The Sapphire Brooch The Celtic Brooch Series, Book 3 Katherine Lowry Logan Copyright © 2014 by Katherine Lowry Logan Kindle Edition This book is a work of fiction. The characters and names are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and there are no references to real people. Actual establishments, locations, public and business organizations are used solely for the intention of providing an authentic setting, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Edited by Faith Freewoman Cover Art by Damonza Interior Design by BBeBooks Website: www.katherinellogan.com Dedicated To ~ Charlotte and Lincoln Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Part One Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Part Two Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Part Three Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Part Four Chapter 94 Chapter 95 Chapter 96 Chapter 97 Chapter 98 Chapter 99 Chapter 100 Author’s Notes Bibliography About the Author The Celtic Brooch Series Part One “History, despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.” —Maya Angelou 1 Chimborazo Hospital, Richmond, Virginia, October 1864 Death waited on the other side of the partially shuttered window, pointing its long, bony finger at Michael Abraham McCabe. He didn’t fear death, never had. Dying slow from a gut shot was preferable to dying at the end of a rope. Either way, the shutters would open fully and Death would sling Braham’s body over its shoulder and haul him the short distance to Hell. Braham crawled his hand along the curve of his swollen belly. The bullet had branded him with a sizzling, red-hot poker, burning flesh and sinew down to the bone, and his body contorted in brutal agony. Through dry, cracked lips he exhaled one word, “Water.” He didn’t need much. Only a sip to quench his thirst would do. He tried licking his lips but his thick tongue wouldn’t slide across the chapped skin. Behind his half-opened eyelids, wavy figures shambled around him. He blinked and tried to focus on the rows of beds filled with moaning men, wounded Confederate soldiers, not Yankee spies like him. Johnny Rebs had tossed him onto a bed. “Don’t let the bastard die,” they had told the surgeon. “We intend to hang him.” The nurses called him a dead man walking toward the gallows. That’s what he was, but would Death take him by the hand before the hangman could put a noose around his neck? The soldiers had tried to beat the names of Richmond’s underground network out of him. They couldn’t. So, they intended to strip him of what he cherished most—his honor. He would die the dishonorable death of a spy. And who would care? He was alone. Not only on this ward but also in life. He had no family. No son to carry on his name. All a man had at the end of the day was his honor, and the Rebs intended to dump his into an unmarked grave. The door at the end of the building opened and rattled shut. “Where’s the prisoner?” the man asked in a distinctive Virginia drawl. Feet shuffled. A chair scraped across the floor. “Down there. Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon,” a young lad said. “Are you the night nurse?” “Yes, sir.” Bootheels thudding purposefully against the floorboards grew louder, sharper. Brisk movements churned up the air throughout the ward. Men turned in their beds to see the newcomer. Braham turned, too, and rerouted his attention from the sharp stabs of pain in his belly to the man striding toward him wearing a gray officer’s tunic. He hadn’t seen this surgeon before. Would he do anything different from what the others had done? Five or six surgeons had already examined him. Afterward, they had walked away shaking their heads, saying, “There’s nothing we can do for that one.” “Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?” the lad asked. “What? Oh…well, he was caught down by the railroad tracks. Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?” “I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.” The surgeon reached Braham’s metal-framed bed and read the paper ticket hanging on the end of the frame. He had wondered what was written on the paper other than his name, date of admission, and injury. Instead of entering information about his regiment, had they written Yankee spy. Would they tie the paper to his toe when they buried him? The surgeon tugged on his hickory-colored beard and furrowed his brow. “Is there an exit wound?” “Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the hangman will.” The surgeon pressed his fingers against the inside of Braham’s wrist and held them there. His touch was gentle, with an almost silky feel to his skin, and there were no slight pricks from sharp or ragged nails. Hands told a lot about a person, especially when they fanned a deck of cards or tended a wound or touched him in tender places. Braham clenched his teeth against the chill brought on by another bout of rigors. “Water.” The surgeon’s forehead creased as he lifted the dressing, pulling scab and crusted dirt from Braham’s wound. When he pressed his fingers into Braham’s belly, pain lanced through him, and he cried out, “Ahhhh.” “Sorry.” The surgeon withdrew his fingers and straightened, mumbling under his breath. Then he looked at the wound again. “How long has he been shaking
