Violet Fire (22 page)

 

Rathe paced the confines of his room at the Silver Lady Hotel. He knew Grace didn't deserve his concern, but he couldn't help it—he wanted to know where the hell she was.

He had been shocked by Harriet's response when he had casually asked her, just before supper, if she had seen Grace—not that he had anything to say to her, because he didn't. But he hadn't seen her since yesterday night at Max's, and he couldn't help wondering where she'd been all day—and if she'd changed her mind—not that he cared!

Harriet told him she had left her establishment.

“Left?” he echoed blankly. His first thought was a horrified one: She had left town, disappeared from his life!

Harriet was confused. “You haven't seen her? I thought you two were getting married.”

“What?”

“Rathe, honey, she had to leave. I run a respectable place. But seein' as how you asked her to marry you, I figured it would all work out for the best. She didn't go to you?”

Rathe managed to piece together what had happened. Grace had been asked to leave because of the night she had spent with him. She had also borrowed ten dollars from Allen. Ten dollars! Two of the ladies had seen her leaving with all her bags, heading for town. How far could she get on ten dollars? And just where the hell was she going?

He reminded himself that she had practically rejected his proposal outright. Still, he marched to the train station to see if she had taken the afternoon train east. She hadn't. Immensely relieved, he returned to his hotel and decided she could surely stay out of trouble for one night. She had obviously taken a new room somewhere. He'd find out about it tomorrow.

He was expecting room service. He had a brandy in one hand and was clad in a dark blue robe. When the knock
came, he opened the door. He had the vaguest image of the blur that was Grace. Before he could get a better look, she catapulted into his arms, where she clung, shaking like a leaf.

He held her, shocked. “Grace, what is it, what's wrong?” He was terrified, for he knew that only the most unimaginable of horrors could make her leap into his embrace like this.

She whimpered, pressing against him. “Oh, Lord, it was so awful, so awful…”

Firmly, he moved her back so he could look at her. Her face was stark white. Three long, bleeding scratches marred its perfection. There were twigs in her hair, brambles on her arms and bodice, mud on her skirts. “Jesus, what happened?”

She gripped his lapels, almost tearing the silk. Her hands shook. “Lions, Indians, and then there was this owl…” She started to cry.

He blinked, cupped her face. “Grace, were you attacked?”

“I think there was a wolf, but maybe it was a dog…”

“Were you attacked?”

“I was in the woods and I was running and I couldn't see. I thought I was running back to Natchez, but I ran for hours and hours! And I think there were snakes! I wound up in the swamps!” She began sobbing. “Something slithered over my shoulder!”

Rathe put his arm around her and led her to the bed. He sat and held her. “It's all right now,” he crooned. He stroked her hair, then began removing brambles between the caresses. “What were you doing in the woods at night, Grace?”

Her face was pressed into his chest. When she spoke, her mouth moved against his flesh, and he could feel her breath. “I was robbed, I lost Allen's money. I had nowhere to go. I found this little spot—it was so pretty in the daylight. But at night…”

He bit back a smile. He decided not to tell her that there
were no wolves or lions in this area, and that there hadn't been in years. His hand curved around the back of her scalp, holding her head close. “Everything's all right now, Grace. I wish you'd come to me first.”

She sniffled.

He couldn't resist, he brushed his lips over her temple. Slowly, she raised her red-rimmed eyes to his face. “You think I'm silly, don't you.”

With one forefinger, he touched her adorable nose. “No, I don't. The woods are a frightening place at night, especially if you're a city girl. But you're safe now, Grace.” His voice was a caress, a rich murmur. “Don't you know I would never let anything harm you?”

That made her sit up fully, putting distance between them. She studied him seriously, then removed some moisture remaining around her eyes away with her knuckles. Rathe wanted to bend over and flick the tear away with his tongue. Then touch it to her lips, part them, glide past. Instead, he sat unmoving, waiting.

She took a breath. “I've—I've been thinking…”

He didn't smile. “Yes?”

“About your offer.”

His heart began to hammer. His face remained carefully expressionless.

“I don't think marriage is a good idea…”

He stared. Disappointment overwhelmed him.

“But Rathe?” Her voice was small and too high. “I've changed my mind about the other—the other offer.”

He could not believe this.

“About being your mistress.” She coughed.

“About being my mistress,” he repeated foolishly.

“Yes.” She took a breath, then managed a smile. “If, that is, the offer still stands, I've…decided to accept.”

“I see.” He got to his feet, looked at her, then walked to the window. Should he ever expect the ordinary from Grace? And why in hell was he upset? He hadn't wanted
to marry her to begin with. Now he would have her—without paying the price of marriage. So why were his fists clenched and his temper roiling so dangerously? He turned back to her. She was watching him anxiously. “Of course the offer still stands.”

She sighed in relief.

“Just as a point of interest,” he said, “would you mind explaining one thing to me?”

“Of course.”

“Most women would have chosen marriage. Instead, you chose to be my mistress. I'm having a little trouble understanding your logic.”

She bit her lip.

“Grace?” There was warning in his tone.

She lifted her chin and gazed at him. “Marriage is a permanent union. The other is a temporary.”

“Ah, yes, how foolish of me.”

She clasped her hands and shifted uneasily.

“Perhaps I should make a few stipulations. I expect your services for the next year.”

She flushed. “For the next year?”

“At which point,” he continued, perversely satisfied to have been derogatory, “we will make a mutual decision as to whether to renew our liaison or not.”

“A year?”

“Certainly you can manage to bear my presence for one year? After all, it's not a lifetime.” His eyes flashed. He could feel himself losing control of his temper.

“A year. Well, yes, I guess so.”

“Thank you. You do understand, don't you, that I have exclusive rights.”

“Exclusive rights.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Ah, shit,” Rathe growled.

“I'm sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I guess I'm just tired. Do you think we could possibly wait until tomorrow to begin our—our liaison?”

“Tomorrow. Yes, that is definitely a good idea.” Rathe
knew he had to leave, now. He did not want to make her cry, yet he was furious and doing just that. With very stiff strides, he crossed the room and opened the door. He tried not to slam it closed behind him. He failed.

Rathe quietly entered his room at the Silver Lady Hotel. It was several hours later. He leaned heavily against the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then he pushed himself off with an effort.

He was drunk, quite thoroughly, and he knew it. He navigated around the furniture in the room with some difficulty, bumping into a chair, causing it to scrape against the floor. He froze, not wanting to wake Grace.

He found a lamp and lit it. He wanted to look at her, really look at her, feast his eyes on her. He stood over the bed, holding the lamp up, staring. She was so beautiful. His heart did a series of the strangest somersaults. Beautiful and extraordinary. He smiled at that thought. After Grace, an ordinary woman would bore him to death.

He was no longer mad. In fact, he had trouble remembering why he had been so angry. What did it matter that she hadn't wanted to marry him? Most men would consider themselves lucky. Right now, watching her as she slept, curled up on her side, her hair streaming over her shoulder, he was feeling very lucky too. Lucky and lustful.

He eyed her breasts, swelling out of her thin chemise. He methodically stripped off his clothes, barely taking his gaze off of her, until he was stark naked. He crawled into bed beside her, taking her into his arms from behind. She stirred.

This woman was his. It was an overwhelming thought.

He nuzzled her neck and hugged her hard against him. He ran his hand down her torso, to her waist, and over her hip. No woman had ever felt this good.

He thought about how frightened she had been after her escapade in the woods. She was sleeping so soundly she must be exhausted. And he had promised. His body was hard and demanding satisfaction, but he had promised. He nuzzled her jaw, whispering her name, not to awaken her, but saying it as an expression of deep, nameless emotion. Tomorrow was almost here, and tomorrow he would make her his.

 

Grace hugged her pillow, resisting the inexorable pull of morning.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

The voice was a rough drawl, sensual and familiar. Grace thought that she must be dreaming. Then, as the last stages of sleep fled, she remembered, and she blinked her eyes wide open. Last night, stricken with terror, she had run to Rathe and agreed to become his mistress.

He grinned at her. He was standing beside the bed, clad in a barely belted silk robe. Her gaze was level with his pelvis. Gasping, she darted it to a more respectable point, behind him and to his right.

A linen-clad table was laid out resplendently with crystal and china. A bouquet of violets the exact color of Grace's eyes adorned its center; a bucket of the finest French champagne cooled in a stand on the floor. Enticing aromas were emanating from a multitude of silver-lidded dishes. “I've ordered us breakfast,” Rathe said. “And I also ordered you a bath.”

Holding the covers tightly to her chin, she looked past him at the steaming tub. This was it. She was taking the final step. She was going to become a man's mistress, and not just any man's—Rathe's. She peeked up at him.

His gaze was warm. Before she could make a sound, he sat on the edge of the bed by her hip. His hand touched her face. “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

“Don't be nervous,” he said huskily. His thumb moved slowly over her cheekbone.

Grace couldn't look away. Her thoughts were a mass of confusion.
Yes, no, no, yes
. And his thumb, his big innocent thumb, it was making her heart race.

“Grace.” His voice was hoarse. Grace recognized why that was. Their gazes locked.

His palm was infinitely tender and sensual on her face. She wanted to look away from him, but she couldn't. With his free hand, he gently dislodged the sheet she was so desperately gripping and pulled it off of her body. Grace couldn't move.

He looked at her. His gaze, warm and intense, slid over her chest, down the length of her chemise and down her bare legs. His lips were parted. In the opening of his robe, she could see his chest rising and falling heavily.

His hand on her face moved down her neck, like a whisper-soft breeze, just barely there. Her skin flamed and tingled. An urgency began to manifest itself in her breasts and loins, throbbing and electric. His fingers played over her throat. Grace's eyes closed of their own accord, the lashes floating gently downward. Her chin elevated, her head arched back. His thumb slid across her jugular vein.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “So soft. Grace, I'm going to make this so good for you…”

She heard his words, but didn't open her eyes, partly out of cowardice and partly because the drift of his fingertips was so exquisite. His hand moved lower, touching her collarbone, gliding, gliding…It paused, fingers splayed, just above the soft swell of her breasts.

Grace gasped as he grazed the top of her breasts lightly, teasingly. She realized that she could hear him breathing. His fingers danced to the side of one breast, and then she felt his thumb, beneath her nipple, sweeping back and forth. The bud grew tight and hard, throbbing against the coarse cotton of her chemise.

“Grace,” he murmured.

She felt him grasp her straps, and she opened her eyes
abruptly. His gaze was on the delicate, lace-edged bands as he moved them off of her shoulders. He slowly pulled her chemise down over her breasts, his eyes following the trail of cotton and fixing on the white shimmering flesh he had bared. Reverently, he touched each breast, and then his hands closed around them. “Lush,” he whispered. “Grace, I've dreamed of this…of you…”

She moaned as he lifted her and lowered his head at the same time. His tongue darted out, flitting over one swollen nipple. Grace cried out, throwing her head back. With his tongue he began a slow, deliberate, erotic teasing, touching and tempting, flicking, again and again. Then he pulled her nipple into his mouth and began to suck.

Grace was lost. There was no more coherence. She was in the throes of pleasure, pure, exquisite pleasure. Her head moved back and forth. She clutched the corners of the pillow, wishing it were fistfuls of his hair. His suckling was hard and then soft. She heard a tortured whimpering sound—and then realized it had come from her own throat.

His hand was still drifting languorously down her body, memorizing the smallness of her waist, the fullness of her hip, the soft curve of her belly. He threaded his way through thick curls. Grace heard herself cry out. And then he was touching her damp, hot flesh, stroking down into glistening depths, rubbing gently back and forth. Her hold on the pillow tightened.

Rathe lifted his head, his mouth covering hers, his tongue urgently thrusting through the lips she parted readily, eagerly, for him. His fingers never stopped in their shattering quest. “Darling,” he gasped against her mouth, “you're so hot, so wet, so ready for me…” A finger entered her. Grace gasped. “So tight,” he groaned, probing now. “But you'll open for me, won't you Grace? For me, darling?”

Grace thrashed helplessly, forces within her building, carrying her relentlessly, urgently along. She felt his mouth leave her and she cried out in protest. His hands moved beneath her, closed over her buttocks, lifting her. She felt
his breath, warm and moist, and then he was nuzzling her swollen pink flesh. Grace's eyes flew open, her mind managing to form a protest, her lips refusing to voice it. His tongue touched deep, slick recesses, and then began to languidly lave over them.

The pillowcase tore beneath her hands. Her world tightened, tightened, tightened, and then exploded—a mad, mindless bursting of sensation. And when it subsided, she heard her fading cries of pleasure, still echoing.

He was there. Rathe covered her with his big body, holding her, his mouth seeking hers. “Grace, Grace,” he chanted desperately. She tasted herself on him and was stunned. She could feel his maleness between them, hot and slippery and huge, and was both afraid and excited. He reached down between them, positioning himself against her entrance. “Grace, don't be afraid,” he gasped. She felt her flesh stretching. “Darling, open for me. Let me in…”

She closed her eyes and tensed every muscle in her body.

He moved slowly, entering her, then paused. “Grace, darling, relax,” he whispered. His hands moved over her body, light, like a butterfly, raising the hairs and making her skin burn. “Yes, darling, that's it,” he murmured, pushing against her maidenhead. His fingers grazed her breast. He touched her nipple. She whimpered, and with his mouth, he caught the sound, his tongue taking hers. He entwined slowly, gracefully with her, and Grace relaxed, became fascinated, tentatively sparred with him. “Yes,” he said, and his teeth touched hers. “Open for me, darling.”

Grace opened her mouth, allowing him a full, leisurely entry. Languidly, he explored; languidly, she met him. And then his body shook and he moaned, a long, male sound of anguish.

“Grace, now, let me in now,” he ordered, and he plunged through her barrier.

Grace cried out in pain. They both froze. He was huge, and she could feel all of him, encased tightly in her sheath.
“God,” Rathe cried. “Oh, God, Grace.” He kissed her hungrily and began to move.

The feeling of being stretched taut eased. The fullness became pleasant. He began moving harder. “That's it,” he gasped. “Open, open wide, take all of me, all that you can…”

Her hands found his back, shyly lying flat on hard, steel muscles, throbbing with power beneath her. He was moving rhythmically now, determinedly, and Grace felt the pressure building again. Her fingers tightened on his skin. “Yes,” Rathe cried, surging deeply. Grace felt the out-of-control spinning begin again. She heard herself cry out gutturally. She was aware of him surging deeper and deeper, and then his arms tightened convulsively around her and he collapsed, moaning her name.

 

She could feel him watching her.

Eyes closed, Grace gripped the sheet she had rescued from around their feet and held it tightly to her neck. Then she blinked and turned her head slightly.

He was watching her, raised up on one elbow. Grace was expecting anything but the look in his eyes. It was warm, not lustful. It was warm and sparkling and tender.

A slow smile curved along his beautiful mouth, and Grace became fascinated. His lips had a sensual line that intrigued her. Studying them now, she remembered how they felt on hers—and on her body. He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Blushing?” he drawled. “What are you thinking about, Grace?” His tone was light, teasing.

His question brought forth a very graphic image of his sun-streaked head in a place it had no right being, and she felt her face burning.

He chuckled. “Cat got your tongue?”

She met his gaze. Hers wasn't exactly wary, more intensely curious. She did not know what to expect, now that her status had been established. And it was very hard
not to look at this beautiful man who had just made her feel depths of passion she had never dreamed existed.

He was grinning, showing off his deep dimples. “Come here,” he coaxed, the rasping quality of his tone reminding her of everything she had just experienced.

She looked at him. The sheet barely covered his hips. The muscles rippled beneath his dark, golden skin. Sleek he was, and powerful, the way she imagined a mountain lion. He patted the space between them.

Grace took a breath, and shifted slightly—about an inch.

He grabbed her and pulled her up against his warm, hard body. “Umm. This is much better, don't you agree?”

She looked at the hairs on his chest. She felt his hand on the back of her head, pressing her forward, until she let her cheek come down to rest on his shoulder. “Much, much better,” he said, stroking her nape.

It was better. This was…quite nice. Comfortable. Safe. Warm. His palm moved down her back along her spine. Exciting.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, caught between their bodies. She was careful to keep her feet and legs on her side of the bed. Suddenly the mattress shifted and rolled as he moved abruptly. And then he was sitting and she was on his lap.

She stared, almost but not quite stricken, into his eyes. One of his strong arms anchored her waist. He met her look calmly, then bent and nipped her ear.

She gasped. “What are you doing?”

He pulled back, smiling. “Wondered if you still had a tongue!” Then, with his, he probed into the shell of her ear, and bit it gently again.

Hot delight raced through her, while, at the same time, her hands braced against his chest. “Rathe! What are you doing?”

He chuckled. “Playin',” he drawled. “Remember, Gracie? I told you when we played you'd know it.”

She recalled their conversation, and now, understanding the meaning, went red in horror and—yes—pleasure. Then,
before she had quite absorbed that, he was on his feet—with her in his arms. “Rathe!”

He was carrying her across the room, the both of them stark naked in the light of day. “Put me down!” she demanded. Her heart was racing wildly. But its beat accelerated when he leaned over to nuzzle her breasts with his beard-roughened face. “Put me down,” she faltered, her nipples tightening dangerously.

“Bad timing, Gracie,” he said, as he carefully lowered her into the steaming bathwater.

She gasped. Before she had adjusted to this turn of events, she saw him lift a hard, muscular leg—and stick it inside with her. “What are you doing?!”

Half of the contents of the tub sloshed out as he settled himself opposite her. Grace blinked, for she had seen it, his maleness, stiff again—so big. She was thinking, We couldn't possibly, could we? Knowing it was wrong, not now, in the daytime, in the bath. Yet her body was feeling tight and hot and traitorously yearning for his touch.

He got to his knees and, gripping either side of the tub, leaned close, his mouth inches from hers. “I'm sorry,” he said, and he kissed her.

Shyly, she opened her mouth. She accepted the deep probing of his tongue, then began returning his attentions with growing boldness. He groaned and ended the kiss. “God, Grace, it's so hard. I need you again.”