The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) π

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- Author: Katherine Logan
Read book online Β«The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (best novels to read to improve english .txt) πΒ». Author - Katherine Logan
βAwhile, I reckon. How long you βspect heβs gonna live?β
βAt this rate, only a few hours.β The surgeonβs baffled look pinched his brow. Braham had seen similar expressions on other officers weighing difficult decisions. What concerned this surgeon that hadnβt concerned the others? It didnβt matter. Not really. His pain would end in a matter of hoursβone way or another.
Flickering candles threw enough light for Braham to look into the doctorβs almond-shaped, blue eyes, now studying him with penetrating scrutiny. He tugged on the manβs sleeve. βWater.β
The surgeon turned toward the nurse. βBring me clean bandages.β
βMy orders are to leave him be.β
βIβm not going to watch a man die without trying to make his last moments comfortable. Now go.β
The nurse gave the doctor a brusque nod, then spun on his heel. His boots scuffed along the floor, growing fainter with each hurried step.
The surgeon sat on the edge of a spindle-back chair and scooted it closer, scraping wobbly legs against the floor. Dust fountained off him, as if heβd ridden for a month without care for himself or his mount. He took Brahamβs bruised hand between both of his.
A velvety whisper sounded in his ear. βIβve been sent to rescue you, Major. Iβm getting you out of here.β
Was he already dead? Was the Angel of Mercy upon him? Forcing words through his cotton mouth he asked, βAm I dead?β
βNo, and you wonβt die today if I can help it.β
βMy legs wonβt carry me very far.β Brahamβs shallow breathing grew quiet for a moment, and he remained motionless, save for a twitch of a small muscle beneath his right eye.
The surgeon let go of his hand and leaned closer. βHold on. Weβre going for a ride.β
Braham didnβt know how it was possible, but he believed the surgeon would rescue him, and his spirit ignited with hope. Maybe Fate wasnβt leading him to a slow death or a noose around his neck, but to a life filled with love, and a soul healed in the fertile soil of his vineyards.
The surgeon opened a sapphire brooch, held Brahamβs hand again, and stumbled through barely recognizable Gaelic. βChan ann le tΓ¬m no Γ ite a bhios sinn aβ tomhais an gaol achβs ann le neart anama.β
Braham sniffed, turning his head to pull air deep into his lungs. The autumn scent of burnished gold leaves and fermenting grapes lingered gently on nightβs breath. Where the scent came from he didnβt know, but as fog engulfed him, he closed his eyes and translated the Gaelic in his mindβLove is not measured by time or space. Love is measured by the power of the soul. Then he took in another deep breath and exhaled, long and slow.
2
Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, Present Day
Charlotte Lynn Malloryβs bootheels clicking against the hardwood floor echoed through the quiet house as she swaggered out of the kitchen, down the long hall, and into the mansionβs foyer, carrying a travel cup of black coffee. When she caught sight of her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging over the acorn-patterned mantel, gooseflesh rippled on her forearms. She stopped and cocked her head left, then right, and then left again, but nothing changed. The image reflecting back in the polished glass was still not her own, but that of her six-times-great-grandfather, Major Carlton Jackson Mallory.
βGood morning, sir,β she said in her deepest voice. βLooking good today.β
She glanced over her shoulder, saluting sharply to his portrait, which hung at the bottom of the square-ridge staircase that rose three floors. Her leg muscles still burned from her half dozen trips to the top floor to gather her reenacting equipment.
The portrait artist had painted her grandsire in full Confederate uniform. His left hand, which bore the family acorn signet ring, was prominently displayed on the hilt of his saber, and his other hand rested affectionately on his wifeβs shoulder. Not only did Charlotteβs uniform match his down to the Virginia seal buttons, but so did her Lincoln-style beard and brown wig.
She squinted into the mirror, grimacing at a stray blond curl peeking out from beneath her shoulder-length wig. Well, that wonβt do at all. She tucked in the errant strands then scrutinized her face and head. Was there anything else amiss? Earrings? Nope. Lipstick? Ha. Thatβs funny. At the rate she used the Bobbi Brown pinky-brown lip color in her purse, the tube would last another five years.
Charlotte set the coffee cup on the mantel and patted her hands down the front and sides of her dark blue trousers, checking for loose threads. Her tailor had reinforced the stitches where the black velvet side stripes and gold cords attached to the pants. He had also added extra padding to the cadet gray officerβs tunic to give her a bulkier shape. She had dropped a few pounds while training for last monthβs marathon in Charlottesville, so the tailor padded the jacket instead of taking in seams he might have to let out later.
Over the past fifteen years, with the help of her tailor, makeup artists, and drama instructors, she had created a character so authentic that other reenactors failed to see the woman camouflaged under layers of wool, Ace bandages binding her breasts, and theatrical makeup. When she was in costume she rarely broke character. Even under the heat of a summer sunββhotter than a witchβs tit in a brass bra,β as her Grandmother Mallory used to sayβthe beard, wig, and makeup remained in place.
Satisfied there was nothing inauthentic about her uniform to cause another reenactor to accuse her of being a farb, she donned her medical service cap with the letters MS embroidered in silver, folded her gauntlets over her belt, and practiced her best Ashley Wilkes smile. Actually, sheβd much rather play a character like the scalawag Rhett Butler, but it wasnβt the personality of her six-times-great-grandfather. Was it hers? Nope. She was safe and boring. She didnβt even own a cat.
After grabbing the coffee cup and car keys off the table,
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