Violet Fire (11 page)

Ford nodded, looking past Rathe at Grace's face, which was now flushed with outrage. “Miss O'Rourke, I beg your pardon. But the boys were just havin' a little fun, you get my meanin'?”

“I most certainly do,” Grace managed.

“Those boys attacked Grace,” Rathe said in a low tone. His gaze met Ford's. “And I want to know what you're going to do about it, Sheriff.”

“You threatenin' me, boy?”

“Now, would I do that?” Rathe mocked.

“Guess you wouldn't, not if you know what's good for you.” The two men stared at each other, locked in a tense stand-off.

Then Rathe smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “I'll be down later to make a statement—since I saw the entire incident.”

Ford's eyes glinted. “Before I make any arrests, I'll have to investigate.”

“You do that,” Rathe drawled. “You make sure you do that.” His mouth curved in another humorless smile; then he took her arm. “Let's get out of here, Grace.”

“Where are we going?”

Rathe had his hand firmly on her elbow as he guided her up the street. “Back to the boardinghouse to clean up, then I'm taking you to supper.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “Now listen! How you can even think of—”

He tugged on her until she'd started moving again. “I can, and I am.” He flashed her his best dimpled smile. “Aren't you hungry, Grace? Won't you let me buy you a nice hot meal? After all I did for you today?”

That stopped her again, abruptly. “What you did for me? From what I saw, you got some perverse kind of satisfaction in pounding those two men to a pulp!”

His face went very still. “You're determined, aren't you, to fight me every step of the way?”

“I'm not fighting you, Mr. Bragg, for it's certainly not a
sport
that interests
me
.”

“You little ingrate,” he growled, grabbing both her arms in a viselike hold.

Grace tested it once then went motionless.

“You interfered with that young Negro and almost got yourself raped in the process. If I hadn't come along, right now you'd be flat on your back with your skirt up to your neck—do you understand?”

She blanched. Then a red tide of fury swept her. “That is circumstantial speculation!”

“Circumstantial speculation?”

“Circumstantial speculation!” Her hands were on her hips, balled into fists. “What's wrong, Mr. Bragg? Do you need a dictionary?”

His mouth went tight.

“What about that poor woman, Rathe?
What about her?
”

“What?”

“The vendor,” she shouted. “There is an important issue here which you seem intent on ignoring.”

“The issue which you seem intent on ignoring is one of safety, common sense, and propriety!” Rathe shouted back. He realized he had raised his voice, but didn't care. “Good women don't go barreling around the waterfront!”

“Propriety!” she shrieked. “You dare tell me about propriety when you're the one who lost me my job, thanks to your shameless attentions?”

That silenced Rathe momentarily.

“The issue,” Grace cried, grabbing one of his hands to get his attention, “the issue is that colored woman being accosted on a public street by white men, Rathe, and no one giving a damn!”

“Damn.” Rathe winced.

Grace felt the stickiness of blood at that exact moment and dropped his hand like it was a hot iron. “Oh, dear! Your hand is bleeding.” Unconsciously, her own palm covered her racing heart.

“A bit,” he agreed. Then, darting a glance at her and seeing her frozen countenance, Rathe winced again, this time with a slight groan. He checked her reaction. He was rewarded with brisk concern.

“Here, let me look at that.”

“Ow,” he said, pulling his hand back.

“Oh, dear,” Grace said, feeling suddenly faint. His knuckles were raw and bloody. “We had better go to Harriet's and I'll clean up your hand. That dirt should come out immediately.”

Rathe knew when he had a good thing going, so he wisely kept his mouth shut and meekly followed her. This
course of action, however, did not stop Grace. Rather, it seemed to encourage her. “Rathe, something has to be done about that sheriff.”

He didn't answer, and she didn't seem to notice. “This situation is scandalous. Outrageous. Allen told me Ford is one of those night riders. How can a man like that be in a position of power, which is given him by the public in good faith and with the utmost trust that he will uphold the laws and our Constitution? This situation cannot continue. I wonder if a letter to the governor would help?”

“He was elected, Grace.”

“Elected! Well, he should be unelected! Or, at the very least, in the fall elections he should be ousted! Yes! That's a wonderful idea! We must encourage all the Negroes to vote against Ford this fall!”

Rathe looked at her. “Don't go getting involved in local politics, Grace,” he warned.

“Hmm,” she said, deep in thought. Then she focused on him as they walked along in silence for another minute. “You do realize, don't you, that the root of this problem is education? Values, Rathe, are instilled at an early age. The young white child must be educated to think for himself, to question what he is told and sees, not to blindly accept the injustices of the world. And as for the young Negro, well, there the answer is much more fundamental. He must learn to read and write. That is the key. I think it's a sin that Geoffrey doesn't attend the public school. There should be a law requiring all children, regardless of their age, sex, or race, to attend school until they have attained a certain level of proficiency. Here's Harriet's. Does your hand hurt very much?”

They had paused on the veranda. Rathe had not taken his eyes off her perfect profile through her entire discourse, while she had watched the street in front of them. Now she turned her gaze on him. “Well? What is it?”

“What makes you the way you are, Grace?” His words were low, soft.

She flushed. “What makes me the way I am? What kind of question is that?”

“It's a question that seems to make you very nervous,” he murmured. “And it's one I intend to find the answer to.”

He was right; it did make her nervous. She held open the door, but he insisted that she precede him in.

In the kitchen Harriet Gold took one look at Rathe's blood-spotted coat and shirt and cried out in concern, the supper she was preparing for her boarders forgotten. “Good heavens, Rathe, what happened?”

“Just a little scrap,” Rathe told her, laughing inwardly at the gross misrepresentation, watching Grace while she pumped water into a basin. She set it down on the table.

“Harriet, do you have some clean rags I can use?” she asked.

Harriet looked from Rathe to Grace, then smiled broadly. “Of course I do.” She returned from the pantry with some clean linen strips. “I'll be right back,” she said, and hurried out, purposefully leaving the two alone.

Rathe didn't pay attention. He was sitting at the table, both hands palm down in front of him, intently watching Grace as she bent over him dipping the linen in the water. She had a perfect, angelic profile. It was deceptive because it hid a sharp intellect and moral fervor. He decided he had never met such an extraordinary woman. He also decided that her bravery scared him.

“You know, Grace,” he said, “you never answered my question. What were you doing down at the waterfront? I know you couldn't possibly be such a Yankee greenhorn that you really thought to find work on Silver Street?”

“Well, no,” she said, flustered. “Actually, I was exploring.”

“Exploring!” That did it. Her bravery did scare him. Rathe knew she needed him desperately, in every way. When she was his mistress he would not just be her provider, but her protector. It was evident that she needed someone to keep her out of trouble.

Last night, when the idea had first come to him, he'd been elated, but that had rapidly given way to guilt and uncertainty. How would he ever get her to agree, and was it even fair to try to convince her? He had barely slept, his conscience warring with his baser needs. But today, there was no longer any doubt. She needed him more than he needed her. She needed him desperately to keep her out of danger.

Grace finally finished and looked up to find Rathe's intense gaze riveted upon her. She sensed the abrupt change in him and nervously straightened. “There, that's done.” She quickly began gathering up the stained rags.

Rathe leaned back in his chair, following her every movement. She had a helluva body, even in the ill-fitting gown. So long and slender. He imagined what her legs looked like, imagined them long and lily-white and wrapped around his own hard flanks while he was pumping into her. That fantasy produced an instant hardening. He decided that it was because he'd gone for the past few days without sex, a very rare feat for him since he'd discovered that wonderful activity at the age of thirteen. Then he remembered how Grace had accused him of being with a whore this morning, and his grin widened. He had stopped by only to collect some money that he had lent one of the girls. He said, casually, to her back, “Shall I meet you down here then, in twenty minutes?”

She turned slowly. “Meet me here?”

“To take you to supper. I want to take you to supper, Grace.”

Her every instinct told her that this was dangerous. She should wait until Allen arrived home, and have a quiet meal with him. She didn't want anything from this man. But then she met Rathe's eyes, his so very beautiful blue eyes, and felt that heated feeling uncurling deep within her. After all, she thought, she was decidedly impoverished. She hadn't eaten since this morning, and although Harriet's meals were very cheap, they still cut into her meager funds. Why not have a free meal? If she didn't
find a job, meals might soon become rather scarce. That was, of course, the only reason she would dine with him. “All right.”

Rathe grinned.

 

Twenty minutes was enough to give Grace serious doubts about her decision.

He was, she reminded herself, the antithesis of everything she believed in. To him, women were objects of pleasure. The fact that for Rathe Bragg, one woman wasn't enough only made it worse.

He was also a prejudiced Southerner. After all, he was from Texas. She clearly recalled the conversation between him and Sheriff Ford. He had been preoccupied with what had happened to her, a white woman, not what had happened to the Negro vendor. And while she had to be honest with herself and admit she was somewhat grateful he had been there, he had not handled the situation in a way she approved of. Violence was never the answer, though she was certainly not surprised that that had been his solution. And she was sure he had exaggerated the consequences of the assault—surely someone else would have stopped the sailors if he hadn't come by! Added to all the charges against him was the blatant fact that he was nothing more than a wastrel, a drifter, a gambler, a complete and unrepentant hedonist.

“Is something wrong, Gracie?” Rathe asked, as they walked down the path to the street.

She didn't meet his gaze. I need this meal, she reminded herself, when some inner, traitorous voice piped up:
He defended and protected you, Grace
.

“Grace?”

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly, flushing from the thrill she now felt; this man had been angry enough to come to blows to defend her virtue. Good God! How could she be thinking like this—she was an enlightened, modern woman! She could defend herself!

Not that time
, her inner voice snidely said.

“Grace?”

Then she looked at him, really looked, and noticed that he had changed from his breeches to a fine, dark suit with a silver brocade vest and tie. The faint hint of a pleasing musky cologne touched her nostrils. He had taken her arm. With the sun glinting in his thick, sun-streaked hair, he was not just urbane and elegant, but utterly virile and devastatingly handsome. She was suddenly miserably aware of her own drab appearance, and for the first time in her life wished she were wearing a nice silk gown. Then she stared at the carriage awaiting them.

She wasn't sure she had ever seen anything quite like it. A magnificent palomino tugged at the traces, shaking its head impatiently, its silver mane flowing past its shoulder. The carriage was varnished black, with brass trimmings, and gleamed brightly in the sunlight. The driver was liveried and holding open the door. Inside, it was all plush red leather. “Rathe, where on earth did you find something like this?”

He laughed, pleased. “Only the best for you, Gracie.” His gaze held hers, bold and direct. She had to blush and look away.

He handed her in. Grace knew it was ridiculous, but she felt like a queen. She ran a hand over the soft, sensuous leather as the carriage dipped beneath Rathe's weight. She shot a glance at him and saw he was watching, smiling slightly; she quickly clasped her hands in her lap and squared her shoulders. The driver shut the door, climbed up to his seat above them and the carriage rolled forward. “It's yours if you want it,” Rathe said.

“What?”

“It's yours if you want it.”

She stared, thoroughly shocked.

His gaze was warm. “It would be my pleasure to give you things, Grace.”

Her eyes widened. “What can you be thinking of?”

Ah, he thought, if only you knew.

He began pointing out the local landmarks, much to her
surprise. “That's Dunleith. It was first built in '43 by Jack Farrington, an Englishman. It was completely razed during the war. Farrington's sons have rebuilt it almost exactly as it was.”

“It's beautiful,” she said, craning her neck for a last glimpse of the massive brick, pillared home.

“That's Fairfax,” he said, pointing out another plantation home, this one white and weathered. “It's another rooming house. It's also run by a widow, Missus Bergen. She's not like Harriet, though.”

Grace looked at him inquiringly.

“She's old and a bit forgetful. I think she's almost ninety. Her servant, a freed Negro, is probably older. He's forgetful, too. But they're warm and wonderful people.”

“Then it doesn't matter if they're forgetful.”

He looked at her. “Not only do they forget to collect the rent, which no one, I daresay, minds, but from time to time they forget to feed their boarders.”

Grace bit back a smile, or tried to.

He grinned.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “What a hungry group they must be.”

His grin widened. “I made that up.”

She couldn't help it; she started to laugh.

She glanced out the window again, and this time gasped with delight, getting her first glimpse of a roundwheeler. It was white and red, with three decks, the paddlewheel huge. Her name was the
Mississippi Queen
. “Oh, she's beautiful! Where is she going?”