“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 shook out cramped fingers. “I’ll meet her in the corridor.”
Two days of hard travel, shock, and anger coalesced within him, making any plan more complicated than telling the truth impossible. The immutable truth bloomed in his chest. He would tell her what she wanted to hear, and then she’d go home—out of his sight, but not out of his head or his heart. He was doomed to die with her occupying most, if not all, of both.
Preparing to lose her once again, he marched out into the hallway, leaned against the wall, and waited with his arms folded tightly at his chest.
40
Washington City, February 1865
Charlotte tapped her short fingernails on the lip of the table. A minute stretched into two or five or twenty. She had no way of knowing. What were Gordon and Braham saying to each other? Gordon was angry, but he’d been angry all evening, and since Braham hadn’t sought her out, she assumed he was angry, too. But why would he be? He had assumed she would follow him back to his century, and she had. Since he didn’t have any romantic interest in her, he couldn’t be upset because she was having dinner with Gordon.
After an interminable time, Gordon strode back into the room. His face was shiny with nervous perspiration and there was no spark of victory in his eyes. Her mind was racing, and time had slowed to a stall. Why was Gordon walking so slowly? Was it to give Braham time to get out of the building? If Braham refused to speak to her, she wasn’t sure what she intended to do, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pleasant. For him. She swallowed hard to keep any possible nervous flutter from creeping in her voice. She put her hands in her lap, and crossed them wrist over wrist.
Gordon grasped the back of her chair. “He’s waiting in the corridor.”
She swallowed, dry-mouthed with excitement and apprehension.
Gordon’s eyes locked on hers for a moment, the corners now deeply lined with tension. “He’s leaving town again tonight, but he agreed to speak with you.”
“He agreed? How lovely.”
Gordon cringed at her acerbic tone.
She swished her way out of the dining room and into the corridor. Since the night she had driven up to the mansion and discovered Braham gone, she had wanted to take her anger and frustration out on him. But how? A sudden thought lay heavy in her chest, like a swallowed stone. Since he wouldn’t listen to her logical arguments—and she wasn’t one to cry or get violent—and, as far as he was concerned, Lincoln’s welfare trumped her own, then what was left? Begging.
Braham waited at the end of the long hallway, one shoulder propped against the wall, arms folded. Tonight he was dressed handsomely in a Cavalry uniform, saber hanging at his side.
“Will you please give us a minute?” she said to Gordon.
“Make it quick. Dinner will be served shortly.” He pointed to a bench next to the door. “I’ll wait here
.”
She took a calming breath, and glided toward Braham. He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, a look to remind her he was everything she imagined and much, much more. He levered himself away from the wall, fists on his hips—a ferocious warrior. He had added a few pounds. His uniform jacket was snug across his chest. But uniform or additional weight didn’t halt her breath, or the long blond hair brushing his collar, or even the grin tilting one side of his mouth. It was the hunger and longing swimming in the depths of his brilliant green eyes. If eyes were windows to one’s soul, then he was gazing into hers as she was gazing into his.
Small lines were visible around his eyes as they widened in frank appreciation. “Charlotte.” His voice was resonant, husky. Was he trying to ignore a swelling tightness in his body as she was with hers? “Why did ye come, cousin?”
“You were expecting me,” she said.
“I thought ye’d come. Though I wish ye hadn’t.”
“You lied to me and stole my car.”
He rolled his shoulders in a defensive gesture. “I never lied to ye. If ye’ve talked to Elliott, ye know why I didn’t tell ye about my cousin…my real one, I mean.”
Being in his proximity after months of worrying about him knotted her insides. She clenched her hands beneath the folds of her skirt. “Lies of omission are still lies.”
His green-eyed look was as shattering as a physical touch. “I learned that lesson years ago.”
A protracted and awkward silence fell between them. “Come to the townhouse tonight. Let’s talk over a glass of wine instead of whispering in a hallway.”
Braham rubbed his chin, and his whiskers rasped under his fingers. “Are ye afraid yer suitor will get jealous?”
“He’s not…” She took a breath and tried again in a calmer voice. “Gordon’s been very helpful.”
“I’m sure he has. It looked scandalous from where I was standing.” His voice held a ruthless edge. “Of all the men in Washington, why him?”
“I secured a position at a hospital through his contacts, and he introduced Jack to several editors who want to read his articles.” She crossed her arms and planted her feet, refusing to let Braham intimidate her. “Why do you care?”
He didn’t answer. He let the words drift to the floor between them.
She tried a different approach. “Gordon said you were leaving again tonight. When will you be back?”
“I serve at the pleasure of the president.”
She took another breath, searching desperately for something to say to make him understand why she was there and what she wanted from him. “Surely, the president will let you—”
He cut her off with an abrupt blast of fury. “Mr. Lincoln expects me to do my job.” His tempestuous tone died suddenly, and when she looked back up into his eyes, her throat was sticky as paste. She turned away, willing the tears not to come.
Although the corner of the corridor they occupied was chilly, it was his impenetrable wall of indifference freezing her out. One last try, then she was done. “I beg of you, please don’t change the future because of what you learned while you were with us.”
There was silence, short enough to fill a heartbeat, long enough to pave the distance growing between them. She swallowed with difficulty and a tear slid down her cheek. Using his thumb, Braham wiped it away.
“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to change what’s to come.”
“But—”
He pressed his finger on her lips. Then said in words so thick with emotion he seemed barely able to squeeze them out, “Go home, Charlotte.”
41
Washington City, February 1865
Gordon slammed the carriage door, sat on the opposite bench from Charlotte, and said with a sarcastic bite, “A joyful reunion of cousins, followed by a lousy dinner with a less than charming dinner companion.”
“I’m sorry I was distracted.” Familiar anxiety clutched at her stomach, triggering a bitter churn. She’d had more than enough male attitude hurled at her for one evening. All she wanted to do now was go home, get in her jammies, and drown her sorrows in a glass, no, a bottle of wine.
“Distracted?” he said, sneering. “I’d call that a polite term for speaking only monosyllables during a five-course dinner.”
“I asked you to take me home before we ate, but you refused.”
“Of course, I refused.” His absolute matter-of-factness sent a shiver running down her spine. He removed a tin snuffbox from his jacket pocket, tapped on the lid a few times, and then slowly opened it. “I wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch ruin the rest of my evening.”
“You obviously dislike the major. Why?”
He took a pinch of snuff between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed it sharply into one nostril, and then the other. “We had a difference of opinion a couple of years back. Nothing more, and nothing to concern you.” He closed the tin and returned it to his pocket. Making no effort to hide his contempt he asked, “Are you in love with him?”
“No.” There would always be loyalties, fears, and lies separating her and Braham. She wasn’t in love with him, but even if she were she’d never admit it to Gordon. But if she wasn’t in love with Braham, why did her heart ache?
The conversation died, and they rode in an exceedingly awkward silence until they were only a couple of blocks from the townhouse.
“Braham’s appearance interrupted you earlier. I’m sorry it happened. You were talking about what you intended to do after the war. Would you like to finish now?”
The frown, which had lurked during the discussion of Braham, cleared at the mention of their earlier conversation. “No. It’s late.” He shrugged uncomfortably while tugging at his cravat.
If he didn’t want to talk, it suited her fine.
The carriage stopped, and Charlotte couldn’t get out fast enough. As they proceeded toward the front door, Gordon said, “We have a dinner invitation Friday evening—”
The timing was perfect. Gordon wouldn’t verbally attack her in front of another person. Just as Edward opened the front door she said, “I don’t know if I’m available. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
“Good evening, Colonel Henly, Miss Mallory.”
She handed the butler her cape. “Is Jack home?”
“A man is with him in the study.”
She glanced in the direction of the room Jack had co-opted as his office, located across from dining room and the ever-present coffeepot. “Do you know the man he’s with?”
“Mr. Mallory didn’t mention a name.”
The door to the study creaked opened and Jack and his guest came out into the shadowy entryway. When she saw the visitor sauntering toward them, her heart lodged in her throat. Dear God, surely not him.
“Charlotte, my dear, and Colonel Henly, I’d like to introduce Mr. John Wilkes Booth.”
She opened and closed her mouth in a futile search for something—something calm and rational—to say. Nothing.
Gordon shook Booth’s hand with star-struck enthusiasm. “I saw several of your performances last year at Ford’s: Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice. I believe the Star hailed your engagement as brilliant and lucrative.”
Gordon continued to gush on, further disorienting Charlotte. “You’ve had much success as a tragedian. Your swordplay and bounding leaps are spectacular. When will you return to the stage?”
Booth resembled a preening peacock, with his greatcoat collared in fur and a stick pin thrust in the center of his elaborate cravat. “I have no professional engagements scheduled. I’m more interested in investing in oil lands than acting.”
The actor’s sweet voice grated on her nerves. His risky speculations were the stock jokes of the day. A shiver rolled up the length of her body from her shoes to the top of her head. If she had not been well schooled in social graces from the time she learned to walk and talk, they would have failed her now, and she would have refused to touch the assassin’s hand. Instea
d, she demurely lifted her fingers to greet him in a performance worthy of the stage he had recently vacated.
“Mr. Booth, what brings you to Jackson Place this evening?” she asked as civilly as possible.
His big, powerful hand contrasted oddly with his fine-drawn features. He was impeccably dressed. Even his hair was perfectly waved, as though he’d used a curling iron. She was not remotely impressed and, in fact, thought he appeared vain and insufferable. He kissed the back of her fingers, gazing at her from beneath his long lashes. She quickly reclaimed her hand, wishing she could sterilize it. How could Jack bring this monster inside their doors? Inside Braham’s home? Jack had some explaining to do.
“Mr. Booth agreed to sit for an interview,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I’ve used much more of his time than he originally offered.”
Edward handed Booth his hat.
“I have a late appointment. Please excuse me.” Booth bowed to Charlotte, then said to Jack, “I look forward to reading the interview.” Booth left the house, his cape flowing behind his long strides.
Charlotte threw a cool, rigid look at her brother.
Jack clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously, smiled, and said, “Well, how was the theater?”
Her performance would have earned an Oscar, and as long as Gordon remained at her side, she would continue to act the epitome of Southern graciousness, elegance, and hospitality. She had temporarily lost her composure at the hotel, but every daughter of the South had an occasional bad moment. The assertive side of her personality, which Gordon had seen earlier, needed to be curbed for only a few minutes more. Clearly, it wasn’t worth the effort to rein in her assertiveness in her own time, but here expectations were different.
Gordon cleared his throat. “The show was entertaining and dinner was exceptional. However, both lost their flavor by the appearance—”
“Braham was at the Willard.” Charlotte cut Gordon off abruptly, cringing as she did so, but it didn’t keep her from continuing. “He came to town for a meeting with Stanton, but he’s leaving now to go back to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 25
