Rogue's Hostage (5 page)

* * *

Late the next afternoon, the Frenchman led Mara to a large cave where he informed her they would spend the night. Gray Wolf was waiting for them inside. He greeted Corbeau amiably, but the look he gave Mara chilled her to the bone. She moved to the other side of the entryway and sat down.

It was dark and much cooler inside the cave, though the air was fresh and curiously invigorating. The flickering light of the campfire cast enormous, wavering shadows on the cavern walls. The quiet was complete, except for the murmured conversation of the two men and the occasional plop of a water droplet landing on the rocks below.

Crazy Badger appeared in the entrance with several trout he had caught. He scowled when he saw Mara huddled in her corner.

Gray Wolf laughed. "I told you not to wager against Raven. The bounty money is now all mine."

Mara shivered as an icy knot of dread clutched her stomach.

Corbeau laid a hand on his heart. "I am wounded, Crazy Badger. Did you truly think me incapable of finding the woman?"

The other man shrugged but said nothing.

Despite her fear of the Indians, the chill finally drove Mara to seek the warmth of the fire where Corbeau cooked the mountain trout caught by Crazy Badger. When the fish were done, the men dove in with gusto, talking and joking in between bites. Skewered and roasted over the open fire, it tasted far better than Mara would have imagined, but she could only choke down a few bites.

"What will happen to me after we reach the fort?" she finally blurted out. Her heart pounded as all three stared at her.

"You will still be a captive," Corbeau said. "For a while, at least."

"What does that mean, for a while?"

He looked at the other two men before turning back to her. "Many captives are taken to Indian villages where they are often adopted by families who have lost a son or daughter."

She frowned, puzzled by his answer. All the stories she had heard in the settlements told of excruciating torture of prisoners, followed by certain death. Perhaps that was not always the case.

Gray Wolf looked at her speculatively. "Some of the women even marry into the tribe."

"Marry!" Mara gasped.

"It is possible," Gray Wolf mused. "This one is still young and healthy. And spirited. She led Raven a merry chase."

"She is too pale," Crazy Badger objected. "A woman should have dark eyes and hair. She looks like a ghost."

"My people find such light coloring beautiful," Corbeau said.

Crazy Badger sneered at the Frenchman. "Bah, Raven cannot see past his own desire."

"Stop it," Mara cried, covering her ears with her hands. Leaping to her feet, she dashed out of the cave into the fading light. She was not surprised when Corbeau followed and caught her by the arm.

"You can let go," she told him. "I’m not trying to run away again, I just need to be alone. Please."

"I cannot allow that, madame." There was regret in his tone, but he continued to hold her arm.

She took a deep breath of the fragrant, pine-scented air. "I know, but they make me so nervous." She turned to face him. "Must I go to the village with Gray Wolf? I could not stand being married to him."

Corbeau smiled. "There is little chance of that since Gray Wolf already has a wife and four, no, five children. It might be possible for you to stay at the fort, if that is what you wish, and if you are willing to work."

A spark of hope lightened her heart. "What kind of work?"

"Cooking, or doing laundry."

"I could do that."

"The surgeon might need assistance, also. Have you any experience at nursing?"

"A little, mostly onboard ship coming to America. There was a great deal of sickness among the passengers."

"Then I’m sure you can make yourself useful. Come, let us go back inside."

When she hesitated, he said, "You have yet to see the rest of the cave. There are a number of caverns, two of them quite interesting. Where is the spirit of adventure that led you to run away?"

"Adventure?" She stared at him in disbelief. "All that has gotten me is more and more misery."

But despite her misgivings, Mara followed him back into the cave where he picked up a pine torch and lit it in the campfire.

"We’re going to explore the cave," he told the others.

Crazy Badger looked up in alarm. "Not the Star Chamber."

Corbeau shrugged. "There is nothing to be afraid of."

Gray Wolf frowned. "Be careful, my friend. There is powerful magic in that room."

"What are they talking about?" Mara asked.

"You will see," Corbeau replied enigmatically.

Her curiosity roused, Mara followed him through two more caverns separated by narrow passages until they reached a larger chamber. The torchlight illuminated stylized pictures drawn on the cave walls.

She stared curiously at the drawings. "What do they mean?"

"I’m not sure about most of them." He pointed to a picture of a hut with an opening. "Gray Wolf told me that this one signifies death. The body remains but the spirit is gone. And this," he indicated a quarter moon with three stars, "means that the person died in December."

"Really?" She was impressed, in spite of herself.

He scanned the room slowly. "I wish I had the time to study this, to learn what each picture means. Someone should write it all down. Perhaps even publish a book about this."

Now Mara was truly surprised. She had not expected the fierce warrior to have a scholarly mind. Perhaps there was more to him than she had believed.

He took her by the hand again. "This way for the
pièce de résistance."

Mara stopped just inside the next cavern and stared at the ceiling in amazement. Tiny pinpoints of light sparkled from overhead. "Oh, it does look like stars. What causes it?"

"No one knows. The Indians are frightened of the ‘Star Chamber.’ Even Gray Wolf refuses to come here."

A shiver passed down her spine as his deep voice reverberated off the cave walls. "Are the stars dangerous?"

Corbeau shrugged. "Perhaps if you were to touch them. The lights must be caused by some special substance in the rock. But there should be no danger in just looking. I like to sit in here and pretend I’m at sea, with the entire sweep of the heavens above." He flashed her a sheepish look. "Sometimes, I even make a wish."

Mara had to smile. "I used to do that, too, when I was a child."

"Let’s each make a wish," he suggested.

"But they’re not real stars."

"We can pretend. Wish for whatever you want most in the entire world."

"Very well." Confused by his boyish manner, in that moment she almost liked him. He no longer resembled the savage who had taken her prisoner, refused to bury her husband, and threatened her with scalping. It occurred to her that she was seeing a glimpse of him as he had been before battle hardened him.

The deep resonance of his voice broke into her thoughts. "Pick a star, close your eyes and make a wish."

Smiling, she did as he suggested. Closing her eyes tightly, she wished with all her heart to return home. In her mind, she saw the cabin in the clearing, then she remembered Emile’s body crumpling to the ground, the blood on his chest, and tears sprang to her eyes. Quickly, she wiped them away.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring quizzically at her. "Is something wrong?" she finally murmured.

"No, I was just wondering what you were wishing for. You had such a look of sadness on your face."

Embarrassed, she looked away. "You are not supposed to tell anyone what you wished for. Otherwise the wish won’t come true."

He spread his hands at his sides. "But, as you said, these are not real stars. Besides, if I know what you want, I might be able to help."

"It is too late, monsieur. All the wishing in the world will not bring my husband back to life."

He said nothing, just looked at her sadly.

"We came to America with such hope," she said. "Emile wanted his own land, something to leave to our children." Only there were no children.

Corbeau raised an eyebrow. "So your husband decided to emigrate, and you came without complaint because you were a dutiful wife."

Mara bit her lip. "I can’t say I never complained. I was not very dutiful."

"Somehow that does not surprise me, little shrew."

Mara thought she heard a hint of laughter in his voice, but she was unable to see anything amusing in her situation. "In any case, the end result is the same. He is dead, and I am your captive." She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

His tone changed to one of sympathy. "The war will not last forever. I will probably be sent back to France when it is over."

"Yes, but you are a soldier. The army will take care of you. No doubt, you will go back to France a hero," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

He laughed harshly. "I have no intention of remaining in France. There is nothing there for me now. But what of you? Will you return to Geneva?"

"I couldn’t afford the cost of passage."

"Have you no savings?"

"It took every penny we had to cross the Atlantic. We sold everything of value to pay for our passage and to buy land. But at least we did not have to sell ourselves into servitude, as so many others have done. Emile said we were the lucky ones." Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. "I do not feel lucky."

"Is there no one to help you? Have you no family?"

"My parents are dead."

"Then you are alone in the world."

"Yes." Except for Gideon. When he found her, everything would be all right. She sighed and rubbed her arms for warmth.

Corbeau propped the torch between two rocks and took her hand in his. "You’re cold."

"It is chilly in here. Perhaps we should go back." She tried to extricate her hand, but he tugged her off balance, and they both sank to the floor of the cave. She was trembling now, uncertain of what he intended. For a second she considered screaming for help, but who would come to her rescue? Gray Wolf? A whimper forced its way past the constriction in her throat.

"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.

"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 lovely," 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 savage 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 don’t know 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 would it 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, she told herself. 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’m 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 empty the tub, then refill it and 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’ll 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 until it was squeaky clean, her only wish was for freshly laundered garments.

Standing, she dried off, 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."