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

The public debated the Habeas Corpus Act of 1863 and Braham’s claim of the end of the war having suspended the act’s authorization. Stanton had halted the draft and removed all travel restrictions in and out of Washington, and had been quoted as saying, “Since Lee’s surrender, the threat to national safety had passed away.” Cullen used those facts while arguing his case against President Johnson, which was proceeding through the federal court system. Would it do Jack any good? Probably not, but it was keeping the press enthralled and their case in the public eye.

The military court denied the other motions Cullen had drafted, except for allowing the hoods to be removed during court. But they were shoved back over the defendants’ heads before leaving the courtroom at the end of each day.

Her emotions soared and plummeted while she read the news. She didn’t care about the plantation. She didn’t care if the Mallory name was held in disdain in perpetuity, like Mudd or Booth. She only wanted to rescue her brother, go home, and reclaim her life. Whatever it turned out to be.

Sergeant Jonathan Clem, her bodyguard, entered the dining room. “Excuse me, ma’am. Edward said you’d like to visit the park this afternoon.”

Charlotte folded the newspapers and added them to her collection in a basket on the floor. “Give me five minutes to put on my wig and beard, and I’ll be ready to go.”

The clouds had disappeared, and the crowds hadn’t yet arrived. They’d picked a good time. The sugar maples had fully leafed and the winding paths were lined with purple irises.

“Are you going to stay in Washington?” Charlotte asked Jonathan.

“If a permanent position opens up with Mr. Gaylord, I’ll stay,” he said. “There’s not much for me back in Illinois. My folks passed on while I was away at war, and I lost my two brothers at Gettysburg. No reason not to stay here, if there’s a job.”

She pulled her hat down to shade her eyes from the glaring sun. “I’m sorry about your brothers. Were you at Gettysburg, too?”

There was a sudden flutter of motion behind her as a man leapt from the bushes, gun in hand, and clobbered Jonathan over the head. She took a breath to scream, but the heavyset man, who reeked of sweat, slapped a hand over her mouth. The hand smelled of garlic and onions, but she tried to bite him anyway. He pressed his hand harder, squeezing her cheeks painfully into her teeth. She bit the soft tissue inside her mouth instead of his hand when she tried again, and a metallic taste coated her tongue.

She elbowed him in the chest. But before she could go for his eyes or throat, he planted his arm across her middle and pulled her back against him. This maneuver pinched both her arms against her body and tightly squeezed her rib cage. As strong as he was, she couldn’t break free. Her adrenaline went haywire.

He muffled her screams as he carried her toward a waiting carriage, while she kicked furiously at his shins. Her muscles strained to break loose, but with her back pressed against his solid chest and her arms and hands locked down tight, she was helpless…except for her head.

She head butted him, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He bit down on her earlobe, and his hot, garlicky breath and spittle sprayed across her skin. “Try it again, bitch, and you won’t like what I do to you.” He was breathing nearly as hard as she was. The pressure from his squeezing hand on her face made her eyes water. The violence in him reeked as nauseatingly as he did.

Her survival instinct erased the initial shock and panic. She tensed, readying herself to fight to the end. If he got her into a carriage, her chances of living through a rape or beating would diminish considerably. She couldn’t see further than the moment, a single heartbeat between life and death. She kicked backward at his shins and knees, but the man was built like a linebacker, and his increasing fury tightened his grip. She continued to fight, to squirm in his viselike arms.

She panted in short gasps, her heart beating frantically. They neared a carriage. She had only a handful of moments left. Once inside, she’d be defenseless. She raised her legs and pressed them against the door, pushing back against him, and at the same time gouging at his rock-hard legs with her short nails. She attempted another head butt, and he bit down hard on her ear. A warm trickle dripped into the canal.

There was a shadow of a man inside the carriage. “Back up. I’ll open the door so you can get her inside,” he said in a recognizable voice.

Incoherent terror engulfed her. She couldn’t escape, and she knew they would hurt her, but she refused to stop fighting. Her life was at stake. Her attacker backed up, her legs fell, and she dangled several inches off the ground. She kicked him squarely in the kneecap, and his leg buckled, but he didn’t release his grip. When the door opened, he tossed her onto the floor as easily as a sack of flour, and then piled in behind her. The driver slapped the reins on the backs of the horses, and the carriage drove off at a gallop. She glanced up to see Gordon smirking, and she swallowed back tears of panic.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” Gordon ripped off her beard, taking a layer of skin. She screamed, and he slammed his fist into her jaw. A wave of dizziness hit her. He dropped to the floor, straddled her, and twisted her wrists so hard she thought they had snapped.

“Doctor Charlotte Mallory. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? It’s your eyes, my dear.” He let go of her hands, now numb and useless. He slapped her hard. His family crest ring hit her cheekbone and made her eyes water. Black pain