Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  Inside, he got out his writing desk and penned a short note reminding that bastard Corbeau of the ransom demand made the previous fall, and offering to pay the amount immediately. He sanded and folded the paper, then set it aside to send with the next prisoner exchange.

  Because of his fluent French, Gideon had been assigned to the staff of General Monckton. His duties included acting as an interpreter, which meant questioning the prisoners brought in by the British patrols. Since the shelling began, there had been a steady stream of Canadians fleeing the city, only to end up in British hands. It was a job that had given him a glimpse of hell on earth.

  He rested his head in his hands, thinking of the horror stories he’d heard about the devastation of the town, the lack of provisions, the terror of a civilian population under siege, never forgetting that his sister shared their fate. Because of that, he had begun to see them as people, not enemies, even though they were French.

  At that realization, he wearily rubbed a hand over his face. For the first time in his career, he could not find pride in his choice of profession. Perhaps he was getting too old for the game. He thought back to the day he had donned his first uniform. How puffed up with pride he had been, thinking himself a fine fellow in his shiny buttons and gold braid, his head full of dreams of glory.

  Gideon snorted at the memory. He was older and wiser now, having turned thirty last November. And one thing he had learned was that there was no glory in war, just death and destruction, and that civilians always paid the price.

  When would it end? Would he see Mara again, or would she be one of the victims of this bloody, misbegotten conflict?

  Reaching into his trunk, he pulled out his pack of cards. It had been a long while since he’d used them, not since last fall when they had warned him about the demolition of Fort Duquesne, not to mention his sister’s love for her captor. At the time he had refused to acknowledge that possibility, but after seeing them together, he knew the cards had not lied about that.

  Gideon was not sure he wanted to know what the future held, but he was desperate enough to look for hope anywhere he could find it.

  As he shuffled the deck, he concentrated on Mara. When will I see her again? Deliberately, he laid out the cards in the prescribed pattern, and began turning them over to see what he had drawn.

  Some of the same cards reappeared, indicating further separation and danger. No surprises there. Nor was he surprised to see the Lovers. His mouth twisted into a sneer. One day, Corbeau. One day you and I will have a reckoning. And then I will have my revenge.

  The Destroyed Tower was repeated, making him wonder if its presence in the original reading had foreshadowed the bombardment of Quebec. Lord knew the British guns were doing a creditable job of that. Though he understood the military strategy involved, he could find no joy in the ruin of the charming little city.

  He had not expected a cheerful reading, but the last four cards chilled his heart.

  A skeleton with a scythe walked over the bodies of the dead. La Mort was followed by the Wheel of Fortune, relentlessly turning, never stopping until fate played out its hand.

  The Hanged Man came next, dangling upside down by one foot from a scaffold, hands tied behind his back. It could mean sacrifice or a traitor, but Gideon had no idea which. He traced the figure with one finger. Or perhaps it represented his own helplessness, his inability to help his own sister galled him. There must be something he could do.

  Judgment was last. Gideon stared at the figures on the card, climbing out of the grave to greet a winged angel and meaning…what? Resurrection of the dead? Victory of the spirit?

  He rubbed his eyes and reminded himself that the presence of Death and Judgment in the cards should not always be taken literally. But in this combination, the message was clear. Loss, destiny, sacrifice, atonement.

  Good Lord, no matter how he looked at it, the picture was grim. If the cards were right, he might never see his sister alive again.

  With a loud oath, he rose to his feet, knocking over the table and scattering the cards on the floor. Leaving them, he rushed outside and sucked in a breath of cool air to clear his head. It might not be too late. Perhaps it was only a warning, merely a possibility.

  It might not be his destiny to save her, but by God, he had to try. It was time to find out how much Corbeau valued his captive.

  *

  Jacques picked his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Lower Town. The sun was ready to set, which meant the British shelling could start at any moment. He had left his battery in the capable hands of Victor Charvat, not that there was much that could be done.

  Jacques clenched his fists in frustration. If only he could pay the English back, shot for shot. But powder was in short supply, another lack that could no doubt be laid at the feet of Intendant Bigot.

  And now this. A note from Gideon Harcourt had been delivered earlier by one of Etienne’s messengers. Jacques had forgotten about the ransom demand of the previous fall, but Harcourt obviously had not, for he was now offering to pay it.

  His jaw clenched. Whether he liked it or not, and he didn’t, it was time to let her go. That was the only way to ensure her survival, for there was no safe spot left in Quebec.

  The tavern had escaped damage so far, but it was only a matter of time until it, too, caught a shell, or was set on fire by a wayward spark. On his advice, Mara had moved her things to the ground floor kitchen, even sleeping on a pallet before the hearth. Now he entered by that door, stopping as a welcoming smile lit up her face. She ran into his arms, and he buried his face in her hair. She smelled of herbs and flour, the sweet scents of everyday life.

  Dear Lord, letting her go would be like tearing out his heart. It was what he must do, but first he had to be sure of one thing.

  “Mara,” he said, drawing back to look at her. “Is there any chance you could be with child?”

  She pulled away, a remote look on her face, her hand automatically touching her abdomen. “I told you it was impossible,” she whispered. “Why on earth must you remind me?”

  He sighed with regret. A babe would bind them as nothing else could, but it was not to be. He pulled Gideon Harcourt’s note from his pocket. “Your brother sent this, offering to pay ransom for you. I told Etienne to arrange an exchange.”

  The color drained from her face, and she caught the back of a chair for support. “Exchange? You are trading me for money?”

  He winced. “I do not care about the ransom, but I am interested in getting you out of Quebec. You will be safer in the British camp with your brother.”

  The expression on her face was filled with reproach. “You said one day I would have to choose between you and Gideon, but you are not giving me a choice, are you? You have already made the decision.”

  He moved toward her. “Mara, please understand. Your safety is more important to me than anything in the world. Especially if there is any chance you could be carrying my…our child.”

  “And if I were, would that make any difference in what you do?”

  “Yes. In that event I would insist we be married before you left.”

  She waved her hand in an abrupt gesture. “I have said I am barren. Please, let us not speak of this again.”

  “Mara,” he murmured, drawing her stiff body into his arms. “I promised to take care of you, but the situation here is untenable. As much as it pains me to admit it, only Gideon can keep you safe now. There is no point in both of us losing our lives.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. “Do not even think it.”

  He smoothed a wisp of hair off her cheek. “I must. I am a soldier, after all. But know this, when the war ends, if I survive, I will find you. That is a promise.”

  *

  After Jacques left, Mara paced the kitchen, her mind in turmoil.

  Though she had known that sooner or later they would have to part, she had not expected the prospect to be so wrenching. The future stretched out before her, dim and bleak, an
d above all, lonely.

  A screaming sound overhead told her the shelling had resumed. She closed her eyes and clapped her hands over her ears, not sure how much longer she could bear the constant noise, the ever-present fears. Was the din as overwhelming in the British camp?

  The British camp. Gideon. They had quarreled when she’d refused to leave Quebec with him. Since he’d offered to pay the ransom, he must have forgiven her. A weight lifted from her shoulders at that realization. She should be overjoyed at the thought of being reunited with her brother—and she was, truly, but…

  But Jacques.

  Had someone told her last fall that she would grieve at parting from her captor, she would have laughed aloud. Yet, slowly, inexorably, her feelings for him had changed, and deepened, until life without him seemed unthinkable.

  It had started at the cave, she decided, when he had promised to find her respectable work at the fort. Of course, it was Brother Denys who had actually done that, but Corbeau’s intentions had been good. She smiled ruefully, wondering whom she was trying to fool. He had wanted her almost from the first. Until recently, his intentions had been anything but honorable, and she had refused to even consider marriage.

  Fool, she berated herself. Now it was too late. She gave no weight to his promise to find her after the fighting ended. Such promises were easily made and easily forgotten. No, if she wanted to bind him to her, she’d have to marry him.

  She stopped pacing to consider the matter, staring blankly at the kitchen sideboard. All she need do was tell him she might be with child. What was one little lie added to the list of her sins?

  “Shame on you,” she said out loud to her reflection in a gleaming copper plate. Jacques was an honorable man who deserved nothing less than complete honesty from her. She had already deceived him once, on the day Gideon had come to town. How angry he had been when he thought she had run off with another man. If she did not know better, she might think he truly loved her.

  At that she smiled. Jacques had spoken often of the passion they shared, but never had he used the word love. Oh, he called her mon coeur, but such words tripped lightly off his silver tongue, and she refused to take the endearments seriously.

  Another shell shrieked overhead, followed by a loud explosion. She screamed as the floor lurched, knocking her off balance. She stumbled backwards and fell, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs.

  Looking up, she saw the sideboard swaying above her. She froze. Plates and tankards flew at her, striking her about the head and shoulders. She blacked out just as the sideboard came crashing down on her.

  *

  When Mara awoke, she was lying on her back in the kitchen. She stifled a groan at the ache in her head and left shoulder. When she moved her arm, a sharp pain radiated down to the wrist. She tried moving her legs, but they were pinned under the heavy, wooden sideboard.

  Trapped. Fear bubbled from her gut, and her breathing quickened. Closing her eyes, she took a slow deep breath and tried to calm herself. There was nothing she could do but wait for someone to pull her out of the wreckage. She tried to quell a second wave of panic at the thought of how long that might be.

  Rest, she told herself, closing her eyes. Jacques will come and everything will be all right. It was not as if she were hurt badly, just some aches and pains.

  But that was not all. Dimly, she became aware of an acrid smell and opened her eyes to see tendrils of smoke seeping around the door to the hallway.

  At that, terror exploded. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she screamed for help. No one came. She screamed while the room filled with smoke. She screamed until her throat was raw and her eyes streamed with tears, then fell back on the floor, her breathing shallow and painful.

  “Oh, Jacques,” she whispered. “Now I’ll never know if you love me.”

  Sheer black fright swept through her. She was going to die here, alone in the kitchen of a tavern, in a French city. She would never see Jacques again, and he would spend the rest of his life blaming himself for her death. If only there were some way to let him know she did not blame him. Tell him she loved him.

  Her last thought was that Grandfather had been right. Her day of reckoning had arrived. For her wickedness, she was being punished in fire and brimstone.

  *

  That was close.

  A chill passed through Jacques as a barrage of shells cascaded into Lower Town. Loud explosions were followed by billows of black smoke from the vicinity of the tavern.

  “Mara!” he bellowed and broke into a run. Icy fear twisted around his heart. He should never have left her there. He should have sent her to stay with Etienne until the transfer could be arranged.

  If it was not already too late.

  Driven by panic, he stumbled over bricks and debris in the street, gasping the smoke-filled air into his lungs until pain gripped his chest.

  Too late, too late, too late were the words pounding in his head.

  When he reached the tavern, his worst fears were realized. Smoke poured from windows that had blown open and from a gaping hole in the roof.

  Mara had been in the kitchen when he’d left. He picked his way through the debris along the side of the tavern, working his way toward the back door only to find it blocked by debris from the chimney. He grabbed a brick and tossed it aside, then another and another, working feverishly.

  Victor arrived with two of his gun crew to help out. As soon as they pried the door open a crack, Jacques squeezed through, followed by one of his men.

  “Mara, are you here?”

  No answer.

  “Mara!”

  The kitchen was filled with smoke. Jacques dropped to the floor and began to crawl, tossing aside plates and tankards in his way. A flash of white suddenly caught his eye. Mara’s cap. She was trapped underneath the sideboard. He reached for her hand but found no pulse.

  “No!” The cry tore from his throat. He strained against the heavy wooden piece, trying to push it off her single-handedly. The gunner joined him, and with a great heave they shoved it aside.

  Jacques gathered her into his arms and carried her outside. Slumped on the ground, he held her lifeless body in his arms, tears streaming down his face.

  *

  Mara was back in the cave, surrounded by blackness, except for a pinprick of light overhead. What had Jacques called it? The Star Chamber. Only she remembered a lot of twinkling lights, not just one. She must be having a dream, but a nice one. At least the shelling had stopped, and blessed silence surrounded her.

  Then she heard a rushing sound, like a river at flood tide. She was propelled through the darkness, not walking but floating through space, toward a light that grew larger and brighter as she came closer until she emerged from the cave. How odd that such brilliant light did not hurt her eyes after the blackness.

  A beautiful spirit appeared, like an angel, but with an enormous white halo. “Welcome, my child,” the angel said, but not aloud. The words echoed inside Mara’s mind.

  “Who are you?” Mara wondered, filled with awe.

  “The one who has watched over you since your birth.”

  An image of her mother’s bedroom in Geneva floated into Mara’s vision. Her grandmother, looking younger than Mara remembered, stood holding a baby in her arms. The angel who had greeted her hovered over the bed in which her mother’s body lay. “Mama,” she gasped, “is that you?”

  “Yes, my child.”

  Mara was suddenly filled with a sense of love and joy and acceptance. “Oh, Mama, I never thought we would meet. Promise you’ll never leave me again.”

  Her mother smiled gently. “It is you who must leave soon. But first there is someone you must meet.”

  She led Mara to another angel whose halo was even larger and more radiant. Before Mara could speak, he replied, “I am a servant of him whose existence you doubt.”

  With that she expected to be cast into the bowels of hell, but nothing happened. Instead of disapproval, she sensed nothing but love an
d compassion, and a hint of humor.

  “How have you lived your life, my child?” the angel asked. “How well have you learned to love?”

  Mara’s whole life flashed through her mind, in vivid detail. Not only did she relive her memories, but also was acutely aware of every hurt, every disappointment she had caused others. Upon reflection, it was not a bad life, but a cowardly one, for she had failed to embrace fully the life God had given her.

  “It does not take much to make you happy,” the angel said, “just love and peace of mind. So far, your life has been difficult, filled with pain and sorrow. But you must stop living in the past. Concentrate on the present and the future, and you will find happiness.”

  Mara’s mind filled with questions that were instantly answered.

  “Why are there so many churches? Which is the right one?”

  “There are many religions because different people have different spiritual needs. Each one is necessary and right for those who believe.”

  “Why must men fight? How can it be stopped?”

  “By learning to forgive your enemies, as you have done.”

  “But what I have done with Jacques is a sin,” she insisted, bracing herself for disapproval.

  “Most sins are more easily forgiven than you have been led to believe. You are on earth to learn, my child, and to help others. That is why you cannot stay here. Two men who love you await your return. One you will marry. The other needs your help learning to forgive.”

  “Jacques and Gideon.”

  “Yes,” the angel confirmed.

  “It is time.”

  The second angel disappeared. Mara turned to see her mother again. “Please, Mama, do not send me away. Not now that I have finally found you.”

  “It is not yet your time, my child. You must go back. There is work for you to do.”

  Mara was torn between her concern for Jacques and Gideon, and her desire to remain in the light. Going back meant pain and sorrow. “But I do not know how to get back.”