“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 good-bye.”
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 good-bye.”
“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 with 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
At 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 good-bye 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 semiconsciousness. She snuggled against her dream lover, feeling warm and protected. When chest hairs tickled her cheek, she came fully awake.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Braham smoothed her sleep-snarled hair back from her face, one curly strand at a time. “It couldn’t be helped.” He shifted, easing them into a comfortable position with her head in the curve of his shoulder. His fingers traced the nobs of her spine, one bone at a time, from her neck all the way down to her sacrum, massaging her gently. Her thigh pressed against him, and her smaller leg molded to the hard length of his.
“You’re here?” she said in groggy inquiry. It didn’t matter if he was an hour late or a day, he was in her arms now, redolent with the fresh, clean scent of soap. He had stoked the fire, and a log cracked, sending a spray of fiery sparks up the chimney. The firelight filled the room with a warm, golden glow limning his tired but smiling face. “Did you get something to eat?”
“Aye, a bite.” He kissed her forehead and cheeks, chin and lips. “This isn’t how I wanted to begin our getaway.”
Her hand stroked the taut skin and smooth mat of blond hair covering the warm muscle defining the broad expanse of his chest. Beneath her fingers, his heart beat steady and strong. “Since I missed it, tell me what you’d planned to do.”
He laughed with a low masculine rumble. “I’ll surprise ye tomorrow.”
“Hmm. So this is merely a warm-up act for the real performance?” Her hand slid down his abdomen, touching his arousal and squeezing gently. “If this is a warm-up, I can hardly wait for the real thing.”
“I wanted to seduce ye with music and wine.”
“You seduce me with your eyes every time you gaze at me. I don’t need music and wine.”
“Good, since I have neither with me now.”
His full lips sipped at hers possessively, and their tongues danced in an irresistible and erotic rhythm. His hands slipped under her shirt, and then he flipped her over onto her back. He raised up and stared down at her. “I’ve wanted to strip these ugly garments off ye since the first time I saw ye in them.” He gathered the top of her scrub shirt and pulled it over her head. She lifted her arms, but after he had tugged the top off her, he held her wrists in one of his hands and stared at her breasts. “My God, ye’re beautiful.”
Her chest turned into a solid sheet of gooseflesh.
He cupped one breast and then the other. “Perfect.” And then he eyed her suspiciously. “Are these enhanced?”
She forced her hands out of his and playfully shoved him away. “How could you ask such a thing? How many breasts have you seen? Dozens? How many enhanced breasts have you seen? None? Well, you’re still batting zero. Which means—”
“I get the gist,” he said, but his puzzled look remained. “I thought women of yer century were proud of enhanced breasts. I didn’t mean to insult ye.”
“You didn’t. I’m teasing you. I can hear Jack in your questions. He’s—”
“Jaded me is what ye said before?” Braham dropped down on one forearm and cupped her again.
“Okay. Here’s the secret, so you’ll never have to ask a woman again. Enhanced breasts don’t move the same way when a woman lies on her back. Usually they stay front and center. Real breasts flatten as they fall naturally to the sides.”
He squeezed her breasts one at a time, moving them up and around; then he kissed each nipple. “I like yers fine.”
His hand moved down her abdomen and untied the drawstring of the scrubs. Her muscles clenched involuntarily at a touch so soft he could have been using feathers. He pushed down the sides of the pants and reached beneath her. “Lift yer hips.” She did, and he bunched the scrub pants down her legs far enough for her to kick them aside. His fingers began a slow exploration, lingering over her most sensitive flesh, teasing her in a delicious way. He was playing her, with the care and skill worthy of a finely tuned instrument. But if he played much longer, her strings would snap from overwhelming tension.
“Please, don’t make me wait.” Her hips undulated for emphasis.
He lifted himself over her and paused. “Tell me what ye want.”
“You.” She reached under the pillow for a condom. And paused. Yes, this was what she wanted…and not merely for tonight, but for the rest of her life. She was accustomed to making quick decisions. Living without him, but being able to cherish a part of him, would be the consequence of this decision. Her fingers relaxed, and the condom slipped from her hand.
Her body merged with his, into the feel of his skin under her hands and the play of his muscles. His mouth roamed at will, no longer gentle. He devoured her, kissing the smooth curve of her throat and the soft flesh of her earlobe. With his powerful arms, he jerked her close, consuming her with his tongue and lips. He cupped her hip, her breast, and between her legs, branding her body with his sensual exploration. Then he lowered himself and placed his mouth where his hand had been. He drew up one of her knees, opening her wider, then slipped a finger inside her. She gasped as her body shivered from the double invasion—almost painfully alive with sensations unlike any she’d ever experienced before.
She raised her hips to evade the exquisite teasing, but moving only enhanced his tender ravishing. His hands gripped her bottom to steady her undulating hips, which had been moving in a rolling, wavelike motion as she drew closer to the edge of sweet release. She dug her fingers into his damp hair, urging him on. But he needed no encouragement, for he knew exactly what to do to please her. Pleasure crashed around her, inside her, and all the way through her as passion took control of her mind and body. She pulled him up on top of her. She wanted him with an incomprehensible ferocity, an instinctual craving.
His thumb slid over the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, stopping at her mouth, and he looked into her eyes with intensity and focus. He made her world spin. A moan slipped past her lips, husky with need.
She welcomed him into the depth of her being. All the wonder, warmth, and strength she identified with him were in his embrace as he entered her. She had never known such tenderness. His lips found hers, molding shape against shape, and then a burst of hunger. His tongue moved farther into her mouth, writing the definition of intimacy and perfect harmony in a flowing script. His lips trembled against hers.
One long, searing thrust sent her reeling with ecstatic sensations. Her body moved fluidly against his as he pulled back and thrust again and again, sinking into her each time with a guttural groan and binding their souls more closely with each stroke. A gasp tore from her throat as she convulsed in helpless ecstasy. He threw back his head, muscles straining in his neck, and gave himself over to her. Bound body and soul, their release washed them over the precipice and tumbled them into a roiling sea of blinding sensation.
66
Georgetown, April 1865
Charlotte lay still, listening to Braham’s soft breathing. Moonlit pa
rticles drifted in a beam of light which shone through the partially closed drapes and graced the handsome planes of his face. She’d cupped her hand along his slightly bristled cheek, one leg lay across his muscular thighs, and her head lay nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. Their limbs and arms were entwined like magical multicolored threads. She purred with contentment and snuggled, protected from the chill in a sensuous nest of warmth. The scent of sex, so carnal and tantalizing, surrounded them, permeating the sheets and pillows and her imagination.
She shifted slightly, and his hand slipped loosely to her hips. “I hear ye thinking,” he whispered, his voice drowsy and sleep-deprived. “What’s worrying ye?”
A prickle of sweat gleamed among the curly hairs of his chest where her arm had rested, and she wiped it away. “Nothing really, except I’m thirsty.”
His eyelids fluttered, and he pulled her over on top of him, holding her closer still. “Ye’re probably hungry, too. I’ll go see what I can find.”
She kissed him and rubbed against his erection. “Hmm…don’t go.”
He smacked her lightly on the butt. “Keep this up and ye’ll die of thirst.” He flipped her over, trapping her body beneath his and kissed her soundly. “I won’t be gone long enough for ye to miss me.” He slipped out of bed and tucked the covers up to her chin. “Stay warm.”
Sighing, she rolled up into the fetal position, already missing his warmth. What they had shared over the last few hours was unique in her experience, and spoke to her on multiple levels. She wasn’t a sexual neophyte by any means. But none of her lovers had ever made love to her the way Braham had. He didn’t simply have sex with her. He had created an electric atmosphere and conducted an orchestra whose music still filled her mind and heart.
She was smiling, reveling in the ravishing experience, when he returned a few minutes later carrying a silver tray with a bottle of wine and a plate of bread and cheese. Before he opened the bottle, he stoked the fire, which sent out warm heat and the sweet scent of hickory. Every so often the flame popped and sparked when it found a pocket of resin. The fire quickly removed the chill, so she pushed back the covers and sat up, propping pillows behind her back.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 43