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The Sapphire Brooch

The Celtic Brooch Series, Book 3

Katherine Lowry Logan

Copyright © 2014 by Katherine Lowry Logan

Kindle Edition

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and names are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and there are no references to real people. Actual establishments, locations, public and business organizations are used solely for the intention of providing an authentic setting, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Edited by Faith Freewoman

Cover Art by Damonza

Interior Design by BBeBooks

Website: www.katherinellogan.com

Dedicated To


Charlotte and Lincoln

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page


Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part Two

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Part Three

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Part Four

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Author’s Notes


About the Author

The Celtic Brooch Series

Part One

“History, despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”

—Maya Angelou


Chimborazo Hospital, Richmond, Virginia, October 1864

Death waited on the other side of the partially shuttered window, pointing its long, bony finger at Michael Abraham McCabe. He didn’t fear death, never had. Dying slow from a gut shot was preferable to dying at the end of a rope. Either way, the shutters would open fully and Death would sling Braham’s body over its shoulder and haul him the short distance to Hell.

Braham crawled his hand along the curve of his swollen belly. The bullet had branded him with a sizzling, red-hot poker, burning flesh and sinew down to the bone, and his body contorted in brutal agony.

Through dry, cracked lips he exhaled one word, “Water.” He didn’t need much. Only a sip to quench his thirst would do. He tried licking his lips but his thick tongue wouldn’t slide across the chapped skin.

Behind his half-opened eyelids, wavy figures shambled around him. He blinked and tried to focus on the rows of beds filled with moaning men, wounded Confederate soldiers, not Yankee spies like him.

Johnny Rebs had tossed him onto a bed. “Don’t let the bastard die,” they had told the surgeon. “We intend to hang him.”

The nurses called him a dead man walking toward the gallows.

That’s what he was, but would Death take him by the hand before the hangman could put a noose around his neck? The soldiers had tried to beat the names of Richmond’s underground network out of him. They couldn’t. So, they intended to strip him of what he cherished most—his honor. He would die the dishonorable death of a spy. And who would care? He was alone. Not only on this ward but also in life. He had no family. No son to carry on his name. All a man had at the end of the day was his honor, and the Rebs intended to dump his into an unmarked grave.

The door at the end of the building opened and rattled shut. “Where’s the prisoner?” the man asked in a distinctive Virginia drawl.

Feet shuffled. A chair scraped across the floor. “Down there. Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon,” a young lad said.

“Are you the night nurse?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bootheels thudding purposefully against the floorboards grew louder, sharper. Brisk movements churned up the air throughout the ward. Men turned in their beds to see the newcomer. Braham turned, too, and rerouted his attention from the sharp stabs of pain in his belly to the man striding toward him wearing a gray officer’s tunic. He hadn’t seen this surgeon before. Would he do anything different from what the others had done? Five or six surgeons had already examined him. Afterward, they had walked away shaking their heads, saying, “There’s nothing we can do for that one.”

“Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?” the lad asked.

“What? Oh…well, he was caught down by the railroad tracks. Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?”

“I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.”

The surgeon reached Braham’s metal-framed bed and read the paper ticket hanging on the end of the frame. He had wondered what was written on the paper other than his name, date of admission, and injury. Instead of entering information about his regiment, had they written Yankee spy. Would they tie the paper to his toe when they buried him?

The surgeon tugged on his hickory-colored beard and furrowed his brow. “Is there an exit wound?”

“Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the hangman will.”

The surgeon pressed his fingers against the inside of Braham’s wrist and held them there. His touch was gentle, with an almost silky feel to his skin, and there were no slight pricks from sharp or ragged nails. Hands told a lot about a person, especially when they fanned a deck of cards or tended a wound or touched him in tender places.

Braham clenched his teeth against the chill brought on by another bout of rigors. “Water.”

The surgeon’s forehead creased as he lifted the dressing, pulling scab and crusted dirt from Braham’s wound. When he pressed his fingers into Braham’s belly, pain lanced through him, and he cried out, “Ahhhh.”

“Sorry.” The surgeon withdrew his fingers and straightened, mumbling under his breath. Then he looked at the wound again. “How long has he been shaking

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