His brows shot upward. “That is not possible, and you know it.”
She moved toward him, determined to press her point. “Why not? If you are willing to let me go at all, why should it matter where?”
“I have not kept you here for my convenience, you know.” His voice was laced with amusement. “In truth, madame, you have been anything but convenient.”
She felt a flush creeping up her face. “What did you expect, that I would fall into your arms at the first opportunity? Become your love slave?”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “A man can but dream.”
Her face had to be flaming now, and it was her own fault. Love slave, indeed. Whatever had possessed her to say that? He had said before that he dreamed of her. Why had she taunted him? It was not as if she wanted him to want her. Or did she? Never had she been so confused. She turned away from him and stared at the spilled flour.
“You have still not answered my question,” he reminded her.
Mara hesitated. How ironic that of all the men in her life, Jacques would be the one to offer her that opportunity. A feeling of warmth and surprised gratitude coursed through her, and she smiled at him. “I will stay.”
He walked up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and said simply, “I am glad.” His thumbs kneaded her tense muscles. “You should know, however, that our situation will likely grow worse before it gets better.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Why do you say that?”
“We received the news that Fort Frontenac has fallen to the English.”
Mara frowned. “I do not understand. Why should that affect us here?”
“I will show you.” Draping his left arm across her shoulders, he picked up a knife and began to draw a map in the spilled flour. He then grabbed a handful of blueberries and placed them at intervals. Pointing with the knife, he started with the berry on the far right.
“This represents Quebec, capital of New France and guardian of the St. Lawrence. The next is the city of Montreal. West of here is a string of forts—Frontenac and Niagara on Lake Ontario, Presque Isle, here on Lake Erie, then Venango, Machault, and finally Fort Duquesne on the Ohio.” As he spoke, the knife arced from right to left, northeast to southwest.
“Every fort is an important link in the chain of command and supply. Without Frontenac,” he picked up the third berry from the right, “the western forts are cut off from New France. There will be no more convoys from Montreal.” He popped the dried blueberry into his mouth.
“Then we cannot afford to waste food, can we?”
He flashed her a boyish grin that carved deep grooves on both sides of his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. When he looked at her like that she could no more resist than she could stop breathing. Her heart began to beat faster.
His smile faded quickly to be replaced with a frown. “Mara, when the western Indians leave, the fort will be more vulnerable. If the British get close enough to fortify the heights on the other side of the Monongahela, this place will not be safe.”
“Where are these Indian villages Greta spoke of?” she asked, thinking that perhaps she should leave while she had the chance.
Picking up the knife again, he extended the line representing the Ohio River and pointed to a spot much further west. “They are approximately in this area.”
The thought of going so far into the wilderness made her blood run cold. When her shoulders shook with an involuntary shudder, he hugged her closer to his side.
“So far from civilization,” she murmured.
His eyebrows quirked. “Fort Duquesne hardly qualifies as civilization.”
“True,” she agreed. “But it could be worse. Things can always be worse.”
He dropped his arm and turned sideways to face her. “That is what I like about you, madame. Your eternal optimism.”
Mara looked at him in surprise and realized that he was teasing her. Again, his grin faded quickly, replaced by a solemn expression. “Are you sure about staying?”
Mara nodded.
“It may not be safe,” he warned.
“I am not afraid,” she said without hesitation. “I know you will protect me.”
“So, I have finally earned your trust.”
He held out his hand, and she allowed him to gently draw her into his arms. He moved his mouth over hers, caressing it with slow, sweet kisses that tasted of blueberry. With patience and tenderness, he coaxed a response from her until she parted her lips and let him take full possession of her mouth.
She wound her arms around his neck and tangled her hands in the hair at his nape. For a brief time, she forgot everything but the taste and feel of this man who stirred her senses.
When she thought she would faint from lack of air, he drew back for both of them to gulp in a needed breath.
“Mara,” he said, his voice a husky rasp against her ear, “how far do you trust me?”
A small whimper escaped her throat. Unable to answer him, she buried her face against his shoulder.
His hands stroked her hair, her back, and then moved down to cup her buttocks. “Just let me love you,” he urged, “and I will be your slave.”
It would have been so easy to give in to his plea. Just one little word. Yes. But some small bit of sanity surfaced from deep within.
“I cannot.” She backed out of his embrace with reluctance, almost afraid to look at him. But he did not appear to be angry. Just resigned.
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “Ah, Mara, who will protect you from me? That has been the question all along, has it not?”
Chapter 10
In the end, it was a man of God whose actions sealed the fate of Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin at the Beautiful River.
The irony of it was not lost on Jacques. The idea that a pacifist stood a better chance of ending the hostilities in the Ohio Country than the two armies currently on a collision course was too farfetched to believe, yet that was exactly what might happen.
When Captain de Ligneris had heard of the missionary’s presence in the area, he’d dispatched half a dozen officers, Jacques included, to the village of Kuskuskas, thirty miles from the fort. Despite his irritation at the man’s meddling, Jacques had to respect the courage of this modern-day Daniel who had walked so willingly into the lion’s den.
On the evening of November 20, Jacques and six of his fellow officers entered into a native building to meet with Christian Frederick Post, emissary from the governor of Pennsylvania to the western Indians, and sixteen representatives of the Delaware and Shawnee tribes. In a corner, Alain Gauthier set up a small writing desk with the paper, pens, and inkpots necessary to keep careful records of the meeting.
The missionary had been housed in a sugar cabin where, in the spring of the year, the Indians boiled the sap of the maple tree into sugar. A sweet scent pervaded the building, a piquant counterpoint to the smell of sweaty bodies.
As the evening shadows threatened to engulf the building in darkness, several Indian women came to light a fire in the center of the room. As the fire warmed the room, the tenseness of the meeting rose also. Despite the cool weather outside, the crowded conditions inside the hut raised the temperature until Jacques was uncomfortable in his wool uniform.
The French stood by and watched as Post tried to convince the warriors to give up the fight against the English. Though he had been amply supplied with wampum, the mild-mannered Mennonite missionary’s nervousness was apparent. Yet his words, spoken in the Delaware language, were strong and eloquent.
Jacques walked up to stand beside Gray Wolf, who was listening intently to what Post had to say.
In a soft voice, Gray Wolf translated the gist of the speech, that a great conference had been held at Easton, attended by the Six Nations of the Iroquois and nine other tribes. In return for peace on the frontier, the English had signed a treaty promising not to settle or hunt beyond the mountains. Finally, Post urged the chiefs in attendance to return to their homes an
d fight no more.
When Post was finished, Crazy Badger, who had never been known to walk away from a fight, challenged him. “Why should we believe your lies? When the English decide they want our lands, they will break the treaty and cheat us again.”
Shingas, a chief of the Delaware, rose to apologize to the missionary. “No one here is to molest this man or anyone with him. It is for the chiefs of the Delaware and Shawnee to decide what must be done.”
After the chiefs left to confer in private, Jacques turned to Gray Wolf. “Crazy Badger has the right of it, my friend. If you abandon the fight against the English now, you will only have to fight them again later.”
Gray Wolf studied him, his expression grave. “That is easy for you to say. This is your fight, not ours.”
“No,” Jacques denied with a shake of his head. “It is yours, as well. The English are land hungry. They will push and push until there is nothing left for your people or mine. We are not interested in colonizing the continent.”
Gray Wolf folded his arms across his chest. “Then why did the French claim our land for their king?”
Jacques waved a hand in dismissal. “That was a warning meant for the English. A way to keep them from spreading westward from the coast, not an attempt to take land from your people. Who do you trust?”
Gray Wolf bared his teeth in a predatory smile. “I would be a fool to trust any white man.”
“What about Post?”
Gray Wolf nodded thoughtfully. “Post is our brother. He speaks our language. He has taken a Delaware woman to wife.”
“But surely you do not trust the English,” Jacques insisted.
Gray Wolf’s answer was an expressive shrug. “My people will have to deal with the victors in any contest between French and English. And at the moment, I doubt the English can be stopped.”
Jacques swore under his breath. “How can we hope to win when our allies desert us?”
Gray Wolf countered with the one argument Jacques could not refute. “We were at peace with the English until the French came to our lands. We traded with them, and received better value for our furs than we have been getting from Canada. This is not our battle.”
Jacques’s reply was sharper than he intended. “Then you will fight next time on your own, and I wish you the best of luck.” A bitter sense of betrayal welled inside him. Frustrated, he turned on his heel and walked back to confer with his fellow officers.
The French were allowed to speak first. Alain Gauthier spoke for Captain de Ligneris, who claimed to be ill. It was no secret around the fort that his illness was caused by too much wine.
After Alain reiterated what Jacques had already discussed with Gray Wolf, he held up a string of wampum and offered it to Captain Pierre, a chief of the Delawares. The French knew the decision had gone against them when the Indian knocked the belt from Alain’s hands and kicked it. Others joined in the game until the room was filled with jeers and swinging feet. Even Crazy Badger seemed to forget his objections to the English proposals.
Jacques exchanged an incredulous look with a pale Alain Gauthier. It was as clear a message as Jacques had ever seen.
Stunned by the outcome, he walked out into the dark, moonless night. Outside, he breathed a sigh and watched it frost in the cool air. Overhead, stars twinkled brightly, but the cold reminded him it was only a matter of time until the arrival of the first snowstorm.
The sooner the better. The advent of winter would stop the British in their tracks and buy the French more time. But time to do what?
Under normal circumstances, winter quarters meant a break from the hazards of campaigning. A chance to rest, eat, drink, gamble, and woo the women of the town. The thought of spending the next five months in Mara’s arms flashed through his mind briefly, but the chances of that were slim. A cessation of hostilities would give her brother a perfect chance to ransom her, and Jacques would have to let her go.
Much as he hated the thought, he could not ask her to share the hardship of a winter at Fort Duquesne. They were cut off from Canada, running out of food, and without allies.
It was just a question of which disaster struck first, the snows of winter or the fire of the British guns.
*
Mara stood by the river and waved good-bye to the Bernards, as the bateaux holding them and the Illinois militia floated downstream.
The bleakness of the landscape matched the chill in her heart. The last of the fall leaves had fallen to the ground, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a gray sky. A cold wind brought tears to her eyes, destroying the promise she had made to herself not to cry. Sophie and Babette had wept openly at their departure, and though they had pleaded with her to join them, she had refused.
Jacques had told her about the meeting between the Indians and the missionary. In the week since, the Indians had deserted Fort Duquesne while the British army had drawn nearer. A few days ago, after a scout had reported the enemy was a scant twelve miles away, Captain de Ligneris had decided to abandon and destroy the fort rather than let it fall into British hands.
The fort’s inhabitants were being sent in several directions. Also headed for Illinois were the remaining British officers, Cameron Shaw among them. Mara had been sorry to see him go, for up to the last, she had harbored hope that the two of them could escape and join the English.
Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the trading post. A gust of wind blew a brown leaf in front of her. She watched it being buffeted aimlessly above the ground, just as she had been swept up by the winds of fate and dropped in this cursed place.
Time was running out for them all. Unless something unforeseen happened in the next few days, the English army would reach the Ohio. Before that happened, the French planned to blow Fort Duquesne skyward. It was a last desperate act of defiance, one she could understand, for she had formed her own mad scheme, one that offered her a last chance of escape.
Tonight she planned to go to Jacques and offer him one final bargain—her body for her freedom.
She did not doubt he would accept her offer. Had he not made his desire for her clear enough? The only question was whether she had the courage to go through with her plan. She tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, in part because of the chilling wind off the river, but also to still the trembling that had started within her from fear and anticipation.
Entering the trading post, she barred the door, wanting no interruptions while she prepared for this evening’s rash gamble. Her steps echoed in the empty building, reminding her how alone she was at this moment. She hurried into the living area and closed the door to conserve the warmth from the fireplace. Before leaving, she had coaxed the fire, and then piled a good-sized log on top, an extravagance she could seldom afford. There would be no need to extinguish the coals when she left, for fire would only aid the destruction of the fort. For now, she could burn as much as she desired.
She sat by the fire, unbraided her hair, and slowly brushed it. The warmth of the flames and the rhythmic pull of the brush soothed her until she felt almost boneless. Her eyes drifted shut, and for a moment, she considered abandoning her plan. It would be so easy to crawl into bed and sleep the sleep of the blameless. But sleep would not win her freedom.
With a sigh, she rose and walked to the bed where she had laid out the mended, blue silk gown. She and Sophie had tried hard to salvage it, carefully sewing up the tear in the sleeve. The repairs were obvious, and she had not been able to remove the rusty stains where Vache had bled onto the skirt. It was not fit to wear again in public, but for tonight it would serve.
Changing into the gown, she noticed that it no longer fit as snugly as it once had, but everyone at the fort had lost weight. Lacking a mirror, she checked her reflection in the wavy glass of the window. It was the best she could do on short notice. Despite her denials, Jacques had boasted that she would wear the dress for him one day. And now that day had come.
It was time.
Resolutely, she threw
a shawl around her shoulders and left the trading post, trying not to feel like a prisoner marching to the gallows.
*
Jacques rolled up a clean shirt and put it in his knapsack. The need to pack light meant only necessities. Unless the English suddenly turned around and marched eastward, the remaining French soldiers would soon be on the march north to Fort Machault.
He had managed to keep Mara from being sent to the Illinois country by reminding his captain of the expected ransom. When Alain had accused him of being obsessed, he had not denied it.
Jacques yawned and flexed his sore shoulders. He and Alain had spent the day planning how to set the explosion to destroy the fort, including inspecting every barrel of gunpowder in the magazine to separate the spoiled ones.
He had just removed his jacket when someone knocked on the door. Opening it, he was stunned to see Mara. “What is it, madame? Is something wrong?”
She bit her bottom lip and glanced quickly around the room. “Is Alain here?”
A pang of disappointment shot through Jacques. Would she never seek him out? Her hair was unbound, a golden cloud spilling around her shoulders. She looked like a woman meeting her lover, and he found it impossible to keep the chill out of his voice. “Alain is on duty.”
“Good. Then we will not be disturbed.”
To his complete amazement, she walked into the room, barred the door, then turned around and removed her shawl. He caught his breath when he saw that she wore the blue silk. He stared at her cleavage as his stomach twisted in a hard knot of need. It was a struggle to keep his response under control. Swallowing hard, he said, “You were able to mend the dress, after all.”
She smiled a bit ruefully. “Not as well as I’d hoped, but I wanted to wear it for you one last time.”
Jacques shook his head to clear it. Was he asleep and this episode some strange dream? He walked toward her and lightly touched her arm. She was real. Dear God, this was no dream. Caught between disbelief and enchantment, he wondered why she had come to him. “To what do I owe this visit, chérie? Dare I hope that you were lonely for my company?”
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