Violet Fire (17 page)

“Are you sure?”

“Not only have I seen my fair share of bruised, cracked, fractured, and broken ribs, I've had them,” he said emphatically, hoping to get a smile out of her.

She did smile.

He did, too. Then, pulling down the chemise, he spoke her name. “Gracie.” His tone was tight, full of vexation.

She just looked at him out of wide, pain-filled, violet eyes.

That stopped the lecture he so badly wanted to give her. He was close to her, his hand was still on her back, lost in her hair. She was pale but impossibly gorgeous. Her eyes held his. “Grace,” he whispered, about to tell her how she'd scared the life right out of him, about to beg her never to do anything so foolish again.

“Please,” she said. “Please make sure Allen's all right.”

He stood abruptly, eyes narrowed, mocking. “Of course.”

 

Allen wasn't all right.

Rathe delivered the news a little later. He'd brought him home just after leaving Grace, put him in bed, and summoned a doctor. He was now in a very serious condition, still unconscious. Grace trembled. “How bad is it?”

Rathe shifted uncomfortably. “He's had several blows to his head. Dr. Lang is worried he might not wake up.”

Grace started to cry. “He did it on purpose,” she choked. “Rawlins. Because Allen is teaching the Negroes.”

“You're right,” Rathe said softly. He sat next to her and pulled her into his arms. “If you believe in the Lord, Gracie, now is the time to pray.”

She clung to him, weeping. “It's all my fault.”

“It's not your fault.” He held her tenderly, so overwhelmed with the warmth of his feelings for this woman that for a moment he couldn't think. He brushed away her tears with a delicate touch.

“If we hadn't marched on the Black Heel, none of this would have happened.”

“It would have happened,” Rathe said grimly, finding himself holding her face, so small and delicate, in his two large hands. “If not now, then sooner or later.”

“I have to go to him,” she cried, pulling away from Rathe.

“You're not going anywhere, Grace. Not today.”

“I have to,” she cried with panic. “Please, Rathe, I have to go and see him.”

Jealousy rose again and he didn't like it. “There's nothing to be gained by your seeing him. He won't know you're there.”

“I don't care,” she told him stubbornly. “Please, Rathe, please.”

He melted. “Only if you let me help you.”

“All right,” she agreed, starting to slide her legs over the side of the bed. Rathe lifted her in his arms. Though his timing was completely inappropriate, he imagined carrying her to his bed, with her warm and wet and eager for him. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

Outside Allen's door, he paused. “Grace, he was beaten up badly. It's not too pleasant to look at. Are you sure you won't wait a few days?”

“I have to see him now,” she said. “I have to let him know I'm here.”

“He won't know,” Rathe tried again. “He's unconscious.”

“I don't care.”

Did she care for him that much? He opened the door. Harriet rose from where she was sitting beside Allen. “Rathe,” she said disapprovingly.

“She insisted,” Rathe said quietly. “I was afraid she'd hurt herself if I didn't help her.”

“Oh, dear God,” Grace cried.

Allen was unconscious, his face battered and swollen, his nose bandaged. The covers hid the rest of his body. Rathe gently deposited her by the bed. Grace reached instantly for his hand, ignoring her own pain in the face of the terrible aching of her heart. “Oh, Allen, it's me, Grace. Allen dear, I'm here, and you are going to get well!”

Rathe felt like an intruder. Grimly, he turned away.

 

Rathe sat up late into the night, staring into Harriet's unlit fireplace, bathed in utter darkness. He knew he would never have the heart to chastise Grace as she deserved.

In fact, he thought that he was probably more shaken by her close call than she was. He couldn't get over it. He would never forget the feeling of sheer horror as he watched her fall on her face in the midst of the brutally fighting men, watching Rawlins kiss her while he was prevented from reaching her by the violent throng. And later, when he'd seen her kicked, the terror he'd felt was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Right now Allen was lying unconscious in his bed, but it could have been Grace.

Dear God! How was he going to keep her out of harm's way? It was certainly a task he could dedicate his entire life to! And even then, the day he died he'd go to his grave worrying over her.

He shifted uneasily. Grace needed him, that had been abundantly clear from the moment he'd met her. He had no doubt that she would eventually become his mistress, for not only did he know the power of his own charm, but more importantly, Grace liked him no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, no matter how hard she fought against falling under his spell. But how could he protect her until then? Ah, Gracie, he thought, the sooner you stop fighting me the better it will be for the both of us!

Again, he shifted uneasily. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that he would be as good for Grace as she would be for him, he had to recognize that his pursuit of her was ruthless. He thought of his parents, and knew they would be appalled at his behavior—at his relentless preying upon a virgin spinster. He would, of course, tell them that he could not help himself. They would tell him that, if he wanted her so badly, he should marry her. Rathe almost laughed.

His smile died a sudden death, as he realized that, if he had a decent bone in his body, he
would
marry her.

I'm not ready for marriage, he told himself quickly. And it was true. And I don't love her. That, too, was true. Wasn't it?

Of course it was! Rathe knew he was the last person in the world who would fall in love with a politicking harridan. The woman he had always envisioned as his wife was like his mother—genteel, well-bred, elegant.

Damn! He wanted Grace, and she wanted him…

He passed a sleepless night. The next day took him to Melrose, his heart light with anticipation, where he found Geoffrey and spirited him away without Louisa's knowledge. Back at Harriet's, Rathe was delighted to surprise Grace with her visitor. And her obvious pleasure increased his. “Oh, Rathe, thank you! I was about to expire from sheer restlessness! How I've missed you,” she cried to the child.

He watched her hugging Geoffrey, a beautiful smile on her mouth, her eyes shining. “Don't I get one, too?” He asked, absurdly pleased.

“Are you eight years old?” she returned impishly.

“I guess not,” he said, with mock disappointment. “But can't we pretend?”

Her lips twitched. She laughed.

 

Her laughter followed him back to the waterfront. Finding the two sailors who had accosted Grace had become an obsession. As yet, he hadn't determined that they had indeed left town. He knew, in his gut, that Ford was lying. Ford had made no effort to apprehend the two men. Rathe didn't appreciate Grace trying to manipulate him, but he realized he could probably forgive her just about anything, and certainly this. The fact that she wanted him to stand up to Ford meant nothing, not when he was determined to avenge her honor, no matter who stood in his way.

It was late, and he was tired from lack of sleep. But he couldn't afford to lose any more time, because eventually
the sailors would leave town. And there
was
a principle involved here. It might not be the one Grace adhered to, but it was the one he would gladly fight for. He could not let those men get away with accosting Grace the way they had.

It was a shame the colored vendor had been accosted, too. But nothing he or anyone did was going to stop men like that from treating the Negroes as they saw fit.

Her words echoed, haunting him. “By not trying to stop them, and Ford, and the discrimination, by doing nothing—you support them!”

“Ah, shit,” he said aloud. “Gracie, what are you doing to me?” It was then that he saw one of the sailors.

With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he exploded into a run, after the man who had just turned the corner. He was ten steps away when the sailor, alerted by the sound of footsteps, glanced over his shoulder and saw him coming. He took off. Rathe dug his legs into the ground, running as hard as he could, the muscles of his thighs straining, his face a mask of determination. He was only a step away. The sailor suddenly whirled, a knife in hand, and lunged forward.

Rathe was coming dead-on, like a locomotive, but his reflexes were finely honed. He shifted his weight and the knife only grazed his side. With one arm and all the force of his momentum behind his body, he drove the sailor to the ground.

In seconds Rathe had disarmed the man and had him in a headlock. “Don't move.”

“What do you want? Sweet Mary, what did I do?”

Rathe laughed, the sound both chilling and exultant. He got to his feet slowly, transferring his grip, keeping one of the man's arms twisted high behind his back. In this manner he led him to Ford's office.

The door was ajar; Rathe kicked it open. “Look what the tide brought in,” he mocked.

Ford rose, glaring. “Just what in hell do you think you're doing, Bragg?”

Rathe smiled. “When I saw this fugitive, Ford, I just knew how glad it would make you to throw him behind bars. I couldn't resist helping you out. Let's just say I've appointed myself deputy.”

“The hell you say,” Ford shot back. “I got a deputy an' you damn well know it.”

“Imagine the headlines: Sheriff Ford begins campaign to clean up the waterfront. I imagine the good ladies of Natchez would sure be moved to hear that! Bet they'd tell their husbands to vote for you this fall.”

“Their husbands already vote for me,” Ford sneered.

Rathe raised a brow. “Then imagine these headlines: Schoolmarm accosted; sheriff lets assailants go free.”

“Just what the hell are you trying to do?”

“I want him thrown in that cell, and I want him standing before the county judge when he comes riding into town next week.”

“You're asking for trouble, boy.”

“No,” Rathe corrected calmly. “
You're
asking for trouble. Look at it this way. You can either get some good publicity, or some bad. But if I were you I'd keep in mind that it's an election year.”

A few days later Grace went to the mayor's office and requested an appointment. She introduced herself as a friend of Allen's from New York. Natchez being a small town, Mayor Sheinreich had immediately guessed she had been the governess at Melrose who, town gossip held, had been dismissed by Louisa Barclay in a fit of jealousy over Rathe Bragg.

“I would very much like to substitute for Allen Kennedy while he is recovering.”

Mayor Sheinreich was surprised, then, to Grace's relief, utterly pleased. “This is wonderful! I was despairing at the thought of finding a temporary replacement. You do know, dear, that there is some, uh, resistance to our new public school system?”

“I'm aware of it,” Grace said. “But apparently you support it?”

“I'm Republican,” Sheinreich said proudly, then paused. “I assume you've discussed this with Mr. Kennedy, and that he agrees?”

“Why…yes.” She'd had to talk the recuperating Allen into it, but he'd finally said yes.

And so she had a job, or at least, a temporary one. The pay was atrocious, three dollars and fifty cents a week. She would, of course, have to supplement her income, and immediately, before the hospital began harassing her about her mother's bills. As always, thinking about her mother filled her with sadness and dread.

That night Grace was too excited about the upcoming day to eat. She toyed with the roast chicken on her plate, her mind on tomorrow's agenda. Charles Long, another boarder, who walked with a limp due to the War, asked her, “Are you looking forward to tomorrow, Grace?”

As Grace looked up, smiling and eager to share her feelings, she was aware of Rathe, in his usual seat across from her. He had paused from eating to stare. “Absolutely thrilled, Charles.”

Rathe said, slowly, “You found employment?”

“Why, yes, I have,” she returned, feeling worry burgeoning now. She cast her eyes down nervously, unable to hold his gaze, certain of his disapproval should he find out exactly what her new position was.

“You'll have to tell us, dear,” Harriet said, “all about your first day. Allen will be so pleased. I know it's a relief to him, what you're doing.”

Rathe put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, scorching her with his gaze.

“Yes, of course,” Grace said, very apprehensive now. She was desperate to change the topic. Was she crazy to think she could hide her employment from him? Besides, what did she care if he disapproved? “Harriet,” she said quickly, “this chicken is delicious. Could you give me the recipe?”

“Certainly.”

“What,” Rathe drawled, “exactly are you doing?”

She paled, then reached for her coffee. “I've taken Allen's place at the public school for a while,” she said.

For a moment he didn't move, and Grace thought she was wrong—he didn't care, and that, perversely, dismayed her.

Then he stood. “Excuse me,” he said to the room in general. Before she knew it, he had come around the table and was pulling her chair back, with her in it. She protested. “I believe we have something to discuss,” he drawled, and because she knew him well now, because his
words were so thick and slurred, like Southern honey, she knew he was very, very angry.

“Rathe…”

He hauled her to her feet and jerked her with him into the hall and out the back door. Outside, she twisted free, furious. “How—”

Rathe's look was murderous, cutting Grace off in mid-sentence. She took a nervous step backward.

“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded.

“This is not your affair.”

He started for her.

She backed away.

“You need looking after,” he said, stalking her.

“I can take care of myself.”

“The way you did on Saturday?”

“I…” She backed into the wall with a gasp.

His arms came up on either side of her, closing her in. At this proximity he was even more intimidating, for she could see that he was madder than she had thought. “You could have been seriously hurt on Saturday,” he said tensely. “Just like you could have been hurt that day on the waterfront.”

“But I wasn't.” She swallowed, her mouth terribly dry.

“Because I was there. Dammit, Gracie! The next time I may not be around to save your silken skin!”

“I can take care of myself,” she shouted back. “I've been doing it for years!”

“You have nine lives,” he snapped. “Ever since I've known you, you've just barely escaped seriously hurting yourself!”

“I cannot sit around and do nothing.”

“Dammit! Can't you at least keep to one program? Do you have to go sticking your nose into everything you possibly can?”

“Is there only one injustice in the world?” she flung back.

“You know what you need?”

“I'm afraid to ask!”

“You need a thrashing,” he said, his face inches from hers. “A real thrashing, the kind that will teach you some sense.”

“Let me go,” she ground out angrily, pushing against the steel wall of his chest. But he didn't budge.

“Then you need a protector,” he said more levelly. “Face it, Grace, you need
me
.”

“You are the most arrogant, conceited man I've ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“You are the most unreasonable, lunatic woman…” he growled, then leaned forward, pinning her with his body, finding her mouth with his.

Beneath his onslaught, Grace froze. She tried to resist, she truly did. But it was hopeless. Her mouth softened, parting gently, and her body began a slow melting. She raised her hands and hesitantly put them on his shoulders. A deep, guttural cry of triumph escaped Rathe.

He didn't move his hands from the wall on either side of her neck, keeping her imprisoned with his big body. He pulled at her lush lower lip with his teeth, then licked the seam of her lips insistently. “Open for me, Grace,” he breathed.

She opened. His tongue thrust in, hot, hard, urgent. His hips, at the same time, moved sensually against her, and he began rubbing his long, thickened arousal back and forth. Grace groaned, flinging her head back, leaving Rathe free to shower her throat with kisses, to seek the recess of one delicate ear. When his tongue began to trace its spiraling contours, Grace shuddered helplessly. In response, he rubbed himself more urgently against her, telling her what he wanted, and that he wanted it now.

“Damn,” he cried, burying his face in her neck.

Grace could feel his entire body pulsating against hers. She didn't want him to stop. Not now. Not ever.

He separated his body from hers, but he took her firmly by the shoulders. “We have to go back inside.”

She could not believe herself. She was disappointed, she wanted to fling herself back in his arms.

“Grace,” he said, taking a breath. “You're getting in over your head. I don't want you teaching.”

Her heart was still beating furiously. “Maybe,” she said, wetting her dry lips, “maybe if this town had some decent law and order a person could teach freely and in peace. And besides, you have no right to tell me what to do—you of all people. You're the reason I was unemployed!”

Rathe raised his gaze to the heavens and swore. “Damn,” he said softly. “You have more tenacity than anyone, man or woman, that I've ever met.”

“It's the truth.”

He stared at her. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you want the truth?”

She bit her lip.

“The truth is you and me, sweetheart.”

“I don't have to listen to this!”

He barreled on. “The truth is what I do to you—what you do to me. The truth is we belong together, and you know it.”

 

The truth.

It was not the truth!

They did not belong together. It didn't matter that he was handsome. What mattered was who and what he was. He was a callous philanderer, selfish and self-absorbed. He was not the man for her, not the kind of man she should even look at. She didn't know why his kisses stirred her so, but hoped it was because of her lack and his wealth of experience.

There was no doubt about becoming his mistress! She'd never do it. He would have to be the last man on earth, and she the last woman! However, if he continued to be so persistent, she was going to have some problems. How could she keep Rathe at arm's length, and at the same time coax him into helping clean up this town?

Grace, you're playing with fire, a little voice said.

But what other options do I have? she asked herself miserably. She had a terrific headache.

After supper she adjourned to Allen's room with a book, intending to cheer him with a favorite story of theirs, and cheer herself as well. She was determined to forget, for the moment, Rathe Bragg, Sheriff Ford, all her worries.

Allen was thrilled to see her. He was still weak and sore, although he had sat up earlier that day. He turned his head to her, and smiled slightly, unable to do more because of his puffy lips. “Grace, hello.”

“Hello, Allen,” she said, sitting beside him and taking his hand. She clung to it. This man, who was good and just, loved her enough to want to marry her, understood her enough not to push her. Yet in his arms, she felt nothing at all. A terrible kind of despair rose up in her.

While
he, he
was the worst sort of philanderer, and
he
only wanted to make her his mistress—his toy, his plaything.
He
understood her not at all, and was pushing her remorselessly. And in his arms, she felt
everything
. Dear Lord, just one hot look was enough to make her pulse pound.

She began telling Allen about her day, too rapidly, rushing headlong in flight from her memory of Rathe. It took her a while to notice Allen's consternation, though at last, at the sight of his tensed countenance, she froze. “Allen? What is it? Are you in pain?”

“I don't want you teaching, Grace,” he cried. “I've changed my mind.” He tried to sit up. The movement made him gasp with pain, for two of his ribs were cracked.

“Please, Allen, you'll hurt yourself!”

Allen lay weakly back. “Grace, don't be a fool—worse, a martyr. You saw who did this. I don't want you involved. I was wrong to let you see Mayor Sheinreich…”

Grace felt tears rising, tears of frustration. She touched his cheek gently, and he turned his face fully into her cupped hand. “Allen,” she whispered, “you are so dear to me. I love you very much.”

“Oh, Grace.”

“Being as I didn't get through to her,” came a thick, rough drawl from the door, “maybe you can.”

Grace gasped, whirling. “What are you doing in here?”

Rathe was standing with his arms crossed against the doorjamb. He didn't look charitable. “I should ask you that very question. What, no chaperone? Shame on you, Miss O'Rourke.” His face was hard. “Tell her, Allen.”

“Promise me, Grace, promise me you'll tell Mayor Sheinreich you've changed your mind. Please, Grace.”

But Grace wasn't listening. “You!” she shrieked. “
You
tell
me
I need a chaperone when I'm with Allen?”

Both men looked at her.

“You dare to insinuate that Allen would be anything other than a gentleman—even as he's lying here hurt in bed?”

“Calm down, Gracie,” Rathe said.

“Calm down! After you have just accused me of needing a chaperone? After what you just did out on the back porch? You dare to chastise me?”

Rathe reddened.

“What's going on between you two?” Allen asked.

Neither Grace or Rathe heard. “I apologize,” Rathe said stiffly.

Grace had opened her mouth, about to keep on blasting him for his morals and his double standards. Now she swallowed air. “You what?”

“I apologize,” he repeated.

“You're apologizing to me?”

“How many times would you like me to say it?”

“Once is fine,” she murmured, dazed. Then she glared. “Wait a minute. Exactly what are you apologizing for?”

His gaze was level. “For chastising you.”

She wanted to scream.

“The one thing I am not,” Rathe said, “is a hypocrite. I will never apologize for what I've asked of you.”

“Are you implying that I am?”

“Implying? Why should I imply something when I can state it openly.”

“Me?”

“A hypocrite,” Rathe said, at the door, “according to my dictionary, says one thing and does another.” He gave her a look, then walked away.

“What is going on?” Allen said.

Grace flushed. Was she a hypocrite when it came to being in his arms?

“Grace? What's going on?”

Slowly, she turned to Allen. “That man is impossible.” She tried a smile. “Nothing. I was hoping he might take on Ford, but instead we seem to be constantly at each other's throats.”

“Rathe? What do you mean—take on Ford?”

“Someone has to stop him,” Grace said. “Rathe may not have any morals, but he's tough and he's not afraid of Ford. Most importantly, he can hold his own against him.”

“Grace, you can't go after Sheriff Ford! That is begging trouble! Is that why Rathe apprehended one of the men who accosted you?”

“What?”

“You never told me about that, Grace.” Allen turned an accusing look on her. “I had to hear the gossip.”

“It wasn't important. Rathe caught one of the sailors? What happened? When?”

“Yesterday. He's locked up, awaiting trial. The circuit judge will be in town next week. Grace, why didn't you tell me?”

Grace was stunned. “He's already made a difference, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.” She bit her lip, apprehension filling her as she imagined the confrontation that had probably occurred between Rathe and the sheriff. “As you can see,” she said slowly, “he is the perfect man to stand up against Sheriff Ford.”