The Sapphire Brooch by Katherine Logan (reading eggs books .TXT) 📗

“What happened to him?” Cullen asked.

She shifted uneasily and threw a glance at David. He shifted, too, moving closer to her. If they were going to be thrown out of the house for being connected to one of the conspirators, he’d be there to protect her. She cleared her throat and steeled herself. “He was arrested for conspiring to kill the president.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, but otherwise he hid his emotions. “Jack Mallory?”

She tensed and nodded with only a slight lift and dip of her chin.

Cullen pressed his fingertips together, bouncing them slowly off each other, moving to the silent tick of a metronome. Finally, he stopped tapping his fingers and put his hands on his hips. “Braham sent me a telegram to come to Washington.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “He did? When?”

“A week ago. He asked me to come to Washington to help him defend one of the conspirators. Why?” Cullen asked.

She broke into a relieved smile. “It’s a long story, but thank God he’s all right. We’ve been worried.”

Sean gestured down the hall. “Let’s retire to my office. We’ll have more privacy there, and ye can tell us yer story.”

“We have a tradition,” Cullen said. “The person telling the story brings the whisky.”

David dug into one of his carpetbags and pulled out a bottle. “Woodford Reserve. From a local distillery, or will be.”

Cullen took the bottle and read the label. Then he clapped David on the back. “Unless yer story is longer than an hour, we won’t die of thirst.”

The group entered the room with the familiar vast mahogany desk, full bookshelves, and floor-to-ceiling windows with glorious views of the pastures beyond the house. Charlotte came to a standstill right inside the doorway, taking in the scents of tobacco and leather. While the room appeared the same, the absence of Elliott made it seem somehow smaller.

“Do ye want a drink, Charley?” David asked.

“Yes, please.” She was drawn to the open window behind the desk and inhaled a lungful of afternoon air, cloyingly warm for early spring, but fresh and sweet from the roses beneath the window. There weren’t roses outside Elliott’s window.

“Here’s yer drink, lass,” David said, handing her a half-filled crystal glass. “Come, sit down. Today is the last time ye’ll need to tell yer story.”

Sean rearranged the chairs so they could sit in a circle. Charlotte began her story, and when she reached the part about Braham’s disappearance, David picked up the tale. From there, Sean added to the story, telling them about Braham’s appearance and the fight with the Reb deserters.

Charlotte shook her head, groaning. “I was afraid it might happen before he fully recovered. Are you sure he wasn’t hurt?”

“Aye, a wee scratch from broken glass. I told him I’d send him back to ye if he got shot.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t surrender right then,” she groused.

Sean laughed, but she hadn’t meant it to be funny.

Sean finished his story and Charlotte continued with the next part of hers, ending with her return to MacKlenna Farm. Three hours later, with everyone up to speed, David poured a final round of whisky, emptying the bottle.

Not long after Charlotte had begun the story, Cullen had stopped her to fetch a journal and pencil, and had taken notes. Now he flipped through the pages. “Why do ye think Braham didn’t go home with ye after the assassination? His boss was dead. The war was over, and, knowing him as well as I do, I’m sure he was in love with ye.”

She stared at her hands and considered Braham’s state of mind the last time she saw him. “I’m not sure I can explain it.” She looked up into Cullen’s eyes, seeing warmth and understanding, and she knew she could trust him.

She straightened, saying, “I think several things combined to keep him here. After almost dying at Chimborazo, his degrading treatment and abuse in Castle Thunder, and his failure to save Lincoln, he was compelled to reclaim his honor. Although he’d never lost it, he believed he had. He was looking for a way to restore what he lost. Will he find it? I don’t know.”

“His honor pulled him into the war when I tried to keep him out of it. But he had made a pledge to General Sheridan in 1852. A pledge he shouldn’t have made, but I’m thankful he did.”

“Stubborn man.” Charlotte pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose.

Cullen chuckled. “He’s a McCabe and a Highlander. Ye can’t expect anything less.” Then he eyed her speculatively. “And what about ye? Do ye love him enough to give up the life ye have and stay here with him?” Cullen asked in a low, even voice, but it resonated throughout the quiet room. She could tell from his tone he wasn’t judging her. But beyond the simple question was an undercurrent of more than curiosity. She pressed her lips together to avoid giving him a hasty answer. He deserved more than a quick yes or no.

David opened one of the carpetbags at his feet and withdrew a stack of papers. “We have a copy of the complete record of the conspiracy trial.” The interruption was transparent to everyone, and Cullen turned his attention to David, politely leaving his question hanging in the air unanswered.

“The evidence against Jack is circumstantial, but Stanton doesn’t care. There’s no due process, no presumption of innocence, no jury of their peers, and no appeal. The trial is only a formality before guilty verdicts are handed down.”

“The New York Herald predicted the trial will start next week,” Cullen said.

“On the tenth, the commission will ask the defendants if they’d like to seek counsel. We have to be there then and prepared to represent him,” Charlotte said.

Cullen made a notation in his journal. “The earliest train leaves in the morning. Until then, I’d like to study your documents.”

David handed over a six-inch stack of papers. “These are the pertinent pages relative to Jack.