The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10)

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  He pulled a nipple into his mouth and bit her while fumbling with the unfamiliar zipper.

  Now. Do it now.

  If he thought he had her in a submissive position, he was dead wrong. Every ounce of her strength gathered like a small but ferocious and intrepid army preparing for battle. She moaned for effect, and he bit harder. She lifted her hips and feigned excitement. “Oh, baby.”

  The bastards outside the door laughed.

  “I knew ya’d like it. Ready for some of this?” He pressed his vile dick against the vee of her body.

  Hell, no I’m not ready for that, but I am for this…

  Her hand snaked out, and she threw a karate chop to the side of his thick neck, sending a shock wave through to the spinal cord and up to the brain while simultaneously compressing the carotid artery, stopping the flow of blood to his head and knocking him out cold.

  You bastard. Be grateful I don’t kill you.

  She rolled him off her, gagging at the sight of his revolting dick and stomach-churning body. She had only a few minutes before he regained consciousness, and if he caught her, it would be a fight to her death. She quietly stepped to the window.

  One of the men banged on the door. “We want our turn.”

  She groaned. “You’re hurting me.”

  The men laughed again. “Doan be too rough. Leave her breathin’.”

  Bastards…

  She cut the rest of the way through the rope, opened the shutters a bit, and peeked out. No one was around the rear of the building. At least the line wasn’t that long yet. She climbed out, closed the window, and tied the rope around her waist. It might come in handy later. Her only chance was to return to the big house and find a phone to call for help. They had to have a generator and telephone for emergencies.

  She zipped up her jacket, and with another surge of adrenaline, she ran through the dark.

  13

  New Orleans—Rick

  When Rick and the others returned to the rental house, everyone scattered, grumbling about the weather and sinus headaches, about being hot and wet, but mostly they were frustrated at the situation, the things they knew and understood—and worst, the things they didn’t. The day had gone from not-so-bad to knee-in-the-nuts shitty.

  Rick didn’t stomp off to his bedroom, he shuffled, raking a hand over his jaw, his fingernails rasping against the sandpaper stubble. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. Yesterday? Two days ago? More likely, three time zones ago. How could he remember every detail of a hellish day in Afghanistan but not when he last shaved?

  The cleaning crew hadn’t raised the room-darkening shades, and he’d didn’t bother to adjust them now. His mind was so dark. The room might as well stay that way too. He stretched, and every tight muscle rippled across his chiseled chest while his pulse thumped in his temples. His memories ricocheted like a mental pinball, darting from one to another, flipping off the bumpers and ramps.

  While his mind darted about, his body moved in slo-mo. He stripped out of the rain gear and clothes and dropped buck naked on the neatly made bed, cemented to the moment, trying to forget.

  McBain would want to talk, but Rick wasn’t sure he could. Not yet, anyway. He’d lost it. Damn straight. No way around it. So what the hell was he going to do now? Call his PTSD shrink? He should.

  If he couldn’t handle a fuckin’ thunderstorm, how was he going to lead a rescue team? Good question. The trip back in time wouldn’t bother him, but if he was pulled into a battle, all bets were off.

  The MacCorp men and women were bettors. They bet on everything, but this time there was no reasonable bet to be made. They were only guessing where Billie went.

  When Kenzie was whisked back in time, the evidence David and Jack gleaned from a deep dive into her life convinced them she’d traveled to London during World War II. Billie’s situation was pure speculation. If she went back to the same place as the Fontenots, although they both had an interest in the Battle of New Orleans, they could be anywhere—New York, Paris, the Highlands—any century, any decade, any day. Hell, it could even be October 802,701, and they’d be set upon by the Marlocks, taken into the Sphinx-like structure, and served up on a plate for dinner à la The Time Machine.

  Get a grip, O’Grady.

  Rick hauled himself up off the bed, took a leak, climbed into the shower, and stood under the ceiling-mounted, drenching waterfall with his palms pressed against the tile wall. The stinging spray pummeled the tight tendons in the back of his neck but did nothing to wash away the horrors of the day.

  He stayed where he was until his tight chest loosened, until he could inhale and exhale without pain, until steam filled the room and fogged the mirrors.

  Dressed in camo pants and a MacKlenna green T-shirt, he gathered his dirty laundry to throw in the washer and lumbered to the kitchen in search of fruit or—to hell with eating healthy—a big bowl of chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and nuts.

  Sophia was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, finishing a sketch of them under the awning at the Café Du Monde. “Hey, are you going to wash clothes?”

  “Yep. Got something you want to throw in?”

  “Nope, but Pete does. Hold on.”

  While she went to gather up the clothes, Rick flipped through her sketchbook. How the hell did she remember all this? She had sketched the group, even herself, struggling with the thunder and lightning. The expressions—wide eyes, tense jaws, and pursed lips—looked the same as he remembered. His picture freaked him out.

  Sophia dropped jeans, T-shirts, and boxer briefs on a stool. “Nosy.”

  “These are scary as hell.” He pointed to a sketch of himself. “You can tear this one up.”

  “No can do. Just because I sketch someone’s picture doesn’t mean they’ll ever get painted. It’s mostly a study of expressions. Fear expands your sensory surfaces. Look at your nostrils. You’re taking in more air. And your eyes are wider, expanding your visual field to track targets. David didn’t do that today, even though he was anxious about Kenzie. But in the vision, his nostrils were flared, his eyes wide open.”

  “You saw a much younger man. He’s learned since then to hide what he’s thinking, feeling. He’s so hard to read, and it bugs the crap out of me.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Rick tapped a finger on a sketch of her. “This is exactly how you looked. If Pete hadn’t been there to comfort you—”

  “You would have done it,” she insisted. “You weren’t responsible for anyone today except yourself. So you had a full-blown panic attack. The thunder sounded like cannon fire and terrified me.”

  “It was enough to terrify anyone who’s been through the real thing. You held up like a trouper. To me, it sounded like an IED, crunching metal, and wounded men screaming. It wasn’t pretty.” He poured a cup of coffee, took a big gulp, and grimaced—lukewarm and blacker than hell. “I’ve been talking to my shrink for years about what happened. Hasn’t done much good if a little lightning and thunder could freak me out like that.”

  “It wasn’t a little bit. It was awful. Remy didn’t oversell it.”

  “My head’s back on straight now, or as straight as it’s gonna get, and I owe him a new pair of running shoes, a basket of fruit, a gift certificate to Storyville. Whatever he wants. Where is he?”

  “As soon as it stopped raining, he and Kenzie went for a run.”

  Rick glanced out the window over the sink. The graphite-colored sky was making way for growing patches of blue that could bring more rain or sunshine, possibly a rainbow. “I know why Remy went for a run, but Kenzie’s got a husband who could take off her edge and make my dealings with him more pleasant…if you catch my drift.”

  “I caught it. And I think—although I can’t swear to it—that David encouraged her to go for a run so she wouldn’t beat him up.”

  “Why would she beat on him? He couldn’t have been more supportive during the storm.”

  Sophia snickered. “According to Ke
nzie, he’s had to explain to the twins more than once how he got scratches on his back and bites on his neck.”

  Cheeks on fire, Rick covered his eyes. “Ew. Sophia. That’s the second time in two days you or Pete have painted pictures I can’t unsee. I’m glad I don’t have a wife in the wives’ club. I’d hate to have my sexual prowess picked apart and critiqued in detail.”

  “We don’t critique. We”—Sophia’s mouth quirked into a wry smile, and she batted her eyelashes in mock innocence—“drink wine and brag.”

  He grinned and summoned up his self-assured attitude. “In that case, I’m going to get a girl so she can go to those club meetings and brag about my package.”

  Sophia slapped her hands over her ears. “Stop! I’d rather hear it from her, not you.”

  He poured the rest of the coffee into the sink and made another pot, thinking about his latest convo with his brother Shane. They’d both given up on the idea of having women to kick it with longer than a few months.

  “When I was a teenager,” Rick said, “my brothers told me that birds do it, bees do it, and men do it any old time. But women will only do it if the candles are scented just right. Now I keep scented candles in my glove compartment along with condoms.”

  “That’s a cynical view. If you believe the scent of a candle can seduce a woman, then you’re hanging out with the wrong kind.”

  “The good ones, like you and Kenzie, have all been scooped up and carried off.”

  “That’s not true, and when you find the one, remember this: Women like men who do the dishes. So clean up after dinner, bathe the kids, and she’ll be waiting on satin sheets with a hungry smile.”

  He gave her a half-cocked grin. “Sounds like I need to add an apron to my glove compartment.”

  Her face relaxed into a smile, and she picked up a blue pencil. “You in an apron might have the opposite effect on a woman, but I’ll ask the ladies at the next club meeting.”

  “You do that. Let me know what they say.” His self-assured attitude was firmly back in place now, so he pushed the stroll down memory lane aside and asked, “So where’s Pete? Is he out running too?”

  “He went to the market for steaks and beer. He’s going to grill outside tonight.”

  “I would have made an effort to dress for dinner. A cookout sounds much better, but I thought Kenzie ordered food.”

  “She did. Just the basics. Coffee and ice cream. Pete figured no one would want to go out again, and we all have work to do.”

  While the coffee brewed, he hauled the dirty clothes to the laundry room, dumped them into the washer, and started the machine, returning to the kitchen just as the last of the coffee dripped into the carafe.

  “Will I get credit—you know, when I get the girl—for doing the laundry?”

  “Laundry will get you rounding second and on the way to third.”

  “A baseball reference? Crap. Amy’s got everyone talking in baseball jargon.”

  “You can find a baseball quote for everything in life. ‘You can observe a lot by just watching.’”

  “‘The future ain’t what it used to be.’” He laughed. “I can’t think of a Yogi-ism about coffee. You want a cup?”

  “No, I’m coffee’d out. Thanks.” Sophia used a kneaded eraser to remove stray lines on Pete’s sketch. “You know, we’re only guessing about Billie based on two conversations. It’d be nice to have confirmation that we’re on the right track.”

  “I’ve been worried about that. We struck gold with you. You were all over the history books. The challenge for the rescue team was how to get you back without changing history.”

  “I changed it, but history changed back when Thomas sent me home. It was strange, but if you want confirmation about Billie’s whereabouts, do what Pete did to me. Break into her home and search for clues.”

  He was so surprised that his eyebrows must have hit his hairline. Not at the suggestion, but at who made it. “You were so pissed at Pete for breaking into your studio, and now you want me to do the same to Billie?”

  “After what I went through, I can’t believe I’m suggesting it, but if we’re going to leave tomorrow, you don’t have time to fly to Napa, search her house, and get back anyway.”

  “I don’t, but Connor does. It’ll only take him a couple of hours to get there from Colorado, do the job, and fly home.”

  “Ask him to look for a piece of art, a book, a note scribbled on a calendar—”

  Rich struggled to keep his smile to himself. “Connor spent more than a decade as an NYPD detective. He knows how to search for clues.”

  “You’re right. I was just thinking about being the victim.”

  “Are you still pissed at Pete for breaking into your studio?”

  “Oh, no. I forgave him.” She twisted the end of her ponytail. “It took a while to get over having my privacy invaded.”

  “So you want Billie to get pissed too?”

  Sophia released her hair, picked up a different-colored pencil, and returned to her sketch. “It’s not that I want her to feel the same way, but if it’ll help find her, it’s the right thing to do.”

  Rick leaned over the counter, rested his forearms there, and watched her draw. Sophia fascinated him. She was beautiful, talented, and made Pete the happiest Rick had ever seen him.

  But there was something else. She’d spent months living among some of the greatest minds of all time. That had to be some heady shit. How did ordinary, everyday life compete with that? Maybe that was why she was so intent on going after Billie.

  “What if invading Billie’s privacy doesn’t help find her?” he asked.

  Sophia flipped the page and attacked the next sketch. “It’s still the right thing to do.”

  “When this is all over, and we have her safely home, I’ll let you explain that to her so she won’t beat up on Connor.”

  “Oh, she won’t beat him up.” A smile tugged at Sophia’s lips. “She’ll beat you up for ordering it done. You’re our leader. It’ll be on your shoulders.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He put his empty mug in the dishwasher. “Have you seen David?”

  “Unless he snuck out the side door, he’s in the den.”

  Rick yanked her ponytail. “Thanks, doll.”

  “Ouch!” She gave him a teasing smile and then threw him a kiss. “You’re welcome, stud muffin.”

  He chuckled. If it was possible to clone Sophia, he’d ask for two. She fit into the MacKlenna Clan like she’d been born into it. The women loved her, the men adored her, the kids thought she was magical, and James Cullen Fraser had a secret crush on her that turned the Harvard Law School graduate into a tongue-tied teenager. Yep. Sophia Orsini was magical, and Rick was also one of her adoring fans.

  He entered the den, finding David hunched over a keyboard. “What’s up, man?” Rick asked.

  “I’m working on a battle animation,” David said.

  Rick tossed Remy’s RESERVED SEAT sign on the sofa before dropping into the recliner and lifting the footrest. “I hope it’s the Battle of New Orleans and not some new computer game.”

  “I could make a game out of this, but that’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Sophia and I were talking about Billie. We’re worried we don’t have enough proof that she’s gone back to the Battle of New Orleans. Sophia suggested we search Billie’s house for clues.”

  The printer spit out a sheet of paper, and David handed it to Rick. “Good idea. I like it. Call Connor. It’ll only take him a couple of hours to fly out there.”

  Rick looked at the printed map of the Chalmette Battlefield, showing the troop alignments. “Can you do an overlay of the property as it is today and match it up to the nineteenth-century map?”

  “Working on it now.” David sent another document to the printer. When it spit out, he gave it to Rick. “That’s a list of commanders and numbers of troops. Might want to memorize that.”

  “How much longer will it take you to finish what you’re doing?”
<
br />   “I’m almost done.”

  “I’ll send Con a text to tell him we need a quick in and out. If he flies private, he can get there and have pictures back to us by”—Rick checked his watch—“seven o’clock.”

  “Send it,” David said.

  Rick sent Connor a text with instructions and an address. Thirty seconds later, Connor replied: Heading out soon. Will text when I have something to report. “He’s on his way.”

  “Ye’re having doubts. Is that because of what happened today?”

  Here it comes.

  “I’m not having doubts about going back for Billie, but I am having doubts about where she might be. Why not 1625 or even the rising of 1745?” he asked, throwing out suggestions. “Or, hell, how about eighteenth-century Paris to find the torc?”

  “Speaking of which…” Another piece of paper spit out of the printer. David handed it to Rick. “That’s an article about torcs acting as a talisman. They were thought to have supernatural powers and provide protection from evil forces.”

  Rick scanned the article. “That contradicts what we know. If it’s true that a torc protects from evil forces, then why mess with it, why remove the topaz?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t removed. Maybe it was salvaged.” David pointed at the paper in Rick’s hand. “According to that article, if Celts lost a battle, the torc worn by their enemy’s most honored warrior was broken into pieces by the opponents, who feared its power.”

  “So Sophia’s art search is a waste of time.”

  “I heard that,” Sophia yelled from the kitchen. “Art is never a waste of time.”

  “Ye’re not wasting yer time, lass.” David kicked back in his chair. “She’s convinced she’s seen it before, and I have no reason to doubt her—”

  “Thanks for your confidence,” Sophia yelled.

  “In the vision,” David continued, “the torc wasn’t destroyed. The power was—”

  “Transferred to you,” Rick said.

  “I don’t believe the power was transferred to me. I only represented the transfer.”