standing before him, she unwrapped the bandage. With tentative fingers, she traced the scab-covered wound on his forehead. “It seems to be healing nicely, but you may have a scar,” she murmured.
“It will just make me that much more dashing,” he joked.
“Oh, Jacques,” she murmured, resting one hand on his shoulder. With the other she lightly touched the side of his face.
When he turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm, warmth flooded through her. Before she could protest or back away, his arms encircled her, one at her waist, the other around her thighs, drawing her closer to him. The expression on his face was a mixture of lust and longing, and the huskiness of his voice made her shiver with anticipation.
“I dreamt of you every night,” he said in a low voice. “Did you dream of me?”
She stared down at him, her heart pounding frantically, but found no words to respond to his question. She had missed him, but thought it unwise to say so. No, not just unwise. Dangerous.
With a sigh, he rested his head against her bosom. She felt the roughness of his unshaven cheek, the warmth of his breath against her skin. She should not allow him this much intimacy, but for the moment it felt too good to hold him in her arms. The combined scent of damp wool and warm man mingled with the savory smell of stew bubbling in the hearth, and it felt like home to her.
When she did not back away, he nestled closer, his lips pressing against the swell of her breast. She caught her breath as a sweet longing surged through her. Her grip tightened on his shoulders.
Merciful heavens, could she not bear three weeks without a man’s touch? Without this man’s touch? Was she so weak?
It took all her will power to step out of his embrace. “You must be hungry.”
“Only for you.”
Heat suffused her face, and she looked away. “You should not say such things.” Abruptly, she strode to the hearth.
Jacques sat, leaning against the table, and watched her stir the pot of stew. Dressed in a simple, brown, woolen skirt and linen bodice, barefoot, with her hair hanging in a braid down her back, she was still more beautiful to him than the ladies of the court.
She set a bowl on the table at his elbow. “Eat.”
Sighing again, but this time in resignation, he obediently swung around on the bench and picked up a spoon. He did not want food. What he wanted was to pick Mara up in his arms, carry her to the bed, and make love to her until the need churning inside him was sated once and for all. But she would never let that happen, and he would never force her.
Instead, he fed his other appetites, downing three mugs of wine and two helpings of stew. “This is good. Did you make it?”
“Yes,” she replied with a shy smile.
He took her hand in his. “I am glad to be back.”
Her smile faded. “What happened?”
He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired to the depths of his soul. “We raided the British camp, stole some horses, and retreated. Delaying tactics only.” Slowly, inexorably, the British army moved onward. He was beginning to wonder if it was possible to stop them.
“It is not over then, is it?”
“No,” he said softly, tightening his grip on her hand.
Nothing was settled. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged that everything could yet be lost.
*
A few days later, Mara and Sophie decided to make a pie, using dried blueberries Sophie had picked during the summer. With Babette’s eager help, they started setting the necessary ingredients on the table—flour, molasses, the last of Sophie’s precious supply of sugar.
Hearing the sound of footsteps, Mara looked up to see Corbeau walking into the room. He was followed by Gray Wolf and a young woman with light brown hair.
Mara wiped her hands on her apron, disturbed by the presence of the Indian. “Is something the matter?”
As if sensing her unease, Jacques smiled at her. “Nothing to worry about, madame. But if you have a few moments, Gray Wolf has brought someone to meet you. Perhaps we could speak privately?”
Mara looked at Sophie, who nodded immediately and reached for Babette’s hand. “Come, petite, we will go for a walk while Aunt Mara visits with her guest.”
“But I want to help with the pie,” Babette protested. “You said I could.”
“It can wait until you return,” Mara promised her.
With a shake of her head, Sophie led the child from the room.
When they were gone, Mara turned to Jacques. “What is so urgent it must be spoken of privately?”
“Gray Wolf tells me that the western Indians are leaving for the winter and taking their captives with them.”
Panic blossomed in Mara’s stomach. Did he intend to turn her over to Gray Wolf after all? “But I am your captive,” she pointed out, unable to keep a slight quaver out of her voice. “You made it quite clear that you paid good money for me. Are you trying to revoke your protection?”
“Of course not,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
By the tense look on his face, she realized that he was no more pleased by this development than she. Her panic subsided a little.
He gestured to the young woman. “This is Greta. She does not speak French very well, but I am told that you understand German.”
More curious now than concerned, Mara nodded.
“Then I will let her explain it to you. Gray Wolf and I will wait in the trading post.”
After the men left, Mara gestured to the table, inviting Greta to join her. Switching to German, she asked, “What did you wish to tell me?”
Greta leaned forward, an earnest look on her round, red-cheeked face. “I am here to help you.”
Mara sat across from her and folded her hands on the table. “What makes you think I am in need of help?”
“I heard that you were attacked by a soldier of the garrison.”
Mara sighed and crossed her arms. Was there no one at the forks of the Ohio who did not know about that? “Yes, I was, but as you can see, I survived.”
Greta’s hands fluttered nervously. “I did not mean to remind you of an unpleasant experience. But that is precisely what many of the women captives fear. Some of us believe that we are better off with the Indians than with the French.”
Mara raised her eyebrows. “Whatever led you to that conclusion?” After witnessing Emile’s death and the slaughter of the attacking British, Mara had no doubts that the French, however despicable, were the lesser of two evils.
“I have been assured…”
“By whom?”
Greta frowned at the interruption. “Gray Wolf assures me that once we reach the village, all women captives will either be adopted by a family or married to a warrior.”
“Really?” Mara rubbed her forehead. Neither alternative held any appeal for her. “Please understand that I am not inclined to trust the man who killed my husband.”
Greta’s eyes grew wide. “I had no idea. But Gray Wolf is not leaving with us. He merely agreed to act as a go-between.”
“I will think about what you have said, but what about your family? How will they find you?”
Greta squirmed on the bench and lowered her gaze. “I have not seen my family for some time. I was a servant. If I go back East, I will have to serve out the rest of my indenture.”
“I see,” Mara murmured. That put a different face on things. Greta was like so many other immigrants who were forced to sell themselves into temporary bondage to pay for their passage. Mara did not envy the girl. The life of an indentured servant was often hard and unpleasant, so it
was not unreasonable that life among the Indians might seem to offer more freedom than returning to her master.
Clearing her throat, Mara reached into her pocket and drew out Gideon’s letter. “I have another reason to remain here. My brother is with the British army. He sent me this letter. As long as there is a chance that he will be able to rescue or ransom me, I dare not leave the fort.”
Greta nodded in understanding and rose. “I see, but if you change your mind, we leave in two days’ time.”
“Thank you,” Mara said. “I wish you the best of luck.”
With a shy smile, Greta left the room.
Alone, Mara stood and picked up the bag of flour. She needed to keep busy, anything to keep her worries at bay. Had she made the right decision? Only time would tell, but in her heart, she knew she had made the only possible choice if she ever hoped to see her brother again.
“What will you do?”
Jacques’s voice startled her enough to drop the bag of flour, spilling some on the table. She turned to glare at him. “Look what you made me do! It is not as if we have flour to waste here.”
“Ah, chérie, do not be angry with me,” he said softly, a pleading look on his face.
She averted her gaze for a moment. It was unfair to snap at him just because the other woman’s visit had upset her. “What do you think I should do?”
He studied her gravely. “It is your decision.”
Mara stared at him incredulously. No man had ever allowed her to make a decision. Not Emile, and certainly not her grandfather. Unbidden, words spilled from her lips. “What do you want me to do?”
A wry smile softened his expression. “That is a different question. Of course I want you to stay here. With me. But it is conceivable you will be safer in an Indian village, so if you choose to go with them, I will not stop you.”
He still refused to decide for her. A wicked impulse made her ask, “What if I choose to go to the British?”
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