Rogue's Hostage Read Online Free PDF Page A

and wait for the right opportunity.
    As they wound their way through the forest, Mara tried to keep her bearings, but soon realized the futility. The narrow path twisted through dense strands of trees, up and down the slopes of hills, crossing and re-crossing streams until she was thoroughly lost. Tall maple and birch trees shut out most of the sunlight and made it impossible to maintain a sense of direction.
    The unrelenting pace set by the Indians soon had Mara gasping for breath. The trail wound up a rise and the hardwood trees gave way to pine and spruce. Her breathing grew labored as she struggled to keep up. By the time they reached the top, pain pierced her side like a knife wound. They stopped at the summit, and she sank to the ground, taking in grateful gulps of the pine-scented air.
    When her breathing slowed to normal, she wiped her face on her apron and looked westward. The distant mountain ranges seemed to stretch to infinity, and her heart sank at the view—an undulating sea of green, a never-ending ocean of impenetrable forest, as far as the eye could see.
    "Magnificent, isn’t it?"
    She turned to see Corbeau crouched beside her, a wooden canteen in his hand. "The view is beautiful," she admitted grudgingly. Beautiful but overwhelming.
    He handed her the canteen. "Have some water."
    She hesitated, then took a swallow, and another, letting the heavenly liquid trickle down her parched throat. As she handed the canteen back to him, she forced herself to say, "Thank you." His hand brushed hers, and she flinched.
    He frowned at her reaction, but said nothing.
    Mara squinted into the late afternoon sun. "Where is the fort?"
    He gestured toward the horizon. "On the other side of the mountains."
    She stared at him, sure he was taunting her, but the expression on his face was serious. "My God," she whispered and turned her head to look out at the vista. She clamped her teeth together to keep from blurting out her terror. Even if she could escape, how would she find her way through this vast wilderness? Once on the other side of the mountain range, she might never make her way back to civilization.
    She had to escape, and soon.
    * * *
    The scent of death hung in the air.
    Gideon Harcourt sensed it the minute he entered the clearing on the way back to camp. The Dupré’s cabin door hung open and no smoke came from the chimney. A dark premonition held him still.
    The Highlanders accompanying him fanned out along the edge of the forest, muskets at the ready. Slowly, Gideon scanned the area until he discovered the figure lying beside the cabin wall. His heart gave a lurch, and he broke into a run. Oh God, no, he cried silently, not Emile.
    Pain and rage tore through Gideon as he stared at the mutilated body of his brother-in-law. A hand closed over his shoulder, and Gideon turned to find Lieutenant Shaw, his expression full of sympathy. The soldiers held back, no one daring to speak.
    Gideon threw off the Scotsman’s hand and raced toward the cabin. At the door he braced himself, dreading what he might find inside. Guilt assaulted him. It was his fault. He’d assured Mara and Emile they would be safe. He should have insisted they leave, go to the army camp, anywhere but here.
    He careened around the small room, his mind reeling in disbelief. There was no one inside, but he saw traces of blood on the floor and the table. Shock yielded quickly to fury. He pounded his fist on the table and cursed the French. The deep-buried fire of anger within him, kindled by his father’s death, flared into new life.
    He started for the door, but one foot caught on a bundle of cloth and he knelt to pick it up. "Oh, Mara," he moaned as he examined his sister’s bloodstained dress. "What have they done to you?" Yet he saw no pattern to the stains and no holes or tears to indicate a wound. Was it Emile’s blood? Could she be unharmed?
    The weight on his chest lifted, but only for a moment as he realized she must have been taken captive. A