Violet Fire (10 page)

Grace yanked away with abrupt, explosive anger. “How dare you patronize me, Allen.”

“Grace, I didn't—”

“I can take care of myself!”

“Grace, I didn't mean it that way!”

“You did! From you, of all men—I'd expect it from
someone like Rathe Bragg, but never from you!” Her voice broke.

“Oh, Grace, I didn't mean it the way it sounded,” Allen said, pulling her into his embrace. “I meant I love you. I'm here for you, always. I want you to be my wife. We can teach together. It would be perfect. Grace?”

She gazed at him, and Rathe felt so positive in assuming it was with adoration, that her next words shocked him. “Allen, you know I don't want to get married. Why should I? My life is just fine the way it is. Why should I become some man's chattel?”

“It wouldn't be that way with us, Grace,” Allen said tensely.

“Oh, Allen, please, not now.”

“I know you care for me.”

“I do. Very much.”

“I'd make the perfect husband, Grace. We share the same beliefs, the same morals, and best of all, a deep respect and friendship. Think about it. Really think about it.”

“All right,” Grace said.

Rathe stared at her, a disturbing sensation cramping his guts—an unfamiliar, shaky feeling. Grace was considering Allen's proposal. Apparently she had never really considered it before. And she cared for him. He had heard her say so himself.

She had paced away wringing her hands. Allen stared at the ground. Rathe remembered how she had flung herself into his arms last Sunday, how they had kissed so passionately, gazed at each other with such desire. The shaky feeling increased. Grace was going to marry Allen…unless something happened.

She turned to Allen. “I have just enough money to rent a room for a few days, and hope I can find work. I don't even have the means to go back to New York.”

“I don't want you to go,” Allen said. Rathe echoed his sentiments silently.

“Allen, I'm so worried about my mother. I need to
work. If I can't pay the hospital bills…tomorrow morning I will find work, even if it's scrubbing someone's floors.”

“Oh, Grace,” Allen said, “let me lend you some money.”

“You're very kind,” Grace whispered. “Maybe. But not right now, thank you.”

Rathe barely heard. An exciting thought occurred to him, penetrating his thick jealousy. She needed money. He had money. His heart beat wildly. He had the perfect solution. He would take care of her.

He would make her his mistress.

It was mid-afternoon, but Natchez-Under-the-Hill was just coming awake when Grace's hunt for a job finally brought her to the notorious district's outermost edge. At the end of Silver Street she hesitated, but not for long.

Curiosity, more than the prospect of a job, drove her forward now, for she never even entertained the thought that there might be suitable employment in a neighborhood that was nothing more than a den of decadence for the worst sort of lowlives. Contrary to what she had told Allen, she really had no intention of scrubbing floors, not if she could avoid it. The pay was far less than what she needed.

Unfortunately, she had not come across one open position of any kind all day long. Her first stop had been at the seamstress's, Mrs. Garrot, who she hoped might need help. However, Mrs. Garrot told her that there just weren't enough orders from the ladies of Natchez to warrant her taking on an assistant. “Business hasn't been the same since the War,” she sighed. “No one has the money to buy beautiful clothes, no one except for a very few of Natchez' planters and the carpetbaggers, of course. It's terrible.”

A pharmaceutical sales clerk repeated this theme, informing her that these were bad times. After that she had tried dozens of shops and stores in town, to no avail. She even inquired at the better hotels atop the cliffs, with the same results.

Grace stood now, watching a number of bleary-eyed sailors stumble through the twisting streets, a woman vendor trying to sell fresh biscuits, and a man smoking a cigar on the porch of a saloon, from which strains of raucous revelry already emanated. Three women lounged on a balcony clad in nothing but corsets and petticoats. Grace took a second glance at that last sight, staring with shock at such blatant marketing of their dubious wares. One of the faded, plump beauties caught her eye and waved. Grace blushed and looked away. Imagine appearing almost naked right out on a public street!

She whipped her head around and stared at the door of a house of ill-repute. Her heart climbed frantically into her mouth. Rathe Bragg closed the door casually behind him, glancing around. Grace had already turned away, her heart pounding. Fortunately, a huge dray moved right in front of her, blocking her from his view. Grace stood stiffly, flushed from her head to her toes. She couldn't help it—she imagined Rathe and the prostitute who had waved entwined together. A surge of righteous outrage flooded her. A man like him would consort with the lowest kind of women! Why, he had practically jumped from Louisa's bed right into the arms of a prostitute! And he was the one responsible for her dire circumstances right now. That man was the worst sort imaginable!

It was then that she really looked at the young, Negro woman vendor, and she was instantly, thoroughly, distracted. A man was holding her basket of biscuits tauntingly out of reach, while another fellow grabbed her by her waist. She struggled futilely, and Grace saw that she was close to tears. One of the men planted a hard kiss on her mouth, at which point Grace realized he was inebriated—not that that was any excuse. He then shoved the woman into his buddy's arms, laughing, the basket thrown aside, all the biscuits rolling out into the dirt, while the second man held her and shoved his hand down her blouse.

Grace didn't think. With her skirts held in one hand and raised to her knees, she ran toward the trio.

“Stop!” she shouted. “Stop it this minute! Unhand her, you pigs!”

The man kissing the young woman pulled her against his front, holding her firmly, while the other man started hooting. “Look at this, Able! A schoolmarm, from the looks of it. Jealous, sweetie?”

“Unhand that woman this instant, you perverted lout,” Grace fairly snarled. She was so angry she could almost kill.

“Hey, Robbie, this one looks like fun. She looks like she's just dying for a man,” the one called Able said, releasing the vendor. The woman scrambled away, grabbing her basket and clutching it to her breasts. Before Grace knew it, Able had grabbed her wrist and pulled her against his hips, locking her there with his arm, while he squeezed one of her breasts. Grace cried out, suddenly frightened, struggling. The man smelled like manure and stale sweat and sour beer. He yanked her closer. Panicked, she tried to twist her face away as his full, open lips came down on hers. She gagged at the feel of his tongue against her closed mouth. And then she felt his hands clenched on her buttocks, separating them, and something alien and hard pressing against her belly.

Suddenly, as fast as she had been grabbed, she was freed. The abrupt release sent her falling onto her hands and knees, panting, retching. She heard a sickening thud, a groan of agony. She managed to look up and saw Rathe landing a bone-shattering blow to Able's face, which was already streaked with blood. The man doubled over, but Rathe was holding him so that he couldn't fall forward. The expression on Rathe's face stunned Grace into utter immobility. Never had she seen such a look of murderous fury. Rathe hit him again, in his abdomen, and again on his nose, and yet again in an undercut that cracked resoundingly and sent his victim's head whipping back. Still holding him, Rathe viciously kicked his legs out from under him, and Able went flying onto his rear, in the dust.

Rathe turned to meet Able's cohort, and he was smiling. Grace had never, ever seen a smile like this one. It didn't reach his eyes, which were as hard and dark as steel. She saw the man's buck knife flash and choked on a sob. Then she cried out, her hands going to her mouth as Rathe stepped forward, his words cutting the air just before his arm did. “Come on, you bastard, just try it.”

With one arm he sliced a blow at the sailor's knife-holding hand, while almost simultaneously landing a solid punch to the man's abdomen. As the man fell forward, his knife dropping harmlessly to the street, Rathe grabbed him by the shoulders and directed him down while his knee came up. There was a loud cracking noise as knee met nose. Robbie crumpled in slow motion. Rathe shoved him away. He was suddenly standing over the groaning Able, a knife in his hand, and Grace had never seen him draw it.

He spoke very softly, his drawl so thick it was almost slurred. “Care to try again, my friend?”

Able lurched unsteadily to his feet, swaying. He mouthed something incoherent, shaking his head and backed away.

Rathe stared at Able in disgust, and the knife in his hand disappeared. Grace hunched over, gasping for air, trembling. Never had she witnessed such violence. A long moment passed as Rathe stood, regaining his control, breathing hard. An animated crowd had gathered but his gaze never left Grace's huddled form. At last he moved to her and knelt. She felt his arms going around her, lifting her against his chest, cradling her. “Shhh,” he soothed. “Shhhh. It's all right now. It's all right.”

“Rathe, you want me to get the sheriff?” a man in the crowd asked.

Normally, Rathe wouldn't have cared, because the two men, sailors from the looks of them, would be out of jail in a night. But he was still angry enough to kill, or at least come close to doing so.
Grace had been in danger. Grace had almost been hurt
. “Yes.”

He held her, offering her the comfort of his big body. His pulse started to slow. His reaction to seeing Grace being manhandled by those brutes had been instant and uncontrollable. Rathe had been taught to fight by his father, but he did not like it. It had been years since he had been in a fight. But today, with Grace in jeopardy, he had seen red. He had wanted to hurt, to maim, to kill.

As his blood slowed, a feeling of horror and dread began to well up in the pit of his stomach. This was the worst section of town. If he hadn't come along Grace would have been raped, right here on the street. The thought of the prim and proper Grace on her back screaming and crying and struggling beneath the sailor made him sick. His grip on her tightened.

The crowd milled about, chatting excitedly. Rathe looked at a familiar, brown-haired prostitute. “Betty, get some water and a brandy.” He turned to Grace, still on her knees, her face buried against his chest. He pulled off her gray felt hat and stroked her tightly pinned hair. “Talk to me, darlin'. Are you all right?”

She raised her white face. “Yes, I'm fine.”

There was a slight quaver in her voice. Then he felt her pushing away, trying to stand, and he helped her up. She raised a trembling hand to her face, touched her nose where her glasses should have been. “My spectacles.”

He stared into her clear eyes and decided that nothing about her would surprise him, certainly not the fact that she wore glasses she obviously did not need. He accepted the brandy from Betty, and with an arm around Grace's waist, pulled her away from the crowd, into the shadow of an overhanging roof. He raised the glass to her lips. “Drink it.”

“I'm all right.”

She was, he realized, holding up very well—but he had already known how much grit she had. He forced her to take a few sips of brandy. She coughed, protesting. He smiled.

Their gazes locked. Hers wide and vulnerable and amazed, his calm, piercing, and triumphant. She was woman. He was man—and he had protected what was his. He stared at her, somehow not surprised by his own fierce possessiveness. Hard satisfaction glittered in his eyes. Seeing it, Grace flushed.

“Just what in hell were you doing down here, Grace?”

At his demanding tone, Grace drew away, her own eyes narrowing. The hostilities resumed. “Might I ask you the same question?” she said, sweetly. Then she pointedly lifted her gaze in the direction of the bawdy house.

He was almost amused at what she was obviously—and incorrectly—thinking. “I asked first,” he said, dangerously.

“Looking for employment,” she replied. “Not that I owe you any explanations.”

His brows snapped together. “What?”

“My turn,” she said. “Or are you afraid to admit where you were?”

“You were looking for a job down here?”

“Aren't you ashamed of yourself?” she whispered, all pretense of amiability gone.

He blinked.

“Don't you care that you resemble a rutting bull more than a thinking man? Are you so oblivious to anything other than your…needs that embarrassment and shame don't even occur to you?”

A wide smile broke out over his face. “Possibly,” he mused, eyes sparkling. “Why, that must be it!”

“You don't take anything seriously!” she cried, furious.

“And you take everything too seriously.” He captured both her flailing hands. “Are you trying to reform me?” he asked, a touch huskily, gazing deeply into her eyes.

She tried to pull her hands away, and failed. “You are undoubtedly not reformable,” she said with a sniff.

“I don't know” he said, his gaze unwavering. “Maybe you could do it, Grace.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Don't you want to try?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the rough timbre of his tone.

Something hot and wet and deliciously sinful unfurled in her body. His hands were so warm, dwarfing hers, his eyes so blue and bright. “What?” she croaked.

“Reform,” he murmured, piercing her with his gaze. “We're talking about reform.”

His face seemed to have drifted closer. “Reform,” she echoed.

“You're going to try and reform me,” he told her, his breath touching her face.

She opened her mouth soundlessly.

Rathe smiled slightly and leaned down, his mouth closing over hers. Grace gasped to feel the torrent of sensation that flooded her at the touch of his lips on hers. His tongue gently, softly intruded into the space she had granted him, thrusting ever so lightly, his mouth playing so tenderly. A raging storm of hot aching need washed over her, tightening her nipples, swelling her groin.

He pulled away without deepening the kiss, without releasing her hands. Grace couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think. He stared into her eyes, and she couldn't have looked away for the life of her.

All at once, Grace realized he was still holding her hands, that he had kissed her, intimately, in public, and that he was now looking quite pleased with himself about it. She yanked her hands away, thoroughly discombobulated. “I think I'm going to like being reformed,” Rathe murmured.

He was, in a word, impossible. Grace opened her mouth for a quick, angry retort, when she saw the sheriff striding through the crowd. She fought for some semblance of equilibrium, and seized on the first distraction she could think of. “Where are my glasses?” She started back toward the crowd, scanning the ground, brushing off her skirts in a no-nonsense manner.

Rathe reached down to retrieve the spectacles. Unfortunately, the glasses had not been crushed in the melee, just slightly bent. For the briefest of moments, he debated crushing them under his own booted heel before she saw that he had found them. Then the gentleman in him asserted itself and he handed them to her with a flourish.

Sheriff Ford was a tall, husky man in his late forties. His dark eyes were shrewd, his brow furrowed. “Rathe, what the hell happened?”

“Miss O'Rourke tried to stop these two sailors from accosting a woman vendor. They attacked her in turn.”

Sheriff Ford looked around, then settled his glance on Grace. “That true, Miss O'Rourke?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the vendor?”

“I don't know,” Grace said.

“She run off, Sheriff,” an orange-haired prostitute said. “She picked up all her biscuits and run off.”

“She a nigger?” Ford asked.

Grace stiffened. “Yes, she was colored.”

Ford looked at her. “You're not from around here, are you, Miss O'Rourke?”

Grace sucked in her breath with dread.

“You think that little slut don't give it out to the white boys when she wants?”

Grace gasped.

Rathe angrily planted himself between the sheriff and Grace. “Ford, there's no call for talkin' that way to Miss O'Rourke. She's a lady.”