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

by Katherine Lowry Logan

Lafitte shook his head. “I’ve held auctions there. Buyers prefer going to The Temple instead of Barataria. It’s closer to New Orleans.”

  Where were the planes and helicopters, and motor sounds of all kinds of boats? Where were the residents? Didn’t anyone live around there? She blinked and refocused her eyes, searching the line of trees for a break indicating the land had been cleared to build a house or storage building or something. When she spotted the outline of a roof, her heart soared. People. Civilization.

  When they reached Lake Ouachita, a shallow lake fed by a bayou, they navigated into the twilight toward the evening’s campsite.

  On the third day, they sped through another deep, narrow bayou, reaching Lake Cataouatche and continuing northward, twisting through an impenetrable swamp that led through a half-gloom under a tunnel of cypress and water oaks garlanded with Spanish moss.

  Disappointment over the absence of power lines, houses, and other evidence of civilization smashed her previous day’s excitement over spotting a simple roofline. Where in the hell were the people and their homes?

  As the banks sank lower, she had a good view of the exotic green of the southern forest and occasional hummocks rising out of the perpetual grey-green dreariness. Turtles and snakes abounded, and herons stood on one leg in the shadows. All was silent except for the rhythmic dip of the paddles or the inevitable heron flapping off with its long legs tucked under it.

  “Why do herons stand on one leg?” she asked Lafitte.

  “They look less suspicious to water prey,” he said.

  She laughed. “Is that true?”

  He shrugged, making his jacket curve over his muscles. “I wouldn’t attack a one-legged creature. The other leg could be waiting to pounce.”

  She laughed again, and he glanced over his shoulder. “You have a lyrical laugh, mon Capitaine. It sounds like a perfectly tuned instrument.”

  His melodic voice penetrated her armor, and now she hated him even more because he stirred her heart. She was a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, and once she was away from him, she would make damn sure he would never again enter her thoughts.

  The canoes pulled to the shore, and Lafitte helped her to the dock. “From here, we’ll ride horseback. You and Estelle wait while we make arrangements.”

  Billie dropped to the ground and had just dozed off when the clop-clop of horses’ hooves woke her. Lafitte reached out his hand and helped her stand. “Do you know how to ride astride?”

  “Is there any other way to ride?” Since moving to Napa, she regularly rode with a girlfriend. As tired as she was right now, though, she wasn’t sure she’d stay upright in the saddle.

  It was late afternoon when they headed east, following a drainage canal through the swamp, and the mare’s smooth, rocking gait lulled Billie to sleep.

  “Mon Capitaine, wake up.” Lafitte reached for her. “Let me help you down.” He held her around the waist, lifted her out of the saddle as if she were a sack of feathers, and set her gently on the ground. But her legs were numb and couldn’t bear her weight. He caught her before she face-planted, and carried her through the forest to an embankment.

  “You can put me down. The feeling’s come back to my feet.”

  Before he let her go, he whispered, “I need you to keep your promise. We’re going to cross the Mississippi. It’s well guarded. My men will lead us across. When we reach the other bank, we’ll thread our way through the city. It’s under martial law. If we get caught, they’ll lock us up. So be quiet.”

  “Okay,” she whispered back, testing her feet. Her ordeal was almost over, and excitement galloped along every nerve. What was the possibility of catching a flight to California tonight? She didn’t care where it landed, just as long as she could escape Louisiana.

  From the top of the levee, the brown, muddy water of the Mississippi River rushed past, swirling in pools and uprooting trees. She almost slipped in the mud. The wind whipped at her, chilly now that the sun was nearly gone in the west.

  Four boats slightly larger than the pirogues sat at rest with ropes attached to the dock. Billie hugged her elbows against the chill while absorbing the view, and trying to stifle the prickling, lurking sensation blasting through her senses.

  Where were the bright lights? The sound of jazz playing in the French Quarter? The bridge? Even from this distance, there should be signs of civilization—not just pinpricks of dim light.

  “Come, mon Capitaine,” Lafitte said, taking her arm.

  She jerked away from him. “Where is New Orleans?”

  Lafitte glanced across the river. “Over there. The flickering lights are from the Vieux Carré. It’s not what you expected, but we can’t discuss it now. We have to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere else until you tell me the truth.” She gulped and took a deep breath to control her wobbling voice. “You said you were taking me to New Orleans. That”—she pointed a shaking finger toward the opposite bank—“is not New Orleans.”

  “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “You’ve tricked me again. You’re taking me somewhere else, aren’t you? To where? A bigger brothel?” She was shaking, and her temper was about to explode. If she had a gun, she’d shoot him. “I hate you!” She turned back in the direction of the forest.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “Anywhere, as long as it’s away from you.”

  “Stop, mon Capitaine! You can’t wander through the dark forest by yourself. You don’t know where you’re going.”

  She stomped up the hill, angrier than she’d ever been in her life. “I’m an Army Ranger. I can find my way through the woods, and I’m going to find New Orleans. I’m getting off your goddamned hamster wheel, mounting my goddamn horse, and riding the hell out of here.”

  She spun on her heel to face him. “I never want to see you again. I’ve had it up to here”—she put her hand level with her chin—“and I can’t take your lies, or this wannabe pirate life another minute. Get out of my life! And that goes for you too, Dominique. Wherever the hell you are.”

  Lafitte’s dark eyes softened in the moonlight, and his chin lifted slightly in a signal she’d seen before, but her brain didn’t make the connection in time to save herself from being whacked on the back of the head and collapsing into his arms.

  26

  New Orleans (1814)—Rick

  Rick followed the others through a side gate into the flowery courtyard of the Fontenots’ two-story Creole-style residence on Dumaine Street. The house had a massive hipped roof that extended out over the front porch and was punctuated by two small dormers. The porch was perfect for sitting in a rocking chair and waving to neighbors as they went about their daily business.

  “This is an architectural complex rather than a single building,” Philippe said. “The main house is on the left, the kitchen with cook’s quarters is in the middle, and the two-story garçonnière is on the right. We always had guests until Rhona got so sick.” Philippe surveyed the courtyard, slowly shaking his head as if coming to terms with leaving it all behind.

  “The houses in New Orleans,” Philippe continued, “even those of wealthy planters who keep city residences aren’t palatial like those in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, or Charleston. But Rhona and I have made ours comfortable and welcoming. Even though we’ve never stopped wanting to go home, we’ve been happy here.” Philippe tried to summon a casual smile, but he couldn’t suppress the sorrow from leaking into his voice.

  Pete clapped a hand on Philippe’s shoulder, giving it a thoughtful shake that said, I get it.

  Then Remy said, “This building’s still standing in the future! I’ve seen it.”

  “It’s a National Historic Landmark.” Philippe smiled. “It’s also one of the finest eighteenth-century building complexes in Louisiana, and one of the best examples of French colonial architecture in North America.”

  “You came here with nothing and were still able to buy this. How’d you manage it?” Remy asked.
<
br />   “My experience in shipping and logistics was a good fit with the needs of New Orleans’s commerce, and Rhona’s textile designs enjoyed immediate success. I also had the advantage of knowing how and where to invest our money. By the time Manuel de Lanzos, Captain of the Fixed Regiment, was ready to sell, we had enough money to buy it. And it comes with a bit of history. The uncle of the famous privateer Jean Lafitte was born here.”

  “Have you met him?” Remy asked.

  “Lafitte?” Philippe asked. “No. Our paths have never crossed.”

  “It’s a shame you can’t take the title to the property with you, but at least you know it’ll be well taken care of,” Rick said.

  They climbed a staircase set in an alcove and reached the upstairs outdoor walkway. “To the left are a dining room and two bedrooms. To the right are the parlor, library, and our bedroom. Rhona spends most of her day reclining in the parlor, enjoying the sunlight.”

  “Do you want to go in first and prepare her?” Rick asked. “We don’t want to upset her.”

  “She’ll be more alarmed if I go in and tell her I have news. Besides, she’s used to me bringing home associates to discuss business. You won’t alarm her.” Philippe opened the door and ushered them into the parlor.

  The room was elegant and richly furnished with Louis XV-style mahogany and walnut tables, chairs, and cabinets, and a beautiful pianoforte in the corner. Meredith’s passion for antiques had informed Rick’s, and he’d made a point of learning as much as he could, which included frequent trips to estate sales in California. Whenever he found a piece of furniture that would suit her style, he’d send pictures. If he found something he liked but didn’t interest her, he bought it and added it to his collection.

  He almost drooled over the Fontenots’ pianoforte. If they’d let him take it home, he’d figure out a way to carry it on his back. Man, it was beautiful, and his fingers itched to tickle the ivories.

  As if reading his mind, Philippe asked, “Do you play an instrument?”

  “Piano and guitar.”

  “All the O’Gradys sing and play instruments,” Pete said. “But Remy is a mean jazz drummer. Give him a few beers, and he’s rocking the house.”

  Remy shuffled his feet and adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. “Shhh. Mrs. Fontenot is sleeping.”

  Rick elbowed Remy in the arm. “You’ve got to get over your modesty if you’re going to hang with the MacKlenna Clan.”

  Philippe crossed to the chaise lounge where Rhona was napping with an open book lying across her chest. He picked it up and kissed his wife.

  Her eyelashes fluttered, and she smiled. “You’re home early. How was the general today?”

  “He was out on reconnaissance.”

  Her eyes met Rick’s. “Philippe, you brought company home. How lovely.” She patted her smoky-gray hair and straightened the shawl draped over a gauzy, high-waisted green dress. “I must be a sight. Please, gentlemen, come in and have a seat.” Then to Philippe, she whispered, loud enough for Rick to hear. “They look like they could play for the Saints.”

  Rick chuckled. He, Pete, and Remy were muscled and chiseled, and standing side by side presented a formidable force. But they’d have their asses kicked back to Kentucky if they took the field, even in a Saints’ practice game.

  From where Rick stood, the bruises on Rhona’s hands, arms, and around her neck were quite visible. He’d seen plenty of abused women during his years with the NYPD, but Rhona’s weren’t from abuse. They must be from her illness. But what caused bruising like that? Liver or kidney disease? Blood disease?

  Remy took her hand and kissed it. “I’m Remy Benoit. The other two guys are—”

  “Rick O’Grady, ma’am.” He tilted his head, let his hat roll down his arm into his hand, flipped his wrist backward, and tossed the hat. It landed squarely on his head.

  Rhona clapped. “Bravo, Mr. O’Grady. You’re only a step away from dancing.”

  He slightly bowed his head and pointed with his elbow, as if inviting her to the dance floor. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m your man.”

  Pete stepped in front of him. “Pete Parrino, ma’am. And I got nothin’ like that to impress you with unless you want to hear an off-key rendition of ‘That’s Amore.’” Before she could say yes or no, he belted out, “When a moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that’s amore.”

  She laughed, and a smile lit up her eyes. “Maybe another time, Mr. Parrino, I might feel up to accompanying you on the pianoforte.”

  Pete winked. “In the meantime, I’ll practice.”

  “Your husband tells us you aren’t feeling well,” Remy said.

  “Are you a new doctor in town?”

  “No, ma’am. I was a medic in the Army. I can’t do much, but if you’re in pain, I can make you more comfortable.”

  “Dr. Flood, my doctor, can’t do much either.” Frowning, she shook her head. “He says I have cancer, but there’s nothing he can do to help me.”

  “What are your symptoms?” Remy asked.

  “Weakness. I’m always tired. Even just walking across a room, I don’t have much breath left when I reach the other side. I have a mild fever and night sweats. If I cut myself, it takes days to heal. I have aches in my bones and joints, especially my hips and knees, and I have these pinhead-sized red spots”—she pulled up her sleeve—“under my skin.”

  “When did your symptoms start?” he asked.

  She squinted thoughtfully, and a moment later said, “Six months ago. Isn’t that right, Philippe?”

  Her husband handed her a crystal glass. “Your apéritif, dear, and I agree. It’s been at least six months.”

  She took a sip, then set the glass on a small drum table with antique brown leather and brass accents. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?”

  Remy sat back on his heels while he studied her arm and hand. “Are you in pain?”

  “Some days, my joints hurt more than usual, but I can tolerate the discomfort.”

  Remy glanced up at Rick for a sign from him as to whether he should tell Rhona who they were or not. Rick nodded slightly, and Remy turned back to her. Philippe pulled a chair up close to the chaise, and Remy took a seat, leaning forward, arms on his knees.

  “I would need to do a blood test to know for certain, but I had an aunt with these same symptoms.”

  Rhona’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Did the doctors know what was wrong with her?”

  “Yes, they did, and I’m not saying you have the same disease only that you have the same symptoms. She was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.”

  “Leukemia?” A drawn, spectral look appeared on her face. “Why didn’t the doctors tell me that was a possibility?”

  “The term leukemia won’t be coined until the 1850s,” Remy said softly.

  Rhona’s expression said she was thinking through what Remy said. But the lack of acknowledgment meant she wasn’t connecting the dots. “What happened to your aunt?”

  “Doctors are treating AML successfully in younger patients, and older ones too. But for my aunt, other characteristics gave her a poor prognosis. She was also several years older than you.”

  “She died from the disease. That’s what you’re not telling me,” Rhona said. “I’m sorry you lost your aunt. How much longer do you think I have to live?”

  Rhona’s directness surprised Rick, and from the sudden stiffness in Remy’s back, it surprised him as well.

  “Until specialists examine you and do blood work, they won’t be able to give you a prognosis or suggest a treatment plan.”

  She nodded but still hadn’t connected the dots. “Why hasn’t that been done?”

  Philippe cleared his throat. “The doctors here, dear, don’t have that capability.”

  “Then take me to New York,” she said.

  “The doctors in New York don’t have it either,” Philippe said.

  “Then who does?” Rhona locked eyes with her husband and then Remy. It was as if
no one wanted to tell her the truth. Then she glanced at Rick, her eyes pleading.

  “We’ve come to take you and Philippe back to the future. You’ve been living in the past for far too long. Would you like to go home?”

  “Of course. Why didn’t you just come out with it?” Her smile reached her eyes and matched the warmth of her voice. She swung her legs to the floor. “I have to pack. How much can I take with me?”

  Quietly, Rick laughed. Rhona was one of the brooch ladies, and he should have known she could kick ass. “No one wanted to upset you, so we took it slow. That’s on me. As for what you can take with you, no one has asked that before.”

  “Kit MacKlenna traveled back to 1852 with a covered wagon, oxen, a stallion, a cat, a dog, a fully stocked medical bag, guns, and a guitar,” Remy said. “So whatever you want to take, we’ll find a way to get it home.”

  “I don’t have a cat or a dog, but Philippe has a stallion I’m sure he’d like to take, along with his books and papers. I have a few—” She stopped suddenly and glanced at her husband. “We can’t leave yet. Not until after the battle.”

  “We already know the outcome, dear. America will win whether we’re here or not.”

  She sipped from her glass while tapping her foot on the floor. “The general depends on your advice. You can’t abandon him now.”

  “He has plenty of advisers.”

  “But you have to negotiate with Claiborne and Jackson so the Americans don’t destroy Barataria. For all Lafitte is going to do for New Orleans, he deserves to keep his small kingdom. And no one else is going to negotiate for him.”

  “You’re right,” Philippe said. “But we can’t leave yet anyway since our rescuers still have another traveler to find.”

  “In New Orleans? There’s another time traveler?” Rhona seemed more shocked over there being another traveler in town than she was that people had come to rescue her. “Well, we have to find him.”

  “Her,” Rick said. “Wilhelmina Penelope Malone. She’s a former Army Ranger.”

  “There’s another option,” Remy said. “I could take Rhona back and then return for the rest of you.”