The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (25 page)

Underestimating Braham was the first, trusting Jack was the second.

26

MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, December, 1864

W
hen the fog
lifted, Braham found himself on MacKlenna Mansion’s front portico. He leaned against the porch railing, waiting for a wave of nausea and dizziness to pass. He had no memory of his first passage through time, but this trip had been exactly as Kit had described—twisting and tumbling inside an enveloping, peat-scented fog.

He stared into the glow from the sidelights bracketing the door, much as he had years earlier when he had journeyed to the farm. Last time he’d been anxious in anticipation of a reunion of sorts. This time all he felt was a prevailing sense of dread—not about seeing Sean MacKlenna again, but about being pulled back in an atmosphere of uncertainty and violence—and the dread kept him nailed in place.

He glanced out over the surrounding fields. The colors of late fall were gone, and naked branches swayed and rustled in the breeze. Although the grounds were pristine, Braham’s appreciation had been diminished by the beauty and refinement of the twenty-first century farm’s manicured lawn, concrete driveway, and freshly-painted white plank fences.

He had also been tainted by being behind the wheel of a car, and how the slightest pressure of his foot against the pedal increased the vehicle’s speed to a heart-stopping fifty miles an hour. For the rest of his life he would covet the sensation of high speeds and the accompanying rush.

Would he now view his proper world through soured lenses? Would his short time in the twenty-first century affect his life in the present? Of course it would. He intended to use what he had learned to change the future.

Still stiff from days of inactivity, he moved slowly toward the door, where he paused, his fist inches from the sturdy oak door. It’s wasn’t too late. He could still go back, but once he passed through the door…

No, he wasn’t going back. He intended to save the President and would allow nothing to stop him.

The MacKlennas’ longtime servant, Joe, answered the door. “Mistah McCabe, been a long time since you be here last.” Joe ducked his head and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Braham handed over his slouch hat. “Afternoon, Joe. Is Mister MacKlenna in today?”

“Yes, suh. ’Spec he be happy to see you. You’n wait in a parlor.”

The foyer spilled into the parlor, where the walls were painted a dark blue and matched the loch in the painting of Eilean Donan over the fireplace.

Braham glanced around the room to see what new pieces Sean had acquired since his last visit. Braham had used his memories of Sean’s home for inspiration while furnishing his Washington townhouse. The house in Georgetown had been fully furnished, but the townhouse, across the street from the White House, hadn’t included so much as a stick of kindling for the front room fireplace.

Braham turned toward the clomping of boot heels.

“Abraham McCabe.” A grin split Sean MacKlenna’s face, and he pulled Braham into a backslapping hug. “What are ye’ doing here? Why aren’t ye’ in Washington?”

Braham opened his hand to reveal the ruby brooch.

Sean’s jaw dropped. “Kit’s brooch? How’d ye’ get it?”

“It’s a long story,” Braham said.

“Then we need whiskey.” He threw his arm across Braham’s shoulders and directed him out of the room. “I heard birthing the last bairn was difficult for Kit. Heard she told Cullen to stay away from her or she was going home.”

Braham laughed. “I doubt she held to the threat for very long.”

As the two men walked down the hall, Braham glanced up the stairs, remembering the glorious weeks he spent here in 1852, and then again in 1858. “Where’s Lyle Anne?”

“Resting. She’ll be happy to see ye’ again.” He turned toward Joe. “Tell Sukey we’ve company for dinner.”

“Yes, suh, Mistah Sean.” Joe shuffled toward the back of the house, mumbling, “Yankee Major. Trouble comin’. Sur’ nuff.”

The masculine leather furniture in Sean’s office hadn’t been changed since Braham’s previous visit. The surface of the large, burnished mahogany desk was unsullied by papers or knick-knacks. The shelved books in the cases were lined up flush with the edges. The trees outside the windows were kept clipped back to avoid interfering with the expansive view of the paddocks. So different, yet so similar to the look of Elliott’s office.

Braham placed the brooch on the top of the desk. As he took away his hand, a chill hit him. He quickly clasped his hands behind his back. “I told Elliott I’d make sure the brooch was placed back inside the desk. I don’t want my actions to interfere with Kit’s future.”

Sean reached into the center drawer, pushed the hidden lever, and the compartment popped open, revealing the rosewood box. He placed the brooch inside and closed the desk’s secret pocket. “When you see him, you can let him know you fulfilled your obligation.”

Braham gave Sean a direct look, while his gut tightened involuntarily. “I won’t ever see him again.”

“I canna believe it,” Sean said. “Let’s sit, and ye’ can tell me how ye’ got to the future to begin with, and what brought ye’ here.”

Once the men were settled in chairs by the fire with drinks in hand, Braham began his recitation, leaving nothing out except the primary reason Charlotte had refused to bring him back. Sean had made it clear years earlier, he didn’t want to hear anything about the future.

Sean listened attentively, his chin resting pensively on his hand. “Both ye’ and Cullen turned down the chance to live in the twenty-first century. Was there nothing to hold ye’ there? Not even the love of a bonny lass?”

Braham sipped his drink, preparing to deny having any feelings for Charlotte. He cleared his throat. “Charlotte Mallory is a beautiful, intelligent woman.”

Sean cocked an eyebrow. “And…”

Braham breathed in and out slowly to loosen the tightening knot in his throat. He propped his elbows on his knees, and after some more throat-clearings and hemmings and hawings, said, “I know the stone’s legacy, but this situation is not the same as Cullen and Kit’s.”

“Once the stone’s power touches ye’, fighting the magic is useless. My great-great grandmother shared the mystery with my father. Auld granny said, ‘The stone will take ye’ to a world unknown, through amber light to a time not yer own, to the one of yer heart, and the truth ye’ll be shown.’”

Braham dropped his head, shaking it and feeling his thoughts slosh around truths he preferred to ignore. Charlotte might come after him. If she did, the magic would weave its spell, and they might actually surrender to its sweet promise. But the promise could never be fulfilled in their case.

“There has to be a way to resist the magic before hearts are broken. I have no passion for living in the future, and Charlotte’s passion is for twenty-first-century medicine. She would never give it up. It was different with Kit. She knew she belonged in this time.”

Sean refilled both their glasses. “Being born in a time doesn’t mean ye’ belong there. Remember, when the stone weaves its magic, it reveals the truth.”

“Nonsense.” Braham heard the gravel in his voice. He took a big gulp of whiskey. “I need to get back to Washington.”

“I’ll take ye’ to the Lexington railroad terminal in the morning. From there ye’ can catch the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad to Washington City, assuming the Federals have control of the lines along the way. Several weeks back, Mosby derailed a Union train on the Baltimore & Ohio at Harpers Ferry and made off with a large payroll. They’re calling it the Greenback Raid.”

Braham flinched. “What’s today’s date?”

“23 November, 1864. How long have ye’ been gone?”

“Five weeks. The President will believe I’m dead.”

Sean steepled his fingers and tapped them at the tips. “Then he’ll rejoice to learn yer’ not. Do ye’ want to send him a telegram?”

Braham shook his head. “I can’t explain how I disappeared from the hospital in Richmond and then ended up in Kentucky. I’ll wait until I return to Washington and tell him I’ve been holed up in Virginia until I was well enough to travel.”

“Under the circumstances, I believe it’s a wise decision.”

A gunshot shattered a window in the office and crashed into a tea set on the table, scattering sharp fragments onto the Oriental rug. Stacked books toppled over, and Braham and Sean dropped to the floor.

Braham drew his revolvers. “What the hell’s going on?”

Sean peeked over the edge of the sofa, his face white, eyes wide. “Deserters been causing trouble lately. I thought they were farther north.”

A barrage of gunfire splintered the front door and pinged against the brick. The glass in two windows in the office exploded. Sean ducked.

Braham’s heart pounded against his ribs so hard he thought they’d crack. He was battle-hardened. Why was he reacting like a raw recruit?

Gut-shot once, battle leery forever.

This wouldn’t do at all. He wiped away the sweat streaming down his forehead and into his eyes, clouding his vision. He was a trained soldier. This was like getting back on a horse after a fall. He had to push on without being impeded by fear. He swallowed hard. It was true one of those bullets could rip another hole in him. And if it did, he’d either die or recover, but he wouldn’t cower in a corner. He stiffened his spine.

He belly-crawled to the window to the sharp crack of bullets which flew over his head and ricocheted off the walls. “Keep yer head down,” he yelled to Sean. Bullets smashed the wooden muntins separating the windowpanes, turning them into the sharp-edged projectiles which flew across the room and wedged into the furniture.

“Do you have guns in here?” Braham asked.

“Desk drawer.”

“I’ll cover you. Get ’em.” He fired several rounds. “There’re three in the tree line, two more by the paddock.” He craned his neck to see the far side of the house. “Are you sure your family’s inside?”

“Aye.”

“Where’re the slaves?”

“Don’t have any. My father freed them years ago. Treating men like animals didn’t sit well with a Scot’s love of freedom. Most are still with us, working for wages. My men carry guns, but they’re all in the fields. The women are in the cookhouse, and they have guards.”

Braham raised his head far enough to see over the windowsill. The deserters were maintaining their positions. He kept them in his sights, but he couldn’t afford to shoot and waste ammunition. He had to wait until they were closer.

“Will the men guarding the women come to the house?” he asked.

Sean shook his head as he cocked his rifle. “They have orders to lock the doors and protect the women and children.”

Memories of being close to death warred once more with his soldier’s battle instincts. “What about the men in the fields?”

“They won’t hear the shots.”

“Where’s your warning system?”

“The bell is between us and them,” Sean nodded his head toward the attackers while swinging his rifle toward the front of the house.

Braham swept his tongue across dry lips. “What’s your plan for protecting the house?”

“Delay long enough to allow Lyle Anne and the children to get to the safe room and through the escape tunnel.”

“If they haven’t been watching the front door, they probably believe you’re alone. It’s a definite advantage for us.”

Movement to the right caught Braham’s attention. “They’re about to make a move. How’s your ammunition?”

“Got enough. And ye’?”

Braham steadied himself. “Elliott sent me back battle-ready. Thank God.” As Braham spoke, he couldn’t deny the raw sound of mingled worry and fear in his voice. The odds of repelling the attack weren’t worth betting on. He sighed, hoping the carnage wouldn’t extend to the family.

Firing in a single deadly salvo, five men rushed the porch. Braham got off several shots before taking cover behind the solid brick wall bordering the window.

“Did ye’ hit any?” Sean asked.

“Maybe one.”

“I got one rolling on the ground. Another one’s limping.”

Braham peered above the windowsill. “Three of ’em are hiding behind the columns. Is the front door bolted?”

“No,” Sean said.

Braham ducked, giving vent to a loud expletive. “All hell’s about to break lose. I’m going to the hall.” He staggered to his feet. “If they burst through before I get into position, cover me.”

He sprinted across the office to the door, then glanced quickly around the door fame toward the main entrance. Two men were peering through the sidelights, and the others were a shadowy presence behind them. Braham took aim and waited for the Rebels to crash through the front door. He held his arm steady and swallowed hard.

The Rebs fired indiscriminately into the front door, peppering it top to bottom. The gunfire shattered the glass panes in the sidelights, sending shards across the floor. There was a loud bang, and the door burst open, followed by three men barging in with guns blasting in both hands. Plaster on the ceiling crashed down and glass crunched beneath the scallywags’ boots. The chandelier tinkled and paintings smashed to the floor, shattering the frames. Gunfire smoked up the foyer and bullets whistled around like hailstones in the gunpowder-scented air.