Violet Fire (24 page)

“An' make you marry her,” Harriet stated, watching him.

Rathe laughed in disgust. “Hah! Even Derek couldn't make that happen!”

“You underestimate your own pa.”

Rathe gave her a look. “Grace isn't interested in mar
riage, Harriet, and no man, and no amount of talking, cajoling, or threatening is going to change that!”

“She turn you down?”

He felt more color rising. “She made herself very clear. She told me in no uncertain terms that she would not marry me. Not,” he added quickly, “that I'd marry her either! She had her chance. I've changed my mind—I like things just fine the way they are.”

Harriet glared. “Grace is too good a girl to be set up with you in that hotel and you know it. The damage is done, but it's not too late. You know what to do.”

Harriet was right, and that knowledge made Rathe frustrated and furious. But he would
not
ask her to marry him again. “Harriet, when was the last time you saw Grace?”

Harriet pursed her lips. “You won't like it.”

He was overcome by a wave of dread. He already knew what Harriet was about to say. “She was here—with Allen.”

Harriet nodded. “Just after breakfast.”

Rathe gripped the mantel as hard as he could.

“You tear that off the wall and you'll be putting it back up,” Harriet warned.

He spun around. “How long was she here?”

“I don't know, I only saw her when she was leaving. I didn't even know she was here at all. It was a complete surprise when I saw her coming out of Allen's room.” Harriet smiled serenely.

Rathe's eyes widened. “They had the door closed? Just the two of 'em?”

“You've got a filthy mind,” Harriet said. “Just 'cause you treat her with no respect doesn't mean a good man like Allen Kennedy is the same. Besides, everyone knows he's got marriage on his mind.”

Rathe curse, then turned on his heel and left. What had they been talking about? And where the hell was she now? He recalled the time he had seen them share that passionate kiss in the buggy in Louisa Barclay's driveway. The image loomed before him now, infuriating him. He had
made it very clear that she was his exclusively for the next year. Yet she was already off traipsing around with another man.

He returned to the hotel. As he bounded up the stairs he couldn't help wondering if she'd returned. But his room was as empty as before. He ignored the disappointment, refusing to even recognize it, and drank his second bourbon in twenty hours. It went down like silk.

He could scour the town, looking like a fool, or he could wait.

He decided to wait.

Precisely three minutes later she walked through the door.

They stared at each other for a long, hard minute.

“Where have you been?” Rathe demanded, too aware of his heart's rapid hammering and the blood starting to course through his veins. “I don't want you to wear your hair like that.”

She drew herself up as tall as possible. “Your dictating my hairstyle to me wasn't in our bargain. And I might ask the same question—where have you been?”

His eyes glinted. He wished she didn't look so damn gorgeous even with pursed lips and that awful bun. Even the damn gray gown couldn't diminish her beauty. If anything, the soft color made her skin look as pale as magnolias and magnificently translucent. “This isn't a two-way street, sweetheart,” he drawled. “My whereabouts aren't your concern, but yours are most definitely mine.”

She huffed.

He was glad he had made her mad. He wanted to make her as mad as he was—no, madder. He shoved his hands in his pockets and brought out fistfuls of cash. He flung them at her feet. She jumped back, gasping, as he proceeded to empty his pockets. Soon five thousand dollars' worth of greenbacks and gold lay strewn around her.

She stared at him, crimson. He felt very, very satisfied. “You can count it if you want.”

Her color mounted, her chin went up, her eyes took on
a somewhat shiny look. “No thank you, it looks sufficient.”

“Sufficient? Greedy, aren't we?”

She opened her mouth, to argue he knew, and he waited with relish. Then she shut it abruptly.

“
Where the hell were you, Grace?
”

Her eyes glistened. “I was at the school. And frankly,
sweetheart
, I really couldn't care who you spent last night with!” Her voice rose sharply.

His eyes narrowed. She was jealous, and for an instance that fleeting thought brought sweet triumph. “What were you doing at the school?” His tone had lowered, become dangerous.

“What do you think?” she snapped. “Sweeping the floors?” Her head lifted. “I've organized an informal class and—”

“You
what
?”

She stopped. “I've organized—”

“You're not teaching, Grace.”

She stared. “You're not serious.”

“Oh, I'm serious all right.” He pushed himself off the wall. “Take off your clothes.”

She blinked.

“Your time belongs to me,” he warned. “Take off your clothes, Grace.”

She was pale. “You can't mean it.”

“Oh, I most certainly do.” He waited. “Now.”

Still, she hesitated, her gaze wide and tremulous. Rathe suddenly hated himself. They both knew he was wielding his power over her purposefully. Her hands trembled as she touched the first button on her bodice, fingering it, her lips white. Rathe moved. He caught her hand in his, stopping it. She raised glazed eyes to his. “I can't.”

“I know you can't,” he cried. “I'm sorry, Grace…” He clenched her hand so tightly she made a sound of protest.

That little whimper was his undoing. He wrapped her in his arms. She was very still and frozen, like a little,
trapped bird, and he could feel her heart winging frantically against his. His hold tightened. “I never want to hurt you,” he gasped into her neck. “I only want to protect you.”

Her stiff shoulders began to relax beneath his embrace.

“I only want to love you,” he cried, rocking her. His mouth formed the words against her ivory cheek. “Let me love you, Grace. Let me.”

He cupped her face. There were big glistening tears in her eyes, and they spilled over. He caught one with his mouth, kissing it away. He looked into her eyes, captured her gaze, unwilling to let it go. Her mouth was open, moist and trembling. He covered it with his. When her hands shyly touched his back, he felt a surge of elation and something else—emotion so vast he could not contain it.

“Grace,” he choked, against her mouth. “I love you. Ah, I love you—let me love you.”

In his hands she shuddered.

Kissing her wildly, holding her fiercely, he walked her backward, urging her to the bed. She fell back in his embrace, clinging, opening, gasping beneath his onslaught. His hands shook violently as he freed her hair. He lifted her skirts, stroking her legs through her cotton pantalets, his mouth on hers, soft then hard, hard then soft.

“Touch me, Grace,” he cried, pushing her hands from his shoulder to his back. Pausing on his side, facing her, breathless, he watched her face as he moved her hand over his shirtfront. She gasped when he moved it into the opening of his shirt. He groaned.

She met his eyes, startled, lips open and wet.

“Don't stop,” he begged, pressing her hand against his ribs. Then abruptly, he tore open his shirt, the buttons flying about them, baring his torso for her touch.

Her hand was small and white on his bronzed skin, hovering uncertainly just below his chest. Rathe threw his head back, closed his eyes, panting. “Please, Grace.”

She didn't know what to do. Yet the feel of this man's
powerful body beneath her soft palm was overwhelming and exciting. Daringly, she looked at him, not moving. His ribs were stretched taut beneath his skin, barely visible. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, covered with thick, dark hair. His nipples were small and flat. She had the urge to touch one. Quickly, she looked away.

Her gaze met the full, straining bulge of his doeskin breeches. Her mouth was very, very dry.

“Grace.”

Her gaze shot to his and she reddened to have been caught staring.

“It's all right,” he breathed. “I love looking at you, too.”

Her mind was spinning out of control with forces and emotions that were too strong for her to resist. She moved her hand up, across the slab of one chest muscle. His hair caught in her fingers. His entire body tensed beneath her hand. He groaned, took her hand, and moved it up over his small, tight nipple.

Her hand tightened. She couldn't breathe. Her body was throbbing shamefully, agonizingly, deliciously. Then he lifted his head to touch his tongue to her own nipple, mindless of the clothing covering it. Grace gasped when he tugged it into his mouth.

He pulled her down beneath him.

They kissed, open and wet, teeth grating and tongues touching. Her bodice opened effortlessly beneath his skilled fingertips, her breasts spilling into his hands. She was aware of him pulling down her drawers, and aware that she lifted her hips to help him. He thrust her skirts around her waist, stripped off his breeches. With a hoarse cry of joy he surged inside of her. Her hands found his broad back and held him closely. A part of her mind realized that her nails were digging into his flesh, that she must be hurting him, but she couldn't seem to stop. He was moving within her, slowly, beautifully, with precise restraint. Then harder, faster, answering the unconscious urging of her body. A long, drawn sound came from her,
a cry of peaking pleasure. “Yes,” Rathe gasped, “yes, darling, yes.”

 

He lay and held Grace in his arms and knew, in a sudden revelation, like the striking of lightning, that life as he had known it was over forever. He knew, with utter clarity, that nothing would ever be the same again, that Grace had truly entered his life. It was chilling and frightening and glorious all at once.

Grace shifted in his arms. “Don't move away,” he said, stroking his hand down her arm, gazing at her intently.

Her eyes were wide and soft. Rathe knew an intense determination, then, to put the past behind them. It wouldn't be easy; he only had to lift his head to see five thousand dollars strewn about the floor, evidence of the exact nature of their relationship, evidence of exactly what she wanted from him. “There's five thousand dollars on the floor,” he said quietly, propping himself up.

She stiffened, nostrils flaring.

What would she say if I asked her to marry me again?
He went red at that unwanted thought. She had rejected him once, firmly, and she would reject him again. “I'll open an account for you in the morning,” he said, just as quietly. “From now on we won't ever discuss money again. Periodically I'll put money in your account.”

She stared, eyes wide.

He felt grim and sad and very needy, too. He slid his hand down her arm. “But I want to remind you of our agreement,” he said.

Grace found her voice, although she was still in a state of shock over the five thousand dollars. “What?”

“You agreed to a full year.”

She sat up, pulling the covers over her bosom. “Yes, I did.”

“I want that to be clear.” His gaze was so solemn. “A year from now we discuss our liaison. Not before, not unless I change my mind and decide to let you go sooner.”

Change his mind…let her go sooner?
Her heart seemed to ache. The words hurt terribly. What was happening to her? If only he
would
change his mind, the sooner the better! She nodded, forcing the tears to stay checked.

“What's wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I'm not crying.”

He studied her, not understanding her, wishing he did. But she was an enigma. Had he just done or said something to upset her, or were these tears of regret? He took a deep breath. “That is the last time we discuss money,” he reiterated firmly. He didn't want to make a fool of himself by repeating what he had said—that she could not run out on him. But there was an aching deep inside, an aching from fear: he'd paid her well enough to know that if she weren't fair-minded, she'd be gone tomorrow. He slid off the bed and began gathering up the bills.

Grace watched, clutching the sheets to her chest. How long, she wondered, did she have before he'd tire of her? Oh, she was ten times a fool! If she was smart she would just take the money and return to New York. She owed him nothing.

It was time to face an awful possibility.

She wasn't sure, if she had a choice, she would want to leave this man.

Her eyes widened. Her face froze. This could not be happening.

He finished, placing the money on the table, while Grace hastily checked her eyes for any traces of dampness. Her heart was thundering inside her. He turned and looked at her, slowly, thoughtfully, and Grace's entire being tightened. He was so beautiful, so powerful, and she knew now that she had always thought so.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her.

She didn't like his sudden perceptiveness. She forced a smile. “Just tired.”

His smile was nothing like hers—it was devastating. “We could always spend the afternoon napping.”

She did not respond to his teasing. She couldn't. She could only think of one thing. She could not be falling in love with Rathe Bragg—absolutely not!

“What are you thinking about so seriously?” he asked, smiling.

“Nothing,” she managed. She wasn't about to admit that she'd been entertaining the notion of being in love with him.

He was not, she reminded herself, the kind of man a woman like herself should ever entertain serious thoughts about.

Grace, he asked you to marry him
, a voice inside her reminded.

Her resolution stiffened.

He's never asked another woman to marry him, not ever. You were the first
, it continued.
The first and only one!

Her fists tightened.

“What is it?” he asked, coming to her and kneeling, taking her hands in his.

Her heart began its insane beating. He was so close, even more beautiful at this distance. His gaze held hers. Then he lifted her to her feet and hugged her. She gasped at what rose between them—and felt triumph. See, he's only a rutting bull; he only wants to bed you!

“I'm sorry.” He laughed shakily. “But we've only been together twice and it's just not enough.” He caught her face in his large, rough hands. “I want to make love to you all day and all night and maybe then I can behave normally.”

She blushed.

“But I'm afraid to hurt you,” he said.

She stared. She crossed her arms, tightly. He was a cad—why wasn't he behaving like one now?

He smiled. “I wish you'd let me in there, Grace,” he murmured, gently tapping her forehead.

She pretended not to know what he was referring to. She went to the mirror and began to brush her hair with long, brisk strokes. She could feel him watching, and when she looked at his reflection, their glances met. Her heart tightened again.

“We need to get you some clothes, Grace. I think Mrs. Garrot will make time for us.”

Her hand stilled. “I don't need clothes.”

He laughed, then wiped the humor from his countenance. “I'm sorry, Grace, but that was funny. You do need clothes—an entire wardrobe, in fact.”

She clutched the brush. She imagined being paraded in front of Mrs. Garrot in her new role as mistress. She imagined being paraded in town for all to see in a mistress's flamboyant finery. “I don't need new clothes.”

“You can't enjoy wearing those ra—dresses.”

“What does enjoyment have to do with it?”

“Why not enjoy your clothes?”

She stared, imagining how he would dress her, in a whore's immodest finery, in taffeta and satins, imagining the scorn she would encounter from all who saw her. And then he was crossing the room with hard, deliberate strides. Her eyes widened. He took her shoulders and turned her back to the mirror. “Take a good look, Grace. Really look.”

She looked into the mirror—at him.

He made a sound of exasperation. “Not at me—at yourself.”

Her gaze went to her own pale face.

His hands rubbed her lazily. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

She started to protest, but he silenced her with a tightening of his grip. She stared at herself for another beat,
trying to see what he did. She saw a woman in the prime of her life with the palest of skin. She had to admit her complexion was flawless. Her mouth seemed too full for her face, swollen from his kisses. Her eyes were absolutely glowing. Her red hair was a disheveled disaster. She hadn't really looked at herself in years. She had forgotten how pretty she was.

He nuzzled her ear. “I want you to see yourself the way I do,” he said. “You're a gorgeous woman, Grace, but you do your damnedest to hide it.”

He embraced her in a fierce, possessive hug. She watched their reflection in the mirror over the bureau. He felt so good. It was almost unbearable. He had closed his eyes, pressing the side of his face against hers, and for a moment she thought she saw the same agonized intensity on his face as she felt inside herself. But she knew she had to be mistaken as he straightened and met her gaze calmly in the mirror. “How long do you need to get ready?” he asked.

He didn't understand! Panic set in. “I don't want any clothes,” she pleaded.

He folded his arms. They regarded each other steadily for a moment. “Why don't you want new clothes, Grace?”

She sought frantically for an excuse. She couldn't find one—other than the truth.

His tone was gentle, but tinged with frustration. “Grace, share what you're thinking with me.”

She took a breath. “You want to flaunt me, don't you? In low-cut gowns, gaudy fabrics, high heels and expensive jewelry. Mrs. Garrot will know. Everyone will know. I don't want to look like that.” She inhaled. “I don't want to look like your whore!”

He flinched. His mobile mouth tensed. “You're not my whore.”

“No?”

He closed his eyes. “Dammit, all right then! You are my whore! And who the hell's choice was that?” he shouted.

She shrank against the bureau. She collected herself. “You're right.”

He turned away, cursing. Then he looked back at her. “I offered you marriage.”

She said nothing.

He stared. His eyes searched hers. Grace held her breath. She couldn't look away. Oh, Lord, he was going to ask her again!

He tore his glance away. “I never intended to flaunt you, as you put it,” he said slowly. “I also don't want to introduce you to my family clad in rags.”

She knew she had misheard. “What?”

“I'm not going to introduce you to my family dressed like some…” He bit off what he'd been about to say—like some virgin old maid.

She felt faint and sick. “What do you mean?”

“How many times do I have to say it?” he demanded, fully frustrated now.

“When am I meeting your family?” Absolute, unadulterated horror overcame her.

His glance was sharp. “I figured in a few weeks, maybe less, we'd head down that way. I haven't been home in a long while and my sister and her husband and kids are there.”

She struggled for calm. A few weeks. She still had time. There was no way she was going to meet his family—not now, not ever!

“What are you afraid of, Grace? Other than the scorn? It is more than that, isn't it? Because if it really were condemnation, you would have never accepted my proposition the other night—you would have accepted my proposal. It is fear, isn't it?”

She folded her arms across her chest, hating this sensitive side of him. “No.”

“You don't want to be beautiful. You're afraid of it. God knows why. You've spent your entire adult life running from being the attractive woman you are. I don't
understand it.” A look of bulldog tenacity crossed his face. “But I'm sure going to try.”

“Rathe,” she said, unable to stop herself from reaching out to him. “I don't want men to look at me and see just another pretty face.”

“
Why not?
”

“Because I have things to do with my life! I can't be sidetracked by leering men with one thing on their minds!”

He stared at her. “You are the most unusual woman, Grace O'Rourke.”

His tone warmed her, and filled her with hope. “Please don't make me go to Mrs. Garrot's.”

His eyes softened. His smile was rueful. “Well,” he said, “I suppose the mountain could come to Mohammed.”

 

He returned an hour later with one of the hotel staff. They were carrying a trunk. Rathe tipped the boy and closed the door, then shot Grace a grin. “The mountain, my lady,” he teased.

“What have you done?”

“And Mrs. Garrot is not hiding in this trunk,” he told her, opening it. “Although she thinks this very unusual.”

Her heart had sunk. Although at least he hadn't made her go to the seamstress, he was still going to insist on dressing her up like a kept woman. She blinked at what he pulled out—a soft gray silk gown, high-necked and completely modest. He looked at her.

Grace's heart started to soar.

He began unloading the trunk. Soft violets, forest and mint greens, quiet peaches and sky blues. “I personally think,” he said, “that you would look magnificent in vibrant, deep colors—emerald greens, royal blues, deep purple. But—” He sighed and smiled. “I have a feeling you'll prefer these.”

She fingered a delicate peach chiffon evening gown with the tiniest pearl buttons, the finest lace, and a fashionable bustle. It was utterly beautiful. Look what he had done.

“Try it on,” he urged softly.

She lifted a bright gaze to his. She wet her lips nervously. “Rathe, really…”

“Go ahead,” he said, smiling. “It's okay to want these things. I just wish you'd let me give you more.”

She stared at the exquisite garment. She did want it. She wanted to own it, she wanted to put it on. It was the finest dress she had ever seen, ever touched. Suddenly, giving in to the impulse, she grabbed it and darted for the screen at the end of the room. His rich, warm laughter followed her.

“Do you need help?” he called.

She heard the teasing, lascivious note but was preoccupied with hurrying out of her own drab cotton clothes. “No,” she said, stumbling out of her skirt and kicking it aside. She slithered into the peach dress. She pulled the bodice up, and was relieved to see that while it exposed her throat and collarbone, no cleavage was revealed. Even the most proper ladies wore scandalously low-cut gowns in the evening. She was ridiculously pleased with his choice.

She suddenly felt shy. She couldn't reach all the buttons, but that wasn't it. Would he like it? What would he think when he saw her in this? Her heart was beating thickly.

“Grace?”

She took a breath, then walked out.

His eyes glowed.

“How does it look?” she asked shyly.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed. “You're so gorgeous.”

He was exaggerating, of course, but there was no mistaking the joy surging through her. She turned to the mirror. She couldn't believe she was looking at herself.

“The hotel has a ladies' maid,” Rathe said, moving behind her. His fingers automatically found the buttons she had missed, closing them. “Can I send for her to do your hair?”

She noticed her hair in its tight, prim bun for the first time. As if in a trance, she began removing the pins. Be
hind her, Rathe didn't move. With both hands, she lifted her hair and piled it high, holding it in place, turning her face slightly one way, then another.

“Can I take you downstairs to supper tonight?” Rathe asked softly.

Downstairs. Supper. She had seen the elegant dining room. He wanted to take her there, to a public place. Everyone, of course, would know she was his mistress. Yet…She imagined walking in on his arm, with her hair up, in this beautiful gown. “I don't know,” she said uncertainly.

He was disappointed. “All right. Another time.” His hands covered her silk-clad shoulders. He bent and kissed her neck.

She watched him. His lashes fanned out thickly on his face as his lips moved tenderly on her skin. Sometimes, he could be the gentlest man. She looked at herself in the elegant evening dress. Tears filled her eyes. She was his mistress, but he had clothed her as if she were his wife. “Rathe? I've changed my mind. Let's dine out tonight.”

 

It was her first public appearance as Rathe's mistress, and she turned heads.

Grace knew a hundred eyes were on her and she couldn't stop the pink color from sweeping over her from her head to her toes. She was a bundle of nerves. Rathe's hand was firm on her elbow as he escorted her downstairs. He himself was magnificent in a black evening cutaway coat and trousers. She had felt beautiful a moment ago, when Rathe had worshiped her with his admiring gaze, but now she was wondering if she should run and hide. This was a mistake! Why, even the concierge was staring.

“Rathe,” she whispered urgently, abruptly stopping on the bottom step. “Let's go back!”

“Grace, look at me. Do you want to hide in our hotel room for the next year?”

Her chin lifted.

“If that's what you want to do, we will,” he said. His gaze locked with hers.

She was torn between fear and bravery. Then her glance flitted past Rathe, to land on the husky form of Sheriff Ford. Her eyes widened. At the sight of him standing in the center of the lobby, she was assailed by an image of Rathe and Ford squared off on Silver Street, both angry, both powerful, neither backing down. She had never been a coward before. She was not going to become one now.

“What in hell is he doing here?” Rathe muttered tersely.

At that moment, a black-haired beauty came through the front doors on the arm of an older gentleman. Grace went stiff at the sight of Louisa Barclay. Ford greeted the couple, and she smiled at something he said; then her flirtatious laughter rang out. She laid a hand on Ford's arm. Then she and her escort were leaving, passing through the elaborate rosewood doors of the restaurant's lobby entrance.

Ford looked at them.

Grace felt Rathe's body tense beside hers. “Rathe? Let's go, please. I'm starved.”

He didn't answer. They moved off the step and into the lobby. Ford was approaching them. Grace tried to subtly guide Rathe toward the restaurant, but he pulled her firmly forward—toward the sheriff.

“Been lookin' for you, Bragg,” Ford said easily. His glance raked Grace with lewd interest. “Howdy, Miz O'Rourke. You stay in' heah now?” He grinned.

Rathe was breathing hard, furious. “You have something important to say to the lady?”

“
Lady?
”

Grace grabbed Rathe's arm, but he shook her off. He swung, but her interference was enough to allow Ford to successfully duck.

“Stop it, he's the law for heaven's sakes. You could get arrested!” she cried frantically.

Ford leveled his revolver as cool as a cucumber, cocking it. “You assaultin' an officer of the law, boy?”

Rathe's jaw bulged with clenched muscles. He was panting. He regained a semblance of control. Casually, he lifted up his hands. Then he smiled. “Did I touch you, Sheriff?”