by Brenda Joyce
“Don’t you think you were being a little harsh on her, Louisa?” Rathe asked.
“Oh, fie! She deserved it and worse. How dare she?”
Rathe smiled, thinking that Grace could, and would, dare just about anything. “Why doesn’t little Geoff go to school?”
Louisa raised an appalled eyebrow. “I happen to need him around heah. An’ damned if I’ll let my niggers attend that school!”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Rathe drawled, coolly. “You need the boy heah, but he sure could be more helpful if he knew his numbers.”
“Rathe! What do you mean, a good idea teachin’ those darkies to read and write? It’s bad enough we have to pay the taxes for their damn schools. Look at what’s happened to the South with the niggers votin’! Those damn Republican Yankee carpetbaggers are runnin’ everythin’!”
“Sweetheart, the coloreds are men and women just like you and me, and no, they’re not white, but they’re as human as we are,” Rathe chided gently. “I do believe that bemoaning the fact that they are free, with civil rights, is pointless. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be happy if the Negroes started voting Democrat.”
Louisa stared, pink and flushed. “You are a traitor, Rathe, aren’t you? A damn scalawag! Are you one of them Republicans, too? Did you even fight for the grand old South? Did you?”
“Do you really care which way I vote?” he drawled, mockingly.
“Did you fight for the South?” Her tone was high, strident.
Rathe leaned against the mantel. “The War is over, Louisa. It’s been over for ten years. You’re hanging on to illusions and dreams. It’s time to let go and face reality.”
“Face a carpetbagger reality? Yankee reality? Never!”
Rathe sighed, pushing himself off of the mantel. “Enough. I stopped by because I think I left a letter from New York here.” It was, of course, only a half-truth. He’d really returned to Melrose to catch a glimpse of Grace O’Rourke.
Louisa stared. Then, softer, “Just tell me, did you or did you not fight for the South?”
“I fought for the South all right, Louisa,” Rathe said expressionlessly. “But for my own reasons. I was sixteen when I killed my first Yank, and you know what? He was younger than I was.” His gaze was diamond-hard.
“Oh, Rathe, I’m sorry,” Louisa cried, coming to him and wrapping herself around him.
He politely disengaged himself from her. “Did you notice that letter, Louisa?”
“Yes, it’s upstairs. Rathe, darling, why don’t you sit down.” She smiled brightly. “Are you hungry?”
“Is it in your room?” he asked, already striding into the hall.
Louisa followed him. “Yes. Rathe, aren’t you going to stay tonight?”
“I’m afraid not.” He bounded up the stairs.
“But you didn’t stay last night!” she cried in protest.
Rathe stopped and took her hand. His smile was gentle. “There’s a big card game tonight.”
“That’s what you said last night.” She pouted.
“Perhaps another time,” he said quietly.
“Promise?”
He just smiled slightly. It wasn’t that Rathe hadn’t enjoyed the two nights they had spent together since his arrival in Natchez. But now, for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t in the mood for Louisa Barclay. He found her attitude mean and petty and conniving—and he hated the way she had just treated Grace.
Grace. An enticing vision of the redheaded governess came to his mind, spectacles and all. He tried to shrug it away. He remembered how the glasses kept sliding down her little nose, revealing more of her big, violet eyes. Despite the glasses, he had been able to see her anger just now. He had to smile. Grace could bite her tongue with Louisa, but not with him. His smile faded and became a frown. Now this was silly. Grace absolutely had nothing to do with his not wanting to remain at Melrose tonight.
He leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree and gave in to the pleasure of watching her.
It was the next day at noon. Rathe had ridden out to Melrose without questioning the impulse. But he had enough experience with women to know that if he wanted to see Grace, he’d have to avoid Louisa in doing so. The idea of skulking around like a schoolboy amused him somehow, sharpened the adventure. He had found Grace and Geoffrey ensconced in a copse of trees at the center of a little meadow not far from the house. They were sitting on a blanket, both of their heads bent over the slate Geoffrey was working so diligently on. “That is very, very good,” Grace said, her voice rich with pleasure and carrying easily to where he stood not far from them. He liked the sound of her voice. He liked a few other things about her, too.
She had taken off her glasses, and her tight bun had loosened. Strands of curling hair had escaped to frame her face. Now, when she was relaxed and intent on teaching, without those ridiculous spectacles, she was beautiful. Her full mouth, curving in a smile, did something to him. It sent a surge of hot lust to his groin. He looked at her body again as she bent over the slate, the sunlight making her hair glint with gold, and he wished he could dress her in a well-fitted, expensive gown. Amethysts, he thought. He would deck her out in amethysts, too.
He wondered how old she was, and what made a woman like this become a crazy radical.
They were still bent over the slate, Geoffrey practicing his letters as he came forward. Grace leapt up in shock, purple eyes wide. Geoffrey screeched with delight. “It’s Mistah Rathe!”
As Geoffrey ran forward to greet him, Rathe watched her relaxed, natural poise disappear. He watched her lips thin, her shoulders square, her slender white hand tuck away the sensual wisps of hair, the glasses reappear on her little freckled nose. He caught Geoffrey in his arms and lifted him high, swinging him around. “Hello,” he said, over the boy’s head, to Grace.
“You’re spying!”
He put Geoffrey down. “I saw you coming out here, alone, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity of strolling with a beautiful woman,” he teased.
She was on her feet, prepared to do battle. “Your charm will not work with me.”
He cocked a doubtful eyebrow, grinning.
She folded her arms across her chest, trying to look stern when in truth her heart was banging madly in her breast. “Why are you spying on us, Mr. Bragg?”
“Rathe,” he said, softly. “Rathe. I think we know each other well enough for you to call me Rathe.”
She blushed beautifully. “We most certainly do not!”
“Not for my lack of trying.” He grinned.
The blush deepened. “You can try till your dying day, Mister Bragg, but it won’t change anything.”
His smile was broad. “Is that a challenge?”
She took a breath, suddenly uneasy. “Take it any way you like.”
“Is that an invitation?” He coudn’t help it—he imagined “taking” her a dozen different ways. Grace, he saw, was impervious to the innuendo.
“An invitation?” she said blankly. Then, “I suppose you’ll be telling Louisa about this?”
“Now why would I do that?” Rathe asked, riffling Geoffrey’s hair.
He was pulling at Rathe’s big, calloused hand. “Come an’ look, Mistah Rathe. Look at my A’s an’ B’s.”
Rathe laughed at Geoff’s enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled forward. “Ah ha,” he said, squatting and studying the slate. “Why, I have never seen a finer A or B in my entire life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Geoffrey shrieked a cry of gladness, bouncing around in a little jig, while Rathe and Grace’s gazes met—hers hard, his soft.
“Don’t play with me, Mister Bragg,” Grace finally said, stiffly.
He smiled at her innocent words, imagining vividly how he would like to play with her. He would start by loosening that bun and letting her glorious hair flame free. He stood. “I’m not playing with you, Gracie. When we play, you’ll know it.”
She stared blankly, frigidly.
There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she had never been with a man. Her innocence, at her age, with her intellect, was astounding.
“Are you or are you not going to inform on me, Mister Bragg?” she said rigidly.
“Rathe,” he coaxed. “Rathe. And I never tell on a lady.”
This time she understood, and this time she blushed.
He grinned. “I give you my word.”
She raised her chin, her expression one of utter contempt.
It amused him. “You doubt the word of a Texan?”
“I doubt the word of a scoundrel.”
Rathe laughed, a rich rumble of sound. “Then you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you.”
“I’d rather not.”
Once again, he wondered if her animosity was directed solely at him, or at all men. “Maybe if you tried trusting me, you wouldn’t be disappointed.”
She laughed. “You are the last man on this earth that I’d ever trust!”
He was genuinely insulted. “Another challenge? Gracie, I think it’s only fair that I warn you,” his gaze held hers, “that I find challenges irresistible.”
She clenched her teeth. “That is your problem, not mine. If you’ll excuse us? Geoffrey, come on, we don’t have all day. I want to see your A’s and B’s again.”
Geoffrey came running and plopped down. Grace made a point of ignoring Rathe, who made no move to leave. She watched her student making near-perfect letters. “Very good. Do you remember what C is for?”
“C is for cat.”
“That’s right. And C looks like this. There. Now you do it.”
She watched him make a large, irregular C, trying to ignore the man standing with his boot-clad calf in the peripheral range of her right eye. The boot cleaved to thick, but not squat, muscles, and was gleaming with polish. Her eye wandered up to a doeskin-clad knee, lingered at the edge of a powerful thigh. She quickly looked back down as Geoff gave a cry of triumph and shoved the slate at her. “Excellent. Let’s see four more.”
“Let me see,” Rathe said, and Grace watched the boot move practically against her arm as he came to stand behind her. She realized, as he bent over her to look down, that she was holding her breath. She exhaled, and it came out in a large rush of sound.
“That is excellent, Geoff,” Rathe said.
He beamed and began enthusiastically making more C’s.
Grace flinched when she felt a pair of large, warm hands cup her shoulders. It was getting hotter out; she was perspiring. She pulled away, then rose to her feet. “What are you doing?”
“Doesn’t it hurt, holding them so stiff like you do all the time?”
Her shoulders went squarer. “You have no right to touch me. What are you even doing here? Why don’t you leave? Or don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t have anything better to do—that is, there is nothing I would rather do than be here with you.”
“That is too bad,” she said stiffly, thinking, of course, that he didn’t mean it. Words, they were just words. But what if he did mean it? “Because the feeling is not mutual.”
“Now why is that? You being the fair-minded person you are, it doesn’t seem right that you’ve judged me without knowing me.” His gaze was bright blue and teasing, even though his words were serious. “Haven’t you ever heard of a fair trial?”
“I wasn’t aware that this was a trial.”
“You could have fooled me,” he said, unsmiling now. “There was no evidence, yet the verdict is guilty.”
“Your conceit is astounding. Contrary to what you might think, I have not given you one thought.” She stared, feeling secretly appalled by the immensity of the falsehood.
He started to smile knowingly. “Not one?”
“Life is one big joke to you, isn’t it?” she said gravely.
“And you take it too seriously,” Rathe said, reaching out a hand and touching one forefinger to her smooth, alabaster cheek. He’d known it. Like silk. Her skin was flawless.
Her mouth parted in shock.
His gaze was inexorably drawn to the full, open lips.
She stood frozen, unable to move.
Unable to resist, he bent forward.
For the briefest moment, his lips brushed hers with the delicate touch of a feather. Then he pulled back slightly, to stare into her wide, purple eyes framed by the ugly little glasses. He saw the slap coming but only turned his face slightly. The blow was surprisingly hard and it stung. He guessed he deserved it.
“How dare you!”
He didn’t smile. “The question really is, how could I not?”
“You’re worse than the others,” she gasped. “Much, much worse! The worst sort of rake, a perverted philistine who wants only one thing from women. We’re all your toys, aren’t we? And the world is just one big playroom to keep you amused, isn’t it?”
He stared, riveted by her words and the vague memory of another time and another place. Perverted philistine…Rathe suddenly cupped her face.
“Stop it!” she cried furiously, trying to twist away.
“Be still.” He held her face in one large hand, studying it. He twisted his hips to avoid her sudden kick. “It was you!”
He released her and she backed away, panting and frightened. She had seen the light of recognition in his eyes.
“Grace—it was you! In New York! You’re that crazy suffragette who shot up van Horne’s home!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grace said tensely.
He threw back his head and roared. “It was you! Damn! I knew there was something familiar about you!”
He was laughing at her—again. “You bigoted pig,” she said furiously.
“Male tyrant?” he supplied helpfully, eyes twinkling, dimples deep.
“Yes! Pig, tyrant, philistine, you sicken me!”
He laughed again, then clasped her shoulders, ignoring her struggles. His hands were so very strong—so uncompromising. “Gracie, what in hell are you doing way down here?”
She stopped struggling, flushed with anger and other dangerous emotions. Her glasses were slipping down her nose, but she couldn’t raise her hands to push them up. “That, sir, is none of your business!”
He grinned. “I guess not.” He released her, then suddenly swooped down on Geoff. “Hey, Geoff, what’s wrong?”
Geoffrey was close to tears. “You done hurt Miz Grace.”
“Oh, no, never, Geoff, I’m a Southern gentleman and I’d never hurt a lady.” All his attention was on the little boy, and perversely, Grace was peeved.
“It’s okay, Geoffrey,” Grace said, reaching out to smooth his hair. “He wasn’t hurting me. We were—having a disagreement.”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” Rathe supplied. “Now, let’s see those C’s.”
Reassured, Geoff handed the slate to Rathe. “Perfect,” Rathe announced.
Geoff looked hopefully at Grace.
“Yes, they are perfect. Geoff,” Grace said, “I want you to practice these letters tonight in secret. Okay?”
“Yes’m.”
“Now, I have to get back, so why don’t you run on ahead. You can keep the slate, but don’t show it to anyone.”
After Geoffrey had gone, Grace turned a serious regard on Rathe, who was grinning. Before she could speak, he reached for her. “Can’t wait for us to be alone?”
She dodged his eager hands.
“What are you going to do with—with the information you found out today?”
Rathe’s expression grew bright with comprehension and his grin widened. “Ah. I don’t know.”
“Please,” Grace managed, hating having to beg. “I need this job. She doesn’t know—about New York.”
“I see.”
“No, I doubt that you do. I’m asking you nicely to stay out of this.”
Rathe’s eyes sparkled. “What do I get in re
turn for my silence?”
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
“What do you think?” he said recklessly.
She was breathless, blushing.
He was breathless, throbbing. “The price of my silence is a kiss.”
She bit off a gasp of outrage. “You, sir, are impossible!” she cried, and turned away furiously.
“But irresistible,” he said softly, close behind her, too close.
“Not to me!”
“When do I get my kiss?”
“Certainly not now,” she said, moving away and facing him. “Not ever! You are despicable. If you were truly a gentleman you would keep your silence without a price.”
“Then you must be right. I’m a scoundrel, a rake, and a—what was it? A perverted philistine?”
He was making fun of her again. She lifted her chin. “I must get back.”
“When do I get my kiss?” he persisted.
Her bosom heaved. He had no scruples. She had no doubt he would reveal her secret if she denied him. It was a risk she could not take. “Tonight.”
Chapter 6
The thought of seducing her had crossed his mind, once or twice. But it wouldn’t be right, and he knew it, because he knew that if he seriously set out to seduce her, he would succeed. She would have no defense against his well-practiced, superior tactics. That knowledge definitely raised some guilt. If he were smart, he would ride out of Natchez now, this instant, instead of lurking by the barn waiting for their rendezvous. And their kiss.
Did she really think him such a cad that he’d tattle on her to Louisa Barclay? That upset him. Apparently, she really did think the worst of him—and she didn’t even know him. He tried to remember someone in his past, especially a woman, who had not liked him. He couldn’t think of a single one—up until now. Grace really didn’t like him.
Well, one kiss did not make a seduction. And one kiss would not hurt either of them. And one kiss was certainly the least he deserved…
But would she show up? He waited impatiently. Somehow he figured she was scared enough about him keeping her secret, that she would. She had agreed to meet him behind the third barn at ten o’clock. He heard footsteps and turned.
Even if he hadn’t been expecting her, he would have recognized her in the dim glow of the moonlight from the stiff, squared set of her shoulders. He smiled at the familiar sight. She stopped a few yards from him, and he could just make out her expression—tensed and grim. He wondered what he would see in her eyes if it were lighter out. Anger? Apprehension? Excitement? His own body had begun a slow, delicious, steady throb. Damn. He wanted this woman. Of all women, he wanted her.
