Violet Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  He was going to kill tonight.

  His strides came long and easy, despite his boots, which were not meant for running. In his hand he held George’s pistol. He ran with a stealth learned in a childhood spent outdoors under the Texas sun, taught by his half-breed father. Not a twig snapped. Not a leaf rustled. It was dark, but he didn’t stumble. It had been ages since he had run like this, not since the War, and then he had been the hunted. Now he was the hunter.

  He heard them stopping, heard the drift of voices, excited, angry, arguing. Perspiration covered his body, causing his breeches and shirt to cling wetly to his skin. He paused, crouching behind shrubbery. He looked into the clearing, and the sight made every muscle in his body go rigid; and for the first time he made a sound—a sharp, indrawn breath.

  Grace was on the ground on her hands and knees, shaking her head groggily, her long hair spilling all around her. Ford reached down from horseback and in a lightning movement ripped the nightgown from her. A stunned male silence fell, and then it was broken.

  “Christ,” someone gasped, “look at those legs.”

  “And those tits.”

  Ford laughed, the sound carrying in the night. Rawlins leapt to the ground and hauled Grace to her feet, pulling her back against him, grinning, one hand crudely squeezing her breasts. He opened his mouth to say something. It never came out.

  The knife landed in the back of his neck. He stiffened, eyes widening, and crumbled.

  “Run, Grace,” Rathe shouted, standing and showing himself, and then he fired. The man standing closest to Grace fell before he could even react.

  Grace was confused. She was slow to respond. She started to move moments too late. A barrage of gunfire was being returned, and Rathe was trying to meet it. He saw Ford leaping for her, spun to shoot him, taking his eyes off the fray. As he fired a bullet grazed his side, and he missed.

  Ford dragged Grace aside, holding her in front of him, yelling for everyone to stop shooting. His men, crouched behind rocks and trees, obeyed. Rathe leaned against an oak, ignoring the warm trickle of blood at his side, watching Ford with Grace, wanting to kill again.

  “I got your little lady, Bragg,” Ford shouted. “Put down that gun or I’m gonna put a hole in her nice white skin.”

  Sweat trickled from his temple and into his left eye. The sight of Grace naked and vulnerable and being held by Ford threatened his control and his sanity.

  “I mean it, Bragg!” Ford yelled.

  Rathe tossed the gun out.

  “Get it,” Ford snapped. “An’ get him.”

  Rathe stepped out from behind the tree and was promptly grabbed by two men. He allowed them to lead him into the torchlight. His insides clenched at the red mark on Grace’s face, starting to turn purple, the flesh swelling. Then he saw Ford touch her breasts, and he went berserk. He struggled wildly, insanely, against the two men holding him and broke free. Ford’s laughter died abruptly. Rathe felt an immense pleasure as he leaped for the man’s throat, instants away from tearing it out with his own two bare hands. Grace’s scream was the last thing he heard as an immense pain exploded in the back of his head, and everything went dark.

  The water was warm. He choked as it streamed over his face and into his mouth, and then realized that it wasn’t water but whiskey. Waves of pain coursed through his head, and with it, understanding and anger and fear. He struggled through the blackness as more liquor came cascading like a slap against his face. He sputtered and coughed and opened his eyes.

  “Don’t want you to miss the show, Bragg,” Ford purred.

  He met the man’s gaze with hatred.

  “First your little lady friend and then you.”

  Rathe’s body convulsed against the ropes binding his wrists; with his powerful legs he pushed himself up to his feet. His eyes had already found Grace, tied face-down to a cross, naked and shaking. Horror almost incapacitated him, but when he spoke, his voice was very quiet and very calm. “Don’t do it,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her white body. “It’s me you want. Not her.”

  Ford laughed. “We’re only gonna hurt her a little,” he said. “Enough so she packs up her bags and never thinks of comin’ back. But you…” He stepped close. “You’re gonna watch her pretty hide turn red. Then you’re gonna watch me fuck her. Then you’re gonna die, Bragg, long and slow, and no one in Natchez is gonna even care.”

  “She’s a woman.”

  “She’s your Yankee whore,” Ford leered, laughing when Rathe jerked his arms impotently against his bindings. Ford reached out and shoved him back hard. Rathe fell onto his hands and buttocks, his head slamming back onto the ground. Pain coursed through him and he saw red and black. For a moment he lay stunned, fighting waves of dizziness and nausea. He heard Ford ordering someone to revive him. He couldn’t pass out now. He had to save Grace. He shook his head to clear it as whiskey again splashed in his face. This time he was dragged to his feet by two men. When they released him he swayed precariously, and Ford snapped out another order. “Hold him, Frank, I don’t want him to miss a minute.”

  “Get started,” he said to the man standing by Grace with the whip.

  It was like slow motion. Rathe saw her body tense, gleaming white in the torchlight, saw the man’s arm drawing back, slowly, then coming forward, just as slowly; he saw the snake of leather thong unfurling toward Grace, taking an eternity to reach her. He heard a scream and was startled—it wasn’t Grace’s cry but his own. The whip flicked casually across the ivory skin of her back leaving a trail of red in its wake.

  Grace’s entire body contorted. Rathe pulled free of the man holding him. Ford laughed and another lash struck Grace again. This time she whimpered and sagged face-down against the cross.

  A shot rang into the night. All heads turned, including Rathe’s. The darkness was thick, but not thick enough to hide several riders just past the line of oaks. Another shot rang out and someone cried out in pain. The night riders ran for cover, Ford shouting futile orders. Rathe found himself abandoned. He fell to the ground, rolling as gunfire echoed and was returned. He twisted to see Grace, afraid she’d get caught by a stray bullet. He forced himself to his knees amidst panicked, fleeing riders.

  “Doan move, Mistah Rathe,” a small voice said behind him.

  “Geoff!” Rathe gasped. “Can you cut me free?”

  The little boy, as black as the night, had a knife and slashed through his bonds. Rathe was barely free before he was stumbling toward Grace through the last remaining riders. In the corner of his eyes he saw Ford cantering past and knew he would kill him soon. He reached Grace just as an eerie silence fell over the glade. “Grace? Gracie?”

  “I’m all right,” she gasped, a hoarse, raw sound.

  He had his hands, which were trembling, on her white, unmarked shoulder, but he was sick at the sight of her bloodied back. Geoffrey was cutting her down with his knife, and Rathe took her into his arms. He didn’t know where he found the strength to hold them both up. Then he was aware of George throwing his jacket over her, and Allen Kennedy saying, “We’d better get these two to a doctor.”

  Chapter 24

  “I have to see him,” she cried, trying to sit up.

  “The doctor’s with him. Just relax,” Harriet soothed, trying to hold onto her hand.

  Grace felt the threat of impending tears. All she could focus on was Ford’s statement of how he was going to kill Rathe. “Oh, Harriet, please.”

  “He’s out cold and wouldn’t even know you were there,” Harriet said firmly. “Stop moving about so or those nasty welts won’t have a chance to heal.”

  Grace sank back down onto her stomach, cradling the pillow beneath her head. She was so utterly exhausted, and still so afraid. There was so much blood—and all of it Rathe’s. She felt Harriet’s hand on her head, stroking down her hair to her nape. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Promise me,” she whispered, “if he needs me you’ll call?”

  “I promise,” Harriet said.

  Grace
fell into the calming embrace of sleep.

  His head throbbed. His first conscious thought was, God, what did I do? Drink myself under the table? Then came full, blunt awareness. His eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. Pain tore through his side and through his head.

  “Good morning,” Harriet said cheerfully, bearing a tray.

  “Grace.”

  “She’s fine, still asleep. Poor thing is tuckered out. Lie back down, boy,” she admonished.

  The effort to sit up was too great, so Rathe obeyed. He realized he was at Harriet’s then, not at the Silver Lady. “Is Grace here too?”

  “Yes, it was closer to bring you here.” Harriet reached out and touched his forehead. “No fever. The doctor says you have the constitution of an ox. Says you should stay in bed all week, from the size of the egg on your scalp.”

  He grimaced ruefully. “Is Grace all right?”

  “She’ll have a scar or two.”

  Anger flooded his features.

  “She’s fine,” Harriet soothed. “And it could have been much, much worse.”

  He did not have to be told. “I want to see her.”

  “You’re not getting out of that bed.”

  “I have to see her,” Rathe said, trying to sit again. Out of sheer perversity, he did.

  “If I have to turn you over and thrash your bottom,” Harriet said, “I will. But you’re staying in bed like the doctor said.”

  Rathe had to smile, just a little. “Fess up, Harriet,” he said, unable to resist. “You’re just dying to get an eyeful.”

  “Oh,” Harriet said, but she was smiling. “You are irresistible. However did your mama manage?”

  The grin was full-fledged this time. “As I recollect, she had a tad of trouble.”

  “Rathe,” Harriet said, sobering. “They burned the colored’s church.”

  “When?”

  “Last night sometime.”

  He felt more anger, deep in his gut. “Does Grace know?”

  “No one’s told her. Allen and I agreed she’s been through enough. Now’s not the time for more bad news.”

  At Allen’s name, Rathe imagined him with Grace while she was recuperating. He couldn’t help the small spark of jealousy, but it was outweighed by other, stronger emotions. “When you see Allen, can you ask him to stop by?”

  “Too late,” Allen said, from the doorway. “I’m already here.”

  Rathe looked at him directly. “How is Grace?”

  “She just woke up,” Allen said. He looked at Harriet. “Have you told him the rest?”

  Harriet shook her head.

  “The rest of what?”

  Allen grimaced. “Able Smith—that sailor—is dead.”

  “What happened?” Rathe demanded, his jaw tight.

  “A suicide, according to Ford.”

  Rathe cursed. He gazed grimly at the foot of the bed. Smith was dead. It was unbelievable. Rathe was positive the man had not committed suicide; there was no reason for him to do so. Did Ford really think he could get away with this, that he, Rathe, would now back down? If so, he had another think coming. Rathe intended to watch every move he made.

  “How is Grace, exactly?”

  “Tired, still a bit hysterical, I think. Shocked.” He paused. He couldn’t bring himself to tell this man, whom he both respected and envied, that she had been asking for him.

  Rathe cursed. Then he looked at Allen. “I want to thank you. You and George. If you hadn’t come…” He trailed off. Guilt flared. He had failed Grace when she’d needed him most. Farris and Kennedy were the heroes, not him.

  “There’s no need to thank me,” Allen said. “You know how I feel about Grace and the public school system. But if it hadn’t been for Farris I wouldn’t have known what was going on.”

  “Still,” Rathe said stubbornly, “you barely recovered from your own close escape. I thank you.”

  Allen nodded abruptly.

  Rathe’s gaze was penetrating. “Did you know she was teaching?”

  “Yes.” At Rathe’s furious expression, Allen went on. “I tried to stop her, but you know Grace. When she sets her mind on something, nothing will stop her. And she made me promise not to tell you.”

  Rathe swore. “Tell me everything, Allen. I want to know exactly what went on while I was gone.”

  “Grace,” Harriet reproved.

  Grace gave Harriet a determined look, then gazed past her at Rathe, asleep on the bed. His color was off; he was much too pale. Her face filled with consternation. She hurried to him. She sat on the side of the bed, by his hip, and not caring who saw, ran her hand over his cheek and through the thickness of his hair. He stirred slightly.

  Her heart clenched. He was the bravest man she knew. She lowered her face and kissed him gently on the lips.

  She watched his lashes fluttering, watched a slight smile tilt the corners of his mouth, watched his face turn toward her. He blinked. “Grace?”

  “I’m here,” she breathed, touching his cheek again. He turned his face more fully into her palm, closing his eyes. The next time he looked at her the sleepiness was gone from his gaze. “Are you all right?”

  “Me!” She attempted a small laugh, and failed. “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  His look became stern. “You could have been killed.”

  “They weren’t going to kill me,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “Dammit,” he cried, reaching out and grabbing her hand. He winced from the movement, but his grip was still like steel. “Grace, you lied to me!”

  “I’m sorry.” She trembled, stroking his hair again. “I am so sorry!” She bit back the anguish.

  Her attitude was going to undo him. “How could you lie to me?”

  “With great difficulty.” She choked, tears glistening.

  He closed his eyes on the brink of surrender.

  “Oh, Rathe,” she cried, hugging him. “I almost got you killed.”

  Later, he thought, carefully closing her in his arms. They would resolve this later. For now, being alive and together was enough.

  A few days later, Rathe lay in bed and stretched—fully.

  He heard footsteps and instantly lay prone, turning his face from the door and closing his eyes. He knew, by now, those footsteps belonged to Grace. He smiled, heard the door open, and wiped the smile right off his face.

  “Rathe?” Her voice was tentative, as if uncertain whether she wanted to wake him or not.

  He groaned slightly.

  He heard her set the tray down and approach. He thought how lucky he was that she hadn’t caught him downstairs at dawn looking for something to read—three days in bed, and if it weren’t for her, he’d be going crazy. But she was here, and he wasn’t going crazy. He groaned again and turned to look at her, blinking as if just awakening.

  Her smile was so tender and warm he caught his breath.

  She approached, instantly touching his forehead for a nonexistent fever. He had only had a slight temperature yesterday, but Grace’s tender ministrations and hovering concern had made bedrest worthwhile. His only complaint was that Harriet refused to allow her to give him a sponge bath. When he’d suggested it, she had been appalled, exclaiming that there was enough talk already about the two of them, and that while they recuperated at her place there would be no carrying on! And she had added emphatically, “I hope you’re going to marry her, soon.”

  “You look better and better every day,” Grace said, sitting by his hip.

  He sighed. “It’s your nursing, Gracie. You know that.”

  “I’m wise to your flattery.”

  “How wise?”

  “Very wise.”

  They were smiling. Rathe wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until they were out of breath. He reached for her. “Come here.”

  She resisted. “You have to rest, Rathe.”

  “I don’t want to rest. I want you.”

  She shook her head, but she was smiling. “Only you, Rathe,
could be sick in bed, wounded, and want to…” She trailed off with a blush.

  “And want to what?” he teased.

  “I don’t think I have to say the words,” she said gently.

  He touched her hand. “Then I’ll say them. I want to make love to you, Grace.” He heard his own words—make love. It was easier to say it that way then to say what he really wanted to say—I want to love you, Grace. I do love you. Let me love you. Stay with me—always. Marry me.

  Soon. He would ask her again, soon.

  Rathe had not brought up the topic of their near-brush with death again or the fact that she had lied. The way Grace was caring for him now, made it all seem like a dream—a nightmare. She was so attentive, so warm, so tender. He realized that she was apologizing in the best way she could, by taking care of him. He rather liked the attention. And when they were married, well, there’d be time enough to deal with her penchant for stubbornly seeking trouble. Besides, she’d probably be too busy with his babies…

  He suddenly had the uncanny feeling that even children wouldn’t stop Grace from her crusade to change the world. He had to smile. How could he possibly want Grace any other way? Thank God there were normal teaching positions available, ones in normal towns where teachers weren’t threatened with death by shadowy night riders. Then he had a scary thought—even in normal, placid circumstances, he would bet his life she would find a way to place herself in jeopardy—and things would not stay normal and placid for long!

  She interrupted his thoughts. “Hungry?”

  “Umm.”

  She was reaching behind him as if he couldn’t sit up, fluffing pillows. He didn’t move, didn’t help her. Her breasts brushed his bare chest, causing his already aching groin more pain. “Lean forward,” she ordered, and he gladly complied. As she fooled with the pillows behind his back he nuzzled the lush cleavage below his face. She gasped, withdrew, then laughed. “You are healing.”

  “My head still hurts,” he lied plaintively.