Violet Fire (14 page)

Blindly, she obeyed. His tongue touched hers. Grace shuddered. Her hands, clenched into fists against his chest, relaxed, unfurled. Her breasts tingled and hardened against
his chest. Rathe's grip tightened. His mouth moved softly, but it was deceiving, because his tongue thrust into her, again and again, picking up a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure flooding to her groin. Rathe slid his hands down to cup her buttocks.

She gasped at the feel of his large hands spread and clutching such an intimate part of her. His touch was like nothing she had ever dreamed possible—making her burn. She touched her tongue to his tentatively, shyly, and was shocked at his shuddering response, the tensing of his entire body, and the tightening of his hold on her. Her hands found the fabric of his shirt. Their tongues sparred, entwined. Rathe's hand slid up her hip, her waist, kneading with frantic urgency. Then higher, making no pretense, covering her breast. His hand paused. Grace was trembling, wanting him to keep touching her.

“What's this,” he said, his fingers edging underneath her garments to find the linen binding she wore.

Through the hot fog of their passion, Grace heard and was too embarrassed to even discuss something so intimate as her underwear. She touched his wrist to stop him from further exploration, but his hand closed over her breast anyway, squeezing gently.

Grace's head went back against the seat, her eyes closing, red-hot desire, agonizing pleasure, the only thing she was cognizant of. His thumbs traced little circles beneath her nipples, now tight and hurting, straining against the cotton of her clothes. She whimpered with need.

“Yes, darlin,” he whispered, and his thumbs touched the taut peaks gently.

Grace gasped.

He was suddenly, fluidly and dexterously, unbuttoning the many tiny shell buttons down the front of her bodice. Grace knew she had to protest. But when she opened her mouth, his was there, covering hers, his tongue entering her and flooding her with more wonderful, unbelievable hot sensations.

He parted her dress and pulled the binding down.
“God, Grace,” he said, exposing her full, voluptuous breasts with large, coral nipples. “Why do you hide yourself?” And he lowered his head, inhaling sharply. His tongue flicked out, teasing her. Grace gasped. And when he took a nipple in his mouth and began to suck, she cried out.

She felt his hand sliding over the soft curve of her belly, beneath her skirt, with just two thin layers of cotton between them. Lower, without pause, with devastating intent, his fingers touching intimately between her thighs, then lower, cupping the swollen, wet flesh there through her undergarments. His grip tightened.

Grace's head came up, her eyes flying wide open. His head was still bent over her bared breast; he was still suckling one nipple. His fingers had slid into the wet folds of her flesh, oblivious to the cotton in their way. Rubbing, insinuating. Grace's hands came up and she pressed against his shoulders frantically. Panic gave her strength. They had to stop!

Rathe's head came up, his hand stilled. His eyes were blue and bright and brilliant. “Grace,” he said thickly.

“Please stop,” she pleaded desperately, panting.

He was panting, too. For a moment he did not move, struggling, she could see, with himself, and then he withdrew his hand and pulled her bodice together. “I'll do it,” she cried, turning her back to him. She felt him moving away from her, to the seat on the other side of the carriage.

Her hands were shaking. She could not do up the tiny buttons. She tried again. She was breathless and feverish and panicked and terrified and ashamed and so utterly, unbearably confused! She choked in despair, a sobbing sound, when she realized she'd mismatched all the buttons. “Oh, damn!”

“Let me,” he said, his warm hands closing on her shoulders from behind. “Please let me help.”

Grace knew she was going to cry, and she fought it. His hands, both sensual and comforting, were going to
be her undoing. “It's all right, Grace,” he said. “Trust me.”

“I don't understand,” she managed, staring blindly at her lap.

His hold on her tightened. “You're a woman, Grace,” he said. “You may have run from it your entire life, but I'm a man, and I can't let you run from it any longer.”

 

That night she tossed restlessly, unable to sleep.

She was reliving every moment of the long day, from her fruitless search for employment, to Rathe's violent protection of her from the two sailors, to the riverboat ride and, finally, the shattering kiss in the coach. And it was on the last memory that her treacherous mind lingered.

His words echoed. “You're a woman, Grace…I'm a man…I can't let you run from it any longer…”

She turned abruptly onto her stomach. Of course she was a woman. And she hadn't been running from that fact, had she? Then why was she so uneasy, and so confused? And why did a part of her want to be back in his arms?

Never in her carefully constructed life had things felt so out of control.

She had to stop this nonsensical brooding over that man. Yes, that was certainly the solution. She very deliberately turned her thoughts to the problems facing Natchez, one of which was Sheriff Ford.

Allen had told her that Ford enforced the law with an iron fist. She was appalled but not surprised. After all, a man who led the night riders would certainly resort to intimidation and physical coercion. How could a man like that be stopped? She wondered just how many of the townspeople supported Ford, and how many didn't, but were afraid to speak out. Allen had suggested that there were local folks who were against the tactics and goals of the night riders. There must be a way of stirring those people up.

Grace rolled onto her side, her face on her arm. Both Allen and Rathe would have her turn away, deaf, dumb, and blind to the situation, but that was impossible. Something had to be done to stop Ford from perpetuating his reign of terror. The problem really was, she supposed, finding someone who could stand up to Ford. Someone who wasn't afraid of him. Someone who could, if need be, get down in the mud and give as good as he got.

Someone like Rathe Bragg.

She sat bolt upright. How ridiculous! He was a Southerner, even if he did meet all the other criteria. She was almost positive that he was a Democrat like most of his class, and the Democrats were responsible for the likes of Ford and the night riders. The political lines were very clearly drawn. The Republicans were carpetbaggers and Yankees and had legislated all the reforms and civil rights following the War, while the Democrats had fought them, desperately trying to hang on to the last remnants of the glorious old South. Damn! It was too bad he wasn't a Republican. Her heart started to pound.

People had minds. Minds could change. And somehow, instinctively, she knew she could be instrumental in getting him to change his.

Oh, Lord! Was she being terribly arrogant in thinking she could do that? Because if she could, he would be the perfect person to pit against Sheriff Ford!

“You could reform me,” he had said earlier, his tone husky and sensual.

Her cheeks flamed. He hadn't been serious. Not at all. Even though she wasn't an experienced woman, the sexual innuendo had been unmistakable.
That
was probably the only thing he was serious about!

Still, hadn't she dedicated her life to the enlightenment of others? If she could ignore, just for the moment, the fact that that handsome rake wanted her, if she could look at him as she would anyone else, she wouldn't hes
itate to try and make him understand some fundamental truths.

But he was handsome and he was a terrible rogue and he had asked her to be his mistress. Might that not make him more amenable to her suggestions? And what could it hurt to try? Her heart pounding, Grace hugged her knees to her chest.

She was going to try and reform Rathe Bragg!

“Harriet, what do you know about Rathe Bragg?” Grace asked as casually as possible. It was the next morning. For some reason, all of her senses were as finely tuned as a quivering bowstring. Today she was going to begin her task of taming the lion!

Harriet, who had been refilling Grace's coffee cup as they sat in the kitchen, paused. Her eyes twinkled. “Well, what would you like to know?”

Grace blushed. “It's not what you're thinking.” Then, growing redder: “Has he come down yet?”

Harriet chuckled. “Down and long since gone. Don't feel bad, Grace. You're not the first gal to have been snared by those dimples.”

“No, really, it's not what you're thinking.”

Harriet was eloquent. Grace found out that he had been raised on a west Texas ranch, that he came from a good family, and that he was a very successful businessman. “He's a good man, Grace, don't let his playful ways and his flirting fool you,” Harriet advised.

Grace coughed to cover her own pleasure at Harriet's good opinion of him. She would have never believed that he had a responsible bone in his body—but apparently he did. “Just how well do you know him?”

“I've known him, oh, twelve or thirteen years. Since the War.” Seeing Grace's mystification, she continued. “He rode with one of my boys in Walker's regiment.”

Grace stared. “Are you telling me that Rathe was in the War?”

“Of course he was.”

“But he must have been a young boy!”

“Ran away and followed his big brother when he was fifteen, that he did. Ask Rathe the story sometime. He doesn't like talking about it; none of them do, but I've heard him tell that episode more than once.”

Grace turned away, confused. On the one hand she was dismayed that he had actually fought for the South and its institutions, for that would make her task even more difficult. At the same time, there was something so endearing about a young boy following his older brother off to war. “Harriet,” Grace asked. “Would you mind very much if I hang a seamstress's sign under your post?”

“You going to take in some sewing?”

“I didn't have very much luck yesterday looking for employment.”

“I don't mind your putting out a sign, but honey, I don't think you'll take in enough work to pay your rent, much less send something home for your Mama.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Grace said grimly.

 

At dinner she met with the ladies at Sarah's to organize their first temperance march, which they scheduled for Saturday afternoon—prime time for the saloons. Normally, this kind of planning and organizing would have absorbed Grace. Today, however, she was preoccupied, for that afternoon she intended to seek out Rathe and begin the task of both reforming him and setting him against Sheriff Ford. For that very reason, she took the long route from Sarah's house, so she could pass the Sheriff's office on Main Street.

She finally found Rathe at the Silver Lady Hotel. It graced the top of the cliffs above Silver Street, looking down over the sluggish waters of the Mississippi. She'd heard Harriet say that he kept a room there. This made no sense, until she found herself standing in the open door
way peering in. The beautifully appointed room, rich with brocade and silk furnishings and a four-poster bed, Aubusson rugs, and velvet drapes, also contained a massive rosewood desk. The desk was covered with papers, mail, files, and folders. Obviously he had made this suite his office.

He was leaning back in his chair, eyes momentarily wide with surprise, staring.

She began remembering intimate details from last night—his sensual touch, the erotic invasion of his tongue, his mouth on her breast. Now was not the time for reminiscing. She blushed, but did not have the will to break free of his bright gaze.

He was on his feet, smiling. The smile was intent, even predatory, and she knew he was also recalling their kiss. She wanted to turn and flee. Instead, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Couldn't stay away?” he teased.

She could hear the loud thumping of her heart, and wondered if he could, too. She found her voice. “I have some business to discuss with you.”

His face fell with an exaggerated look of little-boy disappointment. “You didn't miss me?” he asked, huskily.

“Rathe,” she said briskly, trying not to look at his mouth, at the finely chiseled lips, and remember how they had felt and tasted. “First of all, let me thank you for supper yesterday, and the boat ride.”

He approached, with a slow, deliberate stride. Grace forced herself not to step backward. “Thank me again,” he said, his gaze holding hers, piercing hers. His hands closed around her arms; he pulled her into the room and nudged the door closed with his foot.

Her hands came up to ward him off. But, for some reason, her fingers closed around his wrists, clinging. He was staring at her mouth and Grace found that all she could think about was kissing him. “We have to talk,” she gasped, her heart careening madly.

He smiled slightly, and released her. “I suppose talking is second best.”

She flushed.

“I was looking for you earlier,” he said. She watched him move away, pull a chair to the front of his desk and then gesture to it. Grace let him seat her. She expected him to take his own chair behind the desk. Instead, he lounged carelessly on the edge of the desktop, right in front of her. Once gain she noticed that his breeches were indecently tight, clinging to his strong legs, molding his sex. She quickly looked at the floor.

“You were looking for me?” she asked with her breath caught in her throat.

“Yes, I wanted to take you to dinner. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, at Sarah Bellsley's.”

“Oh. You're not here, by any chance,” he said hopefully, “to discuss my offer?”

It took her a moment to gather her wits. “Your offer? To become your mistress? Oh! No, absolutely not!”

“Grace, do you know that I always get what I want?”

She met his gaze. He was not bragging, but making a statement of truth, or at least one he believed to be true. That worried her. Or did it thrill her? “Not this time,” she said firmly.

His grin was lightning-quick. “Another challenge? Don't you ever learn?”

“That's not a challenge,” she said, with more calmness than she felt. “But a mere statement of fact.”

He laughed. He slipped to his feet. “Come on. We can discuss your business in a more leisurely manner.” He took her arm.

“Where are we going?” she asked, with some consternation and even more excitement, thinking about the hours they had shared yesterday.

“I have a surprise for you,” Rathe said cheerfully. “And if you don't like it I promise to bring you right back.”

She bit her lip and cast a glance at him as they went
downstairs. “What kind of surprise?” She almost felt like a child of six on Christmas Eve.

“If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise.” He tapped her sunburned nose. “Does it hurt? I see you're wearing a hat today.”

“It's a bit sore.”

“We'll get you some salve,” Rathe said, taking her hand.

They were walking down the street. “Rathe,” Grace whispered, glancing around. “We're in public!”

He smiled. “Aren't I allowed to court the lady of my choice?”

In that one, precise instant, her heart took up winged flight. And in the next moment, it fell tumbling back to her body with vast disappointment. He was playing games. He wasn't courting her. He wanted her to be his mistress; he had made that clear yesterday. She withdrew her hand. He regarded her quizzically.

They walked out of town in silence. “What's wrong, Gracie?” Rathe finally asked.

“Nothing.”

He took her down a quiet street lined with homes until the Mississippi River came into view. The street ended; Rathe took her hand. “Where are we going?”

He didn't answer, just flashed her a charming smile. He didn't release her hand, either, but this time Grace didn't protest. The path to the water's edge was rocky and rough. She was grateful for Rathe's help.

The Mississippi lapped the sandy bank. Grace's eyes widened with surprise, for pulled up on the shore was a log raft. Another glance found fishing poles and buckets and a basket and blanket. “What's all this?”

“You said it looked like fun.” He winked.

She placed her hand over her heart, which was jumping erratically. “Oh, it does, but Rathe—what can you be thinking of?”

“We're going fishing, of course.”

“I can't.”

He grinned. “Why not?”

“Why—it just isn't done.”

He snorted. “Come on, Gracie, sit down on that log and take off your shoes.”

She stared. “What?”

Rathe had already seated himself and was pulling off his high boots with obvious relish. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

She didn't move. This was unbelievable! She watched his naked feet and ankles appear. He yanked his breeches right up to his knees. She stared at his legs, at the hard, muscular curve of calf. She blinked.

“All right,” he said, proceeding to remove his jacket and tossing it carelessly on the ground. His vest followed. “Leave on your shoes. I don't mind.” He rolled his shirt-sleeves right up to his elbows and smiled brightly at her. “After you, my lady.”

She looked at the raft and the gentle river rolling past. Oh, it had looked like such fun! But…“Rathe, I just don't know.”

“I could always abduct you,” he teased.

“All right,” she decided instantly.

He placed all their equipment on the raft, spreading the blanket out on one end. He began pushing it into the water, the muscles of his shoulders and back standing out against his shirt as he forced it over the sand, even his buttocks tightening and straining, until it slid into the river. Grace turned her gaze away, belatedly realizing that she should have done so sooner. The raft floated in place, held by a line tied to a tree on the shore. Rathe waded out. “Okay,” he said, reaching for her.

It was too late when she cried out in protest; she was already high in his arms. “What are you doing?”

“You wouldn't take off your shoes,” he said, his mouth against her ear as he sloshed through the water to the raft.

She found herself clinging to him. “I didn't think…”

“Ummm,” he said, his lips brushing her temple. “I'm glad you didn't take off your shoes, Grace.”

Her hold on him tightened reflexively, her whole being alive with the feel and scent and sound of him. He placed her on the raft; she clutched him as it dipped and swayed.

“Better get on your knees,” he said.

She did, hanging on.

His grin was wide and his dimples deep. As he started back to the bank, panic assailed her. “Where are you going?”

“I've got to unmoor us,” he said. His breeches were soaking wet, and so was his shirt, clinging to his hard torso. Yet he seemed oblivious of the fact. Grace moved cautiously into a sitting position as he untied the raft and ran splashing back to her. Water sprayed her dress, and she smiled. He was pushing the raft out into the river, and as it caught the current, he hoisted himself on. The float dipped precariously, and for a moment Grace feared she would fall into the river. But then it righted itself and she relaxed. Rathe sat sprawled next to her, so close his bare foot touched her own ankle. Water glistened on his face. “Well? What do you think?”

She looked around, and smiled. They were drifting past houses and pastures and livestock. She raised her face to the sun and sniffed. The afternoon was gloriously fresh and fragrant. “What am I smelling?”

“Cows.”

She jabbed him with her elbow, for there was not even the faintest scent of manure, and he laughed.

“No, really. Tell me.”

“Honeysuckle. Have you ever tasted honeysuckle?”

“You can't eat honeysuckle!”

“No? You'll see.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

He taught her how to bait her hook. Although Grace did not enjoy doing it, she was determined not to be squeamish. Then he showed her how to cast. The sun was high and bright. Their lines drifted behind them. Rathe casually worked open the buttons of his shirt, and Grace immediately looked away, anywhere but at the expanse of broad,
powerful chest covered with dark hair he had partially revealed. He was leaning back on his elbows, practically lying down, completely at ease. She sat carefully upright with her knees together, supporting herself on her hands. It was very hot.

She looked at the tip of one black shoe peeping out from beneath her skirts. She wiggled it. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to go barefoot? She fingered the collar of her dress, tight and scratchy against her throat. She glanced at the sun. When she looked at Rathe, she saw he was watching her.

He flashed her a smile, sat up, and stuck one bare leg in the river. “Ummm,” he said, grinning. “Nice and cool.”

She bit her lip and looked away, but she could hear him splashing his foot in the water. Then a spray of waterdrops dashed the side of her face. Startled, she turned. More water hit her, and as it came, her indignation died. Oh, it was cool and wet and wonderful!

“Nice, isn't it,” Rathe said, smiling.

“Very.” She looked at his leg, which he was still dragging in the river. Abruptly he raised it, sending another plume of water at her. To her surprise, she heard herself laughing. Her dress was quite wet.

“Take off your shoes, Grace,” Rathe said.

She slid her eyes away from his. Should she? No one would know—no one, that is, except herself and Rathe Bragg. Oh, but it would be so much cooler!

“Well,” she said, glancing at him. “I think I will.”

He was still sprawled on his back with one foot in the water and he didn't say a word. Grace made sure not to look at him. She started unbuttoning her shoe. She began to feel highly self-conscious. She knew he was watching. When all the buttons were undone she hesitated. Then, abruptly turning her back to him, she pulled it off, and began working on the other. When that shoe had joined its mate on the raft, she found herself facing a dilema. She wanted to take off her stockings, but she just couldn't reach
under her skirts to her knees to ungarter them. Her heart was racing. Oh well. She stuck a stockinged toe in the water.