The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (55 page)

He pumped his legs faster than he’d ever run, but he felt like he was slogging, dreamlike, through a river of molasses. If he reached her, and they couldn’t escape the flames, at least she wouldn’t die alone. He’d carry her into eternity.

Time stopped. The fire stopped. The burning roof hung suspended. And in that briefest of seconds, he touched her arm and yanked with more strength than he could possibly possess. The momentum pulled her toward him in a perfect pirouette. Her body flattened against him. He folded her up into his arms and ran like hell.

A broken window with shards poking in on all sides of the frame was their only escape. He ducked his head, snugging Charlotte to his chest, and threw himself through it. An anguished, blood-curdling scream came from behind him as the beams hit the floor.

He and Charlotte landed on the ground, tumbled and rolled, but he never let go of her, protecting her head and her back. When they had finished their tumble and roll, he was on top of her, his hands under her, his mouth inches from hers. Her breath gusted on his face. She was alive. His eyes roved over her. Blood trickled down her forehead to her hairline. She was watching him intently, eyes focused and steady. Then she reached up, stroked his cheek, and mouthed thank you before dropping her hand.

“
Braham
.” Jack rushed over and knelt beside him. “Get up. We have to move before the building collapses.” Braham rolled over, revealing Charlotte beneath him. Jack gasped. “What are you doing here? I saw Braham plow through the window, but I didn’t know he had you in his arms. A man told me you had been sent to a tent set up for the doctors. Are you hurt?”

“Not fatally. Help me up.” Once she was sitting up, her mouth twisted abruptly. She cupped her elbows and shuddered, staring at the burning building. The pain glimmering in her eyes was heart-wrenching.

Braham touched her shoulder gently, aware she was, at this moment, as fragile as his Highlander figurine. “I couldn’t save you both. I’m sorry.” He looked at her almost pleadingly, but her face had shut down completely.

A man wearing an apron black with soot dropped to her side and gathered her hands in his. “Doctor McCabe. Come this way, quickly.”

Braham stared at the man.
McCabe?
Then he glanced at Jack who shrugged.

“The entire building is going to collapse,” the man said. He supported Charlotte to her feet then sheltered her beneath his arm, brushing away flying sparks falling on her hair and shoulders.

“We’ve got to get out of here, too. Can you make it?” Jack asked Braham.

Braham’s heart was still thumping wildly “I’m bleeding from my head, arms, chest, and hands, and my entire body is screaming with muscle strain and aches, but nothing is cracked or broken. Yes, I can make it.”

They had only moved a few yards away from the building when it collapsed in on itself in an explosive
whoosh,
which sent Braham tumbling through the air again. He landed in a soft patch of grass littered with debris and more shards of glass. The heat from the flames alone would roast him if he didn’t get out of its path. Using his forearms, he dragged himself through the glass, now bleeding from both old cuts and new ones.

Familiar hands grabbed him under the arms. “Anything broken, now?”

Braham shook his head. “Damned tired of being knocked on my ass. This keeps up, we’ll be crawling to Elizabeth’s door.”

“Let me help you.”

Braham shook his head, not wanting to move, stand, or attempt to walk. Jack, however, paid no attention to what Braham wanted, easily lifting him to his feet.

“Where’s Charlotte?” he demanded.

Jack looped Braham’s arm around his shoulder. “The man wearing an apron took her away, remember?”

Braham’s mind was a jumble of puzzle pieces darting here and there, trying to organize themselves into some semblance of order. While he was rooting for their success, he didn’t think they’d prevail. If an ax split his head wide open, the pain couldn’t be any worse than it was right now. He was almost thankful for the distracting ringing in his ears. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“The man…” Jack looked at Braham curiously, one brow lifted. “You’re in bad shape. I’ll take you to her.”

“Aye, ye’re a good friend.” Braham’s words were slurred, but he’d be damned if he could untangle them.

Leaning on Jack, he hobbled toward a tent on the other side of the street, safely away from the line of burning buildings. His progress was painfully slow, as if he had aged years in the past few hours. A corporal put a cup of hot coffee in his hands, and he drank greedily before collapsing into a camp chair, breathing heavily, clarity slowly returning.

Fire crackled upwind all around them. From the noise, Braham couldn’t tell if the fire, shells, and explosions were the result of the fires which had been deliberately set to destroy the tobacco and other goods, or from Grant’s forces bombarding the city. He refrained from shaking his head in order to give the puzzle pieces time to organize themselves fully, but he needed to clear away the gathering fog of apprehension. Was there a safe way out of the fire’s path? They had to find one and get to safety.

Charlotte sat straight as bone on the small cot, clutching a coffee cup with a slightly quivering hand. “How’d you two get here?” she asked.

“Searching for you,” Jack said.

She sipped her coffee, then dabbed primly at her mouth with a filthy finger, as calmly as she would have in Elizabeth’s drawing room. “How’d you know where to look?”

Jack waggled his eyebrows. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

The man who had brought Charlotte to the tent returned with a blanket. He wrapped it around her shoulders, and then he sat close by, holding his own cup of steaming black coffee.

“Doctor Mallory,” Charlotte said. “This is my brother Jack . . . um.” She stopped and licked her lips, pointed to Braham. “And my other brother, Braham. We’re all McCabes from South Carolina.” She then pointed to the man and said, “This is Major Carlton Mallory. He owns a plantation several miles from Richmond, I think he said.”

“Did I? I don’t remember mentioning it.”

Braham detected a flash—just a flash—of possessiveness in Doctor Mallory. Had he, too, become one of her admirers?

Jack’s face went pale beneath a sheen of sweat, and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Thank you for taking care of my…our sister.”

Doctor Mallory smiled at Charlotte. “Your sister single-handedly saved a hundred or more men tonight. If she hadn’t warned us of the danger, most of the men would have burned alive in the depot. The Confederate Army owes her a great debt.”

There it was again; a familiar look of eagerness. If he flashed it again, Braham would introduce Doctor Mallory—who had a remarkable resemblance to the man Charlotte had impersonated—to his bloody fist. It was time to get out of here, even if it meant rushing into Dante’s Inferno.

Braham wobbled to his feet. “We need to find a way home. The fire’s moving fast. My thanks for the coffee.” He dumped the dregs outside the tent and handed the corporal the empty cup. Braham studied Charlotte closely: the exquisite lines of her face, the curve of her nose, the patches of soot below her eyes, the furrow of concentration as she negotiated her goodbyes to Doctor Mallory. Her features, though pale, had lost their ashen quality. The shock had passed. Now she needed to get home and rest.

Charlotte tried to return the blanket, but Doctor Mallory insisted she keep it to wrap around her head, then he wished them good luck, and, as a parting gift, invited them to visit his plantation after the war.

After Braham, Jack, and Charlotte had gone several yards away from the tent, she asked, “Why aren’t we staying? Isn’t it safe here?”

Braham answered, “These men may be wounded, but I don’t care to spend another minute in the midst of two hundred Johnny Rebs. After a week in their prison, I’ve had enough of them. And besides, we have cuts needing treatment, and Elizabeth is very worried.”

She gave him a slight smile. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

Watching her return to herself triggered a throb of affection in Braham. He took a deep, steadying breath, then another. They had almost died in the fire, and they still might. He had to keep her safe. She was in Richmond because of him, and if anything else happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

“The wind could change again,” Jack said. “We’ve got to get past Main Street. Then we might be safe.”

“Go over to Sixth Street,” she said.

They plunged back through the narrow street. Firelight as bright as day dazzled their eyes and scorching heat seared their already tender skin.

“Hurry.” Braham pulled Charlotte behind him. Unsteady on her feet, she stumbled, so he picked her up again and ran.

“Let me carry her,” Jack said. “You can’t have much strength left.”

Braham had nothing left except his instincts to survive and protect. He refused to let go of her, willing himself forward. “If we can work our way around and get to Capitol Square, we’ll be safer. I can make it there.” Every part of his body was screaming in agony, but he wouldn’t stop now.

“Let me down. I can walk,” she said.

Braham snugged her closer to his chest. “I’m not putting you down. Cover your mouth with the blanket.”

The crash of falling timbers nipped at his heels, and the roaring crackle of burning wood harried them along. They ran up a side street, then veered onto another. They twisted and turned, trying to outrun the mounting flames and heavy black smoke stealing air from their lungs. Buildings collapsed in their wake as they dashed up hill.

“Run,” Jack yelled.

The Capitol finally came into view as Braham wound himself up for one final push, even though the muscles in his arms and legs burned as hot as the blaze chasing his heels. He led the way to the far end of the square, close to Capitol Street. There, he crouched on his knees, cradling Charlotte and grimacing as jolts of pain reminiscent of his bucking torture whipped him with the cutting edge of a lash. He arched his back and gasped for breath, coughing out particles of soot.

“The air is smoky here, too. At least it’s not burning our lungs. We can rest for a few minutes.” Charlotte rasped.

She didn’t make a move to leave the protection of his muscle-twitching arms, but she did shudder. Memories could be painful, and she would remember the young, legless soldier for the rest of her life, while Braham would see the ceiling collapsing toward the exact spot where she was standing. He clutched her tighter until finally his arms gave out. Then he set her down, but kept her close, sheltered by the curve of his body. She held on, too, her arms wrapped around him.

Airborne ash fell in profusion, even where they were sitting. He constantly had to brush it off his clothes and his head and the parts of Charlotte his body couldn’t shelter. They sat there for some time while more Richmonders arrived carrying bundles on their shoulders and family and friends on litters. They were all searching for a safe place away from the fires.

“We can’t stay. We have to find fresh air.” Charlotte eased out of his embrace and stood, using Jack’s shoulder for support. Stretching backwards with her hands pressed against her lower back, she groaned, shuddering slightly, as if she were sloughing off her aches and pains. “I can walk now. Just don’t ask me to walk fast.”

She laid her hand on Braham’s shoulder, and he squeezed it, reassuringly. Then he studied her carefully, narrowing his eyes, darting them all over her, to be sure she was unhurt. Thank God she was dressed appropriately. If she had worn scrubs, the sparks and glass which had burned and cut holes in her dress would have shredded the thin surgical fabric from her body. Although in pain and exhausted, the thought of her naked led directly to thoughts of bedding her, which then lifted his spirits with a flood of renewed energy.

They plodded down Broad Street, passing through block after block of stragglers and dense smoke, and tongues of flames still leaping to the sky.

Charlotte’s eyes glazed over, and her shoulders slumped, but she kept moving, shuffling one foot forward and then the other. Even in a tattered dress and soot-covered face, she was beautiful. He wasn’t sure he’d ever loved a woman other than his mother and Kit, but he had no doubt of the depth of his love for Charlotte.

He took her hand, squeezed it, then put it to his lips and pressed a kiss on her fingers. Life-giving fingers. How could he say goodbye again? Before he did, he wanted one night to superimpose over the memory of the falling ceiling; one night to fill himself with the soft, satiny feel of her beneath him; one night to love her as he would never love another.

62

Richmond, Virginia, April 2, 1865

C
harlotte sat hunched
on a stool with her back to the fireplace, brushing out the damp curls of her shampooed hair. The two things she missed most from home were hot showers and hairdryers. This morning, though, a copper tub filled with buckets of tepid water had been a sybaritic blessing. She had soaked and scrubbed until the patches of her uninjured skin glistened.

Her post-trauma body was in surprisingly good condition, considering she had run through Richmond’s fiery streets twice, and had spent a couple of hours rescuing wounded soldiers from a burning building. The cut on her head needed only a butterfly bandage. The first-degree burns on her arms would heal without leaving scars. The scrapes on her knees and elbows were minor. The skin on her face had a burn similar to a sunburn after a day at the beach. The skin would peel, but as a child she’d had worse. The fire had singed the hair on top of her head, but her scalp wasn’t burned. If she hadn’t been so muscled and toned, she wouldn’t have made it home under her own power, since neither Jack nor Braham had stamina enough left by the end of the night to carry her.