Violet Fire (8 page)

“Stop it,” Grace cried out.

“Hey, nigger-lover,” Rawlins snarled, hatred etched clearly on his handsome face, “you better pack your bags and go on home. Got that, nigger-teacher?”

Allen didn't answer. He was breathing hard.

“We heard,” Rawlins spat, “you been talkin' to them niggers about the election this fall, tellin' them to make sure an' vote. You keep out of our business, Yankee. 'Cause if you don't, you're gonna be real sorry.” He reached down and shoved Allen hard, so that he stumbled into Frank's bay. Frank laughed, raised his crop and slashed it down on Allen's face. Grace screamed.

“You're gettin' off easy this time,” Rawlins shouted. “Remember this—we don't like nigger-teachers down heah. An' you stir them up to vote, we'll break every bone in your body.”

Rawlins whirled his mount abruptly around, and the three riders galloped away, raising a cloud of red dust.

“Allen, oh God!” Grace cried, rushing to him.

He touched his face where it was bleeding. “I'm all right, Grace.”

“You're hurt! Who are those men? We have to go to the sheriff.” She was dabbing frantically at his face with a napkin.

Allen caught her hand. “I'm all right,” he said calmly.

Grace took a deep breath. “Let me clean that cut.”

He allowed her to do so, wincing slightly. “Is it bad?”

“You need one or two stitches,” Grace said, furious. “Let's get you to a doctor. Then we're going to the sheriff. I thought that kind of behavior was outlawed with the Ku Klux Klan.” She began energetically gathering up their things.

“Grace, every single man arrested and convicted for Klan activities was given a suspended sentence.”

She froze. “What?”

“Here in Mississippi,” Allen said, “there were over two hundred of them in '72 alone—all let go.”

Grace was stunned. She knew that a few years ago Con
gress had investigated reported acts of terrorism against the Negroes and the Republicans. Their findings had made headlines, shocking the North. A wave of arrests and prosecutions of Klan members throughout the South had followed—which was why Grace could not believe her ears now. More than two hundred Klansmen in Mississippi had been given suspended sentences? “You mean, they got off scott-free?”

“Scott-free.”

“Why? How?”

“Most of the public is behind them. You saw them, Grace, young planters' sons, well-educated, well-heeled. Most of Southern society refused to believe that these boys had committed the crimes they were accused of. They chose to believe that their confessions of guilt—and most of the defendants did plead guilty—were lies of convenience. You see, once they pled guilty, a deal could be made, resulting in a suspended sentence. So the defendants went home and resumed their activities. Those who knew that the defendants were actually guilty, who were against the Klan, were afraid to speak out, Grace.”

“What are you telling me?”

He shook his head sadly. “They don't even bother to wear masks anymore.”

Her eyes were wide. “You mean—they're still hurting people for exercising their rights?”

“For less, Grace. Not long ago a Negro was whipped for answering a question the wrong way. He was impertinent, not in what he said—it was his tone and the light in his eyes.”

“Oh, God.”

Allen put their tablecoth and basket in the buggy, then guided her to it. “Come on, get in.”

“What about the sheriff?” Grace demanded as Allen turned the buggy down the road.

“Ford's a joke. He's not only a night rider, but proud enough of it to brag about it. He's one of their leaders, one of the worst, Grace.”

Grace sat stunned and appalled. “Will you be all right? Why were they warning you?”

“I'll be fine,” he assured her.

She bit her knuckle. “Will they come after you again?”

“No,” Allen said, too quickly.

Grace did not believe him for a moment.

 

Rathe moved away from Louisa's hand, staring out of the window at the darkening sky.

“Rathe, darling, what is it?” Louisa asked, gazing at his back. She was a vision in magenta silk. “First you disappear, then when you do appear, you're moody as a cat.”

Was Allen kissing her? He stared grimly out at the driveway, obsessed with the same thought that had tortured him all day. It didn't seem likely, did it? Grace was prim and proper and a prude. If she had rejected him, she would certainly reject Allen, wouldn't she? Or would she? Why, of all men, Allen Kennedy? He was nice enough, but—Rathe stopped his thoughts. Actually, he not only liked Kennedy, he respected him. He was a man of integrity. Was he kissing her right now?

He had a fleeting image of Grace in Allen's arms on the red and white cloth he'd seen tucked under their picnic basket. Would Grace marry him? Was he proposing right now? He found himself angry with the thought—for it was none of his business. In fact, Grace and Allen would make a perfect couple.

“You are impossible,” Louisa cried furiously.

Rathe didn't even turn, although he heard her skirts whipping about as she rushed from the room in a temper. He wasn't being very subtle, he realized, coming back here on the pretext of a visit, staying most of the day, enduring Louisa's company when in truth he was waiting for Grace to return.

He poured himself a bourbon then paced back to the window. His heart went still for a fraction of a second when he saw the buggy approaching; then it began speed
ing madly. Rathe stepped closer to the window. The green velvet drapes shielded him from view.

Kennedy stopped the carriage and for a moment they just sat there, looking at each other. Grace was the first to move. She flung herself at him.
Flung
herself, madly, passionately, hugging Allen fiercely. Rathe could not believe his eyes. She wouldn't even give
him
one little kiss.

But she could fling herself at Kennedy.

Kennedy held her, then tenderly touched her face. Rathe wished he could see their expressions more clearly; they were lust-filled, no doubt. Kennedy bent his head forward, blocking Rathe's view. Seething now, Rathe moved into the window so he could see better. Kennedy was kissing her, but all he could see of Grace was her white hands on his shoulders. She didn't, however, seem to be putting up much of a struggle.

“Damn,” he exploded, and downed the entire glass of bourbon. When he looked again, they had separated.

Grace sure had fooled him.

No woman had ever fooled him like this before.

He'd known there were fires hidden beneath that prim exterior, but he hadn't expected them to burn so close to the surface. Or was it that Allen's wanting to marry her entitled him to a few kisses? That thought was immensely appealing in one respect, for it soothed his wounded vanity. On the other hand, it carried grave implications. Did this mean she had kissed Allen before? And would she kiss him again? He was furious.

He watched her leave the buggy, saying something loving no doubt, judging from the way Allen clasped her hands. Finally the buggy moved away. Rathe folded his arms, turned to face the open doorway, and waited.

The front door closed. Her footsteps sounded. She appeared in the doorway as she went down the hall. He called out, stopping her in her tracks. “Good evening, Miss O'Rourke.”

She turned and looked at him.

And the first thing that he noticed was that she was pale,
not flushed. He looked more closely—specifically, at her lips, for signs of a passion-filled afternoon. There were no signs there. Maybe Kennedy wasn't the world's best kisser. Maybe he should give her something to compare his kisses to.

“Is there a reason you're staring? So rudely, I might add?”

Rathe smiled, but it was not a particularly pleasant smile. “Do you object also when
Allen
looks at you?”

She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

He ignored her. “How was your picnic? Did you and Kennedy have an enjoyable day?” He expected to see a romantic melting in her eyes. Instead, she tensed, her lips narrowed, and her eyes grew suspiciously wet. Instantly, the jealousy was gone. Rathe was at her side. “What's wrong, Grace?”

She looked right into his eyes, and yes, hers were wet, and getting wetter by the second. “Oh, dear, dear Lord,” she murmured.

His hands found her shoulders. She was soft and firm, a woman's wonderful constitutional contradiction. “What is it? What's wrong?”

She shook her head, tears falling now, unable to speak.

He pulled her into his embrace. “It's okay,” he crooned softly. “Everything's okay now, Grace. Shhh.”

She trembled against his shirtfront.

He had intended to comfort her, but was instead assailed by the feel of her breasts against his chest, and her hips against his. Blood filled his loins—a slow, delicious thickening.

“I was so afraid,” she gasped, and he tried to check his lust. His success was only partial.

“What happened to so frighten you, Gracie?” he murmured into her hair. “Tell me.”

“Allen,” she said in a strangled note.

Maybe he did hate Kennedy. Rathe moved her away from his body so he could look at her face. She wasn't wearing her glasses. Her eyes were violet and veiled by
long, auburn lashes. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Allen's in trouble,” she said earnestly, “and I'm so afraid for him.”

“Of course.”

At the dry note in his voice, she pulled free. “What am I telling you for? You're probably one of them!”

He didn't like her tone, or her overwhelming concern for her fiancé. He was sure, by now, that she had accepted Allen's proposal. “One of them?”

“One of those hate-filled, bullying bigots!” she shouted. “You are, aren't you?

It took him a moment to understand what she was talking about. “Are you referring to night riders and such?”

She wiped her eyes. “If you hurt Allen…” she warned.

Rathe was so furious at the slur that he momentarily couldn't speak. Then his tongue loosened. “What happened, Grace?” he commanded.

“They threatened him. They told him to go home—back North. They cut him with a crop.”

Rathe was grim. “Kennedy should know better than to be encouraging the Negroes to vote this fall.”

“They have every right to vote,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Oh, I'm too tired to fight anymore!” She turned and ran out.

Rathe wasn't sure whom he felt like strangling—her or Kennedy. The latter, he decided, for jeopardizing her. Kennedy was a fool. If he was preaching to the Negroes about their rights and encouraging them to vote Republican, he should at least be discreet about it. As for Grace-she thought he was one of the night riders.

He decided strangling was too good for her.

On the following Wednesday, Grace spent the whole day excited over the prospect of the meeting planned for that night. Lessons seemed endless, and Grace had trouble concentrating on her pupils; instead, she was planning the best approach for winning as many ladies as she could to the cause of women's suffrage. As soon as Mary Louise and Margaret Anne were sent to their rooms to wash and change for supper, Grace went flying down the stairs and out the door, clutching her reticule and a sheath of pamphlets. On the veranda she ran smack into a very familiar wall of male muscle—Rathe.

“Are you all right?” he drawled, chuckling, his hands on her arms, holding her so close their bodies touched.

Grace wrenched backward. He reluctantly let her go. The pamphlets were scattered all over the porch, and she dropped to her knees to begin gathering them. Her face flamed. Worse, her traitorous heart was slamming madly around in her chest.

“Here, let me help,” Rathe said, kneeling beside her. “Where are you off to in such a rush? Or did you see me coming up the drive?” he teased.

“Hmph,” Grace said. She made the mistake of looking up at him.

His bright blue eyes were trained steadily upon her, and when she met his gaze, everything seemed to stop. For a long moment, she was unable to tear her glance away. He squatted inches from her. There were flecks of gold in his
irises. His lashes were short but thick and the darkest of browns. Laugh lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. As she stared, she watched the amusement in his eyes fade, while something else flared. The blue visibly brightened, growing hotter, darker. The look was so unmistakable that Grace was shaken right out of her trance; she reached wildly for the papers nearest her hand, looking down, anywhere but at him.

His hand clamped over hers, stilling it.

She froze again. She could hear her own breathing, feel her own careening heart. Damn, she thought, damn. She was aware of his hand, large and hard and calloused, of his knees, inches from her breast. The breeches clinging obscenely to powerful thighs, strained from squatting. Grace's glance wandered upward, settling unavoidably on the soft, conspicuous bulge of his crotch. The instant she was aware of where she was looking, she jerked away, standing. Immediately, he was on his feet too.

“Calm down,” he murmured. “Relax, Gracie.”

She would not, absolutely would not, meet his gaze again. “I'm late,” she said, feeling utter confusion. With new resolve she began gathering the pamphlets. What was wrong with her?

“And where are you off to?” Rathe asked, helping her. Then he glanced at the title of the paper in his hand,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton Speaks on Divorce
, and laughed. She snatched the pamphlet back, glaring. He reached out and chucked her chin.

She drew back, shoving everything under her arm and huffed past him.

“You forgot this, darlin',” he called, retrieving her reticule and following her. “Where are you going, Gracie? Do you need an escort?”

That thought horrified her. “I most certainly do not,” she cried.

“How about a ride then?”

Because she had to walk, the offer was tempting. But she'd sooner die than accept anything from this impossible
scoundrel. “No, thank you,” she said glacially, striding down the drive.

“You're walking?” Rathe asked incredulously, pacing alongside her. “Where are you going? You can't walk. Did you know that the whole reason I came to Melrose was to see you?”

She snorted. “I have two good legs, Mr. Bragg, and an excellent set of lungs. I most certainly can walk.”

He grinned, looking sideways at her, “I'll vouch for the excellence of your ‘lungs'.”

Grace caught the glance and the innuendo and went crimson. She decided to ignore him. He wasn't worthy of her attention. Maybe that was the problem—instead of disregarding him she let him bait her, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy. Then she realized he had stopped and was no longer following, and she had to check herself to keep from looking back to see what he was doing. She managed to keep marching down the drive, and refused to be disappointed that he had given up so easily.

But she did look back ten minutes later when she heard a carriage approaching. Rathe smiled, sitting relaxed as you please in the open vehicle, looking very much the Southern gentleman in his coat, breeches, and polished boots. Grace could not believe his audacious persistence. She resolved to ignore him as the buggy drew alongside.

“Come on, Gracie, let me drive you to town.”

She didn't answer.

“How are you going to get back later? It'll be dark in a couple of hours. You can't wander around here alone at night. You might get lost, or worse.”

“Something ‘worse', as you put it, would most likely occur if I were to ride with you!” She felt quite smug and pleased with that retort.

“Ah, Gracie, that's not fair. Wasn't I the perfect gentleman the other night?”

“I really can't recall,” she lied, cheeks burning. She doubted she would ever forget the sensual, rasping quality
of his voice. Even now, thinking about it did something strange to her stomach.

“You wouldn't have forgotten if I had kissed you,” he said tightly. “Look, Grace, I only want to give you a ride. And I really did come all the way out to Melrose just to see you.” His coaxing smile flashed.

It was about two miles to Sarah Bellsley's house, and Grace would have dearly loved to ride. But she did not dare give him an inch. She did not trust him. Or was it her own self she didn't trust? “No thank you, Mr. Bragg. Would you please stop bothering me? Maybe you should think about Louisa. I'm sure she's wondering where you are at this very moment.”

“I doubt it,” Rathe said.

“I do not need a ride,” Grace said firmly.

To her surprise, he acquiesced with a grin. “They're your lungs.”

 

The night was balmy, soft and thoroughly pleasant. Rathe leaned back in the carriage, once again looking toward the lights of the Bellsley house. A dozen ladies had congregated. He had to smile at the thought of Grace arousing them with her incendiary talk. After having seen her at van Horne's, he could just envision her lecturing now—and it was too easy to recall just how adorable she was when she got excited.

Scraps of conversation had been drifting through the open windows to him all night. Initially, the women of Natchez had been shocked. They were not prepared for Grace's extremism. Grace's strident tone had carried. “But they make the laws! And we have to abide by them! How fair is that when we're principal parties, too?”

Hesitant murmurs had followed.

“We are equal! And with the vote we can pass new laws—laws that will give us a chance to obtain custody of our children in cases of divorce, laws that will enable us to keep our own property when we join in marriage…”

Rathe heard enough to know that the conservative and
genteel ladies of Natchez were intimidated by Grace's views. He found himself straining to hear everything she had to say, and realizing for the first time that Grace actually had quite a few good points. If all married couples had the relationship his father and mother or his sister and his brother-in-law had, the laws Grace wanted to change wouldn't really matter. But those kinds of relationships were rare, as he well knew. Many women were unhappy in their marriages and stuck there. But, he mused, many men were unhappy, too. Yet this was the point Grace was making—men did benefit from both society's double standards and the power they wielded through the vote. Women suffered.

He was still listening intently when she abruptly changed the subject to one more suitable for conservative ladies—temperance.

“It's disgusting,” Sarah Bellsley cried. “The decadence, the sin, the shame! Why, I won't mention names, but three of the ladies here have husbands who pass every evening on Silver Street, spending all the family's income on liquor and—and—hussies!”

“Silver Street is abominable!” someone shouted furiously, and Rathe winced.

A chorus of rousing war cries greeted this statement.

“My Willard changes beyond recognition under the influence,” a woman stated. “Normally he's so kind. But with whiskey in him he becomes a demon. I'm afraid of him. I can't—don't dare—even criticize him!”

Murmurs of understanding and affirmation rippled through the assemblage. The ladies agreed that it was their Christian duty to form a temperance union.

Outside Rathe shook his head. There were going to be a few unhappy husbands in the days that followed. Leave it to Grace to stir up Natchez.

Soon the meeting drew to a close. Rathe puffed on a cigar and watched the ladies as they left. Their goodbyes seemed interminable. As the carriages dispersed he spotted Grace, coming through the picket gate, walking slowly
down the street. He watched her approach from the shadow of an ancient walnut tree. Did she really think she could walk back to Melrose alone at night? Did she really think he would
allow
her to walk back there alone?

He leapt down from the carriage in an easy, graceful movement. He didn't want to scare her, but when he moved forward into the illumination provided by a gaslight, she gasped and jumped.

“It's me,” he called. “Rathe. At your service, madame.”

She stared, then snapped, “What is wrong with you? Haven't I made myself perfectly clear?”

He shook his head with mock sadness. “Why did I suspect it would be like this? I'm driving you home, Gracie. Don't be a stubborn fool about it.”

“I don't want
anything
from you,” she cried furiously.

“I know you don't. You have made that abundantly clear. Bend a little, Grace. It's dark out, it's a long walk to Melrose, and there are always thieves and riffraff out at night.”

“Oooh,” she cried.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Until recently,” he muttered.

She hadn't heard. “Oh, all right, I give up! If you're going to make so much trouble about it…”

He watched her march to the carriage, head high and shoulders stiff like a little martyr. He found himself smiling. Then he caught himself and ran forward to help her climb in. She ignored his hand, swatting it away, hoisting her skirts and starting to step up. She was too much to resist. His hands closed around her narrow waist. For an instant he paused, relishing the feel of her.

“What are you doing?” she cried, twisting to get free, as if a maniac was accosting her.

He sighed heavily and swung her into the carriage, then climbed in beside her. “Pretty painless, huh?”

She looked at him carefully, sitting erect and properly
apart from him, her hands clasped in her lap. He could feel her mind working. She said, “When does the pain begin?”

He threw back his head and laughed. When he met her gaze he saw that she was smiling, too—slightly, but smiling.

Miss Grace O'Rourke was thawing.