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

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  She glanced at the chicken on the platter. It was getting cold while she tried to negotiate a ride. “How about we eat while we discuss the British Navy and how I’m going to get back to New Orleans?”

  In the subdued lighting, his eyes glinted, and she had no idea what the hell that meant.

  15

  New Orleans—Rick

  Rick sat on the back porch of the rental house, easing back and forth on a wooden swing in his snug tan trousers, white muslin shirt with a high collar, starched and folded cravat with a complicated knot, waistcoat, dark-blue tailcoat with a square cutaway, and black Hessian boots.

  Compared to the Clint Eastwood costume he wore when he traveled back to find Amber Kelly, this one was emasculating. What would Billie think of him? He rolled his head and cracked his neck.

  Billie wouldn’t care. She’d just be glad for a ride home. Yeah, and then she could laugh all she wanted at him. He might even laugh with her. Now, if he could just be sure no one took his picture and splattered it all over social media, he could get through this.

  David sauntered out on the porch carrying a mug of coffee. His jawline had a rough shadow, which was unusual for McBain, who typically had a clean-shaven face, even if he stayed up all night. “Ye ready to go?” he asked, scratching the light stubble.

  “Just waiting for my sidekicks.”

  David took in the full effect of Rick’s costume, and his mouth twitched. “I like the polished Hessians.”

  “The boots aren’t bad, but I’m telling ya right now, I’m not going on another trip unless I get to wear a cowboy hat. I hate this look.”

  “I’m with ye there. It’s not a good look for a spaghetti western star.” David flipped a chair around to straddle it and rested his arms on the back, his hands hugging the coffee mug. “One day, we might have control over where we go and when, but for now, we go where we’re needed.”

  “I’d rather wear a coonskin cap and carry a long gun. It’s my fault. I should have been more invested in costume decisions.”

  “You didn’t care. You just wanted it done,” Kenzie said.

  Rick popped up out of the swing. “Where the hell are you?”

  She waved. “Out here on the patio, working on my laptop. And I think you look handsome. I’ve already taken a dozen pictures for the family newsletter.”

  “Newsletter? Since when?” He shot his cuffs, popping his cufflinks into view—or sleeve buttons as they called them way back when. Although tempted to laugh, he didn’t. Instead, he played the role of a dandy with elegant nonchalance. He returned to the swing and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Since now.” Kenzie snapped her laptop shut and joined the guys on the screened-in porch. Rick scooted over and made room for her on the swing. “I’m also sending the pictures to Cate.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a threat, I trust Cate. She’ll look at them, but she won’t show them to anyone, thank goodness.” Rick squeezed the back of Kenzie’s neck. “How’s your thumb?”

  “Sore, but I’ll survive.”

  “Sorry.”

  She kissed his cheek. “I know.”

  “If you do send the pictures to Cate, she’ll have a thousand and one questions I don’t have time to answer right now.”

  “Okay, then I’ll wait until you get back. I don’t want to answer her questions either.” Kenzie tapped her fingers on top of her laptop. “I’ve been thinking about the Fontenots. What are we going to do with them, assuming you find them?”

  “Send them to Mallory Plantation until we figure out how to explain their absence or set up new identities for them,” David said, turning to Rick. “When you locate them, tell them not to worry about their future. They’re travelers. That makes them part of the clan.”

  “They might not want to come home,” Kenzie said.

  “If that’s what they want, we can set up a way for them to contact us in the future if they change their minds. Something like what I did at the castle when I went back to 1944 to find ye,” David said.

  “Yeah, but it would have to be someplace other than the castle, or you and Elliott would already have found their message by now,” Kenzie said.

  “Let’s just hope they’re ready to come home,” Rick said.

  Sophia waltzed out, dressed like a fashion plate in a bosom-emphasizing empire waistline gown. The low neckline barely managed to cover her nipples. Rick whistled. “Jesus, doll. If that neckline was any lower, you might as well not wear anything. Has Pete seen that dress?”

  “I hope you can control your gawking when you arrive in New Orleans. This is the style women wore in 1814. And yes, Pete, helped me dress”—she grinned—“and dress again.”

  Rick cupped his hands at the sides of his face. “I’ll have to wear blinders like Elliott’s racehorses.”

  “Blinders?” Pete asked, joining them on the porch. “You really don’t know anything about horses, do you? They’re blinkers. They keep the horse focused. So why do you want ’em?” He looked at Sophia, smiled, then back at Rick. “Stop gawking at my wife’s boobs. I don’t like it either, but it’s the style where we’re going.”

  “Whatever.” Rick dropped his hands. “Where’s Remy?”

  As if a stage manager had cued his entrance, Remy strutted out, slipping on his jacket. “I guess this is as stylish as you can get in the eighteenth century.” He spun around. “What do you think?”

  “We all look like crap,” Rick said. “I didn’t have to wear this crap last time.”

  “We’re going for period-correct, O’Grady,” Kenzie said. “You could dress as a pirate, but you’d be arrested and thrown into a cell in the Calabozo. Maybe you could be cellmates with Lafitte’s brother, Pierre.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Remy said. “You could ask him about the treasure.”

  “I’m sure he’d tell me everything I wanted to know,” Rick said. “He might even draw me a map, and as soon as we got out of jail, he’d slit my throat.”

  “Okay, doan ask him. It was just a suggestion,” Remy said.

  Pete smoothed down the front of his jacket. “Soph, do you think I look like a rooster?”

  “No, caro. You look dapper.”

  He smirked. “Dapper? Isn’t that similar to a rooster?”

  She cocked her eyebrow. “You never need your ego stroked. What’s up?”

  “These pants are too tight. I can’t conceal my Glock.”

  Her eyes roamed down the front of him. “Your gun isn’t the only thing you can’t conceal.” She put her arms around his neck, and the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. “You’re very handsome, and I already have a painting in mind of us dressed as we are now.”

  Pete ran his finger along her neckline. “As long as it hangs in the bedroom where no one else will see it.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. It’s going in my next exhibition.”

  “That’s a bad idea. I’d probably shoot any jerk who looked too closely or too long.”

  Sophia threw a teasing glance over her shoulder at Rick. “Better watch out.”

  Rick gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not worried. He’s unarmed.”

  Pete reached around behind him, and a Sig P365 appeared in his hand. “Think again, O’Grady.”

  Rick jumped to his feet to get a closer look at the gun. “A baby Sig? Man! Where’d you get that?”

  “It was the best I could do for a small concealed weapon that wouldn’t leave a big bulge.”

  “Where’s mine?” Rick demanded.

  “I got four. The others are in the den.”

  “Okay, you two quit eyeball-screwing so Pete can deflate the cannon in his pants, and we can get out of here,” Rick said. “I’m going to find my gun.”

  “Where’s your coat?” Pete asked Sophia as she followed Rick into the den.

  “In here with my paints and canvases.”

  “Are you sure those won’t draw too much attention?” Rick asked.

  Sophia patted her décolletag
e. “And what exactly are you talking about…Ricky?”

  “The art supplies…dolly,” he said, mimicking her.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m a hard-core, authentic, stitch-counting traveler. I wouldn’t take clothes, paints, or anything else with me that would draw attention. Our clothing designer gave me the name of an art store that hooked me up with paints and canvases used by the Battle of New Orleans reenactors.”

  “What about hats?” Rick asked. “If we’re going to be authentic, we have to have hats.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” Kenzie dashed out of the room and returned with three black silk toppers.

  Rick drew back and crossed his arms in front of his face. “No! I’m not wearing it. I want a buccaneer or a gambler’s hat. Not that!”

  Kenzie threw it like a frisbee, and he snatched it out of the air. “Buy one when you get there, then.”

  Grumbling, Rick put it on and looked in the mirror. “Shit!”

  Elliott concluded a phone call and lowered the footrest on the recliner. “Meredith found a painting of Tommy Malone, Billie’s ancestor. He was one of General Jackson’s riflemen. She’s texting the picture right now. If ye see him, ye can point him out to Billie.” Elliott referred to a note in his hand. “Braham should be here any minute now. He’s got gold nuggets and brooches.”

  “He’s not bringing the pearl, is he?” Sophia asked. “It’s unreliable.”

  “I told him to bring the diamond and amber.” Elliott reviewed his note again. “And the sketches of Billie and Fontenots? Are those done?”

  “They’re in my valise with Pete’s notes, maps, and battle plans,” Sophia said.

  “But we’re not sticking around for the battle.” The tone of Pete’s voice fell somewhere between a statement and a question.

  “I don’t want any of you to be part of the battle, but I’d like to watch it from a distance,” Sophia said.

  “No!” Elliott, Pete, Rick, Remy, David, and Kenzie shouted simultaneously.

  Sophia took a step back to avoid being swamped by their hot wave of disapproval. “Whoa. You don’t have to be mean. I’m an artist. This is what I do.”

  “Absolutely not, lass,” Elliott said. “If ye’re not going to follow orders, I won’t allow ye to go.”

  “Won’t allow? You can’t stop me, Elliott.” There was something in Sophia’s expression, in her eyes, an intensity of purpose as hard and clean as polished steel shot through with something Rick couldn’t identify. Maybe Elliott had reminded her of her parents telling her she couldn’t stay married to Pete when she graduated from high school.

  Pete put his arm around her waist. “He can stop you, Soph. He can stop all of us. He’s the Keeper. The Brooches are under his control.”

  “Not mine,” she said.

  “Even yours. That’s what the letter from James MacKlenna said. You were to protect it until the next Keeper arrived.”

  An awkward silence lingered in the room, waiting for Elliott to confirm his authority or Sophia to acknowledge it, but neither of them said a word, leaving everyone at a stalemate until the back door opened and Braham hollered, “Anyone here?”

  “In the den, Braham,” Rick said.

  Braham stopped in the doorway fist raised and bumped knuckles with Rick before looking from one person to the next. “What the hell’s going on? Whatever it is, ye can’t travel with bad attitudes or no telling where ye’ll end up.”

  “You’re welcome to come along and straighten us out,” Pete said.

  “No, thank ye. I don’t plan to go on another one unless there’s a treasure to find.”

  “I’ve heard rumors my whole life about a pirate treasure buried around Barataria,” Remy said.

  Braham rubbed his hands in anticipation. “If ye get any leads, I’ll help ye search.” He pulled out a box from his MacCorp green duffel bag and handed it to Rick. “A few cigars to sweeten a deal if ye’re looking for information and need a bit of persuasion without resorting to violence.” He handed another box to Elliott.

  Elliott opened it. Inside were three leather pouches and two brooches.

  “There’s enough gold to buy New Orleans,” Braham said. “Bring back the change.”

  Elliott distributed the pouches to Rick, Pete, and Remy. “Don’t lose this at the craps tables, Remy. Stay away from Toussaint’s on Chartres Street. Fortunes were lost there.” Then to Sophia, Elliott said, “It’s not that I don’t trust ye, lass, but I believe ye’ll be safer if ye don’t carry gold. It’ll mark ye as a target, especially if there are pirates around.”

  “Just as well. I did a lousy job of holding on to the last pouch you gave me, so I don’t mind at all.”

  Elliott gave the diamond brooch to Rick and the amber to Pete. “If ye have to use this, ye might be gone for two weeks. If ye don’t show up, Rick will go back for ye.”

  “Got it,” Pete said. “We plan to stick together.” He pinned the brooch inside his jacket pocket then distributed the guns. He put Sophia’s in a rucksack. “There’s a bullet in the chamber. Point and shoot, sweetheart.”

  Rick hoisted his duffel. “Let’s collect shit and move out.”

  Pete helped Sophia with her long coat, then handed her a satchel with paints, pencils, and sketchbooks. He slung a rucksack with a dozen rolled plain-weave canvases over his head and shoulder.

  “I’m so excited.” She hugged Rick. “Thank you for bringing me on this trip.”

  Rick thought back to the day he, Kenzie, and David time-traveled to find Amber. He’d been as excited as Sophia. This time not so much. Adrenaline raced into his bloodstream, and his mouth tasted like the loose change container in his truck’s console. Nasty. He popped a mint.

  Man up, dickwad. Let’s do this.

  David gave him a thumbs-up and a reassuring look. Kenzie gave him a one-sided grin that lit up her face, and Elliott gave him an approving nod. They all might have their doubts about the chances of his success, but they held it in check for now.

  “You should leave the room,” Rick said. “All of you. I’d hate for the vortex to sweep you up into the fog.”

  Kenzie gave Sophia one last, long hug. “Please be careful. Just because you’ve got the guys with you doesn’t mean you can take chances you wouldn’t have taken in your past adventures.”

  Sophia opened her mouth to respond but shut it again.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You survived storming the Bastille, but just barely. If it hadn’t been for Monsieurs David and Watin, you would have died. They’re not going to be where you’re going. So promise me you won’t take any chances.”

  “I already promised Pete. I’ll promise you, too.”

  Kenzie leaned in and whispered something to her that no one else could hear. Sophia gave her a sad look in response. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Kenzie left and stood in the other room, hugging David and swiping at tears.

  Rick opened the brooch. “Focus on Billie and tell the brooch to take us to her.” He glanced at Remy. “You know what happens, right?”

  Remy nodded. “Doan worry about me.”

  “Wait,” Pete said. “We need a plan. Where are we going to meet if we get scattered like pickup sticks all around New Orleans?”

  “At Jackson Square,” Rick said. “And just hope it’s not raining.”

  “If you ask for directions to Jackson Square, no one will know what you’re talking about,” Remy said. “Remember the name changed in the mid-eighteen-hundreds. Ask for the Place d’Armes.”

  “Got it,” Rick said, rolling his head, cracking his neck. Again. “Let me have your bag, Sophia.”

  “Everybody hold tight to Sophia. I don’t want her to land somewhere by herself,” Pete said.

  “It won’t be the first time, caro,” Sophia said.

  “I don’t care,” Pete said. “I’ll go berserk if we don’t arrive together.”

  “M-kay. Here we go,” Rick said.

  Together they recited the words that would take them into another realm, “
Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”

  And then they were gone…

  16

  Barataria (1814)—Billie

  Billie didn’t broach the topic of returning to New Orleans during dinner.

  Instead, it was a leisurely meal, and she enjoyed the chicken and wine while planning her escape. Mr. Wannabe-Shiny Boots-Boss-Lafitte talked endlessly about his ship The Pride and sailing around the Caribbean. If he wanted to pretend to be the nineteenth-century privateer Jean Lafitte, who was she to say, “Sorry, buddy, but you’re batshit crazy.”

  She pushed back from the table and checked the time on the mantel clock. It was after midnight. “I guess you’re not going to volunteer to drive me to New Orleans tonight. If you let me use your phone, I’ll call a car service.”

  “You can’t travel through the swamps at night.”

  “Oh, of course.” She smacked her forehead. “I keep forgetting. There are no roads to New Orleans in this rabbit hole. Well, in mine, it’s a forty-minute drive.”

  Lafitte stood and dropped his napkin on the table. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. Tomorrow we’ll talk about traveling to New Orleans.”

  She glanced at her purse and the contents spread out on the table like the constellation Orion. Only a person very familiar with the night sky could arrange items in such a spectacular array. The hand sanitizer was the star Betelgeuse, the tin of mints—Meissa, a tube of lip balm—Ainitak, a piece of gum—Salph, and so on.

  She’d gazed at that same constellation dozens of times while in Afghanistan. One night, years later, while having drinks with her distracted ex-husband, she’d used peanuts to pinpoint the stars in the same constellation. How long ago was that? Years. Hmm. He was in New Orleans. If she called him, he’d come to get her. Morgan would, too, but she wouldn’t dare let Morgan come anywhere near this place.

  From where Billie stood, she had a perfect view of the bay and The Pride gleaming in the moonlight. The house, the ship, the people, the gold-plated dishes and goblets, all seemed so real she could almost convince herself she was actually in the nineteenth century. Almost.