Violet Fire (7 page)

“Doesn't it hurt, holding them so stiff like you do all the time?”

Her shoulders went squarer. “You have no right to touch me. What are you even doing here? Why don't you leave? Or don't you have anything better to do with your time?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I don't have anything better to do—that is, there is nothing I would rather do than be here with you.”

“That is too bad,” she said stiffly, thinking, of course, that he didn't mean it. Words, they were just words.
But
what if he did mean it?
“Because the feeling is not mutual.”

“Now why is that? You being the fair-minded person you are, it doesn't seem right that you've judged me without knowing me.” His gaze was bright blue and teasing, even though his words were serious. “Haven't you ever heard of a fair trial?”

“I wasn't aware that this was a trial.”

“You could have fooled me,” he said, unsmiling now. “There was no evidence, yet the verdict is guilty.”

“Your conceit is astounding. Contrary to what you might think, I have not given you one thought.” She stared, feeling secretly appalled by the immensity of the falsehood.

He started to smile knowingly. “Not one?”

“Life is one big joke to you, isn't it?” she said gravely.

“And you take it too seriously,” Rathe said, reaching out a hand and touching one forefinger to her smooth, alabaster cheek. He'd known it. Like silk. Her skin was flawless.

Her mouth parted in shock.

His gaze was inexorably drawn to the full, open lips.

She stood frozen, unable to move.

Unable to resist, he bent forward.

For the briefest moment, his lips brushed hers with the delicate touch of a feather. Then he pulled back slightly, to stare into her wide, purple eyes framed by the ugly little glasses. He saw the slap coming but only turned his face slightly. The blow was surprisingly hard and it stung. He guessed he deserved it.

“How dare you!”

He didn't smile. “The question really is, how could I not?”

“You're worse than the others,” she gasped. “Much, much worse! The worst sort of rake, a perverted philistine who wants only one thing from women. We're all your toys, aren't we? And the world is just one big playroom to keep you amused, isn't it?”

He stared, riveted by her words and the vague memory of another time and another place. Perverted philistine…Rathe suddenly cupped her face.

“Stop it!” she cried furiously, trying to twist away.

“Be still.” He held her face in one large hand, studying it. He twisted his hips to avoid her sudden kick. “It was you!”

He released her and she backed away, panting and frightened. She had seen the light of recognition in his eyes.

“Grace—it was you! In New York! You're that crazy suffragette who shot up van Horne's home!”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Grace said tensely.

He threw back his head and roared. “It was you! Damn! I knew there was something familiar about you!”

He was laughing at her—again. “You bigoted pig,” she said furiously.

“Male tyrant?” he supplied helpfully, eyes twinkling, dimples deep.

“Yes! Pig, tyrant, philistine, you sicken me!”

He laughed again, then clasped her shoulders, ignoring her struggles. His hands were so very strong—so uncompromising. “Gracie, what in hell are you doing way down here?”

She stopped struggling, flushed with anger and other dangerous emotions. Her glasses were slipping down her nose, but she couldn't raise her hands to push them up. “That, sir, is none of your business!”

He grinned. “I guess not.” He released her, then suddenly swooped down on Geoff. “Hey, Geoff, what's wrong?”

Geoffrey was close to tears. “You done hurt Miz Grace.”

“Oh, no, never, Geoff, I'm a Southern gentleman and I'd never hurt a lady.” All his attention was on the little boy, and perversely, Grace was peeved.

“It's okay, Geoffrey,” Grace said, reaching out to
smooth his hair. “He wasn't hurting me. We were—having a disagreement.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” Rathe supplied. “Now, let's see those
C
's.”

Reassured, Geoff handed the slate to Rathe. “Perfect,” Rathe announced.

Geoff looked hopefully at Grace.

“Yes, they are perfect. Geoff,” Grace said, “I want you to practice these letters tonight in secret. Okay?”

“Yes'm.”

“Now, I have to get back, so why don't you run on ahead. You can keep the slate, but don't show it to anyone.”

After Geoffrey had gone, Grace turned a serious regard on Rathe, who was grinning. Before she could speak, he reached for her. “Can't wait for us to be alone?”

She dodged his eager hands.

“What are you going to do with—with the information you found out today?”

Rathe's expression grew bright with comprehension and his grin widened. “Ah. I don't know.”

“Please,” Grace managed, hating having to beg. “I need this job. She doesn't know—about New York.”

“I see.”

“No, I doubt that you do. I'm asking you nicely to stay out of this.”

Rathe's eyes sparkled. “What do I get in return for my silence?”

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“What do you think?” he said recklessly.

She was breathless, blushing.

He was breathless, throbbing. “The price of my silence is a kiss.”

She bit off a gasp of outrage. “You, sir, are impossible!” she cried, and turned away furiously.

“But irresistible,” he said softly, close behind her, too close.

“Not to me!”

“When do I get my kiss?”

“Certainly not now,” she said, moving away and facing him. “Not ever! You are despicable. If you were truly a gentleman you would keep your silence without a price.”

“Then you must be right. I'm a scoundrel, a rake, and a—what was it? A perverted philistine?”

He was making fun of her again. She lifted her chin. “I must get back.”

“When do I get my kiss?” he persisted.

Her bosom heaved. He had no scruples. She had no doubt he would reveal her secret if she denied him. It was a risk she could not take. “Tonight.”

The thought of seducing her had crossed his mind, once or twice. But it wouldn't be right, and he knew it, because he knew that if he seriously set out to seduce her, he would succeed. She would have no defense against his well-practiced, superior tactics. That knowledge definitely raised some guilt. If he were smart, he would ride out of Natchez now, this instant, instead of lurking by the barn waiting for their rendezvous. And their kiss.

Did she really think him such a cad that he'd tattle on her to Louisa Barclay? That upset him. Apparently, she really did think the worst of him—and she didn't even know him. He tried to remember someone in his past, especially a woman, who had not liked him. He couldn't think of a single one—up until now. Grace really didn't like him.

Well, one kiss did not make a seduction. And one kiss would not hurt either of them. And one kiss was certainly the least he deserved…

But would she show up? He waited impatiently. Somehow he figured she was scared enough about him keeping her secret, that she would. She had agreed to meet him behind the third barn at ten o'clock. He heard footsteps and turned.

Even if he hadn't been expecting her, he would have recognized her in the dim glow of the moonlight from the stiff, squared set of her shoulders. He smiled at the familiar sight. She stopped a few yards from him, and he could
just make out her expression—tensed and grim. He wondered what he would see in her eyes if it were lighter out. Anger? Apprehension? Excitement? His own body had begun a slow, delicious, steady throb. Damn. He wanted this woman. Of all women, he wanted her.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She didn't move.

He smiled, a flashing of white in the darkness. “Then I'll come to you,” he whispered. He moved forward slowly, four easy strides, until he was standing an inch away from her. She looked up.

Oh Gracie, he thought, if you relax you'll like it.

Oh dear Lord, she thought, I just cannot believe I'm doing this.

Her eyes were dark liquid pools, at once anxious and angry. They glittered. He wanted to see them glaze with desire—with desire for him. “Don't be mad at me,” he whispered. “It's your charms that are at fault.” His voice was a soft, heavy caress. “I can't seem to help myself.”

“My charms?” she said sarcastically. “Oh no, Mr. Bragg, I think it's your rutting proclivities that are entirely to blame.”

His eyes widened with shock.

Hers narrowed with triumph.

“Grace,” he managed, “you do have a way with words.”

“Is the truth too much to bear?” she asked, too sweetly.

“Why don't we test my rutting proclivities,” he said grimly.

She stepped back.

He stepped forward.

“I've changed my mind,” she gasped.

“Too late.” His hands closed over her shoulders.

“Then just get it over with,” she snapped. But a tremble swept over her.

He winced at her reaction and with his fingers spread, began kneading her muscles softly. “I know you're not cold,” he murmured, his blood thickening deliciously in
his groin. He heard her breathe and felt her body stiffen. “Relax,” he whispered. “This is supposed to be pleasurable.” His voice was very husky. “Give me a chance. Let me show you just how good this can be.”

“I detest you and what you stand for,” she said, choking on a sob.

Rathe froze at that particularly female sound of anguish. For some insane reason, he thought of Lucilla, the fifteen-year-old he had deflowered when he was a boy. Unlike Grace, she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Grace was trembling beneath his touch. Rathe suddenly hated himself and his lust. He removed his hands. “I guess I'm more of a gentleman than either of us thought. You have my silence,” he said with heavy disappointment.

He turned abruptly and left.

 

Allen arrived promptly at nine as they had arranged. He swung down from the buggy, beaming, dressed in his Sunday suit. “Grace! I've been looking forward to this all week!”

Grace hurried to him with a fond smile, genuinely glad to see him. Although her first week was shorter than normal because she had arrived on a Tuesday, she was already exhausted emotionally. The girls had begun to settle down and were improving both their literary skills and their manners, to her relief. But there was the constant strain of teaching Geoffrey on the sly and of worrying about that scoundrel, Rathe Bragg, knowing her past. He hadn't appeared again since the night he had almost kissed her, which suited her just fine. So it came as something of a surprise, when Allen drew back after pressing his lips to her cheek, to see
him
sitting on his stallion, staring with what distinctly looked like a frown. Their gazes met, and Grace was angry with herself for blushing as if she were guilty of some trespass.

She clearly remembered the promise in the tone of his voice when he had been about to kiss her—and the obvious disappointment when he had not. She herself had stood
frozen, watching him disappear with long, hard strides, unable to believe that he had changed his mind, that he had actually done the right thing. She had felt a wave of triumph, but it was mingled with regret. The salute he had sent her as he rode away was somehow both mocking and bitter.

“How are you, Allen?” she said, still clasping his hand, tearing her gaze from Rathe with difficulty.

“Just fine, Grace. I've been counting the days like a schoolboy.” He grinned.

Grace attempted a smile in return as he helped her into the buggy. Allen climbed in after her, spotting Rathe for the first time. “Hello, Rathe. A beautiful day, isn't it?”

Rathe's eyes had drifted from Grace, who looked fetching even with the silly spectacles, dressed in a green print gown, to Allen, puffed with pleasure, arranging a wicker basket and red checked tablecoth on the seat between them. He stared at the picnic basket a beat longer before managing a slight smile at Allen. “Allen, I didn't know you were acquainted with Melrose's new governess.” His drawl came out thicker than usual.

Allen beamed, taking one of Grace's hands in his. “Grace and I share a bit of history,” he explained cheerfully. “In fact,” he shot her a warm look, “one day I hope she'll do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

A heavy silence, filled with the scent of magnolias, the whisper of the dining-room fan, and the drone of bees, descended. Then Rathe smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “the best of luck to you both.”

“What's wrong?” Allen asked as they departed. Grace silently watched Rathe swing down from the stallion, clad in his indecently tight doeskin breeches. She hastily averted her gaze from the sight of his hard buttocks and thighs, flushing. She had never before thought men's breeches indecent.

“How do you know Rathe Bragg?” she asked carefully.

“Why, he's an old friend of the woman I board with,” Allen replied. “A family friend, I believe. I've chatted
with him a number of times. He's an interesting man—but no progressive thinker, as far as I can make out.” He shifted his eyes from the Melrose driveway toward Grace. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she responded too quickly. “Allen, I wish you hadn't said that—about marriage.”

He looked at her. “But it's how I feel; and I'm proud of it.”

“Your wanting to marry me should be private, just between the two of us.”

“I'm sorry, Grace.”

They traveled without mishap down a long, shady thoroughfare, the elaborate planters' homes giving way to more modest clapboard ones. Allen amused her with stories of his students and Grace found herself telling him about her own remarkable pupil, Geoffrey.

The church service seemed interminable. Grace fidgeted, eager for it to end so she could get to work and begin organizing the ladies. She hadn't mentioned her plans to Allen, but she was positive that she would have his support. As soon as the service was over she hurried outside and hovered by the exit.

“Grace, what are you up to?” Allen demanded.

She smiled at him. “I just want a chance to meet a few of the ladies.”

He looked at her. “You told me you were going to stay out of trouble.”

“Oh, Allen,” she cried. “I just can't sit back and do nothing!”

He sighed. He knew her so well.

A middle-aged couple emerged. They smiled at Grace, and she beamed back. The congregation filed out and began milling about the churchyard sociably. Neighbors chatted with those they hadn't seen all week. Grace waved at Martha Grimes, the woman she had met on the train, who was standing with another woman, undoubtedly her daughter. “Allen, mingle with the men,” she ordered, and he shook his head but went off to do her bidding. She
went over to three women chatting animatedly in the shade of a huge magnolia tree. “Hello.”

“Hello,” said a plump, matronly woman. “You're new in Natchez, aren't you? Are you the new governess at Melrose?”

“Yes, I am,” Grace said, “My name is Grace O'Rourke.” She held out her hand, then wanted to kick herself, but it was too late to withdraw it.

The women stared at her hand. Finally the plump woman took it. “So women shake hands up north? I'm Sarah Bellsley, and this is Mary Riordan and Suzanne Compton.”

Grace shook the other women's hands too. “I was wondering if we might have a women's meeting one night this week.”

“What kind of meeting?” Mary asked.

“A meeting to discuss some issues that are very important to today's modern woman,” Grace said, holding her breath.

“Oh, I think it's a wonderful idea,” Suzanne said. “And that way we could introduce Miss O'Rourke around.”

“Oh, I would so appreciate that,” Grace put in quickly. “And please, call me Grace. It's so very hard to move to a new place where—”

Sarah laughed and patted her arm. “I will organize a ladies' social for Wednesday evening, dear.”

“Oh, Sarah, thank you,” Grace cried, clasping her palm.

When Grace climbed into the buggy forty minutes later she was flushed with exhilaration. Allen picked up the reins. “All ends accomplished, Grace?”

She grinned at him. “So far, Allen, so far.”

 

Allen chose a beautiful spot for their picnic. The meadow was green and fragrant with honeysuckle. Tall, stately oaks provided shade, and oleanders crept along a fresh white fence in a riot of pink. Nearby, a spotted cow
chewed its cud and eyed them lazily. Grace leaned back on her elbows and laughed.

Allen grinned. “You're feeling mighty pleased with yourself, now aren't you, Grace O'Rourke?”

Laughter bubbled out of her. “You know me too well.”

He raised his glass of lemonade. “Natchez will never be the same.”

Grace lifted her glass. “Amen.”

They sipped in companionable silence.

Then Allen said, “You do realize the ladies here are more concerned with finding husbands for their daughters than attaining the vote.”

“I realize.”

“Natchez is especially conservative, Grace. I think it's because there's so much old money here. Even the War only put a dent in it. Why, there isn't even a temperance union here.”

“That's sinful,” Grace said. “Is Silver Street as bad as they say?”

Allen laughed. “Now how would you know about Silver Street?”

“I have ears,” Grace said.

“Yes, it is,” Allen said seriously. “And it's no place for you to explore.”

She smiled. “Plenty of saloons and gambling halls and dens of iniquity?”

“What's going on in that sharp mind of yours?”

“Maybe the ladies will find temperance easier to swallow than suffrage.”

Allen shook his head with a fond smile.

At the sound of riders coming down the road, they looked up curiously. Two big chestnuts and a bay came into view. Grace saw Allen stiffen. “What's wrong, Allen?”

The riders veered off the road, toward them.

Allen got to his feet.

“Allen? Do you know them?”

“They're a pack of Southern riffraff,” Allen said, low,
“even if they are the old planter class. Rawlins is one of their leaders. I want you to stay out of this, Grace.”

She was on her feet. “Allen, you're worrying me!”

“Hey, look at this,” drawled a blond man. Clad in breeches, a fine linen shirt, and gleaming boots, astride a magnificent thoroughbred, he was every inch a Southern aristocrat. He was flanked by his companions, who were equally well-turned out. “If it isn't the schoolteacher!”

“Hello, Rawlins,” Allen said levelly.

“What a surprise,” drawled Rawlins. “Hey, Johnny, Frankie, ain't this a surprise?”

“Hello, Johnson,” Allen said neutrally to the dark-haired man on Rawlins' left. “Frank.”

“Looks like he's courtin',” said Rawlins. “Another Yankee? Hey, Yank, you courtin'?”

Grace clenched her hands, frightened by the man's boisterous lack of courtesy. Allen gave her a warning look. “This is Miss O'Rourke, the new governess at Melrose.”

The men looked at her and nodded, Frank even removing his hat. Then the brief moment of politeness was gone. Rawlins spurred his chestnut forward, as if to ride Allen down. Allen didn't move, or even flinch, as the big horse knocked against him. Rawlins moved his gelding behind him. Frank moved his bay to the left, and Johnson came in on the right, encircling Allen with a ton of horseflesh.

“You remember our conversation last week, Allen?” Rawlins drawled.

“I believe so.”

“Really?” Rawlins was incredulous, and looked at the others. “You sure aren't acting like you remember.”

“Maybe we should remind him,” Frank suggested.

Rawlins laughed. “Let's remind him,” he said, and spurred the chestnut into Allen.

Allen stumbled into the bay. He stepped back to avoid getting hurt, right into Johnson's chestnut. The young men laughed, using their horses to push him this way and that, while Allen grew first white and then red, sweat streaking down his face.