The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (58 page)

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, not realizing how much she’d worried he might cancel. Greatly relieved, she sighed. “I was afraid you had changed your mind about going to Georgetown. I understand emergencies. Do what you have to do, and come when you can. What time will the driver pick me up?”

He studied her face, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and his eyes grew less troubled. “Cancelling our plans never occurred to me. The carriage will be here at three o’clock. Can you be ready?”

“I have only a few things to pack.”

He glanced at her bed, where she had laid out traveling clothes. “You won’t need much.”

Heat rushed up her neck toward her face. Rarely, if ever, had she taken the time to plan a tryst with a lover. All she’d had time for was hit and miss sex, squeezed into a complicated life and a full surgery schedule. She did have sexy clothes, although not with her. Well, there was the one thing she had packed at the last minute, a red stretchy chemise trimmed with scalloped lace and a matching thong. “How about a suitcase full of short and sexy things?”

His eyes brightened into brilliant emeralds. “Short and sexy. I saw a picture of a woman on Jack’s Facebook page dressed in a…” Braham put his hands on his chest and slid them down to his groin, “…short, black lacy undergarment which stopped at the top of her legs.”

She bit back a smile. She didn’t have the kind of enhanced body Braham would have seen posing in slinky black lingerie on Jack’s Facebook page. If Braham had those expectations, he’d be disappointed. The sexy red thing might not make it into her travel bag after all.

“You’re too jaded now. I don’t think you’d like my—”

He nudged her chin up, kissed her, and their open mouths fused hungrily. There were no playful nips and licks, but a full-on siege. Then he stopped and took a step back, breathing heavily. “There’s isn’t anything about you I don’t like. You’re beautiful. I don’t care if you wear a short, sexy thing or nothing at all.” He put his hands behind her head and kissed her roughly. “I’ll be there late tonight.”

She stood there gulping, watching him hurry out the door. The moment she dropped to the stool in front of her dressing table, touching her bottom lip, slightly swollen now from his bruising kiss, Jack gave a cursory rap on her door and sauntered in without an invitation, as usual. When he noticed the clothes on her bed, he gave her a raised eyebrow look. “Going somewhere?”

“Oh.” Distractedly, she continued playing with her lower lip, otherwise not moving.

“Charlotte? What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her and put his hands on her arms, squeezing gently. “Talk to me.”

The squeeze broke through her temporary trance. “What?”

One corner of his mouth curled wryly as he pointed to her lip. “Do I see a kissing bruise?”

She shook her head, licking the tender spot carefully with her tongue. “I guess we got carried away.”

“I’d say so.” He got back to his feet, scratching his chin whiskers. “Does your bruise have anything to do with the clothes piled on your bed?”

“Sort of. Braham and I are going to Georgetown for a few days. Alone.”

“Really?” Jack took a seat in the wingback chair by the fire, stretching out his long legs. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

She turned to face him, hands resting on her knees, fingers tapping rhythmically as she had seen Braham do earlier. Now she understood why. The beat matched the rapid pulse of anticipation. “I don’t know how good an idea it is, but it’s what I want.”

He slouched in the chair and crossed his ankles. His feet flopped back and forth like two adversaries getting up into each other’s faces, then backing off and going at it again. “It’s going to hurt later, you know.”

She watched his moving feet, mesmerized. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

She pointed a finger, waving toward his feet. “Your dueling feet are driving me nuts. Stop it.”

He smirked and uncrossed his feet. “My feet aren’t the issue. How you’re going to put your life back together later is what we’re talking about.
Comprende
?”

“As the saying goes, I’d rather have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. And what do you know about broken hearts, other than you’ve broken more than your share?”

“It goes both ways, Char. I don’t enjoy hurting women. It makes me feel bad. They like my image, the parties, publicity, travel, but they aren’t interested in the everyday, sweaty part, the grind. They get more demanding on the days I don’t shave and forget to eat, or work straight through the night. When the what-about-poor-me drama starts, I kiss them goodbye.”

She moved over to the settee and curled up, hugging a pillow. “What’s your point? I know you’ve buried one in there.”

“Braham will never be able to give you what you want. So lighten up and enjoy the party. Enjoy the romance. Enjoy the sex. And when you ask him to go home with you again, and the drama starts, be prepared, because he’s gonna kiss you goodbye.”

“I know.” She added a second pillow to her huddle.

Jack’s eyes softened. “Then why are you getting involved, knowing you’ll get hurt?”

“Because I’m already in love him, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like to be with him.”

“Jesus, if it’s the experience you’re looking for, I know a dozen men built exactly like Braham. You can have sex with one of them. Have a similar experience without the heartache.”

She threw one of the pillows at him. He snatched it out of the air and hugged it to his own chest. “You know it’s not what I mean,” she said, adding another pillow to her collection.

“I hope you’re prepared for the heartache, because it’ll hurt for damn sure.”

“You can’t prepare for pain like you can for a test or train for a race. When it happens, you have to live it, feel it. The memories will help me get through the loneliness.”

“That’s such a crock of—”

She threw another pillow. “Stop. I’ve made up my mind.”

He stuffed the second pillow between his hip and the side of the chair. “I’ve got plenty of condoms in my shaving kit. Grab a couple dozen.”

Her eyes widened. “Couple dozen? Have you forgotten Braham spent a week being tortured in prison, then ran through a city dodging flames and collapsing buildings? He’s exhausted.”

“Yeah right. You’d better take three dozen. The man’s got stamina.”

“How many did you bring?” She threw the third and final pillow. “If Braham’s honor equals his stamina, he might not show up. He’s sending me over there this afternoon because he has something to do. He’ll be there in time for a late dinner.”

“Does it have anything to do with the note from Gaylord?”

“I think so, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“I can think of a couple of things.”

“Booth?” She gritted her teeth, and a hot flush settled into her face at the thought of Braham chasing Booth. She seriously considered finding Braham and shaking him until his teeth rattled.

“Before Gaylord dashed off to Richmond with us,” Jack said, “he was following Booth. Makes sense he had someone else keep an eye on the actor while he was gone.”

She rarely, if ever, drank during the day, and even at night she normally limited herself to a glass or two—except on nights before she operated, when she abstained entirely. The last few months she’d been drinking a lot. She jumped up and reached for the decanter of sherry on a silver tray by the window.

She poured, took a sip, and then another. “What’s Braham going to do? Kill him?”

“Braham’s tired of killing, but the war’s still going on, and he sees Booth as the enemy. In his mind, it justifies whatever he has to do.”

“What happened to him being too honorable to murder a man?” she asked.

“His stint in a Richmond prison, maybe. Honestly, I don’t know what he’ll do, given the choice.”

She gave Jack a brief, distracted glance, and tried to smile. “It certainly would put a damper on our getaway.”

“Maybe not. Braham wouldn’t go to your bed with blood on his hands. So I’d say he’s only spying on Booth tonight.”

“Great. We both know what kind of spy he is. He’ll end up in the Old Capitol Prison, and we’ll have to bail him out.”

Jack shoved out of the chair and headed toward the door. “I’m going down to the study to work. Be sure to get some condoms, and don’t worry. Braham’s an honorable man. He’ll do what’s right.”

“About what? Shooting Booth or sleeping with me?”

Jack turned back at the door, and his hand rested on the doorknob; eyebrows raised in thought. “Both.”

65

Washington City, April, 1865

A
t three o’clock,
Jack handed Charlotte up into the carriage sent to carry her to Georgetown. “Remember, if Braham’s a no-show, I’ll come pick you up.” He leaned in close and whispered. “And if he does show up, and you run out of condoms, I don’t want to hear about it.” His smile segued into a chuckle as he waved goodbye and headed back into the house.

“Stay out of trouble.
Please
,” she said as he disappeared through the front door.

This was their first separation since arriving in Washington, and leaving him on his own was like leaving a seven-year-old with the car keys. She probably exaggerated slightly when it came to Jack’s penchant for trouble. His infractions had been few, but they were typically monumental when they happened. Like the time, he was arrested as part of a biker gang accused of murder. The prosecutor had dismissed charges against Jack after his attorney proved he had only been doing research for a book. But his mug shot and the story were on the front page of the
Richmond Times-Dispatch—
above the fold. She’d lost a handful of patients over that one. They didn’t want family and friends to know their surgeon was related to a
murderer
. Yep. Jack was due for a big one. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. Surely he could avoid getting shot or locked up for the night.

Suddenly, a strange, almost mystical calm came over her. The first order of business was to put Jack and his impulsiveness out of her mind. She snapped her finger.
Zap.
Not only was she not going to worry about Jack, she wasn’t going to worry about Braham, either. She patted her pocket, letting her fingers trace the outline of the sapphire brooch pinned into the fabric. Only two weeks remained in her nineteenth-century adventure, but she wasn’t going to think about it tonight.

The celebrations she’d seen earlier in the day continued, fanning out from Pennsylvania Avenue into side streets and on into Georgetown. Compared to her last visit, when wounded soldiers crowded the streets, this trip was delightful.

When she arrived, the butler showed her to a guest room and invited her to explore the house and gardens. She strolled around the grounds, enjoying the sweet fragrance of alyssum along the path, and spikes of yellow forsythia nodding over the tidy white fence lining the sides of the property. Behind a fast-growing privacy screen of willow trees, she found a tranquil garden with a gently trickling brook. Nestled in a rocky alcove sat a long, narrow bench, and a waterfall fell from the top of the rocks into the stream. Anyone sitting on the cushioned bench reading or meditating would remain dry and shielded from prying eyes by the fall of the water. The bench appeared wide enough for a man to recline on for an afternoon nap, or whatever else he had in mind to do. She rubbed a finger gently across her bottom lip, remembering the touch and feel of Braham’s tongue when he had licked and nibbled there. Had he kissed other women behind the waterfall? And what if he had? She had no claim to virgin lips or virgin other parts. She’d had a life, and so had he.

As dusk approached, she retired to her room for a light meal and a bath. At nine, she dressed for dinner. At eleven, she undressed and slipped on scrubs instead of her chemise, tense with disappointment. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, dimly illuminating the empty bed. She paced to and fro, trying to suppress the urge to worry about him, but it was impossible. The room was quiet, save for the crackling fire and the gentle creak of the wood floor beneath her feet.

She stopped pacing and stared out the window for some time, watching ropy clouds scud across the face of the full moon and thinking. She had a choice, didn’t she? He had promised her time together, and she could either have faith in his promise, faith in him, or she could choose not to. Which one?

She chose faith.

Before climbing into bed she took two condoms from her bag and placed them on the table nearby. She tapped her fingernail against her front teeth. The table was too far away to reach in a hurry, so she tucked the foil packages under her pillow, where they’d be quickly accessible. Then she crawled up onto the high four-poster and snuggled into the soft, feathered mattress. She composed her mind for sleep, clearing it of worries and concerns, breathing in the scent of the burning logs. Soon she surrendered to the sleep lapping at her consciousness like the tide creeping up a rocky shore.

Vivid and erotic dreams of a man nibbling on her ear and murmuring in Gaelic invaded her soothing sleep. Although she didn’t understand what he said, she understood the meaning. Finally the nibbling brought her to semi-consciousness. She snuggled against her dream lover, feeling warm and protected. When chest hairs tickled her cheek, she came fully awake.