She smiled. Kit must have said the same thing to him.
She went over to the table holding the whisky, set down her glass, then joined Braham next to the globe. “The problem is not whether we can solve world hunger, it’s that we don’t. But it’s not what we’re talking about right now. We’re talking about—”
He wrapped her in his arms. “What are we talking about?” Their lips were mere inches apart. Their whisky-scented breath mingled in the space between yearning and wanting. “Or, should I say, what are we not talking about?”
She reached her arms up around his neck, stroking the skin beneath his hair. He slid one hand into her curly hair, sending hairpins flying in all directions, pinging on the floor. Then, without smiling, without saying a word, without doing anything other than gazing into each other’s eyes, Braham lowered his head to capture her mouth.
“The butler said they might still be in the library.” Jack’s voice preceded the opening of the door.
Jack, Mary Ann, and her parents staggered back, aghast, at the sight of Braham and Charlotte entwined in each other’s arms.
“Oh, ah…well, we’ll be waiting in the parlor.” Jack closed the door, leaving Charlotte and Braham in momentarily stunned silence. Then they laughed, and when their laughter died down, he cupped her face, softly tracing the bones of her cheek with his thumb.
“I do want ye so.”
If last night’s kiss had been a lesson in restraint, then this almost-kiss had been a blatant invitation to misbehave. She glanced longingly beyond his shoulder toward his tall four-poster bed.
A devilish spark rallied in his eyes. “I know where yer mind is roving. Mine’s been there and come back again, but I won’t sully yer reputation nor dishonor Jack’s trust in me. Come along now. Let’s join the others.”
He opened the door, but she backed against it and pushed it closed with her foot. Then she placed her palms on his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back from wherever you’re going.”
“I promise.”
“When you do, know this. I won’t let you use concerns about my reputation or your relationship with Jack as excuses for not doing what we both want, and damn the consequences.”
He put his hands to her cheeks and she placed hers on his. She painted the outline of his face with the pads of her thumbs, memorizing the look of him, the bones of his cheeks, the set of his eyes, the small scar on his forehead, capturing his image in case it should be her last glimpse of him.
“If ye still want me when I come back, lass, I’ll bed ye,” he said in a voice rich and smoky.
His arms tightened and brought her closer. She knew he wanted her, and she arched her body into his. He smelled of winter and whisky, fresh air and soap, and wood and leather. A moan slipped past her lips, husky with need. She was hot and wet and forged with liquid fire. Her fingers spread across his wide shoulders and pressed into the muscles beneath his jacket. He was deliciously made, and she longed to taste him.
His lips found hers, with a touch at first, molding shape against shape, and then with a burst of hunger his tongue plunged far into her mouth, amazingly intimate. She returned his passion in equal measure. Even as she yearned for greater intimacy, she feared it. What if he transported her to another dimension with sensations so strong and rich and vital she wasn’t able to let him go?
His mouth slid warmly down the side of her neck toward the slope where the muscle of her shoulder joined it, nuzzling her cool skin. “Undo the rest of yer buttons.”
Her fingers fumbled with the small buttons, but finally her blouse opened to him, the tops of her breasts spilling from her corset, full and inviting. He kissed the fullness of her and then he stopped abruptly and stiffened.
She opened her eyes and was no longer met by his bold, appraising look, but by blistering eyes blazing with fury. He dragged her across the room until the waning light from the window fell on her. With a frown, he pushed her blouse off her shoulders. His hand shook as his fingers swept down the lines of each one of the marks Gordon’s nails had raked when he grabbed her bodice and scratched her.
With a face twisted in agony and malevolence in his voice, Braham said, “The son of a bitch did this to ye?”
She jerked back as if stung, as much from the memory of the initial trauma as from the vengeance ignited in Braham’s voice. He stomped over to the table and strapped on his revolvers.
Charlotte dashed for the door and plastered herself against it. “You’re not going after him. You promised me.”
“It was before I knew the extent of yer injuries.”
“They’re scratches, for God’s sake.”
He buckled the belt and adjusted the weight on his hips. “He’ll not get away with this.”
Charlotte buttoned her blouse and tucked the tail into her skirt. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel? You can’t. He’s a senior officer. And you gave me your word. Are you going to break it after only a few hours?”
“It’s yer honor I intend to protect.”
“The hell it is.” She didn’t know if it was what he said or the emotion behind it, but something reached into her heart and squeezed hard. “We were so caught up in the moment you were ready to yank up my skirt and take me against the wall after twice”—she paused and held up two fingers for added emphasis—“twice telling me it wasn’t honorable.” Her face flushed hot and blood throbbed dully in her ears. She barreled up to him and jabbed her finger into his chest. “Running off with your blasted guns cocked is about your frigging honor, not mine.”
She stumbled over to the settee, collapsed onto the cushions, and dropped her head in her hands. Something cold slid down her back, leaving icy uneasiness.
“I’ve never felt such desire,” she said sadly. “If you hadn’t stopped when you did, I would have ripped your clothes off, and after we’d screwed each other’s brains out, we both would have been furious with ourselves. Me, because I don’t want sex without love, and you because making love to me would have violated your blasted code of honor. Instead of running off to shoot Gordon Henly, we should pen a joint thank-you note to him.”
Tears weren’t flowing from her eyes because she had a well-honed ability to grasp temporary composure on demand.
“I’m done here. I’m ready to go home. Do whatever you have to do.” She knelt and scooped her hairpins off the floor and then, with a steady gait and her chin held high, she glided past him, slamming the door behind her.
After all, composure only lasted so long.
48
Washington City, March 1865
There had been no word from Braham in more than a month. She shivered every time she thought about the day in Georgetown. They should have found time later to talk about their differences, but he had disappeared again, making it impossible. How could two people be so attracted to each other when they had opposing views on almost everything else? Maybe the brooches had bewitched them both. Great. She hoped it didn’t mess Jack up, too.
Since arriving in Washington several months earlier, Jack had attracted the fervent attention of a handful of young women Charlotte referred to as his groupies. Women flocked to him, falling easily into his bed, but rarely into his heart. Charlotte secretly blamed their mother for his behavior. If she hadn’t withdrawn emotionally after their father’s death and left her children to sprout in an unattended garden, Jack might be able to form attachments that lasted longer than a few months. Charlotte’s own issues were probably similar, but it was easier to be critical of him and ignore her own inadequacies. She would never admit it to him, though.
Jack had been inundated with invitations to balls and dinner parties, and for the last two weeks, events celebrating Lincoln’s second inauguration had crammed his calendar. He often invited her to accompany him, but to Washington society she was an eccentric old maid who preferred the company of wounded soldiers to participating in the glitter of the city’s elite.
She had tried to beg off this particular evening’s
fete, which was being held two days after the inauguration, but Jack had insisted she attend and had promised to remain by her side to thwart unwanted attention. She believed it was the other way around and he was using her, but she agreed to go, hoping to speak to the president.
Four thousand revelers, drinking and dancing quadrilles and waltzes, had squeezed into the room on the top floor of the Patent Office Building. By the time the buffet—with its advertised bill of fare of oysters, roast beef, turkey, ham, venison, lobster salad, and an endless display of cakes and tarts—was served at midnight, the partygoers would be well into their cups.
Charlotte was people-watching when Jack nudged her. One corner of his mouth curled up in a cynical smile. “Don’t look now, but guess who’s sauntering across the room in our direction?”
“Please don’t tell me it’s Gordon.”
While there was a short list of people in Washington she and Jack tried to avoid, there was only one person who rankled them enough to get her panties and his boxer briefs in a wad.
She turned, snapping open her fan, closing it, and snapping it open again, covering the lower half of her face. She could continue to let her fan speak its own language, but Gordon was perversely persistent and obviously didn’t care if she wanted nothing to do with him. His absence in her life had been a huge relief. It had taken days for the scratches to heal and disappear, and she would never forget Braham’s flaring nostrils and balled fists when he saw the marks on her chest.
A young woman with delicate features and gossamer-soft blond hair glided across the floor beside him. Her left hand lay limply on his raised right palm. Because Gordon didn’t consider Charlotte or Jack part of Washington’s prominent and “must know” officials or entrepreneurs, his approach struck her as unusual. If he was seeking them out in public, it had to mean there was an ulterior motive hidden beneath his faux-friendly exterior.
“Good evening, Mr. Mallory, Doctor Mallory.”
“Good evening, Colonel.” She gave a small shudder, moving a barely discernable step closer to Jack, a step farther from Gordon.
“May I present Miss Cochran, daughter of Walter Cochran, the president of Washington Bank? I believe you met the Cochrans earlier this year.”
Yes, she had met them at a dinner party she had attended with Gordon in late January. If he thought she cared about what he did or whom he did it with, he must be having delusions.
Miss Cochran curtsied, bobbing the flowers in her headband. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Jack, who looked very much like his book jacket photograph tonight—two-day stubble, manscaped to look un-manscaped, white shirt, and black suit.
Never one to pass up an opportunity to engage an admirer, he took her extended gloved hand, bent in a courtly manner, and brushed an air kiss over the backs of her fingers.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss Cochran.” A smile stole across Jack’s face and settled in. If Gordon had thought he would score points with Miss Cochran by introducing them, Jack’s magnetic, no-holds-barred, and undeniably sexy smile had flipped the game to his advantage—game, set, and match.
Charlotte covered the lower half of her face, hiding her smile, and glared over its cream-colored lacework.
“I hope you’ll allow me to add my name to your dance card.” Jack’s voice curled around the young lady, soft and warm as the dozens of wall candle sconces complementing the gaslight chandeliers.
Miss Cochran giggled and, smiling sweetly, extended an elegant sterling silver fan card with attached pencil. “You may have a waltz, Mr. Mallory.”
“You have no waltzes left to promise, my dear.” Gordon’s cold eyes flung shards of animosity in Jack’s direction. The tone of his voice made it perfectly clear he would delight in cramming Jack’s teeth down his throat. Charlotte missed neither the look nor the tone, and neither did Miss Cochran, who pursed pouty lips. Her long lashes dropped over amber eyes.
Gordon pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow and set it solidly against him. She couldn’t escape his grip without jerking her hand free and causing a scene. “Come. I see Congressman Vallandigham.” As he led her away, Gordon sneered over his shoulder at Charlotte, then leveled Jack with a malevolent glare.
Charlotte snapped open her fan and began waving it rapidly in front of her heated face. “Whew. If you weren’t already on Gordon’s undesirable list, you are now. Watch out.” She snapped the fan closed and left it to dangle by the ribbon attached to her wrist.
“He resents me for not exerting control over you. If I had pressed his case, his name would be on your dance card tonight, not Miss Cochran’s.”
“He’s delusional and dangerous,” Charlotte said.
Jack dropped back into a boxing stance and tucked in his elbows. “He can bring it on…” He placed his left hand at his cheek, his right hand under his chin, and shadowboxed, throwing a quick jab. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” Then he did a shuffle on the balls of his feet.
Charlotte rolled her eyes, groaning. “Please don’t antagonize him more than you have already. With no more than a smile and a few words you made him appear sexually inferior. He won’t forget the insult.”
“I hope he doesn’t. But enough of him. The president and first lady have arrived. Let’s go say hello.” Jack threw a final double jab combination before taking her arm and escorting her to the receiving line. “Float like a butterfly…”
As they were standing in line to greet the Lincolns, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She turned slowly, casually glancing through the crowd until she saw Gordon standing on the edge of the dance floor alone, staring at her like a predator salivating over a toothsome morsel. Small beads of sweat popped out on her brow. She shook her head, taking a long breath and settling her shoulders. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.
“What’s wrong, sis?”
“Gordon is standing by the dance floor alone. Looks like he’s been dumped.”
“Good. Maybe we saved the girl a few bruises, or worse.”
Charlotte would have said more, but they had reached the front of the line. Lincoln looked dapper in his black suit and white gloves, and Mrs. Lincoln was quite elegant with jasmine and violets woven in her hair and a white satin off-the-shoulder gown.
“Good evening.” The president’s hand trembled slightly when it clasped hers. His soft brown eyes, full of speculation, remained on her face. “Doctor Mallory. I’ve heard stories about you lately.”
“All good, I hope.”
He gave a small grunt, and his brow crinkled in amused approval. “You’ve developed a fine reputation since you’ve been in Washington.” Then, in a voice so soft she had to lean forward to hear him, he said, “I hope you’ll call on me soon. I’d like to hear how your father removed a dying man from Chimborazo.”
An icy finger touched her spine at the emphasis he placed on father. She wasn’t sure if he knew she had impersonated her ancestor or not, but it could get very complicated if he did. “I understand the miracle was accomplished with smoke and mirrors, Mr. President.”
His laughter echoed throughout the room.
49
Washington City, March 28, 1865
Charlotte finished changing the dressing for the final soldier in her thirty-two-patient ward, put her supplies in the cupboard, and checked her inventory. The steward who performed the tasks of pharmacist, clerk, and general manager of the ward had already restocked the cabinet with medicines and dressings. Unless the hospital had an influx of wounded overnight, her ward was adequately prepared for the next day’s needs.
The very day the surgeon-in-charge had given her responsibility for the ward, she had initiated the cleanliness standard now copied throughout the hospital. Patients were given wound care and baths daily, clean dressings were always used, sheets were changed when soiled, and floors were cleaned every shift if possible. Sick patients were no longer housed with the wounded, and caregivers washed their hands between patients. As a result, the hospital’s in
fection rate had dropped significantly. She was still considered an oddity, but her skills had won over the majority of her critics.
A nurse entered the ward carrying an armload of clean linens. “Is your brother late tonight, Doctor Mallory?”
Charlotte tossed her apron into the dirty linens basket and rolled down her sleeves. “If Jack’s busy writing a post, he often forgets the time. When his stomach starts growling, he’ll remember it’s time to pick me up.” She considered walking home, but she had promised him she would never travel on foot without an escort. Society expected such a concession of a single woman. Jack, however, demanded it because of the implied threats from Gordon. Although, if he hadn’t recited a litany of horrific crimes against women, she probably wouldn’t have bought into his demands.
The hospital’s front door burst open, startling her. She drew herself up and squared her shoulders before cautiously peeking around the ward door to see who had barged in so energetically. It was Jack.
The chilly wind had turned his cheeks ruddy and his hair appealingly windblown. When he spotted her, his eyes remained unblinking on her face. “I’m late. Sorry.”
She reached for his arm. “Something’s wrong. What is it?’
He leaned closer and murmured. “Wait until we get outside.”
Several convalescing soldiers had been playing chess or cards at tables set against the wall. They had all stopped playing to concentrate on Jack. Many held game pieces in their hands, as if their pause buttons had been clicked.
“It’s time for supper. I’m hungry,” Jack explained to the men with a shrug. They turned back to their games, clucking with disappointment like a yard full of nosy old hens.
She swung a cape around her shoulders and fastened the clasp. “Hope you’re not expecting me to cook.”
Jack waited until they were far enough down the street, past the hospital grounds, before saying, “I heard a group of sympathizers has been arrested in Richmond and incarcerated in Castle Thunder.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 29
