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

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 ye—” 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.

“Ye 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 ye, I only thought of holding ye 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, where 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 yer 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.”

“Ye surprise me. I’ve always seen ye as having matters well in hand. I know the lad’s death upset ye. I’m glad ye 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 ye were. Yer heart longs to feed the world. Most of the time, though, ye forget to feed yerself.”

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 yer 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