The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (56 page)

The memory of the legless soldier’s clutched hand yanked from her wrists—and echoes of his dying screams—ricocheted around her mind, leaving her body and soul empty and grieving. The disbelief on the young man’s face when Braham tore her away would haunt her to the end of her days. She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory’s grip. She didn’t want to forget him—the nameless soldier—not tonight, not ever. She would always remember his sacrifice.

She had lost patients before, but the loss of this soldier was different. And it hurt. A lot.

A soft knock on her door forced her to bite her lip and swallow back the lump in her throat. Until the house settled down and she had a bit of solitude, she had to hold her emotions in check. When time allowed, and she could pull her thumb from the hole in the dyke, the flood of tears might drown her.

Jack didn’t wait for her permission. “Sis, c’mon, I’m dying of curiosity. Tell me about Mallory. How’d you meet him and when—”

Another knock. “Can I come in, too?” Braham stepped into the room. Neither man had put a razor to the tender flesh of his face. Both had wet hair brushed back, and they were both patched like quilts with bandages on chests and arms and heads.

The faint tremor in her fingers which had begun a couple of hours earlier still lingered. She set her brush aside and clasped her knees to still them. “Why do I bother to close the door? What time is it? Feels like next year.”

“Almost five o’clock,” Braham said. “Elizabeth has her Federal flag ready to unfold.”

“The Union Cavalry should be riding into town about now. We should go welcome the sun and the soldiers,” Jack said.

Outside fires still raged and random cannons roared. The parts of the city not engulfed by fire were covered with smoke and soot and ash. “I think we’ll hear the bands playing
Yankee Doodle
from here.”

“Don’t you want to watch?” Jack asked.

There was weakness in her knees and a hitch in her breath as she rose to her feet, grimacing from the stiffness. “Coffee on the portico sounds lovely, as long as there’s a comfortable chair.”

A restless current stretched among them, leaving a silent thrum in the air. The night’s reign of fiery terror had changed them all. It would take a while, at least for her, to come to terms with how close she came to dying. She retreated from the intensity of Braham’s eyes by lowering hers. Jack shifted, clearing his throat. “I’ll go make arrangements and meet you two downstairs.”

The door clicked as he closed it behind him.

“I need to tell you—” Braham said.

“I haven’t had a chance to say—” Charlotte said.

She smiled nervously, wondering if she should run into his arms or wait for him to come to her.

“You first,” he said.

“No, you go first,” she said.

“I’m sorry about the soldier.” He stepped closer, his arms moving awkwardly at his side, as if he wanted to touch her but wasn’t sure if it was the right move. “When I saw the roof about to collapse on you, I only thought of holding you while we both died. I didn’t think we’d survive.”

“Thank…you.” Her voice quavered, and then she broke down, sobbing. She rushed into his arms and buried her face on his chest, crying gut-wrenching tears. “I was so afraid, but I couldn’t leave him behind just to save myself. I didn’t think…”

“Let it go, lass.” He took a shaky breath and let it out in a loud rush, as if he, too, was letting it all go.

And she did. All of it. The ash and smoke, the screams and the unbearable heat, and the fear. She let it all out until her legs went weak and wobbly, and she slumped against him. He reached down and gathered up her legs, his other arm nestled her close, and, as he held her, his muscles twitched hard against her.

With jerky steps, he carried her to the settee, were he edged down onto the cushions and cradled her against his shaking body, his heart pounding in her ear. Months of pent-up guilt and failure, exacerbated by another close brush with death crashed down on her. Her hands clutched fistfuls of his shirt, squeezing and twisting the fabric.

After several long minutes, or it could have been hours, the rising sun sliced a trail from the open window to the far side of the room. Dust particles floated in the brilliant stream of early morning light. The strange tightness around her heart snapped like a popped rubber band—instantly and permanently.

Her crying trailed off into short gasping noises. Braham pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean. Blow your nose.”

Her grip on his shirt relaxed and she blew her nose several times, dabbing at her eyes with a clean edge. Gently, his hand nestled her head to his chest. She let it rest there, breathing slowly and deeply, taking in the mingled scents of him and starch and soap and shampoo, and faintly, of smoke.

A hoarse chuckle found its way up from somewhere in her chest, and she looked at him and tried to smile apologetically. “I had fantasies of having wild sex with you. Crying in your arms wasn’t anywhere on my list of things to do.” She angled her head and studied him, so beautiful, from skin to bone to soul, and was surprised to see glistening streaks on his cheeks. Tenderly, she wiped away the moisture.

She wiped her face, too, or tried to, with the back of her wrist. “I don’t think anyone other than Jack has ever seen me cry before.”

“You surprise me. I’ve always seen you as having matters well in hand. I know the lad’s death upset you. I’m glad you let it out.”

“I only pretend to be made of stone,” she said.

He nodded, as if she’d confirmed his suspicions instead of refuting them. “Never thought you were. Your heart longs to feed the world. Most of the time, though, you forget to feed yourself.”

She didn’t argue, she merely shrugged her tired, achy shoulders and settled back into his embrace.

He kissed the top of head. “I hear “Yankee Doodle.” We should go down with the others. Wash your face while I go change my shirt.” He set her on her feet and stood, accompanied by popping and cracking in his joints.

“Between your stiff joints and mine, we could create a symphony.” On tiptoes, she kissed his lips without lingering. “Thank you. I know I’ve already said it, but I needed to say it again.”

He pulled her close and snugged her into his embrace. “Every nook and cranny of my being is calling your name.”

His statement was like a punch to a place low within her. His words made her want to take the leap her heart had always resisted taking. She moved against him until she found perfect alignment, one which sent heat jolting through her. His arousal spoke not only from his heart but from his need. Angling her head to see him clearly, she gazed into his face, lined with character and honor, and tumbled headlong into his huge eyes, her heart saying what words couldn’t express.

She took his hand and studied the ropy veins with her fingertips. This hand had grabbed her and saved her life. Lovingly, she pressed it against her breast, close to her fast-beating heart. The universe was contained in this moment, the heat and texture of his skin, his touch, rough and tender and so alive. His nostrils flared, breathing in the scent of her as she did of him. But there was another scent in the air, the musk of desire. She wanted to consume him like the fires they had escaped, to burrow inside of him and know him, every inch of his flesh and blood and heat.

Her name escaped as a moan while his lips rushed over her face. His tongue slipped into her mouth, giving and taking. She cried out, and she pressed herself against him, clawing to be closer to his skin. He devoured her mouth, his short whiskers rasping her chin. Holding the back of her head with one hand, he moved the other slowly, crossed over her breasts, and up her shoulders to her neck, where he held the side of her face with his large, callused hand. His thumb rubbed her cheekbone rhythmically and intoxicatingly, making her giddy with anticipation.

With his breath warm against her face he said, “If we’re going to stop, we have to stop now.”

“If you stop, I’ll scream.”

“I’m protecting your reputation. There’s a house full of people downstairs waiting for us.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked at her, into her, and she was barely able to pull herself back from the raw and powerful need in his eyes. He wanted to claim her as much as she wanted to be claimed.

“We’ll go to Washington tomorrow, to the Georgetown house, and spend a few days together without interruptions.” He took her hand and placed it over his arousal. “Never doubt my need for you.”

She closed her eyes against the immensity of wanting to make love with him. His warmth was beginning to seep through the layers of clothing between them, but she needed the feel of him against her skin. She rucked up her skirt and placed his hand where he could touch the heat of her desire. His fingers tossed her beneath a giant wave, sweeping her tumbling helplessly in the tide. With her lips against his, she whispered, “Never doubt mine for you.”

They nestled quietly against each other in the shadows of dawn, and from outside the window they heard horses rousing and murmured voices. It was almost the end of the war, but not the end of their story. Their end wouldn’t come until April 15.

63

Richmond, Virginia, April 2, 1865

E
lizabeth, Charlotte, Jack,
and Braham sat in the drawing room lamenting the damage the out-of-control fires had wreaked on Richmond’s business center. Twenty square blocks, from 8
^th
Street to 15
^th
Street, and a half-mile from the north side of Main Street to the river, lay in smoky ruin.

Charlotte stirred cream into her china teacup while biting hungrily into a biscuit, the first food she’d had in twenty-four hours. Following the arrival of the Union Cavalry the previous morning, she had collapsed and slept until about an hour ago. She put the spoon on the saucer and picked up the cup, drinking greedily. “Do they know how many buildings were lost?” she asked between gulps.

Elizabeth thumped a finger on the front page of the Richmond
Whig
in her lap. “The paper is reporting from six to eight hundred public buildings and private residences were burned to the ground. The heart of the city is in charred ruins.”

Charlotte got up, leaned over the back of Elizabeth’s chair, and read the report. At the top of the article was a rudimentary engraving, resembling modern day clip art of burned-out buildings, showing virtually nothing left except chimney stacks and jagged bits of walls. A few pieces of furniture still holding their fragile shapes were tossed out into the street. Gooseflesh prickled down her arms, her chill as much from the picture as from her memories of the roaring flames and shattered glass crunching under her shoes.

Braham pulled a small sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket and unfolded it. “All the banking houses, the Columbian Hotel, the
Enquirer
Building, the American Hotel, the Confederate Post Office, and…” he flicked the paper with his index finger, “…the courthouse have all been lost.”

Elizabeth handed the newspaper to Charlotte and picked up her teacup, sighing heavily. “There wouldn’t be a building left standing if the Union troops hadn’t extinguished the fires. The city should be grateful.”

“I’m sure the city government is convinced if the Federal Army hadn’t been standing on their doorstep, the warehouses wouldn’t have been burned to begin with,” Jack said.

“True,” Elizabeth said, “but they didn’t show up unannounced night before last. They’ve been bombarding Richmond for months…” Elizabeth paused, interrupted by Braham’s jaw-cracking yawn, and then she continued as if nothing had happened. “City officials refused to prepare for evacuation, convinced the day would never come.”

Braham patted his fist against his lips as another yawn slipped out. “There’ve been no complaints. The Mayor said the citizens aren’t complaining about the soldiers, and the soldiers aren’t complaining about the citizens. There’s no fear of rape and pillaging, and the peaceful occupation has eased the city’s anxiety.”

When Jack had told her Braham had been at the White House of the Confederacy in constant meetings with General Weitzel and his staff, she had been tempted to march over to the general’s office and demand he give Braham time off to heal. But she knew even if Weitzel ordered Braham to rest, he wouldn’t.

Charlotte returned to her seat on the sofa and studied Braham over the top edge of the newspaper. Even with his shadowed eyes, cuts, bruises, singed hair, and minor burns, she found his presence soothing.

Jack placed his coffee cup on the serving tray, wiped his hands on a napkin, and tossed it alongside the cup. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an article to write.”

A loud knock on the front door reverberated through the downstairs; the very air in the room seemed to freeze. Braham came to attention, but the corner of his lip curled, hinting at a slight smile, whether in amusement or something else, Charlotte wasn’t sure. Jack turned toward the door, eyeing it inquisitively. Elizabeth lost color in her face. And Charlotte, still jittery over visitors who carried torches, cringed and scrunched furtively into the softly cushioned chair.