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

Silently, she seethed, refusing to let her composure completely crumble.

39

Washington City, February 1865

Braham had gone to the dining room at the Willard intending to have a decent meal. His stomach rumbled for expertly prepared food rather than something shot, skinned, and burned over an open campfire. He ordered a whisky at the bar and drank the amber liquor in one long burning swallow.

“Keep ’em coming,” he told the barkeep.

Damn Stanton. Braham had wanted to strangle the secretary of war. Still did. He squeezed his fingers around the refilled whisky glass, but it wasn’t Stanton’s imaginary neck in his stranglehold. It was Charlotte Mallory’s. What was she doing in Washington? Yes, he had imagined her coming after him, even made plans for the eventuality, but he hadn’t really believed she’d have the fortitude to make another trip to the past. Obviously, he was wrong.

If Braham hadn’t been sitting at the large walnut table in Lincoln’s office when the secretary of war asked him to explain his relationship to Charlotte Mallory, his legs would have given out and he’d have hit the floor. Shocked? Hell yes, he’d been shocked. His nemesis, Gordon Henly, had told the secretary Braham’s cousin was in town searching for him. Braham had been forced to lie to Stanton and Lincoln. Did a damn good job of it, too. The lie had rolled off his tongue slicker than water off an oilskin duster.

“She’s the daughter of the doctor who saved my life,” he had told Lincoln and Stanton. And then, in answer to Stanton’s question about why she was in Washington, he had said smoothly and wishfully, “She fell in love with me.”

He squeezed harder on the glass—a substitute for her. His thumb glided up and down the soft white skin of her long, elegant neck. He gulped the rest of his drink and slammed the crystal on the bar for a refill, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to crack it.

The barkeep’s brows furrowed, disapprovingly. “You cracked the glass.”

Braham impaled him with a ferocious glare. “Add it to my bill.”

He would crack a dozen glasses if it would ease the pain gnawing at his gut. The pain was not from the old gunshot wound, but from missed opportunity. He gave a derisive chuckle. Missed opportunity? Is that what he was going to call it? He had walked away from the only woman who had ever challenged his mind while she also stimulated his senses. His insatiable lust for her had given him a perpetual cockstand no other woman would ever satisfy. Stanton had asked if Braham loved her, and another lie had rolled easily off his tongue. No.

Did he want to see her? Yes. Would he see her? He shook his head, glaring at his fingers, now turning white from his grip on the tumbler. Again, he shook his head. If he did, he might as well put a pair of ominous scissors in Delilah’s hands.

He pried his fingers from the glass and reached for the cigar case in his pocket. He extracted one and gently pinched the cigar between thumb and index finger, working the entire length inch by inch, searching for hard or soft spots. Satisfied there would be no draw problems, he passed the cigar beneath his nose, taking in the sweet aroma. The full-bodied cigar and the libations were diversions. The smoky cloud masked the feelings of his heart.

A match flared. The barkeep held the light while Braham rotated the foot of the cigar above the flame, drawing smoke into his mouth. Pleased with the even burn, he leaned casually against the bar, one foot hiked on the lower rail of a stool, and puffed. His fingers found the glass again and squeezed.

Diners filled the room with their discussions of politics and the war. A man and woman sat nestled in the corner, drinking champagne. The curve of her breast spilled from a dark green silk gown. His eyes followed the line of her long, elegant neck to a stubborn chin, full lips, a small, tipped-up nose, almond-shaped eyes, a face fringed with golden curls.

A beautiful woman.

His heart stopped…and then leapt to his throat, cutting off his air. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He just stared. Then Charlotte’s eyes found his. In that one moment, he thought he would shatter into a thousand pieces. It was not only Charlotte, but Charlotte with Gordon Henly.

The man might be a highly decorated officer with a fine military reputation, but Braham had heard rumors at the gaming halls about Henly abusing the women at Mary Ann Hall’s brothel so badly the madam had forbidden him to ever return to her establishment. Surely Jack could see the man beneath the uniform and warn his sister to stay away from the cad.

Braham’s breath returned in an angry rush. He straightened, pivoted on his heel, and fled the room. An unaccustomed, twisted weed of jealousy sprang up in his heart, towering over all other emotions, stinging like nettles. He pressed his palm against his chest to smother the feeling, but it left blisters on his heart which burned when he breathed. He needed to get out of town. Now. Go where she couldn’t find him. He hurried toward the hotel’s rear door, barely acknowledging his acquaintances at the gaming tables.

“Major McCabe,” Henly’s voice rang out.

He couldn’t ignore a senior officer. Braham whipped around to find the colonel weaving his way briskly around the billiard tables, his face a mask of granite.

Braham lifted his hand and held it in a salute. “Colonel.” It took the strength of will to keep from ramming his fist in Henly’s face.

They stared at each other in tense silence. Finally, Henly said, “Your cousin wants a word with you.” He smirked. “If she really is your cousin.”

Braham’s hand clenched at his side. To hit a senior officer would land him in the Old Capitol Prison. He relaxed his hand and