Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  She sank down on the bed, and he joined her. They lay side by side, facing each other, arms and legs entwined. His hand on her breast moved tentatively, a light touch that unfurled streamers of sensation.

  His ardor was so sweet yet touching in its restraint. He courted her with gentle persuasiveness, and she relaxed, responding to each tender touch. Her senses were filled with the strength and scent of him.

  As he entered her, she moved to meet him in a burst of bittersweet passion. Their bodies merged with the reverence of love and the force of inevitability. She was filled with an amazing feeling of completeness, that wonderful sense of coming home. Tremors of rapture caught in her throat, and for a brief, transcendent moment, she was blissfully happy, fully alive.

  Afterward, she lay clasped in his arms, body satiated and content. She sighed and whispered the words she had wanted to say for a week. “I love you, Jacques.”

  There was a long silence, then a sigh. “You’ll get over it.”

  She stiffened. What kind of nonsense was that? He was still determined to send her away. “Love is not a disease.” Then an even more disheartening thought occurred to her. “You don’t love me, do you?”

  Jacques closed his eyes. It might be kinder to let her believe that. Denying his love for her was akin to cutting off his arm. Eight years ago, he had cut all ties to his family and survived. And, as painful as it would be, he could live without Mara. As long as he knew she was safe.

  But he couldn’t lie to her, not after all they’d been through. “I do love you,” he said. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

  “How can that be?” she asked, puzzlement apparent in the tone of her voice.

  He turned to face her. “Mara, if something else happened to you, and I thought that I hadn’t done everything possible to insure your safety…” He let the thought trail off. “I couldn’t live with myself. That is why you must go to your brother.”

  *

  Jacques drove Mara to the encampment at Beauport, to the east of the city. The last day of July had dawned clear and hot, but by the time they reached the camp in the late afternoon a storm was threatening. A large, stone farmhouse with a gabled roof and five chimneys flew the fleur-de-lys, marking the place where Montcalm had set up his headquarters. Surrounding it were makeshift huts, wigwams, and rows of white tents gleaming in the sunlight.

  Something was wrong, Jacques thought, noting the lack of activity in the camp. Ordinarily it swarmed with white-uniformed French soldiers, Canadian militia in hunting shirts, and Indians wearing war paint and little else. Four days ago, a force of militia and Indians had won a skirmish with British regulars to the east at a ford on the Montmorency River. Surely there would not be another attack so soon afterwards.

  Jacques stopped in front of headquarters, where he learned that Etienne had gone to the encampment of the Chevalier de Levis to observe new British troop movements. Jacques headed the wagon further east along a road that ran parallel to the river. As they approached the camp, the sound of artillery became louder.

  They found Etienne at the entrenchments overlooking the St. Lawrence. “You have chosen a good day for a visit,” he greeted Jacques cheerfully. “It appears that the British are about to attack.”

  Mara gasped and Jacques put his arm around her.

  “Have no fears, madame,” Etienne reassured her. “You are perfectly safe here. We hold the high ground. They won’t make it up the cliffs.”

  Mara looked down on the St. Lawrence, a wide swath of blue that forked to flow on either side of the Isle d’Orleans, which the English now occupied. Several sailing ships and hundreds of small boats filled with soldiers were in the river, headed for a French battery on the north shore. But Etienne was right. Though the British might land their troops, it was highly unlikely that they had any chance of successfully scaling the cliffs.

  The French on the heights traded cannon fire with the British ships of the line as the small boats moved closer to the shore. A chill passed through her as she realized the futility of the battle about to be fought. How many men would die before it was over? And would Gideon be one of them?

  She wanted to shout at them to go back, to save themselves. Why were they here at all? Was it so important who ruled in North America? Was not one earthly power much the same as the other?

  In the end, none of it mattered. That had been made clear to her in her dream. There were only two things one could take into the next life—wisdom and the ability to love.

  Not gold and possessions, nor fame and glory. Those were earthly matters, of fleeting duration and importance. And as for vengeance, that was best left to the wisdom of God, as she intended to tell Gideon if, no, when she saw him again.

  Jacques’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Etienne, I wanted to speak to you about arranging a ransom exchange.”

  Etienne lowered his spyglass to look at his brother. “I am afraid that is no longer possible. General Montcalm has been informed by General Wolfe that there will be no more prisoner exchanges.”

  Jacques’s expression became forbidding. “Why not?”

  Etienne gave a Gallic shrug. “Apparently some idiot insulted the general by suggesting that the British motive for returning civilian prisoners was to avoid having to feed them.”

  Jacques swore under his breath. What was he to do with Mara now? Depending on where he was reassigned, he might be able to keep her with him, but how safe would she be? His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I should not have brought you here,” he said to her. “Come, let us leave now.”

  “No,” Mara insisted, an anxious expression on her face. “I must know what happens. Please, Jacques.”

  “Mara, I do not think you are aware of what is about to take place,” Jacques said in a gentle tone.

  “Of course I am,” she replied. “The same thing that happened when Major Grant attacked Fort Duquesne. A slaughter.”

  “I know you are thinking about your brother, but there is a good chance he is not even here,” he pointed out.

  “Which regiment is he with?” Etienne interrupted.

  “The Royal Americans,” she replied eagerly.

  Jacques reached for Etienne’s glass and trained it on the men in the transports. Most sported the high mitred caps of the grenadiers, but he spotted others as Royal Americans.

  “He is here, isn’t he?” she asked.

  “I see a regiment of Royal Americans, but that does not mean that your brother is with them.”

  “Let me see.”

  He handed her the glass reluctantly. “Do not say I did not warn you.” He stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, ready to shield her if necessary.

  “Here they come,” Etienne shouted.

  The grenadiers in the lead boats jumped out, muskets held above their heads, and began wading toward shore in a wild charge. The French gunners abandoned their post and raced for the cliffs, directly into the line of fire from the top. The anxious French troops waited until their comrades were safe before raining a heavy fire down on the British. The crackling of musket fire drowned out the screams of the wounded.

  Mara leaned back against Jacques for support, but resisted when he tried to turn her away from the slaughter. He, too, was unable to look away. The attackers appeared to be beyond the control of their officers, and though he had to admire the courage of the men, he cringed at the fate that awaited them.

  Some of the grenadiers made it to the base of the cliffs and began to climb, their muskets slung over their backs. Their red uniforms made excellent targets for the French above.

  In the midst of this, the heavens opened, and a torrent of rain poured down on all, soaking the French powder. It could have been an opportunity for the British, had the cliffs not been soaked through. Slowly the attackers slid back down to the shore, living, wounded and dead, all tumbled together.

  The firing ceased. Only the drumming of the rain and occasional rumbles of thunder marked the British retreat from the north shore of the St.
Lawrence.

  “Mara?” he asked.

  She turned into his arms then and buried her face in his shoulder. Wordlessly he held her as she cried out her grief for the fallen enemy.

  Chapter 19

  Jacques never looked back once they left Quebec.

  He had convinced Etienne to let him carry dispatches to Montreal, using the opportunity to get Mara out of the city. Etienne had loaned him enough money to pay for her lodging through the winter. After the battle at Montmorency, Jacques was convinced that the British had no intention of pulling out any time soon, and the situation in town continued to deteriorate daily. Last week, Notre Dame des Victoires had been destroyed, surely a bad omen.

  He had been unable to find a horse, as most of them had been slaughtered for food. It was harvest time, and patrols of British rangers were on the prowl, burning farmhouses and fields, taking prisoners and whatever else they could think of to demoralize the habitants. Unless the siege was lifted, and soon, everyone left in Quebec would starve next winter.

  Jacques rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, glad he had decided to carry his uniform coat and vest rather than wear them. The late August weather was hot and sultry, plagued by clouds of black flies during the day and mosquitoes at night. He was worried about Mara, who had still not completely recovered her health after the accident. Knowing she worried about her brother, Jacques had tried to get word through the lines, but to no avail.

  When he tried to reassure her, she just smiled sweetly and sadly. More alarming was the fact that she cried so often. She hadn’t been like that before. No matter what had happened—her husband’s death, being uprooted from her home and dragged into the wilderness—she had borne it all stoically. But now, he never knew when the tears would start. She even cried when they made love.

  He cursed under his breath, wishing there were something he could do to make her life better. If only he’d been able to arrange an exchange sooner, she’d be with her brother behind the British lines. At least there she’d be safe.

  They had no choice but to walk upriver until they were past the point where the British ships patrolled the St. Lawrence. Then he hoped to find a canoe or bateau to take them to Montreal. Jacques wiped the sweat off his brow and glanced at Mara, who was lagging behind again. If only he’d been able to find a horse and cart.

  She suddenly stopped and put a hand on his arm in warning.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I heard something,” she whispered.

  Just then, a man wearing buckskins and carrying a musket stepped out in front of them. Others materialized from the trees along the side of the road. Rangers, he thought with a sinking heart. He should have been more alert, but the weeks of shelling had damaged his already weak hearing.

  “Well, well, what have we found?” the first man said in English.

  Jacques pretended not to understand, hoping they’d be mistaken for habitants.

  One of the men moved closer to Mara, eyeing her up and down. “Hey, cap’n, this is the purtiest gal we’ve found yet.”

  Jacques tensed, knowing he’d be unable to protect her. He might get off one shot, but that left six others.

  Mara darted a warning glance in Jacques’s direction and backed away from the ranger. She had to handle this situation before Jacques tried some heroic action that would get him killed. Reaching inside her pocket, she wrapped her fingers around the pouch containing Gideon’s ring. Now if only her limited English did not fail her.

  “Please, sir,” she said to the leader. “Take us to my brother.”

  The captain smiled unpleasantly. “And who might that be, little lady? General Wolfe?”

  His men laughed uproariously.

  “Major Gideon Harcourt,” she said slowly. “He is with the Royal Americans.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed at her words. She had his full attention now. Taking the ring from the pouch, she held it up. “Gideon gave me this ring. He said it would see me safely through the British lines.”

  The captain moved closer to examine it. “Masonic,” he announced.

  “How would a Frenchy get a lodge ring?” one man asked.

  “Off a dead officer,” another suggested.

  “No,” Mara insisted. “From my brother.” She reached into the pouch once more. “Here is his letter.”

  The captain took the worn piece of paper, unfolded it and read it slowly. He scratched his head in thought. “It appears genuine.”

  “It is,” she insisted.

  “Who is that?” he asked, gesturing toward Jacques.

  “Take us to my brother,” Mara said. “He will reward you.”

  “Determined little thing, ain’t you?” he said with a grimace. “All right, lady, but if you been lying to me, well, let’s just say you’ll be real sorry.”

  *

  The rangers bound Jacques’s hands before escorting him and Mara to the Royal American camp at the Etchemin River. The captain disappeared inside a tent for a few moments. Suddenly Gideon rushed outside.

  “Mara, my God, what’s happened to you?”

  Mara threw herself into her brother’s arms and burst into tears. They were together again.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Gideon said, holding her tightly. He patted her shoulder. “Here, now, you were never one to cry much.”

  She stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I have changed, Gideon.” If only you knew how much. She would have plenty of time later to fill him in on what had happened to her. For one bittersweet moment, she had forgotten her fear for Jacques in her joy at seeing her brother again.

  He squeezed her shoulder, and then released her. “You are so thin, Mara.”

  “There is not much to eat in Quebec,” she said with a shrug. She stepped back and straightened her spine, aware that the rangers were gathered around, avidly watching the scene. A number of redcoated soldiers had joined them as well.

  “Do you men have nothing better to do?” Gideon asked in a sharp tone.

  “Begging your pardon, Major Harcourt,” the captain said, “but we was just wondering what you want us to do with the prisoner.”

  “Prisoner?”

  Mara held her breath as two rangers pushed Jacques roughly forward. They had tied his hands behind his back, but his defiance was apparent in his proud stance and haughty expression.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Corbeau.” Gideon smiled, an unholy grin that chilled her despite the afternoon heat. She had dreaded the day these two met—the day she would finally have to choose between her brother and the man she loved.

  “Well done, Captain Hawkins,” Gideon said. “You will receive a reward for this day’s work. Place the spy under guard. I will deal with him later.”

  Mara ran to her brother’s side. “Spy? Gideon, what are you talking about?”

  He turned to her with a stern frown. “This man is out of uniform. That makes him a spy.”

  “He was taken captive on the French side of the river,” she protested. “We were ambushed.”

  Gideon scowled at her. “So you still defend him, Mara.”

  “I will not apologize for speaking the truth.”

  “Was he with the men who killed Emile?”

  “You know he was,” she said, puzzled by the question.

  “And was he in uniform that day?”

  Mara stared at her brother, realizing that the truth would further condemn Jacques in his eyes.

  “I thought not,” Gideon said with a satisfied smirk. “He is a murderer as well as a spy.”

  “No,” she cried. “He tried to save Emile’s life. It was the Indians who killed him. Jacques is not a spy. Ask the ranger for his pouch, and you will find his uniform inside.”

  Hawkins immediately handed over the pouch.

  “Mara, no,” Jacques whispered, and she suddenly remembered the official papers he had been carrying.

  His attention caught now, Gideon dumped the contents onto the ground.
Ignoring the uniform, he picked up a packet of papers and began looking at them. “Ah, what have we here? Dispatches from the Marquis de Montcalm. General Moncton will be most appreciative. Perhaps he will even spare your miserable life.”

  He turned from Jacques and gestured to a uniformed soldier. “Sergeant Bigley, place the prisoner under guard,” he ordered. “I must forward these dispatches to General Moncton immediately.”

  Mara felt sick with disappointment. How could Gideon behave like that? She had known he was filled with hate and bitterness, but had never seen it demonstrated before, never seen him turn against her and someone she cared about.

  “Gideon, please,” she begged. “Do not do this.”

  “I must do my duty, Mara.”

  “Duty? That is not your duty. Listen to yourself, Gideon. You’ve become a bitter, narrow-minded man, just like Grandfather. Filled with hate, obsessed with revenge. Stop it before you destroy yourself.”

  “Enough!” Gideon commanded with an abrupt sweep of his arm. The expression on his face was so cold, so forbidding, that Mara no longer recognized him.

  “You may stay in my tent, Mara. If you need anything, ask Sergeant Bigley. We will talk later.”

  With fear in her heart, Mara watched Jacques being led away and shoved into a small tent. Sinking to the ground, she gathered their possessions, including the small vial of laudanum the doctor had given her for pain, and carried them into Gideon’s tent.

  She slumped onto the cot and hugged Jacques’s waistcoat to her breast, comforted by his familiar scent. Her mind was in turmoil as she tried to think of a way to help him escape.

  “Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “Where are you when I need you?”

  Words of comfort drifted into her mind. I am here with you, child.

  Mara glanced around the tent, knowing she was alone, but certain she had not imagined the words.

  Trust your heart. It will show you the way.

  Mara looked down at the vial of laudanum in her hand, and a spark of hope flared inside her. Perhaps there was a way, after all.