Violet Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  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 goin
g 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.”

  Ford nodded, looking past Rathe at Grace’s face, which was now flushed with outrage. “Miss O’Rourke, I beg your pardon. But the boys were just havin’ a little fun, you get my meanin’?”

  “I most certainly do,” Grace managed.

  “Those boys attacked Grace,” Rathe said in a low tone. His gaze met Ford’s. “And I want to know what you’re going to do about it, Sheriff.”

  “You threatenin’ me, boy?”

  “Now, would I do that?” Rathe mocked.

  “Guess you wouldn’t, not if you know what’s good for you.” The two men stared at each other, locked in a tense stand-off.

  Then Rathe smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be down later to make a statement—since I saw the entire incident.”

  Ford’s eyes glinted. “Before I make any arrests, I’ll have to investigate.”

  “You do that,” Rathe drawled. “You make sure you do that.” His mouth curved in another humorless smile; then he took her arm. “Let’s get out of here, Grace.”

  Chapter 10

  “Where are we going?”

  Rathe had his hand firmly on her elbow as he guided her up the street. “Back to the boardinghouse to clean up, then I’m taking you to supper.”

  That stopped her in her tracks. “Now listen! How you can even think of—”

  He tugged on her until she’d started moving again. “I can, and I am.” He flashed her his best dimpled smile. “Aren’t you hungry, Grace? Won’t you let me buy you a nice hot meal? After all I did for you today?”

  That stopped her again, abruptly. “What you did for me? From what I saw, you got some perverse kind of satisfaction in pounding those two men to a pulp!”

  His face went very still. “You’re determined, aren’t you, to fight me every step of the way?”

  “I’m not fighting you, Mr. Bragg, for it’s certainly not a sport that interests me.”

  “You little ingrate,” he growled, grabbing both her arms in a viselike hold.

  Grace tested it once then went motionless.

  “You interfered with that young Negro and almost got yourself raped in the process. If I hadn’t come along, right now you’d be flat on your back with your skirt up to your neck—do you understand?”

  She blanched. Then a red tide of fury swept her. “That is circumstantial speculation!”

  “Circumstantial speculation?”

  “Circumstantial speculation!” Her hands were on her hips, balled into fists. “What’s wrong, Mr. Bragg? Do you need a dictionary?”

  His mouth went tight.

  “What about that poor woman, Rathe? What about her?”

  “What?”

  “The vendor,” she shouted. “There is an important issue here which you seem intent on ignoring.”

  “The issue which you seem intent on ignoring is one of safety, common sense, and propriety!” Rathe shouted back. He realized he had raised his voice, but didn’t care. “Good women don’t go barreling around the waterfront!”

  “Propriety!” she shrieked. “You dare tell me about propriety when you’re the one who lost me my job, thanks to your shameless attentions?”

  That silenced Rathe momentarily.

  “The issue,” Grace cried, grabbing one of his hands to get his attention, “the issue is that colored woman being accosted on a public street by white men, Rathe, and no one giving a damn!”

  “Damn.” Rathe winced.

  Grace felt the stickiness of blood at that exact moment and dropped his hand like it was a hot iron. “Oh, dear! Your hand is bleeding.” Unconsciously, her own palm covered her racing heart.

  “A bit,” he agreed. Then, darting a glance at her and seeing her frozen countenance, Rathe winced again, this time with a slight groan. He checked her reaction. He was rewarded with brisk concern.

  “Here, let me look at that.”

  “Ow,” he said, pulling his hand back.

  “Oh, dear,” Grace said, feeling suddenly faint. His knuckles were raw and bloody. “We had better go to Harriet’s and I’ll clean up your hand. That dirt should come out immediately.”

  Rathe knew when he had a good thing going, so he wisely kept his mouth shut and meekly followed her. This course of action, however, did not stop Grace. Rather, it seemed to encourage her. “Rathe, something has to be done about that sheriff.”

  He didn’t answer, and she didn’t seem to notice. “This situation is scandalous. Outrageous. Allen told me Ford is one of those night riders. How can a man like that be in a position of power, which is given him by the public in good faith and with the utmost trust that he will uphold the laws and our Constitution? This situation cannot continue. I wonder if a letter to the governor would help?”

  “He was elected, Grace.”

  “Elected! Well, he should be unelected! Or, at the very least, in the fall elections he should be ousted! Yes! That’s a wonderful idea! We must encourage all the Negroes to vote against Ford this fall!”

  Rathe looked at her. “Don’t go getting involved in local politics, Grace,” he warned.

  “Hmm,” she said, deep in thought. Then she focused on him as they walked along in silence for another minute. “You do realize, don’t you, that the root of this problem is education? Values, Rathe, are
instilled at an early age. The young white child must be educated to think for himself, to question what he is told and sees, not to blindly accept the injustices of the world. And as for the young Negro, well, there the answer is much more fundamental. He must learn to read and write. That is the key. I think it’s a sin that Geoffrey doesn’t attend the public school. There should be a law requiring all children, regardless of their age, sex, or race, to attend school until they have attained a certain level of proficiency. Here’s Harriet’s. Does your hand hurt very much?”

  They had paused on the veranda. Rathe had not taken his eyes off her perfect profile through her entire discourse, while she had watched the street in front of them. Now she turned her gaze on him. “Well? What is it?”

  “What makes you the way you are, Grace?” His words were low, soft.

  She flushed. “What makes me the way I am? What kind of question is that?”

  “It’s a question that seems to make you very nervous,” he murmured. “And it’s one I intend to find the answer to.”

  He was right; it did make her nervous. She held open the door, but he insisted that she precede him in.

  In the kitchen Harriet Gold took one look at Rathe’s blood-spotted coat and shirt and cried out in concern, the supper she was preparing for her boarders forgotten. “Good heavens, Rathe, what happened?”

  “Just a little scrap,” Rathe told her, laughing inwardly at the gross misrepresentation, watching Grace while she pumped water into a basin. She set it down on the table.

  “Harriet, do you have some clean rags I can use?” she asked.

  Harriet looked from Rathe to Grace, then smiled broadly. “Of course I do.” She returned from the pantry with some clean linen strips. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and hurried out, purposefully leaving the two alone.

  Rathe didn’t pay attention. He was sitting at the table, both hands palm down in front of him, intently watching Grace as she bent over him dipping the linen in the water. She had a perfect, angelic profile. It was deceptive because it hid a sharp intellect and moral fervor. He decided he had never met such an extraordinary woman. He also decided that her bravery scared him.