Violet Fire (12 page)

“To New Orleans,” Rathe said, watching her.

“To New Orleans! How long does it take? Do the passengers sleep aboard?”

“Yes indeed,” Rathe said, as the carriage came to a halt. “And it takes two and half days.”

“Where are we going?” Grace cried.

Rathe grinned. “For a riverboat ride.”

Grace was wide-eyed as Rathe escorted her toward the
plank with one hand possessively on her elbow. “But Rathe, I can't possibly go with you to New Orleans!”

He laughed. “We're only going to have supper. Our driver will meet us downriver.” His look was both questioning and amused.

Grace put a hand to her rapidly beating heart. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, yes, I would like that.”

He seemed pleased as they strolled up the gangplank. “Let's take a turn around the deck.”

“Yes,” Grace said, turning to stare at a couple, the woman resplendent in white linen and lace with a matching parasol. They, too, were ambling along the deck, as were many other passengers.

“Come on,” Rathe said, taking her hand.

She was too involved with her surroundings to notice the impropriety of it. They moved toward the bow. A blast of the ship's horn sounded, making Grace jump. Rathe clapped his hands over her ears as the atrocious, ear-splitting noise sounded again. He removed his hands. “Awful, isn't it?”

“Whatever was that for?”

“A warning. We leave in ten minutes,” he told her, taking her hand again.

This time, because they were standing so closely together and all her attention was focused on him, she was aware of his palm, so large and slightly damp, holding hers. “Rathe,” she protested, gently disengaging herself and trying not to notice his obvious disappointment. He was a gentleman, however. He touched her elbow and they walked on.

They stood at the bow, watching the docks and the stevedores unloading various cargoes, standing side by side. A whisper of a warm breeze touched them. “Look, Grace,” Rathe said, putting his arm around her and turning her.

She forgot to object as she watched, fascinated, as the crew began untying the ship's lines and pulling in the gangplank. They worked quickly and efficiently. “Cover
your ears, Grace,” Rathe urged, and she obeyed, just in time, as the ship's horn blared again. Then the boat began edging away from the dock. “We're going backward!” Grace cried.

“Only to get out into the river,” Rathe told her. “Right now we're under steam.”

The shore receded. The bow began to swing slowly around, until they were facing south, and then the paddle-wheeler began drifting leisurely downriver. The breeze at once became cooler, and Grace lifted her face to it, smiling. “How glorious,” she murmured.

Rathe could not take his eyes off of her upturned face.

Her hands were on the wood railing. She stood lost in the wonderful moment, until she realized one of his hands had covered hers. That brought her back to reality, and she pulled her hands away, clasping them together in front of her. She stole a glance at him. His regard was so warm it made her breath catch in her throat.

“Even in that bun,” he said softly, “your hair is magnificent in the sunlight. Red and gold, like living fire.”

The compliment was lovely and it pleased her almost as much as it unnerved her. “I didn't think to bring a hat.”

“I wish I could see it flowing loose and free,” he said.

He was so intense, she was held captive by his blue eyes. Then he broke the moment, taking her arm. “We had better get some food into you.”

“Yes,” Grace said quickly. “Yes, that's a good idea.”

The dining salon was on the uppermost deck. It was as fine as any elegant restaurant, the carpets thick and Turkish, the walls brocade, the hangings silk. Rathe requested a window table and pulled out her chair to seat her himself. Grace stared at him as he sat, never having received such considerate treatment in her life. This was like a dream; it was as if she were some debutante who had grown up in a mansion in New York. She touched the white, spotless linen tablecloth and wondered if the glassware were crystal and the flatware silver.

“I've taken the liberty of ordering us a bottle of champagne.”

Champagne. Grace had never had champagne before. She found herself unable to take her eyes off him.

“Do you like champagne?”

She felt her color rising. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” he said, looking amused. “Because I do, too.”

He reached out and covered her hand with his. Grace tensed, from deep within herself. She looked into his eyes and saw warmth again—not lust, but tender warmth. Confusion and a touch of panic roiled with other emotions too perplexing to identify.

“Grace?” Rathe interrupted her thoughts. He nodded toward the window. “Look.”

Grace gazed past Rathe and smiled. The sun was hanging low in the west and two boys on a raft were paddling their way down the Mississippi. They were no older than thirteen or fourteen, barefoot, shirtless and in dungarees, tanned nut-brown. Apparently they were on a fishing expedition, for their lines were floating behind them. As Grace watched, smiling, they sat idly chatting and laughing and eating something from a basket. Then one of them leapt to his feet shouting, and Grace realized that one of the lines had become taut with the weight of a fish. “Oh, they've caught something!”

“Indeed they have.”

She turned fully to watch. The boy was attempting to reel in his catch. He was straining from the effort, and his friend grabbed the pole to help. The boys became quite red. “Oh my,” Grace said. “They must have caught a whale!”

Rathe chuckled.

The boys reeled in a log, their disappointment obvious.

Grace turned back to Rathe, smiling. “Too bad. I so wanted to see them catch something. It looked like such fun.”

Rathe looked at her, then he grinned, his blue eyes twinkling.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You'll have to wait and see,” he said, his tone teasing.

The champagne was poured. Grace watched, looking at the pale gold liquid with its tiny bubbles, curiosity and excitement racing through her. Champagne, she thought, awed. Rathe raised his glass. Grace realized he was waiting for her to do the same. “To an extraordinary woman,” he said softly, his gaze holding hers. “To you, Grace. To you, to this day, and to the future.” He touched his glass to hers.

Grace's heart was beating hard. She tried reminding herself that he was an experienced roué, and that these sort of words would come naturally to him. Yet he sounded so sincere. She took a small sip of the champagne and found it light and pleasant.

“Does it meet with your approval?” he asked, hiding a grin.

“It's quite good.”

“This bottle is one of the finest in the world,” he told her. “And, I admit, it's my personal favorite.”

Grace tried another taste and found it more than quite good. She looked at Rathe and smiled.

“By the end of this day you will be a champagne aficionado,” he said, chuckling. “What are you in the mood for, Grace? How about fresh fish?”

“Yes, that sounds absolutely wonderful,” she said, sipping the champagne. Rathe was right, it was delicious. And very relaxing, too. She could feel her shoulders dropping, the tension slipping away, and it was divine. She looked up to find Rathe regarding her again, and she smiled at him. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he beamed. “What I wouldn't give for more of those smiles,” he murmured.

“Then you'll just have to take me on more boat rides,” she said.

He stared in mute surprise, then laughed. “Why, Miss O'Rourke! Are you flirting with me?”

Grace blushed, touching her hand to her lips. Had she just done that? She was saved from responding when something was placed in front of them—something suspicious-looking, jellylike and reddish-yellow. Seeing her expression, Rathe laughed. “It's caviar, Grace. A true gourmet treat.”

“Caviar?” She cleared her throat. “Fish eggs?”

“Don't think of it that way.” He placed a small amount on a cracker, Grace watching, fascinated. He held it out to her; Grace drew back. “For me?”

“You cannot possibly drink this champagne without trying caviar.” There was something in his eyes, something too intimate. Grace looked at the cracker, so close to her mouth—close enough that if she opened her lips he could slip it inside. She took it from him and nibbled cautiously. It was terrible. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, though, so she finished what he'd given her, then took a long sip of water.

“Well?”

“It's quite—er—interesting.”

“You have to acquire the taste.”

“Undoubtedly. Whyever would one want to acquire a taste for something so awful?”

Rathe laughed. “I have no idea. And I'll let you in on a little secret—I can't stand the stuff myself.”

Grace laughed. “Then why…”

“I wanted you to try it.” His gaze lingered, all lightness vanishing.

Grace's smile disappeared, too. She was ridiculously touched. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Their glances held.

“I have a confession to make,” Grace said later, over their excellent sautéed redfish.

“Ah, a confession. What could you possibly have to
confess?” He was teasing. “No, wait! Your desire for me?”

She laughed. “No, not my desire for you.”

“Ah, but you did say my desire for you. Dare I dream it exists?”

“Rathe! Do you want to hear my confession or not?”

“I am dying to hear it.”

She leaned forward. “I've never had champagne before.”

He laughed, taking her hands in his and holding them tightly. This time, Grace did not attempt to remove them. “I know,” he said softly.

She blushed slightly. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“You seem to know too much.”

“There are advantages to being with a worldly man.”

She couldn't look away, even though she knew she should. She could easily imagine the advantages—wonderful, exciting afternoons like this, afternoons that should be endless but unfortunately weren't. And she thought about the way he had kissed her earlier that day. His lips had been firm but gentle, and even now, remembering, something tightened and spiraled deep inside her.

“Grace,” he said, his tone no longer light but husky. “You're beautiful.”

She knew it wasn't true. It was on the tip of her tongue to protest. Instead, she said nothing, held enthralled by the magnetism of the man before her.

“More champagne?”

“No, thank you,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I'm feeling a little euphoric as it is.”

“Euphoric?” He chuckled. “I love the way you use words, Grace. I also like seeing you so relaxed.” His gaze slid casually over her.

It took her a moment to realize what he was referring to. Not just their easy conversation and camaraderie, but to the fact that she was sitting in a very improper manner—she was slouching! Had she been slouching all after
noon? She sat abruptly upright, shocked. She darted a glance around the room, but no one was paying them any mind. “Oh, dear!”

He took her shoulders in his hands and pushed her back against the chair. “Relax. Today is for you, Grace—solely for you. For your pleasure. No one here cares that your spine isn't straight. Doesn't it feel good?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted. “It does feel good. To be like this, with no cares. But Rathe, this isn't real. The life we left in Natchez is real.”

“Oh no, Gracie,” he said softly. “This is just as real, and just as important. Crusading is fine. But so are idle afternoons, and that's something you have to learn.”

She blinked at him, thought of arguing, then decided against it. Not only was she feeling too fine, but maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

He was studying the tablecloth, his face downturned, his long fingers stroking the linen. Grace looked at his thick, gold hair and had the insane urge to touch it. She stared at his hands, at his strong fingers, moving so lightly now, toying with a spoon. She knew the strength he harbored in those hands—and the gentleness. She found herself wishing he would cover her palm with his again.

“Grace,” Rathe said, raising his gaze to hers. The intensity of his tone commanded her full attention. “You do things to me.”

She stared, perplexed.

He leaned forward. “My life hasn't been the same, not for a moment, since I met you.”

Every fiber of her being tensed, and at the same time, her heart was beating with sudden joy.

“Do you realize that?” It was a demand. “Do you realize I finished my business in Natchez last week? Do you know why I've stayed?”

She was wide-eyed. “You can't mean…” She couldn't even say it. He was being the charmer again; nonetheless something inside her was full with yearning.

“Yes, I've stayed because of you.”

Her hand touched her heart.

“I can't sleep at night, my thoughts are so full of you.”

She managed to recover. “You can't sleep at night because of your various paramours.”

Despite himself, he grinned, then sobered and reached out, touching one thumb to her cheek. “There's been no one since I met you.”

Grace knew her disbelief was written all over her face.

“I mean it,” he said urgently. “I want you, Grace. I want to hold you and take care of you, day after day and night after night. I want to clothe you in the finest silks and satins and the most beautiful jewels. I want to provide for you, protect you. I want to take you with me, to New Orleans, to New York, to Paris.” He smiled. “I want to lose myself in loving you.”

Grace's heart was lifting uncontrollably against her breast. She could not believe that this gorgeous man was proposing to her. “You want to marry me?” she heard herself ask incredulously.