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

glasses. “You know, Ken, you’re forgetting the most important element in this conversation.”

He put the steaks on the table. “What?”

“That the doctor-patient relationship is sacrosanct. The major is my patient.”

He pulled the chair out for her to sit. “No, my dear, he’s mine.”

9

Winchester Medical Center, Winchester, Virginia, Present Day

Shivering under a light blanket, Braham opened his eyes a bit. A noise, not a chirp or a squeak—unlike anything he’d ever heard—had awakened him in a dim room. The sound came from a box mounted on the wall with green, blue, and red lines jumping in time with the odd noise. If he had died, he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone straight to hell. It was too damn cold. Cords hooked to patches on his chest led to the box on the wall. A thicker cord was attached to his arm with a tube extending to a clear fluid-filled bag which hung from a hook over his bed.

An old memory of a clear rubber bag with an expiration date came to mind, and the shock of the memory was tantamount to dumping icy water on his groggy brain. His eyes bounced from one side of the room to the other as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

A dim light in the ceiling cast eerie shadows against smooth whitewashed walls. The glass door was partially open, showing the hall outside was also dimly lit. There was no movement in his room or out there. His high bed had a metal railing on both sides. His head was slightly raised, although he had only one pillow. A tall armchair with an extended back sat in one corner, and another small box was mounted on the wall across from the bed with large red numbers in a row: five, five, six. Could it be the time? If so, the room was so dark he couldn’t tell if it was early morning or night.

He peeked beneath the bedcovers. Someone had undressed him. He wore a long blue shirt and nothing else. His pants weren’t hanging on the end of the bed. What would he wear when he got up? And where were his boots? He couldn’t see the floor next to the bed, but if his pants were gone, his boots probably were, too.

A band encircled his wrist. There was a line for the patient’s name. His band read: McCabe, Major. Had he given someone his rank? No. The surgeon had called him Major McCabe.

Braham had thought he would die, but he hadn’t yet. If he wasn’t dead, it appeared he had been transported to the future, maybe to Kit’s time in the twenty-first century. Was he stuck here for the rest of his life, or could he go back? Kit had been given a choice to either return home or live permanently in the nineteenth century. Would he have a choice, too?

He once again studied the room, this time more slowly. He didn’t want to miss any of the strange objects. Kit had worked in a hospital. Was this the one where she had worked? Did the surgeon know her? Braham absolutely must not tell anyone about Kit. When she left the present to live the rest of her life—married to Braham’s best friend, Cullen—in the nineteenth century, she had told everyone she was retiring to the Scottish Highlands to live in seclusion at her family’s estate. He couldn’t destroy her cover the way someone in Richmond had destroyed his.

A woman entered the room. “Are you in pain? We can give you drugs to make you comfortable.”

“Who are ye?” His voice sounded scratchy, as if he hadn’t spoken for several days.

A brighter light came on behind him. “Charlotte Mallory.”

He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the bright glow. Now he knew he was truly dead because his angel of mercy stood at his bedside. Blond curls framed an oval face with a gently rounded chin. A slim and delicate nose with high cheekbones gave her the timeless beauty of sculptured masterpieces. His eyes lingered on her kissable lips for a moment before moving up to her almond-shaped eyes, bluer than blue. They were like drops from an April sky. His heart skipped a beat and then another, and he shivered.

“You’re cold? I’ll get you another blanket.” She left the room, and when she returned, she spread another thin blanket over him which embraced him with radiating heat from toes to neck. She tucked the blanket under his shoulders. “This should warm you up.”

“Ye have eyes like the surgeon who rescued me.”

She leaned in close and whispered, “I am the surgeon.”

“Aye. An illusionist?” He gave a weak chuckle and waved his left hand slightly. “Then all this is an illusion, too. Ye’ve cast a spell to mask my reality. I’m still a prisoner, but have no chains.”

She raked her fingers through the hair hanging limp on his forehead, pushing the rough whorls away from his face with startling tenderness.

“You’re no longer a prisoner. When you’re more awake, I’ll explain what has happened. You’re safe now. No one will recognize you. No one will hurt you. Rest and get your strength back.”

“Answer a question, and I’ll wait for the rest.”

She held up her finger. “One.”

“When can I go home?”

A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t believe how many times a day I get that question. No one wants to stick around here.” She put the finger to her cheek in a thinking pose. “Must be the food.”

“Ye didn’t answer me.”

“You’ll be in the hospital for a few days. Afterward you’ll need time to heal.”

His eyes focused on a card attached to a cord strung around her neck with her picture and name. “How did I get here, Doctor Mallory?”

“That’s two questions.” She adjusted the cords on his arm. “Gaelic words and a sapphire brooch. And before you ask, I don’t understand how it works or why. I only know it did.”

He gave a