by Brenda Joyce
“You know, Grace,” he said, “you never answered my question. What were you doing down at the waterfront? I know you couldn’t possibly be such a Yankee greenhorn that you really thought to find work on Silver Street?”
“Well, no,” she said, flustered. “Actually, I was exploring.”
“Exploring!” That did it. Her bravery did scare him. Rathe knew she needed him desperately, in every way. When she was his mistress he would not just be her provider, but her protector. It was evident that she needed someone to keep her out of trouble.
Last night, when the idea had first come to him, he’d been elated, but that had rapidly given way to guilt and uncertainty. How would he ever get her to agree, and was it even fair to try to convince her? He had barely slept, his conscience warring with his baser needs. But today, there was no longer any doubt. She needed him more than he needed her. She needed him desperately to keep her out of danger.
Grace finally finished and looked up to find Rathe’s intense gaze riveted upon her. She sensed the abrupt change in him and nervously straightened. “There, that’s done.” She quickly began gathering up the stained rags.
Rathe leaned back in his chair, following her every movement. She had a helluva body, even in the ill-fitting gown. So long and slender. He imagined what her legs looked like, imagined them long and lily-white and wrapped around his own hard flanks while he was pumping into her. That fantasy produced an instant hardening. He decided that it was because he’d gone for the past few days without sex, a very rare feat for him since he’d discovered that wonderful activity at the age of thirteen. Then he remembered how Grace had accused him of being with a whore this morning, and his grin widened. He had stopped by only to collect some money that he had lent one of the girls. He said, casually, to her back, “Shall I meet you down here then, in twenty minutes?”
She turned slowly. “Meet me here?”
“To take you to supper. I want to take you to supper, Grace.”
Her every instinct told her that this was dangerous. She should wait until Allen arrived home, and have a quiet meal with him. She didn’t want anything from this man. But then she met Rathe’s eyes, his so very beautiful blue eyes, and felt that heated feeling uncurling deep within her. After all, she thought, she was decidedly impoverished. She hadn’t eaten since this morning, and although Harriet’s meals were very cheap, they still cut into her meager funds. Why not have a free meal? If she didn’t find a job, meals might soon become rather scarce. That was, of course, the only reason she would dine with him. “All right.”
Rathe grinned.
Twenty minutes was enough to give Grace serious doubts about her decision.
He was, she reminded herself, the antithesis of everything she believed in. To him, women were objects of pleasure. The fact that for Rathe Bragg, one woman wasn’t enough only made it worse.
He was also a prejudiced Southerner. After all, he was from Texas. She clearly recalled the conversation between him and Sheriff Ford. He had been preoccupied with what had happened to her, a white woman, not what had happened to the Negro vendor. And while she had to be honest with herself and admit she was somewhat grateful he had been there, he had not handled the situation in a way she approved of. Violence was never the answer, though she was certainly not surprised that that had been his solution. And she was sure he had exaggerated the consequences of the assault—surely someone else would have stopped the sailors if he hadn’t come by! Added to all the charges against him was the blatant fact that he was nothing more than a wastrel, a drifter, a gambler, a complete and unrepentant hedonist.
“Is something wrong, Gracie?” Rathe asked, as they walked down the path to the street.
She didn’t meet his gaze. I need this meal, she reminded herself, when some inner, traitorous voice piped up: He defended and protected you, Grace.
“Grace?”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, flushing from the thrill she now felt; this man had been angry enough to come to blows to defend her virtue. Good God! How could she be thinking like this—she was an enlightened, modern woman! She could defend herself!
Not that time, her inner voice snidely said.
“Grace?”
Then she looked at him, really looked, and noticed that he had changed from his breeches to a fine, dark suit with a silver brocade vest and tie. The faint hint of a pleasing musky cologne touched her nostrils. He had taken her arm. With the sun glinting in his thick, sun-streaked hair, he was not just urbane and elegant, but utterly virile and devastatingly handsome. She was suddenly miserably aware of her own drab appearance, and for the first time in her life wished she were wearing a nice silk gown. Then she stared at the carriage awaiting them.
She wasn’t sure she had ever seen anything quite like it. A magnificent palomino tugged at the traces, shaking its head impatiently, its silver mane flowing past its shoulder. The carriage was varnished black, with brass trimmings, and gleamed brightly in the sunlight. The driver was liveried and holding open the door. Inside, it was all plush red leather. “Rathe, where on earth did you find something like this?”
He laughed, pleased. “Only the best for you, Gracie.” His gaze held hers, bold and direct. She had to blush and look away.
He handed her in. Grace knew it was ridiculous, but she felt like a queen. She ran a hand over the soft, sensuous leather as the carriage dipped beneath Rathe’s weight. She shot a glance at him and saw he was watching, smiling slightly; she quickly clasped her hands in her lap and squared her shoulders. The driver shut the door, climbed up to his seat above them and the carriage rolled forward. “It’s yours if you want it,” Rathe said.
“What?”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
She stared, thoroughly shocked.
His gaze was warm. “It would be my pleasure to give you things, Grace.”
Her eyes widened. “What can you be thinking of?”
Ah, he thought, if only you knew.
He began pointing out the local landmarks, much to her surprise. “That’s Dunleith. It was first built in ’43 by Jack Farrington, an Englishman. It was completely razed during the war. Farrington’s sons have rebuilt it almost exactly as it was.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, craning her neck for a last glimpse of the massive brick, pillared home.
“That’s Fairfax,” he said, pointing out another plantation home, this one white and weathered. “It’s another rooming house. It’s also run by a widow, Missus Bergen. She’s not like Harriet, though.”
Grace looked at him inquiringly.
“She’s old and a bit forgetful. I think she’s almost ninety. Her servant, a freed Negro, is probably older. He’s forgetful, too. But they’re warm and wonderful people.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if they’re forgetful.”
He looked at her. “Not only do they forget to collect the rent, which no one, I daresay, minds, but from time to time they forget to feed their boarders.”
Grace bit back a smile, or tried to.
He grinned.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “What a hungry group they must be.”
His grin widened. “I made that up.”
She couldn’t help it; she started to laugh.
She glanced out the window again, and this time gasped with delight, getting her first glimpse of a roundwheeler. It was white and red, with three decks, the paddlewheel huge. Her name was the Mississippi Queen. “Oh, she’s beautiful! Where is she going?”
“To New Orleans,” Rathe said, watching her.
“To New Orleans! How long does it take? Do the passengers sleep aboard?”
“Yes indeed,” Rathe said, as the carriage came to a halt. “And it takes two and half days.”
“Where are we going?” Grace cried.
Rathe grinned. “For a riverboat ride.”
Grace was wide-eyed as Rathe escorted her toward the plank with one hand possessively on her elbow. “But Rathe, I can’t possibly go with yo
u to New Orleans!”
He laughed. “We’re only going to have supper. Our driver will meet us downriver.” His look was both questioning and amused.
Grace put a hand to her rapidly beating heart. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, yes, I would like that.”
He seemed pleased as they strolled up the gangplank. “Let’s take a turn around the deck.”
“Yes,” Grace said, turning to stare at a couple, the woman resplendent in white linen and lace with a matching parasol. They, too, were ambling along the deck, as were many other passengers.
“Come on,” Rathe said, taking her hand.
She was too involved with her surroundings to notice the impropriety of it. They moved toward the bow. A blast of the ship’s horn sounded, making Grace jump. Rathe clapped his hands over her ears as the atrocious, ear-splitting noise sounded again. He removed his hands. “Awful, isn’t it?”
“Whatever was that for?”
“A warning. We leave in ten minutes,” he told her, taking her hand again.
This time, because they were standing so closely together and all her attention was focused on him, she was aware of his palm, so large and slightly damp, holding hers. “Rathe,” she protested, gently disengaging herself and trying not to notice his obvious disappointment. He was a gentleman, however. He touched her elbow and they walked on.
They stood at the bow, watching the docks and the stevedores unloading various cargoes, standing side by side. A whisper of a warm breeze touched them. “Look, Grace,” Rathe said, putting his arm around her and turning her.
She forgot to object as she watched, fascinated, as the crew began untying the ship’s lines and pulling in the gangplank. They worked quickly and efficiently. “Cover your ears, Grace,” Rathe urged, and she obeyed, just in time, as the ship’s horn blared again. Then the boat began edging away from the dock. “We’re going backward!” Grace cried.
“Only to get out into the river,” Rathe told her. “Right now we’re under steam.”
The shore receded. The bow began to swing slowly around, until they were facing south, and then the paddle-wheeler began drifting leisurely downriver. The breeze at once became cooler, and Grace lifted her face to it, smiling. “How glorious,” she murmured.
Rathe could not take his eyes off of her upturned face.
Her hands were on the wood railing. She stood lost in the wonderful moment, until she realized one of his hands had covered hers. That brought her back to reality, and she pulled her hands away, clasping them together in front of her. She stole a glance at him. His regard was so warm it made her breath catch in her throat.
“Even in that bun,” he said softly, “your hair is magnificent in the sunlight. Red and gold, like living fire.”
The compliment was lovely and it pleased her almost as much as it unnerved her. “I didn’t think to bring a hat.”
“I wish I could see it flowing loose and free,” he said.
He was so intense, she was held captive by his blue eyes. Then he broke the moment, taking her arm. “We had better get some food into you.”
“Yes,” Grace said quickly. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
The dining salon was on the uppermost deck. It was as fine as any elegant restaurant, the carpets thick and Turkish, the walls brocade, the hangings silk. Rathe requested a window table and pulled out her chair to seat her himself. Grace stared at him as he sat, never having received such considerate treatment in her life. This was like a dream; it was as if she were some debutante who had grown up in a mansion in New York. She touched the white, spotless linen tablecloth and wondered if the glassware were crystal and the flatware silver.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a bottle of champagne.”
Champagne. Grace had never had champagne before. She found herself unable to take her eyes off him.
“Do you like champagne?”
She felt her color rising. “Yes, of course.”
“Good,” he said, looking amused. “Because I do, too.”
He reached out and covered her hand with his. Grace tensed, from deep within herself. She looked into his eyes and saw warmth again—not lust, but tender warmth. Confusion and a touch of panic roiled with other emotions too perplexing to identify.
“Grace?” Rathe interrupted her thoughts. He nodded toward the window. “Look.”
Grace gazed past Rathe and smiled. The sun was hanging low in the west and two boys on a raft were paddling their way down the Mississippi. They were no older than thirteen or fourteen, barefoot, shirtless and in dungarees, tanned nut-brown. Apparently they were on a fishing expedition, for their lines were floating behind them. As Grace watched, smiling, they sat idly chatting and laughing and eating something from a basket. Then one of them leapt to his feet shouting, and Grace realized that one of the lines had become taut with the weight of a fish. “Oh, they’ve caught something!”
“Indeed they have.”
She turned fully to watch. The boy was attempting to reel in his catch. He was straining from the effort, and his friend grabbed the pole to help. The boys became quite red. “Oh my,” Grace said. “They must have caught a whale!”
Rathe chuckled.
The boys reeled in a log, their disappointment obvious.
Grace turned back to Rathe, smiling. “Too bad. I so wanted to see them catch something. It looked like such fun.”
Rathe looked at her, then he grinned, his blue eyes twinkling.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said, his tone teasing.
The champagne was poured. Grace watched, looking at the pale gold liquid with its tiny bubbles, curiosity and excitement racing through her. Champagne, she thought, awed. Rathe raised his glass. Grace realized he was waiting for her to do the same. “To an extraordinary woman,” he said softly, his gaze holding hers. “To you, Grace. To you, to this day, and to the future.” He touched his glass to hers.
Grace’s heart was beating hard. She tried reminding herself that he was an experienced roué, and that these sort of words would come naturally to him. Yet he sounded so sincere. She took a small sip of the champagne and found it light and pleasant.
“Does it meet with your approval?” he asked, hiding a grin.
“It’s quite good.”
“This bottle is one of the finest in the world,” he told her. “And, I admit, it’s my personal favorite.”
Grace tried another taste and found it more than quite good. She looked at Rathe and smiled.
“By the end of this day you will be a champagne aficionado,” he said, chuckling. “What are you in the mood for, Grace? How about fresh fish?”
“Yes, that sounds absolutely wonderful,” she said, sipping the champagne. Rathe was right, it was delicious. And very relaxing, too. She could feel her shoulders dropping, the tension slipping away, and it was divine. She looked up to find Rathe regarding her again, and she smiled at him. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he beamed. “What I wouldn’t give for more of those smiles,” he murmured.
“Then you’ll just have to take me on more boat rides,” she said.
He stared in mute surprise, then laughed. “Why, Miss O’Rourke! Are you flirting with me?”
Grace blushed, touching her hand to her lips. Had she just done that? She was saved from responding when something was placed in front of them—something suspicious-looking, jellylike and reddish-yellow. Seeing her expression, Rathe laughed. “It’s caviar, Grace. A true gourmet treat.”
“Caviar?” She cleared her throat. “Fish eggs?”
“Don’t think of it that way.” He placed a small amount on a cracker, Grace watching, fascinated. He held it out to her; Grace drew back. “For me?”
“You cannot possibly drink this champagne without trying caviar.” There was something in his eyes, something too intimate. Grace looked at the cracker, so close to her mouth—close enough that if she opened her lips he could slip it inside. She took it from him and ni
bbled cautiously. It was terrible. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, though, so she finished what he’d given her, then took a long sip of water.
“Well?”
“It’s quite—er—interesting.”
“You have to acquire the taste.”
“Undoubtedly. Whyever would one want to acquire a taste for something so awful?”
Rathe laughed. “I have no idea. And I’ll let you in on a little secret—I can’t stand the stuff myself.”
Grace laughed. “Then why…”
“I wanted you to try it.” His gaze lingered, all lightness vanishing.
Grace’s smile disappeared, too. She was ridiculously touched. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Their glances held.
“I have a confession to make,” Grace said later, over their excellent sautéed redfish.
“Ah, a confession. What could you possibly have to confess?” He was teasing. “No, wait! Your desire for me?”
She laughed. “No, not my desire for you.”
“Ah, but you did say my desire for you. Dare I dream it exists?”
“Rathe! Do you want to hear my confession or not?”
“I am dying to hear it.”
She leaned forward. “I’ve never had champagne before.”
He laughed, taking her hands in his and holding them tightly. This time, Grace did not attempt to remove them. “I know,” he said softly.
She blushed slightly. “You do?”
“Of course.”
“You seem to know too much.”
“There are advantages to being with a worldly man.”
She couldn’t look away, even though she knew she should. She could easily imagine the advantages—wonderful, exciting afternoons like this, afternoons that should be endless but unfortunately weren’t. And she thought about the way he had kissed her earlier that day. His lips had been firm but gentle, and even now, remembering, something tightened and spiraled deep inside her.