The crowd mil ed about, chatting excitedly. Rathe looked at a familiar, brown-haired prostitute. "Betty, get some water and a brandy." He turned to Grace, stil on her knees, her face buried against his chest. He pul ed off her gray felt hat and stroked her tightly pinned hair. "Talk to me, darlin'. Are you al 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, pul ed her away from the crowd, into the shadow of an overhanging roof. He raised the glass to her lips. "Drink it."

"I'm al right."

She was, he realized, holding up very wel -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 hel 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, al pretense of amiability gone.

He blinked.

"Don't you care that you resemble a rutting bul 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 pul 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 going 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, swel ing her groin.

He pul ed 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.

Al at once, Grace realized he was stil 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 tal , husky man in his late forties. His dark eyes were shrewd, his brow furrowed. "Rathe, what the hel 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 al 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 cal 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'l be down later to make a statement-since I saw the entire incident."

Ford's eyes glinted. "Before I make any arrests, I'l 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 al 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 stil . "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, bal ed 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 tel 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, pul ing 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'l 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 fol owed 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. Al en 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 wil 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! Wel , he should be unelected! Or, at the very least, in the fal elections he should be ousted! Yes! That's a wonderful idea! We must encourage al the Negroes to vote against Ford this fal !"

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 instil ed 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, wel , 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 al 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. "Wel ? 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."