The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (36 page)

He set the poker aside and picked up the bellows. A
whoosh
of air stirred the embers even more, until red-gold sparks burst into brilliant flames. “If you do, it won’t be my doing.”

He turned, and those kindling eyes of his pierced her soul, deeper than they had any right to penetrate. She squeezed hers shut, pushing away his intrusion. Could he see her defenses crumbling? Because they were. Like sand castles when the tide comes in. She couldn’t speak; tears were too near the surface.

She took a breath and looked at him once more, saying softly, “Why are you here?”

Although the burning logs sizzled and popped, he poked at them again somewhat absentmindedly. “I didn’t want our earlier meeting to be my last memory of you.”

Unsure of him, and definitely unsure of herself, she asked, “What kind of memory would you prefer?” Heat radiating off of him, imagined or real, nonetheless warmed her. She loosed the ends of the shawl.

He set down the poker. “That’s not a smart question to ask a man going off to war.”

“Are you…” Her voice cracked, and she tried again. “Are you going off to war?”

“Yes.”

He crossed the flat woven carpet defining the edges of the small sitting area in her bedroom. She patted the sofa cushion, inviting him to sit. His shoulder brushed her arm, and his face was but inches from hers. The expression he wore was soft, eyes unguarded. With surprising tenderness, he stroked her cheek with his fingertips, up and down like a narrow brush, painting the essence of her.

“Don’t go.”

He laughed softly. “It’s my job.”

She leaned toward him with her arm along the back of the love seat. “You scared me when you left the plantation. I imagined all sorts of things had happened to you, and almost all of them would have been better than what actually happened.”

His large hand traced the muscles of her arm with unsuspected gentleness. He brushed the shawl off of her shoulder and pinched a bit of her gown between his thumb and forefinger, toying with it softly. His eyes roved over her hungrily.

“I’m sorry.” There was a still, smooth tone to his voice, lulling.

The stew of her emotions came to a boil. “Now I understand how you can go into enemy territory and do what you do. It was no small feat to drive a car almost five hundred miles when you’d never driven before. You have nerves of steel.”

“Sometimes.” He let go of her gown and picked up one of her ringlets, carefully. “You looked beautiful tonight, elegant. I’d never seen you in anything other than scrubs and jeans.” The fingers of his other hand swept seductively across her chest below her collarbone, above her breasts. “Your décolletage—” he raised an eyebrow, “—is not for cads to view. Next time, I suggest you wear scrubs. If there is a next time.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. There was nothing particularly revealing about the dress she’d worn tonight, at least by twenty-first century standards. Was it her imagination, or was he truly attracted to her? Did he find her desirable? Was his heart beating to the double-time cadence of a drummer like hers? “And now?” she asked, her voice soft, and she anchored her attention on him, careful not to move or blink or think beyond this moment. “How do you see me?”

“Very desirable.” His mouth twitched with the tiniest and briefest of smiles. He dropped the curl and picked up another one close to her ear, bushing her neck with the back of his hand. “I like your hair falling down around your face and shoulders.” He pulled the curl to his nose and sniffed, smiling.

She was silent for a long time, and so was he, seemingly content to listen to the wind. Embers fell apart and sparks floated like fireflies in the dimness of the room. She returned his gaze, waiting to hear the unspoken whispers hovering in the air. To say them would strip away all vestige of hope. He let the curl fall back into place, and, instead of picking up another one, he touched her cheek again. His scent was fresh and clean from the Proctor & Gamble white soap he had used, but there was an underlying scent—his own male musk—the kind of scent that pulled on a woman at a primal level. His thumb slid over the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, stopping at her mouth, gazing at her with a visual caress.

“I came for one last memory of you.”

“So you said,” she realized she sounded a bit breathless. “What you didn’t say was what kind of memory you would prefer.”

He nudged her chin up with his thumb. “I didn’t, did I?”

She touched his arm, which was warm beneath his shirt, and a shudder went through him. It went through her, too, pulsing and vibrating, and she moaned with a rush of desire. It seemed so natural to slip into his arms and share a kiss. His mouth came down slowly, tentative at first, then he kissed her full on the mouth, pulling on her bottom lip with his teeth, lightly and erotically. His large, gentle hands stroked her face. When their tongues touched, she tasted sweet whiskey on his warm breath. His tongue moved against hers, tantalizing her mouth with thorough, languid movements. She kissed him back, astonishing herself with a depth of passion she had not believed possible.

He leaned back with a groan, pulling her with him until she lay on top of his sprawled body. Only the thin silk of her gown and the wool of his trousers separated their tightly strung bodies, each molding against the other. Braham gripped the curves of her buttocks and nudged her ever closer. The hard outline of his pulsing erection pressed against her almost bare thigh.

And she desired him as feverishly as he wanted her. She skimmed her hand down the side of his face, tracing the lines of his chin, his neck, to the hollow of his throat, and kissed him there. He shifted his fingers through her curls from her nape to her crown. He nudged her chin up and coaxed her mouth to stay open.

He tasted wild and fresh, and the touch of lips seemed like something other than kissing—more urgent, more relentless, eroding her balance. She clutched his shoulders, curving her fingers over the long plane of bone and muscle to the hard nape of his neck. If she could crawl inside his skin and know him, know the flesh and blood of him, know his thoughts, she would go now, this very instant, and never look back. She threaded her fingers through damp, satiny hair, cradled his head, and kissed him intensely. A desperate ache burst low in her belly. Responding on her need alone, she pressed his hand against her breast.

“Do you feel the beat of my heart, the hum of my soul?” she whispered.

His fingers drifted over the round shape, cupping the top of the slope until her nipple ached sweetly.

“Yes.” There was a slight quiver in his voice.

“You’ve crumbled the defenses I created so long ago to keep from loving and wanting this much,” she said.

As their looks entwined, her hands moved to his buttons, longing to feel skin against skin, and aching to show him, silently, the depth of her desire for him.

He held her tightly against him, slowing her hands, and whispered in her ear words she did not understand—Gaelic words, she suspected—words making the candle he had lit in her heart flicker with hope.

With a soft breath she asked, “What’d you say?”

“I’ll live with your absence every day.” He eased curly wisps of hair behind her ear. “You’ve bewitched me with your eyes, your touch, and yes,” he squeezed her breast tenderly, “your heart. I thought you might have feelings for me though not so much as this. I care about you so much I canna take you now, knowing I must leave. And Jack would be a wee bit angry with me, too.”

“My life is my own. He won’t be angry. Come back with us.”

He shook his head. “You know I can’t.”

She laid her head on his chest, relishing the warmth of his hand still cupping her breast. His heart thumped against her cheek, solid and steady, relaxing some of the frozen bands of fear plaguing her since he’d left.

She had saved his life, unaware this moment would come. But even if she had known he might break her heart, she would have handed it to him gladly, wrapped in a package tied with hope and longing. Strands of dread coalesced into the cold shudder snaking down her backbone and coiling in her belly, twisting and knotting her insides. Would the knots ever untangle? She doubted it. Desire for him would hold her captive, and she would continue to dream there would one day be a time and place for them.

44

Washington City, February, 1865

B
y the time
Charlotte went downstairs for breakfast, she’d only climbed halfway out of her pity party. Jack would want to know what was wrong, and she couldn’t lie to him. He could be counted on to notice her hurt and disappointment. What was she going to tell him? Whatever she decided to say, it would have to be the truth. He had an uncanny ability to read body language and discern thoughts—not just hers, but everyone he met.

She whipped into the parlor and stubbed her big toe on the brick doorstop. “Ouch. Damn it, Braham McCabe. Why’d you put this frigging brick where I would be sure to stub my toe?” She hobbled over to the closest chair, sat, and rubbed her foot. “This is the third time I’ve run into it.”

Edward picked up the brick. One corner of his mouth curled wryly. “I’ll find another place for this nuisance.”

“How about next to the major’s bed? Let him find out what it’s like to stub
his
toe.”

After a minute or two, when the throbbing dissipated, she opened the sliding doors leading into the dining room, and let out a soft gasp. She clutched the doorframe as the blood rose warm in her cheeks at the memory of last night’s kisses, and the sight of this morning’s smile. Breathlessly she said, “You’re still here.”

Braham stood and pulled out the chair next to him. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

Jack got to his feet, too, frowning. “How’d you know he was here?” His glance moved from Charlotte to Braham, then back to his sister. As he studied her face, it felt like he was prodding beneath her skin. “You have pouches under your eyes you didn’t have late last night, and your hair is—” he waved his hands around his head, “—unruly this morning. Why?”

“Good morning to you, too, Jack.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. You just look…” He cocked his head. “Tired and unhappy.”

“I am tired.” She sat and smiled at Braham. “Braham and I talked late last night.”

“Talked, huh?” Jack settled back into his chair and picked up his coffee cup, but continued to glare. “Rather late, then. I went to bed after two o’clock and Braham hadn’t come home by then. Staying up all night doesn’t usually make your eyes red. You’ve been crying, I bet. What happened?”

She would have kicked her brother under the table, but she was sitting too far away. Instead, she glowered. “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation. I’m sure you have more interesting topics to discuss than the redness of my eyes.”

A servant came in and poured her a cup of coffee. “Thank you. I’ll serve myself from the buffet when I’m ready to eat.”

Jack set down his coffee cup, crossed his arms, and wiggled his index finger from side to side. “You stayed up late talking, and this morning your eyes are red from crying. What’s going on between you?”

She rubbed her fingers slowly with her other hand, lips pursed in thought. “If you must know…

Jack leaned forward eagerly. “Yes?”

“Braham asked me to marry him, give up medicine, and have a dozen children. I laughed so hard I cried and couldn’t stop. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”

Braham pressed a crooked finger against his lips and coughed, his eyes twinkling. “You misheard, lass. Considering your age, I only asked for a half dozen.”

She quirked her eyebrows at him. “Well, if I got lucky, I could have sextuplets, which would require only one pregnancy. Might be doable at my advanced age.” She barely got a swallow of coffee down before she really did laugh till she cried, and then dabbed at her eyes with the cloth napkin. She lay her hand on Braham’s arm. “I’m glad to see you, but I expected you to be gone by now.”

“I was on my way out when I ran into Jack. He persuaded me to stay until this evening. If you’re up for a ride, I thought we’d go to Georgetown for luncheon.”

“And see your house?” She glanced from Braham to Jack. “I’d love to go.”

Jack stood. “Good. It’s settled. But first Braham’s going to sit for an interview to discuss espionage during the war, so give us a couple of hours.” He poured another cup of coffee and left the room.

Before Braham followed Jack to the office, he squeezed her shoulder and kissed the back of neck, blowing a tickle of warm air down the length of her spine. “I’ve thought of nothing but you in the last few hours. When we get to Georgetown, we’ll find a few moments of privacy to talk.”

She sat in much-needed solitude, smiling, thrilled at the unexpected gift of a day with Braham, but dreading another final goodbye. Her body warmed, remembering the feel of his lips on her neck.

Edward entered the room. “Colonel Henly is here to see you”

She smiled at Edward until his statement made a connection in her brain. A surge of anxiety settled in her empty stomach. “Tell him I’m not up yet.”

Edward turned to leave.

No, she better not put Gordon off. He’d either wait for her to come down or he’d come back later. At least both Braham and Jack were in the house in the event he caused trouble. Best to deal with him now and get it over with.