Violet Fire (19 page)

The sentence, although clipped, came out as rough and gravelly as sandpaper, and Grace knew he was enraged.

Her mouth was dry. “I'm fine,” she said, intending to speak in a clear, loud voice. It came out as a fragile squeak.

“Is that man all right?” Rathe said.

“Henry, you okay?” Clarissa asked.

“I'm fine, suh,” Henry said, coming forward and rubbing his chafed wrists. “Ma'am, I done got to thank you.”

Grace was too apprehensive to feel any pleasure, but she managed to give Henry what she hoped was a smile. Then Rathe hauled her unceremoniously onto his lap, sidesaddle. She found herself looking as his taut, clenched jaw. She opened her mouth to protest. Rathe said, not looking at her, “Don't push me.”

Her mouth closed.

His arm was iron around her waist. The black's trot was nothing like Mary's, and even though she was firmly anchored on Rathe's lap, she couldn't—didn't dare—relax. In fact, as she sat ramrod straight, trying to avoid all contact with his upper body, periodic tremors swept her. If Rathe noticed, he said nothing. The tension she felt in him terrified her.

He did not turn his stallion toward Upper Street where Harriet Gold's boardinghouse was. Grace was afraid to ask where he was taking her. Her eyes widened when they arrived at Silver Street, then turned left toward the cliffs. As if sensing her confusion, his grip tightened. Rathe pulled up in front of the Silver Lady Hotel. Grace stared, full of dread.

He slid to the ground, then pulled her down as if she were a sack of grain. For some reason her knees were very weak and they buckled the instant her feet touched down. Rathe was there, his steely arm going around her waist, and he held her in such a way that she had no choice but to walk with him as they entered the hotel.

“Rathe…”

“Shut up.”

He led her up the stairs and to his suite. He didn't release her as he produced a key, and opened the door on the beautifully appointed rooms she had seen the other day. Grace found herself pushed inside. She stood unsteadily on a thick Aubusson rug, looking around, thinking, This is insane. Then she heard the door lock and her head whipped around. Her anxious gaze found Rathe's.
He was so grim and cold she took a step backward. “I'm going home,” she quavered.

“Just who in hell do you think you are?”

“I'm going home now,” she managed, and started past him.

He grabbed her, spinning her back around. She was in his arms. His entire body felt like a tightly coiled spring. “Does facing death excite you, Grace, is that it?”

She shook her head weakly, mortified with the knowledge that at any moment she was going to start bawling like a newborn infant.

“Do you even care if you die?” he demanded.

She choked on a huge sob.

“I brought you here to beat the hell out of you,” Rathe rasped. “But I've never laid a hand in violence on a woman in my life!”

The words weren't even out of his mouth when he was lifting her and carrying her to the huge, canopied bed.

The sob blossomed uncontrollably in her chest, rising upward inexorably.

The bed sank beneath her body's weight, Rathe coming down on top of her. His hands caught hunks of her hair ruthlessly, anchoring her head, hurting her scalp. She tried to fight down the rush of tears. One of his thighs jammed crudely between hers. And then his lips came down, hard and hot.

He forced her lips open, and shoved his tongue thickly into her mouth. She tried to turn her head, and found herself trapped by his hands. His mouth ground ruthlessly on hers. He was already hard and huge against her belly. She knew beyond a doubt that he knew he was hurting her, that for some reason he was trying to prove his mastery over her—in the only way left to him. And she knew he was going to take her tonight whether she wanted him to or not.

The knowledge meant nothing.

He was warm. He was man. He was strong—he was life and safety. She had faced violence and terror, but she was
secure in Rathe's arms. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging fiercely.

He buried his face in her neck, hugging her desperately.

Grace choked out loud on the first sob. The second sob was inhuman, sounding more like an animal in great pain. On top of her, Rathe went still. And she started crying—completely, hysterically, pitifully.

For one more moment Rathe froze, then he closed his eyes and rolled over, gathering her even more tightly against him. She wept then, against his linen-clad chest. “Grace,” he said raggedly, “it's all right now.”

She moaned, shaking, clinging. He held her, stroked her, rocked her. She wept uncontrollably, trying to burrow into his skin. When, a long time later, the tears rolled to a jagged stop, she found herself utterly exhausted, in his arms and between his thighs. His shirt was partially opened, and her cheek was somehow against his bare chest, wet from her tears, in a nest of surprisingly soft brown curls. One of his large hands was on her waist, sliding gently up and down from her hip to her rib cage. The other held the back of her head. Her braid had long since come free. The feel of him stroking her hair was exquisitely reassuring. She gave a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Better?” he asked, and she thought, although she wasn't sure, that his mouth grazed the top of her head.

She was so tired her answer was barely audible. She was so tired that she didn't care how she lay, not even the way her hip nestled intimately in his groin. She rubbed her face more fully into his chest, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning when she awoke, she was still in his bed and still in his arms.

Rathe woke up first. He didn't move. His entire body was burning with the same uncontrollable lust it had burned with all night. Never, in his entire life, had he slept chastely with a lush woman. And there was no doubt that the woman in his arms was lush.

They were on their sides, her back wedged into his front. Her soft buttocks cradled his throbbing groin, his swollen organ nestled deliciously and agonizingly in the warm valley she provided. He had his arms around her. Her breathing was steady and slow; his was harsh and loud. Cautiously, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her.

So impossibly gorgeous. His hand stole to her slim, curved hip, slid higher, wrinkling the cotton of her nightgown, slid lower. He pulled her more firmly against his thickened manhood, leaned down, and nuzzled her jaw. She sighed.

“Grace?” he whispered, a hoarse, gravelly sound.

There was no response.

He rubbed his hips languidly against her, his eyes closed, his face contorted, pained. He bent over again, his mouth inches from her ear. “Grace?”

She pushed her backside against him.

He groaned and slid his hand up to cup her ripe breast. The nipple hardened instantly beneath his fingers. She shifted, still asleep, pushing herself more fully into his
palm. He knew he was being a cad. He opened the ribbons of her gown and bared her beautiful breasts.

With his tongue, he touched one pointed nipple.

She whimpered, her lashes fluttering.

Rathe was clad only in his breeches, and they felt very tight and constraining. He wished he had taken them off, then instantly knew that would have precipitated a crisis. He pushed his thigh between hers, moving it back and forth.

Grace sighed, her lids drifting open.

His hand had its own volition. He found himself lifting the hem of her gown, sliding his palm along the smooth, firm yet soft contours of her thigh, her hip, to the soft, slight swell of her belly. He raised himself up a bit more to watch her face as his hand traced small, intimate circles on her stomach, roaming lower and lower. He watched the haze of sleep leave her eyes. Their gazes met, his bold, brilliant, hers soft, startled. His fingers touched the outermost edges of a soft, red vee. Grace gasped. Rathe threaded his fingers through the untamable curls. She shifted onto her back with a deep breath, her eyes closing, thighs opening. Rathe could barely breathe. His third finger slipped down between thick, slick folds of flesh.

She moaned softly.

He felt her swelling beneath his hand. She arched slightly. Rathe couldn't stand it. But he couldn't, in all conscience, make love to her while she was half-asleep. Still…

He shifted onto his knees between her parted legs, kissing her navel, nuzzling her breasts. “Grace,” he commanded. “Wake up, Gracie. Wake up.”

“Rathe,” she breathed, her lashes dark fans against her pale skin.

He bent lower and touched her pink, glistening flesh with his tongue.

Grace moaned and twisted languidly.

Rathe's arms went around her hips, locking them into
place. With his tongue he began a delicate exploration. His heart threatened to pound its way right out of his chest. And he wondered if he might split his breeches, he was so full. She lifted for him, toward him, with another whimper, a pleading sound that almost made him insane with desire. He lifted his head abruptly. “Grace, wake up.”

Her eyes flickered open.

He bent to nuzzle with his mouth and stroke with his tongue.

She gasped.

He raised up. “Grace, look at me.”

Her glazed, unfocused eyes met his.

He felt a hot bursting of triumph at seeing her like this, languid with desire for him. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he commanded thickly. And, with strategic timing, he flicked his tongue against her again.

She writhed, falling back against the pillows. Rathe licked and explored, pressing his own heavy weight hard into the mattress. He still wasn't satisfied and it gnawed at him. He finally lifted his powerful body up and caught a hank of her hair, his face inches from hers. “Grace, dammit, look at me!”

She looked at him.

He kissed her deeply, dominatingly, rubbing the steel-hardness of his groin against her wet heat. She moved sinuously with him, seeking. He caught her chin. Her eyes locked with his. “Rathe,” she gasped.

He didn't give her a chance, but was back between her legs, intent on devastating her. Grace touched his bare shoulders as his tongue sought, found, and conquered. She fell back, her grip tightening, her hips arching on a long whimper. “Please,” she cried.

She arched violently moments later, crying out, and he felt the hard contractions against his face. He didn't mean to lose control. She was still in the throes when he felt his own explosion as he lay grinding against the
mattress, his face buried in her, his arms locked around her hips.

It took a long time for them both to subside.

Then he was rudely kneed in the face as she swung her legs over him in a panic. Still recovering, Rathe wasn't ready to move. He felt her bouncing out of the bed. “Get up,” she said furiously.

He realized he had made a mistake. He should have recovered instantly, pulled her into his arms, and showered her with loving kisses. A not-so-soft blow landed on his bicep.

“Get up!”

Wearily, Rathe rolled over and sat up.

She was enraged, and gorgeous in her Irish temper.

“Grace…”

“You took advantage of me,” she hissed.

He couldn't exactly refute that. “But it was so good, Grace. You know that.”

“The only thing I know is that you are despicable!”

“I don't seem to have any control around you,” Rathe said, intensely. “And it's been that way since the moment we first met.”

She turned her back to him, arms folded tightly.

“It's the truth.” He came up behind her. “Dammit, Grace, stop fighting me—didn't I just give you a taste of how good it can be?” He reached for her shoulders.

She turned and her hand swung out. He didn't duck, not because he was feeling charitable, which he was, but because he had hardly slept at all last night, which made his reflexes slow. “Ow. That hurt.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Grace suddenly said, her flaming cheeks draining of color. Rathe rubbed his jaw. “Grace, can we be calm about this? Let's order up some breakfast and talk this over.”

Her hand was clasped over her mouth, her eyes huge. “I spent the night here!”

“You fell asleep.”

“This is all your fault! You should have never let me
stay! Why did you even bring me back here?” she wailed.

Rathe blinked. “You were hysterical, in shock…”

“You did this on purpose!” She whipped around and this time he ducked her right hook, but caught her wrist.

“Grace, stop it. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly myself. It felt so right, holding you while you slept.”

“You've ruined me!”

He felt a sudden, terrible pang. He had the dreadful feeling he had made a mistake. “Grace?”

She wrenched away and he let her go. “Clothes,” she cried. “How will I get to Harriet's in my nightgown and skirt? And where
is
my skirt? What time is it? I'm going to be late for school!”

“I'll run to Harriet's and get you a dress,” he said, feeling guilt welling up in him. “Grace, I didn't think…when you fell asleep…”

“When have you ever thought with anything other than what's in your pants,” she snapped.

That hurt. He went to the wardrobe stiffly and produced a shirt, then remembered the stain on his breeches. He shed them casually, ignoring her gasp. As soon as he had changed pants and donned his boots, he left without another word.

Grace sank trembling onto the bed. She hugged herself. Her reputation was ruined. Natchez was a small town where gossip traveled fast. She would never find respectable employment here—not now.

Her mind refused to dwell on that. Instead, it rehearsed in precise detail what he had done to her and her unabashed response. Grace was an intelligent woman. She understood the facts of life. But she had never, ever dreamed an act like the one they had practiced could exist.

An act? No, a perversion. She clenched her fists. Of course he would know all the perversions—even if they were wonderful!

She wanted to weep. She wanted to hit him. At the same
time, she wanted, traitorously, to crawl back into bed and wait for Rathe to return, hold out her arms to him and welcome him into her embrace. He was so warm, so hard, so male. So handsome.

Such a bastard.

She closed her eyes, picturing him as he calmly shed his breeches, not even bothering to turn his back to her. His shoulders were broad and strong, his chest well-developed and powerful-looking. He had arms and legs like the classical sculptures of Greek athletes. And his manhood…

She hadn't meant to look.

She hadn't been able not to.

She had to pull herself together before he returned, better yet, find a maid, borrow some clothes, and leave before he came back. Ten minutes later, Grace did just that.

 

It should have been a normal school day. Yet Grace didn't think her life would ever be normal again. As she stood in front of her students that day, Grace had great difficulty concentrating.
He
intruded upon her thoughts constantly. So did the events of the night before, the violence and the terror. Because of the role she had played in them, she had become something of a heroine, with her pupils hanging avidly onto her every distracted word. She was also remembering the pointed look Rawlins had directed at her, its lingering threat. She began to wish that she hadn't run out that morning without seeing Rathe again.

He had said he would come to school every day to escort her home. Would he? Or would he be so annoyed with her for that parting insult that he'd decide she could fend for herself? More importantly, did she have something to fear from Rawlins and his cohorts? As the day ticked away, her feeling of dread grew.

The church and yard finally emptied at three-fifteen. Grace stood on the steps, glancing around. There was
no sign of either Rathe or Rawlins. The knot of fear loosened slightly. Of course, Rawlins wouldn't appear—he had been shot last night. And as for Rathe, obviously he hadn't meant it when he had said he would take her home every day. Obviously he didn't care, which was fine with her.

It was a blatant lie. She could not keep pretending, even to herself, that she was indifferent to him. At the very least, she was disappointed that he hadn't come.

She was halfway home when she heard the horse approaching from behind her.

Every muscle in her body went stiff and she turned, clutching her books. It was only a farmer with a buck-board. He offered her a ride. Grace was about to accept when she saw Rathe cantering up the road on his big black stallion. She froze, then quickly reached for the wagon, about to climb in. She had one foot on the sideboard when he spoke from behind her.

“I said I'd be here and I'm here.” He moved the stallion closer, reaching out his hand. “Get up.”

“No thank you,” she said rigidly. “This kind farmer has offered to drive me to town.”

“He going to defend you from Rawlins' buddies?” Rathe asked coldly. “Get over here, Grace.”

“That's okay, ma'am,” the farmer said nervously. “I doan mind you ridin' with the gent'man.” He raised the reins and clucked his mule forward.

Grace glared furiously. “You intimidated him!”

“He probably found the threat of Rawlins more intimidating.”

“I'm walking,” Grace said.

“Fine.”

She didn't look at him again. He rode his horse at a slow pace right behind her, so close that once or twice Grace could feel the animal's warm breath on her nape. She kept her shoulders squared and her head held high.
He
was angry! Well, she was just as angry—no, angrier!

When they arrived back at Harriet's she hurried ahead
of him into the house. She passed several boarders on the veranda when she went in. One of them flashed her a grin, a very lewd kind of grin. His rummy-card partner, an older gentleman, gave her a clearly disapproving look and picked up his hand. Grace hurried inside.

She was still smarting under both the censoring and the grin when she came face to face with Harriet. “Good afternoon, Harriet,” she began warmly. “How—”

Harriet bustled past after throwing her a dark glance.

Oh dear, Grace thought.
The story is out
.

“Grace?”

She froze. It was Allen's voice; he was calling from his bedroom down the hall. He called again. Afraid he would try and get out of bed, she hurried to his room. He was sitting propped up, looking much better. Her chest was tight with anxiety. “Allen, hello. How are you feeling today?”

He didn't answer, just stared at her as she approached.

She made a fuss of fixing his pillows. “Can I bring you something?”

“Is it true?”

She blanched. “Is what true?”

“You spent the night at the Silver Lady Hotel.”

She went red. What could she possibly say? It was true. But it wasn't exactly what it appeared to be—or was it? They had been intimate, even if in some unusual, perverted way. Biting her lip, she sank onto the foot of the bed.

Allen looked away.

“It's not exactly what you think, Allen.”

“You spent the night with him, didn't you,” Allen said, distraught and hurt.

“I fell asleep,” Grace said defensively.

“Is that all?”

Color swept over her face.

“Oh, God,” Allen moaned. “Do you love him?”

“It's not like that at all,” Grace cried, standing. “I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't mean to stay the
night—oh, damn!” Whether from the tension of the entire day, or something else, deeper and more insistent, tears filled her eyes.