by Brenda Joyce
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.
“Grace, I’m sorry,” Allen said, taking her hand.
She sank back down by his hip. “It wasn’t the way you think,” she sobbed. “I tried to stop a whipping. Rathe saved me. I was so afraid. He took me to that hotel. I was in shock. Then I fell asleep.”
“I’m sorry,” Allen said, easing her into his arms. “That wasn’t fair of me. You must love him very much.”
“No, I don’t,” Grace gasped, pulling back.
“How damn cozy,” Rathe drawled from the open doorway.
Grace stiffened.
Allen glared. “If I was a whole man, Bragg, I’d break your nose.”
“You could try,” Rathe said with clearly false pleasantry. Grace didn’t turn to look at him, but she could feel his smoldering presence. Then she heard him stomping away. She realized she was barely breathing.
“Are you all right?” Allen asked.
Grace nodded. But she wasn’t. And soon it got worse, because a letter with the mayor’s seal was waiting for her beneath her door. This time she felt absolute dread as she picked it up and opened it. Sheinreich was precise and to the point. She was dismissed, for reasons of moral unsuitability.
At the sharp rapping on his door, Rathe moved to open it. He felt his entire body go taut with anger as he stared at Grace. He hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d said—or for the fact that she had left that morning without waiting for him to return.
“May I come in?” she finally said, staring back at him.
“Finished with Allen already?” he asked snidely. He couldn’t help it. Since last night, feelings of possessiveness had overwhelmed him—and something else, something like dismay. He had overheard her vehemently telling Allen that she didn’t love him.
“I wish to discuss a matter with you,” she said, her chin coming up. “And I’d prefer not discussing it out in the hall.”
Rathe stepped aside, making a grand gesture with his arm. Grace walked rigidly past him, paused in the center of the room, then turned to face him. Rathe folded his arms and waited.
“Could you close the door?” she asked.
He shrugged and complied.
“I believe you owe me some money.”
“I do?”
A pink tide swept her face. “Yes.”
“For what?”
“For—er—services rendered.”
He wanted to hit her.
Rathe walked stiff-legged to the window and opened it, hoping for a cool breeze to ease his own burning anger. Unfortunately, only muggy air touched his face. He counted to ten—three times. Then he turned. “What services, exactly, are we talking about?”
“You know exactly what we’re talking about,” Grace snapped, her fists clenched.
He raised a surprisingly nonchalant brow. “Darlin’, I do believe you’re mixed up. A man does not pay for what occurred this morning—on the contrary.”
She was confused and angry. “Don’t think you can twist things around.”
“If anyone owes anybody,” Rathe said, wanting to kill her, “you owe me.”
She blinked.
“I performed for you, darlin’, not the other way around.”
She gasped.
“I pleasured you,” he said crudely, cruelly. “Quite thoroughly, if I recall.” He paused. “Although not as thoroughly as I’d like to.”
She took a step back, her face white.
Rathe felt like the cad she was constantly accusing him of being. But he couldn’t stop, not when she had come prancing in here perverting his offer and everything he felt for her by turning herself into a whore. “If you would like, we can rectify that immediately.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Grace said tightly.
“No? Tell me, Grace, why did you come? To insult me—to insult us? Again?”
“I’m leaving.” But she didn’t move.
“Why did you run out on me this morning?” Rathe demanded.
She flushed. “I was late.”
“It was only seven o’clock.”
“I thought it was later.”
They both knew she was lying. “You could have waited for me to return with your clothes. I would have driven you to the school.”
“I didn’t want to wait.”
His smile held no humor. “Yes, you made that very clear.” His jaw tightened visibly. “Are you going to spend your entire life running, Grace?”
Her nostrils flared. “I am not running!”
“No? You’ve sure fooled me.”
“I told you a long time ago, Mr. Bragg, that you do not scare me. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be running from you!”
“Ahh! So you admit you’re running from me!”
“I did not admit any such thing!”
“You’re thinking it or you wouldn’t have said it.”
“You’re impossible—impossibly conceited.”
“Go ahead and run, Grace,” Rathe said harshly. “Run as hard and as fast as you can. But don’t lie to yourself. You are running, from me, and from your feelings for me.”
She was trembling, her chest heaving.
“And remember this,” he said, his gaze searing, “I am a man. I can run faster, and I can run farther. You can’t escape me, Grace, and you can’t escape your feelings, either—not even if you run to China.”
For a beat, Grace stared at him. Then she turned and fled.
Chapter 17
Grace woke the next morning feeling desperate. She had no job, no money, and a fistful of her mother’s medical bills that were all long past due. Thanks to Rathe Bragg, she had no prospects either, for clearly everyone in Natchez knew about the night she’d spent with him.
Nevertheless, she dressed to hunt for a job, thinking she’d check back in at a few of the clifftop hotels. She didn’t hold out much
hope, though, because even if one of them had an opening, she’d be viewed as a pariah. She stopped in the middle of brushing her hair, covered her face with her hands, and began to consider the worst.
If worse came to worse, could she bring herself to go to work on Silver Street? What a hypocrite she’d appear! But then, Natchez already considered her a branded woman, so what difference did it make?
Damn! It made a difference to her; she was a woman of principles who condemned the businesses conducted in those dens of iniquity along Silver Street…prostitution, gambling, drinking. But she needed a job; principles wouldn’t pay for her mother’s hospital care.
Grace was halfway to the cliffs, preoccupied with her worries about money, trying not to think of that impossible cad, Rathe, and agonized over the fact that now the Negro children had no teacher. How soon would a replacement be found? Would the mayor even bother to actively recruit one? After all, Dr. Lang had said that Allen could return in a month. But one month was one month, and those children needed their schooling.
That precipitated a dangerous thought. Who was to stop her from organizing an informal class? Wasn’t her time her own to give? She grew excited, so excited that she almost walked right past Sarah Bellsley and Martha Grimes without seeing them. “Sarah, Martha, hello,” she cried, realizing that the next temperance meeting was coming up very soon. “When is the meeting,” she began, then stopped abruptly.
Martha was averting her eyes; Sarah was staring her down with pure contempt. “I’m afraid, Miss O’Rourke,” she said frostily, “that our meetings are only open to ladies.” She barreled past, with Martha on her heels.
Grace stared after her, feeling stunned and hurt. And even though she knew why she had been treated so rudely, she didn’t want to believe it. With her chin up, her lips pursed, telling herself It does not matter, she marched to the first hotel on the cliffs—the Silver Lady.
Instantaneously, she was flooded with memories. It had only been yesterday that she had awakened in Rathe’s strong arms. She could still feel his hard body against hers. Her blood began to race.
There was absolutely no way she could work there. She bypassed the establishment. On the next block was a sprawling brick edifice called the Southern Star. Since she had already tried all these hotels previously, she knew exactly who to ask for. The owner was a portly gentleman who had offered her tea the other day and shared some innocent gossip. Today, his expression was full of contempt. “Even if there was something available, Miss O’Rourke, I don’t think you and the position would suit.”