The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

Someone whistling outside his door brought him fully alert. It wasn’t a sharp whistle to get someone’s attention. It was a recognizable tune. He puckered his parched lips, but his swollen face made it impossible for him to whistle in response. He blew out a steady stream of air, but no sound. Then he heard the whistle again, and in his haze, he thought he knew the whistler.

Not Charlotte. Dear God, not in this demonic hold. It must be his imagination.

Thoughts of her had kept him sane during these long, cold nights, as did one of his favorite Robbie Burns songs which described her to perfection. She’s sweeter than the morning dawn… Her hair is like the curling mist… Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem… Her lips are like yon cherries ripe…

God, he wished he could see her one more time. But what could he tell her that he hadn’t already said?

A rat crawled over his shoulder and nudged its mouth into the open wounds on his back. He swatted at the creature until it scurried away. Braham rolled over onto his wounds to keep the rat from burrowing back in. The straw pricked at the cuts made by the dozen lashes he’d received within hours of being arrested. He sucked air through his teeth and rolled onto his belly, sucked air again, and switched to his side. He couldn’t find a position to relieve the pains around his ribs. One of the many punches or kicks to his gut might have bruised a couple. They weren’t sticking out, and he could breathe, so at least his lungs weren’t punctured.

He rolled his tongue around his mouth. All his teeth were still in place. The cuts on his head had stopped bleeding, but he’d had headaches for hours, maybe days. The growl in his stomach was louder now, too.

The first day, he’d removed worms from the bread he’d been given. Afterward, he ate whatever they gave him, which wasn’t much. He was still alive, and although he’d come close to revealing everything they wanted to know, he’d managed to keep his secrets. The guards set out to unman him, steal his courage and self-control. They had laughed when he pissed himself and vomited, and then they had left him to lie in his own filth and blood. Knowing the Union Cavalry would soon ride down Main Street was the only thing keeping hope alive.

When he heard boots stomp down the wobbly stairs, he sat up, heart racing. If they were coming for him, could he endure another pummeling or the lash? They had started on his back, then his buttocks, and finally his legs. They had left him threatening to move on to his front next time. Give them what they wanted, or suffer the whip and worse.

“You’ll never get a child on your whore when we’re done with you,” the guard had said.

The ring of keys clinked, and he shivered violently. His shaking leg rattled the chain attached to the iron ball, which he’d learned was too heavy to lift. A kettledrum pounded in his chest when footsteps reached his door. He let out a stifled groan as the men moved past his cell. The whistle again. The tune he had taught Charlotte. But she had gone home. His mind was playing tricks to torment him.

The bolt to one of the doors screeched opened and he heard voices, but couldn’t distinguish what they were saying. The door closed. Another door opened. More discussion. That door closed. He attempted to stand but fell back on his bloodied ass. The door to the adjoining cell opened.

“What’s your name?”

Braham heard only garbled words.

“Can you walk?”

He stilled to hear what was being said. Muffled sounds were muted by the roar of his heart pounding in his ears.

“Be ready.” The words were spoken in a deepened, familiar voice. Terror seized his gut.

A key grated in the lock and a wave of torchlight fell into the cell, temporarily blinding him. He rolled onto all fours and tried to stand. If evil was coming through the door, he would meet it face to face, not as a coward groveling on the floor. If it was Charlotte, he wanted to be on his feet to meet her.

The chain rattled and rubbed against his raw ankle, but he kept trying to stand, twisting and pushing. During the whippings, he had been handcuffed to the wall and the prolonged, awkward stretch had strained the muscles in his arms and shoulders.

Two men entered. The red-haired lad he had seen before.

“Give me a minute,” Braham said. “I can stand.”

The lad turned to leave, mumbling, taking the light with him.

“No, wait,” the bearded officer said. “What’s your name?”

He shaded his rapidly blinking eyes from the light. “Carlton Jackson.” Who was the bearded man? Why did he look familiar?

“Can you stand, Mr. Jackson? If you want to leave here tonight, you have to walk.”

The voice sounded so awkward, so out of place, it made him cringe.

The bearded officer came closer to him and took his arm. “Let me help you.”

Braham looked into the man’s eyes. Memories returned in searing flashes. The man had rescued him once before. He wasn’t a man. He was Charlotte. The shock was a bloody bayonet to the belly, ripping him open. Braham willed himself not to breathe, not to respond in any way. If he could react, though, what would he do, wring her neck or kiss her? He’d kiss her, and then he’d wring her neck—and Jack’s, too.

The asshole sergeant who had paid frequent visits to his cell entered, yelling, “These prisoners aren’t allowed visitors. Get out.”

Charlotte whipped around and got up into his face, slamming her cane against the floor in punctuation. “I am not a visitor. I’m a major in the Army of Northern Virginia on assignment to evaluate prisoners for ambulation, which includes”—she pointed to Braham—“this man.”

The sergeant growled, raised a fist, and made a threatening gesture toward