Violet Fire (5 page)

“What do you think?” Robert Chatham asked.

“I think,” Rathe breathed, every nerve in his body tingling, his heart racing, “I think I am very, very excited.”

It was a perfectly beautiful Mississippi morning, still early enough to be cool, a few picture-perfect clouds floating overhead, birds singing high in the dogwoods around them. Rathe stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his tweed jacket, one breech-clad knee braced against the white paddock fence, his high boots gleaming. He looked the epitome of a Southern gentleman as he watched Chatham's colt run across the pasture, intent despite his nonchalant poise. He'd come to Natchez not only to see to a few of his local business interests, but to have a look at this yearling. Now he was glad he'd made the trip, especially if it meant the colt would soon be his.

Suddenly, though, Rathe realized that his desire to possess the magnificent animal was obvious, and a carefully neutral expression crossed his face. He tore his gaze away from the horse with difficulty. “I hear your cook makes excellent fritters,” he said, to divert the conversation and regain some degree of leverage for the bargaining that would come. He was not overly worried. He was used to success; it had followed him his entire life.

“She does,” Robert Chatham said. A perfect host, he gestured toward his white plantation house sitting on the hill behind them. “Shall we?”

An hour and a half later Rathe left Chatham's home, the
proud owner of the colt, and at a fair price. He was not surprised. One of his friends had once said, somewhat enviously, that he was not just a charming scoundrel, but a charmed one. Rathe had laughed at the time, but his friend was right.

He had been born on a west Texas ranch. His father, Derek Bragg, was a powerful man, a half-breed who had also been a captain in the Texas Rangers. He had never hidden the fact that he had fallen in love with his genteel English wife at first sight, a fact which much amused—but hardly surprised—his children. As they grew up, their parents' love for each other was more than evident: it was a tangible thing.

As the youngest, Rathe demanded attention, and naturally received it. He was the apple of his parents' eyes, and his older sister and brother adored him also. It seemed he could do no wrong, even though, if truth be told, he was constantly in trouble. He neglected his chores, running off with a friend to shoot rabbits, or setting off firecrackers in the attic. He liked to steal out at night to play posse, and once sneaked along on the trail drive, only to be discovered too late to be sent home. He tried to break a bronco mustang, played hooky from school, spied on a Comanche camp—as a test of courage—and in Galveston when he was ten, almost successfully stowed away on a cargo ship. He had wanted to see Africa.

He was uncontainable. His energy, curiosity, and intelligence were limitless. He drove his family to distraction. His father, who had rarely had to raise a hand to his other two children, walloped him frequently, if half-heartedly. “I pray and thank the Lord every day that you were born under a lucky star,” his mother once confessed, “otherwise, you certainly wouldn't be long for this world.”

As an adult he enjoyed the same luck he had as a child. He nearly always won at cards. His first investment, in an ironworks, with money won at poker, quadrupled itself. In his hands, several hundred dollars became a thousand,
a thousand dollars became ten thousand. Investing became a challenge to Rathe, a game that wasn't very different from poker—except that the stakes were much higher. The thrill came from the possibility of losing—and the staggering amounts that could be won. By the age of twenty four Rathe had made his first million.

With women, it was the same story; his successes were legendary there, too. He had discovered sex at the tender age of thirteen, and couldn't remember having been rejected by a woman ever since.

As he cantered his horse back to his hotel, he savored his most recent success in purchasing the colt. Now that it was his, however, he realized that his business was concluded and there was no real reason to remain in Natchez. The thought unsettled him somehow, and made him think about Grace. Suddenly he was imagining her with her hair down, her glasses off, naked. Her hair probably came to her waist. She was undoubtedly beautiful without those spectacles—he was too experienced not to be able to see past something so superficial. And as for her body, he had held her, and he knew she was tall and small-waisted and long-legged, and that she fit against him perfectly.

Of course, she was not his type of woman.

But he was undoubtedly attracted to her; a mere fantasy about her could arouse him. He knew it was ridiculous for him to be feeling lust for her. She was a spinster and a prude, somewhat shrewish, and on top of all that, a crazy, man-hating suffragette. She was also as cold as ice, certainly a virgin. Rathe always stayed away from virgins, just like he stayed away from proper ladies. Just like he knew he should stay away from her. He was leaving Natchez soon anyway, wasn't he?

The only time he had ever seduced a virgin was when he was thirteen. Lucilla had been the fifteen-year-old daughter of their closest neighbors. In the back of his mind, Rathe had known better, but he wasn't exactly thinking with his mind. They'd been together a dozen hot, sweet times before being discovered, and he had gotten
the thrashing of his life. His father had been furious. He had shouted at him, and Rathe would never forget his words: “What if it was your sister who had been taken by some young jackass?” The lesson had been very clear, and Rathe had avoided innocent, well-bred young ladies ever since.

Technically, Grace fit into that category. On the surface she might be cold and prim—but as a man, he knew instinctively that the ones who were the hardest to thaw flamed the brightest.

Next to Grace, the thought of Louisa Barclay somehow annoyed him. She'd been pursuing him ever since they first met several years ago at a Natchez ball, his willing mistress whenever he rolled into town. But now he felt as if he'd prefer Grace's haranguing to Louisa's manipulations any day. Perhaps he'd best avoid the widow Barclay in the future….

Still, at noon, instead of tossing his valise on the stage as he'd planned, Rathe found himself riding out to Melrose. Only this time, it wasn't the dark-haired lady of the house he planned to visit—it was her fiery-headed employee.

 

Grace decided to explore at dinnertime.

She left the girls eating, with a feeling of freedom and relief. For one thing, the morning had been difficult. Both girls seemed to go out of their way to circumvent her efforts to be a good teacher. And Louisa's curriculum drove her to despair, insulted her. To have the bulk of their studies devoted to medieval pursuits like embroidery infuriated Grace. She intended to broach the subject of a change with Louisa Barclay at the first suitable opportunity. The girls simply had to learn arithmetic, as well as stitchery!

She strolled beneath a pair of willows and tried not to think about her charges and the difficulties facing her. Although it was quite warm, it was a beautiful day, and Grace took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of magnolias. She was wearing a loose brown cotton dress with a hint of
embroidery at the cuffs and neck. The color was dark for this climate. She felt hot and damp. She removed her glasses to wipe a small amount of moisture form high on her cheeks. From somewhere to her right, a male voice said, “You should break those glasses in two.”

Grace jumped in surprise.

Rathe smiled his broad, dimpled grin from the back of a big, black stallion. “Good day, Gracie,” he drawled softly, his blue eyes caressing her face, sweeping quickly over her bodice, then lifting to lock with her gaze.

She felt herself flush and hated the reaction.

“What…” She slipped on the spectacles, frustrated. Her heart had already taken wings. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”

He laughed. “I didn't mean to frighten you.” His look was pointed.

Grace knew he was thinking about their conversation yesterday, and the question he had posed:
Are you afraid of me?
Of course she wasn't, but why was her heart beating so uncontrollably? “Let me reiterate,” she said. “You didn't—and don't—frighten me.”

Her back was stiff and straight, shoulders squared, lips pressed tightly together. “Good day.” She nodded shortly, turned her back, and walked away.

In seconds, the horse appeared alongside her, making her a bit nervous, for she was unused to animals. “That's good,” he murmured. His tone was very sensual, and before Grace could react, he was on the ground beside her. “That's very good,” he drawled softly, “because now we can start over.”

She was assailed by his masculine scent, mingling of leather, sweat, and horse. “There is nothing to start.”

“You don't think so?”

She shot a glance at him, and found that there was laughter in his eyes. That he might find her amusing angered her. “I know so.”

She stared straight ahead and ignored him. But it was impossible to ignore her own physical reactions to his
proximity—a tightening of her breasts, an uncomfortable, yet delicious tingling of her loins, a breathlessness. Nerves, she told herself.

“How has your first morning gone?”

“Just fine.”

“The girls give you any trouble?”

“Not really.”

His hip bumped hers. She shifted immediately away. “If they do,” he said, unaware of the touch of their bodies, or so it seemed, “you come to me. I'll straighten them out.”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Bragg,” he cut in quickly, “Rathe Bragg, at your service, Gracie.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Bragg, but no thank you. I've been a teacher for years, and I know exactly what I'm doing.”

He took her hand, stopping them. “I'm sure you do.”

His hand was warm, damp, hard, and very large. Aghast and angry at his nerve, she yanked her hand away. “How dare you! And stop calling me Gracie! It's Miss O'Rourke to you!”

“How dare I call you Gracie or take your hand?” He chuckled. “I dare both, easily.” He leaned toward her. Her hand was suddenly in his again. His breath, when he spoke, was soft and warm, his tone low and husky. “Your hand is so small and delicate, and soft—like silk.”

Grace stared, speechless.

He smiled slightly, raising her fingers to his lips.

At the touch of his damp, firm mouth on her flesh, she reacted. With a gasp she pulled her hand away, her eyes blazing. He lifted his head, and she found herself staring at his beautiful mouth, lips still slightly parted.

Her temper flared. “You are going to jeopardize my job! I don't think Mrs. Barclay would like you plying your charms on me! So please, ply them elsewhere!”

He stared, then threw back his head and laughed. “You have a bad temper, Gracie, but you know what? I like it,
I truly do! It definitely proves a point! Why do I rile you so when I'm only being friendly?” With superb grace he swung onto the stallion. “Is it just me that you so dislike,” he asked, “or is it all men?”

“I don't think you would care for the truth,” she flung over her shoulder, striding away.

“I can handle the truth, all right,” he said chuckling from behind her. Grace whirled to fire a retort, but he was faster. “But I wonder if you can.” He winked and cantered off.

Insufferable and conceited.

Impossible and arrogant.

Never had she met such a man.

 

That afternoon both girls yawned frequently, pretended not to listen, or actually didn't. Grace could tell that they were several years behind in their lessons. Margaret Anne, at six, had not the foggiest idea of the alphabet. Mary Louise spelled like a first grader, and her reading was equally atrocious. Of course, her handwriting was as dismal as her stitches.

Halfway through her task of writing the word
cage
twenty times, Mary Louise threw her pencil aside. “Pooh! I hate this! This is stupid! I don't need to spell, my husband will do all my writing for me!”

“I hate this, too,” Margaret Anne yelled, throwing her pencil aside. With Grace at her elbow, she had been learning the alphabet from A to G. Patiently Grace stood up.

“Miss Mary Louise. Will your husband pen your ball invitations?”

Mary Louise blinked.

“Will he pen invitations to a ladies' tea for you? Will he write your letters to your sister when she is married and lives in Memphis and you are married and living in New Orleans?”

“But Mama never writes,” Mary Louise blustered.

“Your mama does not strike me as the type to have teas,” Grace said recklessly. “Now, think on what I said.”

“I guess you're right,” Mary Louise replied, and picked up her quill. Margaret Anne followed suit.

“D is for?” Grace prompted, sitting back down next to her youngest charge.

“Dog!”

The triumphant voice came from the doorway, and all three looked up to see a grinning Geoffrey.

“Geoffrey, do you know your alphabet?” Grace asked.

He hung in the doorway. “No ma'am. Only what you been teachin' Miz Margaret Anne today.”

“Why, he's been spyin'!” Mary Louise cried.

“Come here, Geoffrey,” Grace said with a smile.

He came in, half eager and half bashful.

“Now Margaret Anne, let's start again. D is for?”

“D is for dog.” Margaret Anne bit her lip.

“And E?”

It was no use. Margaret Anne had not retained anything, and she shrugged dramatically.

By her side, Geoffrey was wriggling, barely able to restrain himself. Grace looked at him. “Geoffrey?”

“Egg!” he shouted. “F is for fun! G is for good! A is for apple! B is for…” he broke off. Then his face brightened. “Bad! C is for cat!”

“That is very good,” Grace said, stunned that he had remembered the letters, when she and Margaret Anne had only drilled through them a half a dozen times. “Start from the beginning,” she cried, excited. “Try again.”