The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (37 page)

“Never mind, Edward,” she said, rising from her chair. “I’ll see him in the parlor.”

Gordon was standing in front of the hearth when she entered the room.

“Good morning, Gordon. Isn’t it rather early for a social call?”

“I thought I’d save you the necessity of sending a note with your answer about our dinner engagement tomorrow night.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done for both Jack and me, but after last night I think it’s best if we don’t see each other socially again.”

A ghostly smile flickered over his lips. “I’d hoped your brother had impressed upon you—”

“Jack does not make decisions for me,” she shot back. “He’s told you so twice now, possibly three times.”

The soft tick of the clock in the corner and the rising wind brushing against the windowpane were the only nods to time passing. The throb of her pulse beat inside her brain. She felt light-headed, dizzy, like she might faint from an empty stomach and the damned instrument of torture she wore over her chemise—a corset.

Gordon stared at her, his eyes traveling down her with unnerving thoroughness. His face darkened. He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, his fists clenched, his expression furious. She took a step backwards. He caught her face between his hands and turned her chin to the side.

“I heard McCabe’s voice as I entered the house. And your lip is swollen, my dear. Did he fuck you last night? Never mind. Don’t answer. Save me your sanctimony.”

She gasped in horror.

“You’re nothing but a goddamn whore.”

She recoiled, jerking her head out of his grasp, irate over his jealous tirade. Goosebumps prickled across her arms and shoulders. Her throat tightened painfully, but she forced out strangled words, “Get out.
Now
.”

“Not until I get what I came for.” He jerked her to him and grabbed hold of the hair, flinging the sterling hair comb across the room and unraveling the braided chignon at her nape. She cried out when he twisted her hair around his fingers to hold her still, and then he slapped her. Before she could knee him in the groin, he pressed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss, his lips hard and unyielding.

She pushed him off, and he grabbed her roughly by the bodice. The force knocked her off balance, ripping her dress. She scrambled for purchase, but fell sideways onto a table, knocking a stack of books onto the floor.

He raised his arm to strike her, but she dodged, turning her head to lessen the impact. His hand barely grazed the side of her face. “Braham and Jack are here. If I call them, they’ll kill you. Go away.” She swallowed hard, fighting back a spasm of shock in the pit of her stomach. Her mind was working furiously, but going nowhere. “If you’re spoiling for a fight, they’ll gladly give you one.”

Gordon’s brows slanted down like an angry hawk and his checks quivered with rage. He threw open the doors, and they rattled when they hit the wall. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” she said. “Don’t call on me again. You won’t be welcomed.” Gripping the back of a chair for support, she called to Edward, standing at his post by the door. “The colonel is leaving and will not be back.”

Gordon snatched his hat out of Edward’s hands and stormed out of the house.

Her insides trembled violently. Clutching her arms, Charlotte went to the window, proceeding with her grandmother’s fluid grace, the kind Granny was born with and never failed to exhibit in times of stress and violence.

“By doing it, you believe it,” Granny had said.

And so Charlotte did it now. But she didn’t have her grandmother’s gumption, and she never would. From the window, she could see Gordon stomping down the street, through the snow, with anger radiating off him so forcefully ice probably melted beneath his feet.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Edward asked.

She pointed over her shoulder. “The books fell off the table. If you would put the room to rights, I would appreciate it. I’m going upstairs now. I’d like a bath, too, if you would send up hot water. And, Edward, please don’t tell Braham or Jack. There’s no need for more violence.”

“Certainly, Miss Charlotte.”

As soon as she reached her bedroom, she dropped onto the chair in front of her dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her head hurt where Gordon pulled her hair, and the curls were now a frizzy mess. She had a bruise developing on the side of her face near her hairline and another bruise beneath her jaw. She also had fingernail scratches on her chest where he had grabbed and ripped her bodice. Intellectually she had always understood drug addicts could be emotionally volatile, and had seen addicts out of control before, but their anger had never been directed at her until now. And she never wanted to repeat the experience.

She opened the window, scooped up a handful of snow from the ledge, and held it against the side of her head. When the first handful melted, she grabbed another. By the time the second compress melted, her bath was ready. A long soak would rejuvenate her. Before the trip to Georgetown, she would apply a bit of makeup over the bruises. If Jack or Braham discovered the colonel had carried his delusional jealousy to such an abusive extreme, someone might get shot.

45

Washington City, February, 1865

W
earing an emerald
riding habit along with a matching hat decorated with feathers, plump roses, and an illusion veil, Charlotte made her way to the study to find her afternoon escorts. Entering the room, she gave a fake cough and fanned her way through the cigar smoke to join them. Braham sat back, feet resting on the edge of the desk, puffing. Jack’s cigar lay in an ashtray with streaming wisps of smoke following his pen as he drew the trench lines between Petersburg and Richmond.

Braham got up and offered his chair, giving her an appraising glance.

“What? Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head, smiling with a glint of deviltry. “You surprise me, that’s all.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed to crinkled slits. “You
both
surprise
me
.”

Charlotte picked up Jack’s cigar and tamped it out in the ashtray. “Just because you’re living in the midst of smokers doesn’t mean you have to smoke.” She pointed at the cigar clamped at a jaunty angle between Braham’s teeth. “You shouldn’t be smoking either.”

He gave her a subtle wink. “I haven’t heard anyone complain about smoking since the last time I saw Kit. She’s on a one-woman crusade to outlaw one of man’s most profound pleasures.”

Charlotte slapped her riding crop lightly against her leather-gloved palm. “Hundreds of thousands of lives would be saved if she’s successful.”

“Stop preaching, sis. Nobody likes to listen to a harpy.”

“Smoke the damn things, then.” She picked up a small tin, removed a lucifer match and tossed the unlit stick onto the map in front of Jack. “Here’s a match. Fire it up.”

He flicked the tiny piece of wood out of the way and the match rolled among the books and random pieces of paper cluttering the top of the desk.

“How much longer are you two going to be?” she asked. “I’m hungry. Should I have a snack?”

Huffing, Jack rolled up the map and stacked his notes, tapping the papers’ edges against the tabletop until the pages were aligned perfectly. She chuckled at the habit they had both acquired from their fastidious mother.

“Let’s roll,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to faint from hunger.” He glanced at Charlotte, his brows knitted in a frown. “Where’d the bruise come from? You didn’t have it earlier.” He leveled a glowering look at Braham, who returned the glare.

“Excuse me, sir,” Edward said, standing in the doorway. “Colonel Henly left his gauntlets. Should I arrange to have them delivered?”

“Yes,” Braham said. “I certainly don’t intend to deliver them.”

Jack came around to the front of the desk and looked closer at Charlotte’s face. “Wait. When did Henly leave his gloves? He had them when he left last night.”

Edward stared fixedly at Jack. “Earlier this morning. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to their delivery.”

Braham’s look could have peeled the hide off a snake. He turned on Charlotte. “Henly was here? And you saw him? Why in God’s name did you allow the man back inside this house?”

“He was already inside when Edward announced him. I wasn’t going to see him, but I knew he’d only come back.”

Jack gave her an incredulous glare. “
And he hit you
?”

She cringed from the force of Jack’s sizzling incredulity and the memory of the encounter. “He pulled, I pushed. I’m not hurt. He’ll never be back.”

Braham turned to leave. “The bastard won’t get away with it this time.”

Charlotte grabbed his arm. “He’s a senior officer, Braham. Let it go.”

“He sure as hell isn’t mine,” Jack said. “And I’m not going to let him get away with man-handling
my
sister
.”

Charlotte rushed to the door ahead of them and stretched out her arms, grabbing the doorjamb on both sides. “Okay, guys.
Stop
. I’m not hurt, and I don’t need the two of you to track him down so you can beat him up to satisfy your personal sense of honor. He’s not worth it. Besides, if I had felt threatened, I could have hurt him. One punch to the area where the bullet is lodged in his back, and he’d been on the floor blubbering.”

“You should have hit him,” Jack said. “Next time I see him, I will.”

Braham brushed the side of her face, close to the bruise. Then he cocked his head and touched her chin tenderly. His eyes blazed hot enough to scorch her. She moved back, not out of fear of Braham, but because she didn’t want to be in the path of his righteous indignation when he exploded.

“You have
two bruises
and you expect me to do
nothing
?”

Jack and Braham stood shoulder to shoulder, cornering Charlotte and giving her no room to escape their glowering faces. “If you have two visible bruises, I’d bet my next book’s royalties we’ll find more, under the get-up you’re wearing.”

If they saw the scratch marks on her chest they would tackle each other to be the first in line to plow a fist into Gordon. She gulped and held up her foot. “My toe hurts.”

Braham squatted and removed her riding boot and stocking and untied her garter. Her big toe had a nasty bruise. “How’d you get this, lass?”

She cleared her throat and told the truth while intending the statement to be misconstrued. She couldn’t keep her eyes from blinking rapidly, though. “I kicked.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth ticked in visibly repressed anger. “Hope you gave the bastard a karate kick to the balls or the back. Either one would do satisfying damage.”

Braham replaced her stocking, retied the garter, and slipped on her boot with sufficient skill to imply he dressed women regularly. She blinked as images of Braham with other women wrenched her ego into a state of raging jealously. Before her ego could grab her around the neck and make her believe Braham had hundreds of women ready to succumb at the merest twitch of his finger, she turned and marched toward the door. He caught her arm and turned her to face him again. The blaze in his eyes had cooled, although it was still there, humming beneath the surface, dangerous and deadly.

“Stay away from the bastard. If he hits you again, he’ll inflict serious damage. Don’t give him an opportunity.”

She pulled her arm from Braham’s grasp. “I’ll make the promise to you if you’ll make the same one to me. Stay away from the bastard.”

46

Georgetown, February, 1865

A
mber sunlight poked
through a scrim of dirty clouds while the temperature hovered in the mid-forties, a beautiful day for a ride. The Georgetown house, located at the edge of the city limits, was only a mile and half away. It wasn’t unusual for those who resided in the city to summer in a house a mile or two away to get away from the city’s breezeless heat.

Charlotte had learned to ride sidesaddle during her early reenactment days. Her confidence had grown over the years, and now she rode comfortably both sidesaddle and astride. Today, since she was wearing a riding habit instead of her Confederate uniform, she rode sidesaddle on Scarlett Belle, Braham’s chestnut Morgan. The hardest part of riding in a Victorian-era costume, she had discovered, was getting enough air while cinched into a tight corset. She had once come close to fainting, so now she carefully monitored her breathing. Shortness of breath was inconvenient, but her real fear was falling off with her dress tangled in the saddle. Breaking her neck or being dragged to her death seemed equally gruesome.