Violet Fire (26 page)

Smiling, he took a red, red rose out of the dozen in his hand, and tossed it at her.

“Rathe!”

He tossed another, and another. One fell on her belly, one on her hand. She started to giggle. He started to laugh. He tossed the roses until they were strewn all around her on the big, white bed.

“You're impossible!”

“And you like it like that,” he said, sitting and kissing her lightly on the mouth.

She couldn't contain her smiles. They were like sunbeams and starbursts. “Open one,” Rathe urged.

“What have you done?”

She opened a box and found a beautiful turquoise shawl, shot with silver and gold threads. “Oh.” She lifted her eyes to his.

“Like it?”

“I love it.” She hugged him, hard and fast.

Rathe knew he was grinning like an idiot. “Open another.”

She did, and bit her lip to contain her pleasure. “How did you know I like chocolate?”

“Good guess,” he replied smoothly, not about to tell her he'd never met a woman who didn't.

“You've done too much,” she scolded.

“Open another.”

She reached for a box.

“Not that one, the other one.”

She looked at him, then smiled, and took the box he shoved toward her. She unwrapped it slowly, then pulled out a chiffon wrapper, lace-trimmed, the creamiest white. A wisp of nightgown followed. “Oh.”

“Do you like them?” Rathe asked hesitantly.

She did. She had to admit it, she did. The material was sheer, but so finely made, the stitches exquisite. They were garments fit for a princess, not her. “Only a queen should wear this,” she said, blinking back a sudden tear.

“You are a queen,” he said, taking her hand. “My queen.”

Their gazes locked.

If only he meant it, she thought.

Why won't she believe me? he wondered.

“There's one more.”

Grace smiled, unable to contain an expression of eagerness. “This is too much!”

“Nothing is too much for you.”

She looked at him sternly. “Words come a little too easily from those lips of yours, sir.”

He bit back a smile. He placed a hand on his heart. “I plead guilty, madame.”

She opened the box, and drew out the scantiest silk drawers she had ever seen. They were black. They would only reach the top of her thighs—if that. They had lace garters with red rosettes. With it came the shortest lace chemise Grace had ever seen. It was doubtful it would reach her waist. “Oh, how nice,” she said, holding up the chemise. “A handkerchief.”

Rathe started to laugh. He couldn't help it, and soon he was in tears. She was laughing, too. Extraordinary Grace! He had expected any reaction but this. He swept her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“You are so very bad,” Grace said into his neck.

“I'm holding out. I need you, Grace, to reform me.”

She touched his cheek.

He was sheepish. “Is it too much?”

“A bit.”

“Can't blame me for trying.”

“No, I can't blame you for trying.”

Rathe got up and began to gather the empty boxes and wrappers. Grace watched, unable to take her eyes off of him, filled up with the unbearable pleasure of love. I'm in love, she thought, holding her chest. Truly in love!

“So what have you been doing?” Rathe asked, placing everything in one neat pile for the maid. Grace was about to reply when he spotted her reticule on the floor. He picked it up; she froze. “What the hell's in here, anyway?” he asked. “This thing weighs a ton.”

“Rathe,” she said, to distract him. But it was too late. He turned to face her, staring, shock giving way to disbelief and then anger, holding up a gun. It dangled black and ugly from his hand. She had purchased it after the incident with Ford and Rawlins.

“What the hell is this?”

“It's a gun.”

“I know it's a gun,” he said grimly. “Grace, why is there a gun in your reticule?”

“Because—” She wet her lips. “Because I thought I might need it.”

He looked at her. There was a strange expression on his face—worry, agitation, dread. “Why do you need a gun?”

She didn't want to tell him about Ford and Rawlins. “It's just a precaution,” she assured him cheerfully. “Going back and forth to the school every day, alone—well, I thought I should have a means of protecting myself, just in case. From robbers. And men like that sailor.”

He stared.

She gave him a brave smile.

“You're teaching?” He couldn't believe it. He had forbidden it—even if, immediately afterward, they had become preoccupied with the issue of the five thousand dollars. He had forbidden it—and she had defied him. “You're teaching?”

“Yes.”

“I don't believe it!” His hand slammed down on the table, so hard that the top tilted.

“Rathe!”

“I thought I told you,” he shouted. “I don't want you teaching!”

She wished she were dressed so she could stand. Instead, she could only sit up straighter, holding the covers high. “Let's stay calm. You didn't tell me not to teach. And you can't—”

“I'm telling you now!” he roared.

She was on her feet, sheets or no. “How dare you! You can't tell me what to do!”

“You listen to me, Grace. I can and I will,” he cried furiously.

“I'm a teacher!” she shouted. “It's who I am, what I do!”

“You're my mistress.”

She inhaled. “You don't own me.”

His jaw clenched. Thankfully, he did not reply, for they both knew the truth—he did own her; he had bought her for the next year. Grace tugged the sheet around her body. “You don't own me,” she repeated stubbornly.

“You're not teaching,” he said. “It's too dangerous, and that's the end of that.”

“You're not being fair,” she said thickly, swallowing a lump of tears.

“I don't want you hurt, Grace,” he responded tightly.

“I won't be hurt. I'm a woman. They wouldn't harm me.”

“You are deluding yourself. And I'm not interested in any further arguments. This conversation is closed.” He turned and opened the wardrobe, reaching for his breeches.

“This conversation is
not
closed,” she yelled.

He ignored her, yanking on his pants.

“Do you think you can really stop me. Rathe?”

He jerked his belt together. “I've made arrangements to move your mother to the New York Frazier Hospital. It's the finest in the city, and I'm close friends with the director. She'll have special care.”

She understood instantly that he was changing the subject. Now he was being thoughtful, but she didn't care; it was too late. “I'll have her moved myself.”

“I've also arranged for a private nurse.”

“You gave me the five thousand dollars, remember?”

“I gave that money to you,” he said. “It's for you, Grace. I'll take care of your mother.”

Was he trying to buy her off? Why did he have to try and strong-arm her? Why did he have to be so damn stubborn? Her resolve reasserted itself. She could be just as stubborn as he was—especially when she was right, and he was wrong! Oh, she would keep on teaching, all right. She would just have to become a liar and a cheat to do so.

Rathe saw her fierce expression. “Grace,” he warned, “don't even think of whatever's put that stubborn look on your face. I will not back down on this.”

To his surprise, she smiled. “All right. I don't want to fight, anyway.”

“Neither do I,” he said harshly. He went abruptly to her and took her into his arms. She was stiff with anger. “Don't be mad at me, Grace. I'm only trying to do what's best for you.”

She looked at him and softened.

“You know that, don't you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, touching his cheek. “I do know that.”

He looked at her and knew there was no way he could let her teach.

She looked at him and knew there was no way he was going to stop her.

He just could not allow her to place herself in such danger. He loved her too much.

She just could not allow him to dominate her. There was too much at stake.

Rathe was in love. The next few days passed in an idyllic haze and the sun at the center of his universe was Grace. He had to restrain himself from buying her too many presents, from reaching for her too often, from tumbling her too frequently into their big four-poster bed. It was impossible. He loved to see her smile, to hear her laugh. Suddenly it was easy to make her happy. Grace was no longer fighting him. She had succumbed, and he knew it.

He still had the twelve-carat yellow diamond.

He was afraid to push his suit too fast and too hard. He was succeeding, wooing her into loving him. He could tell, not just because of her response in bed, but because of the way she smiled at him, and the look in her eye when he caught her unawares, watching him. Still, he would give her more time before he asked her to marry him again.

At first, in between their sweet morning lovemaking and their luxurious afternoon picnics, he was a touch suspicious. Grace had given in so easily. It just wasn't like her. But then he realized that, by now, he should know never to expect a specific reaction from her, that she would always be unpredictable.

If it weren't for her, he would have neglected his business affairs completely. He didn't want to leave her for a minute. But Grace was brisk and stern, insisting that he must devote a few hours each day to his vast concerns. “You don't want to be robbed blind, now do you?” she asked, hands on hips.

“No ma'am.” He grinned, and a pattern was set. Every day from about ten to two he took care of his correspondence and oversaw his business interests. Grace would browse through the town, always returning with a new purchase—fresh muffins, lace gloves, a cameo pin. Once she even brought him a gift—a beautiful man's ring of onyx and gold. Rathe had been speechless. Although he had received gifts from women before, this was different—this was from Grace. He was overwhelmed.

“Do you like it?” she asked shyly.

“It's beautiful.”

“I know I bought it with your money—”

He cut her off, sweeping her into his arms and hugging her fiercely. “The money I give you is yours. Thank you, Grace.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he was afraid to reveal his innermost feelings. Of course, they weren't all that well-hidden these days. He was wearing his heart on his sleeve.

He made a decision. He sent a wire to his folks, telling them that he and a lady friend would be arriving in three weeks, on the fifteenth. He smiled at the thought. Within ten days he would propose and Grace would accept, which meant that when he returned home, he would be bringing his bride. He had no intention of waiting until they got to his parents' ranch to wed. The instant Grace said yes, he was taking her to the nearest cleric and putting that ring on her finger.

He had settled into a poker game at the Black Heel after supper. Grace had shooed him out, telling him that she had to write some letters and she couldn't think straight with him around. He liked that. He wanted to be a distraction to her, always. Even when she was doing something else, he wanted to be there with her, on her mind…like she was always with him.

He wanted to go back to the hotel and make love to her. However, he had just started to win heavily, and he believed in fair play. Farris and the others wouldn't be very happy if he left right now. Also, he and Grace had made
love all afternoon in a glade by the pond. But if he kept on thinking about it, fair play or not, he was going to quit the game.

“Rathe, hey you! You in or out? You even here?” George waved a hand in front of his face.

Rathe cursed and threw down his hand. “Out. Sorry.”

“Why don't you go back to that little love nest and itch that scratch—or whatever it is.” He winked, and gave Rathe a lewd look.

“Hey, listen,” someone at the next table said in an urgent voice.

A silence fell as everyone, including Rathe, listened to the night. Only crickets, the whinny of a horse, and the roll of someone's carriage were discernible. To hell with it! He pushed back his chair, about to leave, when the drumming of approaching hoofbeats became clear, getting louder. A chill raced up his spine.

It was late and there could only be one possible explanation for such a group of riders.

George said, “Night riders.”

“Wonder who the poor bastard is they're after,” someone murmured.

Rathe was thinking the same thing, indignation and outrage boiling through his veins. Suddenly he realized that everyone in the saloon was looking at him. Another chill swept him—one of impending doom. He wasn't wearing his gun, but he did have his knife. He slowly rose to his feet. He thought,
Would Ford dare ride after me?

George was standing, too. “You better get going,” he urged.

Rathe gave him a wry smile. “I have no intention of running.”

George's eyes widened. “You fool! It isn't you that they're after! Rathe, how could you let her do it? Didn't you know it would come to this? Rawlins has been mouthing off for days about your little redhead.”

“What?”

“He's pissed she's still teachin' the darkies,” George
said. “He's pissed she didn't listen to the second warning. Real pissed.”

It took him a second. “
Teaching?
”

A look of sympathy crossed George's face. “You didn't know? She got a whole new class organized an' they meet every day from ten to two. Rathe, I got this feelin' after hearin' Rawlins today—”

Rathe cursed and was running out the door. He knew George was on his heels and was vaguely surprised. He wasn't one step out of the doorway when the riders came galloping by, a dozen or so big dark horses, freezing Rathe in his tracks. The instant they were past he was leaping onto his horse, urging it into a gallop, trying desperately to think of a shorter way to get back to the hotel. There was no shortcut. As he turned the corner at a gallop, he saw the mass of horseflesh come to a wheeling, stomping halt in front of the Silver Lady Hotel. Half of the riders dismounted, and as one, they ran inside.

 

Grace knew she had made a mistake.

She had been lying to Rathe and she felt awful. But he would not back down about her teaching. So she'd sneaked behind Rathe's back to continue meeting with the children. She wouldn't back down, either. She couldn't.

The issue was deeper than the right of the children to learn. Allen would be able to go back to teaching at least part-time in a few more weeks. Then what was to become of her? She would be nothing but a man's mistress.

Even if he proposed to her again, how could she accept? Love wasn't enough. He was trying to force her to bend to his will, and she wasn't even his wife. He didn't have any hold on her, especially not a legal hold, yet he was dictating a decision that affected her entire being. It would be a miracle for them to marry without an issue arising over which he would try and railroad her again. And he would do so, repeatedly, because they did not think the same way, and it didn't look like they ever would.

Such speculation was pointless. He wasn't going to pro
pose another time, and she should bless her lucky stars. Because there was a reckless part of her just dying to say yes!

Is this what love is? she wondered, her face buried in her pillow. Misery and heartache and a longing so intense it eats you up inside?

She loved him so much.

She felt trapped.

One day at a time, she told herself briskly. She had an agreement—she was to stay with him for a year. Because she couldn't handle this subterfuge, she would have to confess all. And take it from there. Grace was sure of only one thing. Her being forbidden to teach was not in the agreement. That had not been clear, and as far as she was concerned, if she had known, she would have never agreed to their liaison.

She had the awful feeling that sooner or later, Rathe would find out she'd disobeyed him, and that the truth was going to set off a chain of events culminating in her leaving him. Surprisingly, tears came, bitter, salty ones. The knowledge of what she had to do was devastating. Oh Rathe, she thought, come back and make love to me and wipe away all the hurt, even if only for a few moments. Hold me as if you love me. And I'll pretend…

She raised her head. The night had grown strangely still, when usually the rowdy sounds of the Silver Street saloons drifted up from beneath the cliffs, filling the air. And then she heard it—a rumbling sound like distant thunder. Could it be rain? She lifted up on one elbow. Impossible, there hadn't been a cloud in the sky all day.

Riders.

They were rapidly getting closer.

A terrible frisson of fear accompanied by comprehension raced down Grace's spine. They had to be night riders.

Her instincts were to curl up under the covers and shake. Instead, she threw her feet over the side of the bed and sat in outraged, frightened immobility, trying to think. Who
would be their next victim? It was almost impossible to believe that they could ride so boldly right down Cliff Street. What should she do?

If only Rathe were here!

The drumming of the horses' hooves was so loud that they had to be outside her window. She heard the snorting of horses, the clanging of bits, the creaking of leather. Stunned, Grace ran to the window, to see several mounted men holding six riderless horses right beneath her on the street.

As the thought came,
they're coming for someone here, in the hotel
, she heard the banging footsteps of men racing up the stairs and she shrank, stunned, against the window.

Her door flew open, kicked off of its hinges, and she stared at six men crowding the doorway, dimly outlined by a raised lantern.

“Bragg ain't here,” someone said with satisfaction.

Horrified, Grace numbly recognized the speaker as Sheriff Ford.

“I told you, he's in the saloon,” someone responded.

“Howdy, gal.” Ford grinned, showing yellowish teeth.

Grace couldn't move.

“I'll get her.” Rawlins shoved past, unsmiling.

With a frantic cry, Grace whirled and slammed the window, which was slightly open, all the way up. They were on the second floor. Below her was a slanting shingled roof, then nothing but the dusty street. She threw one white leg over the sill anyway, panicked, but Rawlins' arms closed around her, dragging her back, and she screamed.

He slapped her harshly across her face, silencing her. “Shut up, teacher.”

Grace barely had time to register the pain when he was hauling her across the floor by her waist, like a sack of potatoes. She began to twist and writhe, fighting with her legs, trying to break free.

“Little hellcat,” someone observed.

“Little nigger-lover,” Rawlins spat.

“I don't know,” a young voice said nervously, “a woman…”

“A fancy Yankee whore.” Ford chuckled, yanking her through the door. “Hey, you think you want to whore for us, teacher? Think you can a handle what I'm gonna give you?” He mauled at her breast.

Grace leaned over his arm and sank her teeth into his forearm as hard as she could.

He howled, pulled her fully upright and backhanded her so hard she saw stars, then blackness.

 

He made no sound.

Ahead of him, the horses thundered north of Natchez, through the woods.

Rathe ran silently and effortlessly. Violence seethed in his blood and in his brain. In his mind's eye he saw one thing, and one thing only—Grace in her nightgown being dragged out of the hotel and thrown over someone's horse. She had been inert, lifeless.

He was going to kill tonight.

His strides came long and easy, despite his boots, which were not meant for running. In his hand he held George's pistol. He ran with a stealth learned in a childhood spent outdoors under the Texas sun, taught by his half-breed father. Not a twig snapped. Not a leaf rustled. It was dark, but he didn't stumble. It had been ages since he had run like this, not since the War, and then he had been the hunted. Now he was the hunter.

He heard them stopping, heard the drift of voices, excited, angry, arguing. Perspiration covered his body, causing his breeches and shirt to cling wetly to his skin. He paused, crouching behind shrubbery. He looked into the clearing, and the sight made every muscle in his body go rigid; and for the first time he made a sound—a sharp, indrawn breath.

Grace was on the ground on her hands and knees, shaking her head groggily, her long hair spilling all around her. Ford reached down from horseback and in a lightning
movement ripped the nightgown from her. A stunned male silence fell, and then it was broken.

“Christ,” someone gasped, “look at those legs.”

“And those tits.”

Ford laughed, the sound carrying in the night. Rawlins leapt to the ground and hauled Grace to her feet, pulling her back against him, grinning, one hand crudely squeezing her breasts. He opened his mouth to say something. It never came out.

The knife landed in the back of his neck. He stiffened, eyes widening, and crumbled.

“Run, Grace,” Rathe shouted, standing and showing himself, and then he fired. The man standing closest to Grace fell before he could even react.

Grace was confused. She was slow to respond. She started to move moments too late. A barrage of gunfire was being returned, and Rathe was trying to meet it. He saw Ford leaping for her, spun to shoot him, taking his eyes off the fray. As he fired a bullet grazed his side, and he missed.

Ford dragged Grace aside, holding her in front of him, yelling for everyone to stop shooting. His men, crouched behind rocks and trees, obeyed. Rathe leaned against an oak, ignoring the warm trickle of blood at his side, watching Ford with Grace, wanting to kill again.

“I got your little lady, Bragg,” Ford shouted. “Put down that gun or I'm gonna put a hole in her nice white skin.”

Sweat trickled from his temple and into his left eye. The sight of Grace naked and vulnerable and being held by Ford threatened his control and his sanity.