"I have. And I think that's a gross exaggeration."

"And that is why you need me," Rathe said grimly. "That attitude of yours is going to get you kil ed!"

"I wil take my chances."

"I think, Grace," Rathe said slowly, deliberately, "that you're afraid of me."

She froze.

"I think you're afraid of me because I am everything your dear Al en is not."

She clenched her fists, hard.

"I think you're afraid of me because you want me."

She was so furious she could barely think. "I care for Al en because he is everything you're not!"

"That is your mind speaking," Rathe said, "not your heart."

"I could never want someone like you!"

"Liar."

"No." Tears came into her eyes. "You're the liar! This evening was a lie! Nothing but a lie-it was al leading up to this!" She lifted her skirt, and began running down the deck.

For a moment Rathe stood and watched her, his expression agonized, and then he turned to the railing. With his fist he hit it, relishing the pain.

Then he went after her. He had to.

She was at the stern, staring blindly at the paddlewheel, ignoring the spray of water that touched her face and neck and arms. His heart tightened at the sight of her tears. He wanted to pul her into his arms, but knew with certainty that she would not let him. He went to the railing beside her, standing half a dozen paces away. He too watched the river. "I'm sorry, Grace."

She sniffed.

He handed her a handkerchief, but she wouldn't take it. "This evening was not a lie, Grace."

"Yes it was," she said, not looking at him.

"It was not a lie," he repeated firmly. "I wanted you to have fun. Such a little, simple word: fun. And you had fun. You can't tel me you didn't."

She brushed away a tear and gave him a quick glance. "You were trying to make me relaxed enough so that I would accept your scandalous proposition."

Rathe had to smile. "If I hadn't asked you to be my mistress today, I would have asked you tomorrow, or last night." His tone softened. "I wanted us to share this day, to enjoy it together. Don't take away what we've already had."

She clutched the rail and looked at the banks of the river, thick with swamp and cypress. "It was a nice day," she admitted.

"There wil be more nice days for us, Grace."

"No."

"Why not? We had fun together."

"Because it isn't right."

He came closer. "No? Why? Because I'm honest? Because I've told you I want you? Now you know the truth. I said I was sorry, Grace, and I am -for upsetting you. But not for asking you to become my mistress. I'l ask you that again and again."

"And I'l say no again and again."

He smiled slightly. "I have incredible patience."

She looked at him, and wished her anger hadn't evaporated. He smiled and touched her chin. "Your face is stained," he said, wiping the tears gently away. "The one thing I never want to do, Grace," he said, very seriously, "is make you cry."

She looked at him. "Then try to understand who I am," she said.

"Gladly," he replied.

He gazed at her as she slept.

The instant they had entered the carriage after they'd left the Mississippi Queen, Rathe had watched, amused, as Grace took the seat across from him. He had patted the spot next to him. "No?" he had asked hopeful y.

She smiled at his tone. "This is quite fine, thank you." Moments later, she was asleep.

Her nose and cheeks were pink from the sun, even though they had spent most of the late afternoon indoors. Her head was on the back of the seat, where it joined with the side of the carriage. It looked distinctly uncomfortable. The carriage hit a rut in the road, and Grace shifted without awakening. Rathe began removing his jacket.

He rol ed it into a pil ow of sorts, then knelt in front of her, lifting her head with his big hands. Her eyes fluttered open. She started to protest. "Shh,"

he murmured, slipping the garment beneath her neck. "Better?" He smiled.

She smiled back sleepily and closed her eyes.

She had rejected him. He supposed he should have expected it. But, as he had said, he was patient, or he would force himself to be so, at least where she was concerned; and he had every intention of waiting for the one word he wanted to hear from her. But how best to convince her to accept his proposition? So far logic hadn't worked. There was always seduction.

He started to feel guilty. Rathe knew he should forget about her. He knew he was being a cad. Grace was right-he was selfish, ruthless. Yes, she needed his protection and she needed his money, but she was an aging, very proper spinster, and he should leave her alone. The problem was, he couldn't. In fact, he wanted her now more than ever.

He could never leave Natchez now, not as long as Grace was here. Until she gave in, he decided he had better keep a very close eye on her. He thought about the close cal she'd had this afternoon and shuddered. He thought about what she'd said about the sheriff. More trouble was coming, he could feel it. Ford was a bastard, and an evil one at that. But if Grace tried to change things, she was going to wind up seriously hurt, if not dead. Ford was not a man to take lightly. It was one thing to organize the ladies into a Christian Temperance Union; it was another to try and turn the town upside down by stirring everyone up and taking on the sheriff.

He thought about the way she had smiled at him this afternoon, not once, but many times. A riverboat ride-such a simple thing. You're going to loosen up, Gracie, he thought warmly, and I'm going to be the one to teach you how to enjoy life and yourself.

Grace was such an enigma. She didn't act like any woman he had ever known. He was fascinated.

The carriage hit another rut and Grace moaned softly in her sleep, shifting again, the bundle that was his jacket slipping from beneath her. Her head was tilted at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, yet stil she slept, exhausted from her long day of job-hunting, the events of the afternoon, and the champagne.

Rathe suddenly moved to the seat beside her, replacing the ledge of the backrest and window with his own body. Grace blinked once. "Go back to sleep," he crooned, one of his arms around her and his fingers stroking her shoulder. He gently pushed her head to his chest. She snuggled against him, sleepily seeking the best position, and then her head was on his lap and she was curled up on the seat. Rathe adjusted her shawl more securely around her shoulders, his thumb moving across her temple. There was no doubt about it. This woman moved him in a way no other ever had.

She slept for the entire trip. There was no way Rathe himself could sleep, not with Grace warm and soft against him, making him hard and hot, making him want her, making him fantasize about what the first time would be like. He tried to think other thoughts, gazing out the window, but it was impossible.

They approached Natchez after midnight. Rathe shook Grace gently. "Wake, up, sweetheart. We're almost home."

She blinked, sitting up groggily. Rathe smiled at her. He stil had his arm around her. As sleep left her, she realized how they were sitting. She drew back, away from him, to the other side of the seat. "Have I been sleeping on your lap?" she gasped.

"I make a very comfortable pil ow."

She went red. She turned to stare out her window, into the purple starlit night. "Good heavens!"

"You were very tired and the road is very bad. I was afraid you'd get a stiff neck, the way you were contorted."

She looked at him. It was dark in the carriage, with only one lantern casting dim il umination. Dark and intimate. She had just spent several hours sleeping with her head in a man's lap. Grace didn't know what to think. And now, now it was worse, for she was awake, and the distance between them was so smal she could smel his masculine scent. He was no longer touching her, but she could almost feel him. She realized her heart was racing madly.

And he was staring at her.

She glanced out the window, clearing her throat. "Today was very nice, thank you."

He didn't answer.

She wrapped her shawl more firmly around herself, suddenly very grateful that she had been asleep for the past few hours. How else would she have survived the trip back to Natchez? She didn't dare look at him, but she knew he was stil staring at her. "I wonder where the Mississippi Queen is now," she said, unable to think of a single intel igent thing to say. She knew she sounded foolish. But why didn't he respond?

"How far are we from Natchez?" She dared a glance at him. His blue eyes were so intense. He was golden and gorgeous in the lantern's soft light.

She swal owed and looked away.

"A few miles," he said, his tone lazy and languid and distinctly sensual. Suddenly she felt short of breath.

"A few miles," she echoed. "I can't believe I slept the entire way! How long did I sleep?" She turned her head to look at him.

It was a mistake. The way he was gazing at her made her heart stop. His beautiful mouth was parted, and he touched his middle finger to her cheek. The lightest of touches-but Grace trembled.

A sound escaped him, a sound of need, a hoarse groan.

Grace found herself in his arms.

For one instant, with his arms around her, he looked into her eyes with blazing intensity. Then he pul ed her against him, against his hard, warm body, his mouth seeking hers. In that first instant, Grace put her hands against his chest and turned her face away.

"Please," he groaned. "Let me kiss you, Grace. Just a kiss, just one kiss..."

She could barely think. She knew this was wrong. His mouth wandered over the curve of her cheek, touched her ear. She gasped from the flood of hot sensations. Just a kiss, a little voice said. Surely you can give him one kiss!

For the first time, Grace responded. She turned her face back, opening her eyes. At the sight of his strained, aroused countenance, al coherent thought fled. And when his mouth touched hers, she thought she might faint.

"Grace," he said, harsh and low. "Open for me, darling, open your mouth-let me in."

Blindly, she obeyed. His tongue touched hers. Grace shuddered. Her hands, clenched into fists against his chest, relaxed, unfurled. Her breasts tingled and hardened against his chest. Rathe's grip tightened. His mouth moved softly, but it was deceiving, because his tongue thrust into her, again and again, picking up a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure flooding to her groin. Rathe slid his hands down to cup her buttocks.

She gasped at the feel of his large hands spread and clutching such an intimate part of her. His touch was like nothing she had ever dreamed possible-making her burn. She touched her tongue to his tentatively, shyly, and was shocked at his shuddering response, the tensing of his entire body, and the tightening of his hold on her. Her hands found the fabric of his shirt. Their tongues sparred, entwined. Rathe's hand slid up her hip, her waist, kneading with frantic urgency. Then higher, making no pretense, covering her breast. His hand paused. Grace was trembling, wanting him to keep touching her.

"What's this," he said, his fingers edging underneath her garments to find the linen binding she wore.

Through the hot fog of their passion, Grace heard and was too embarrassed to even discuss something so intimate as her underwear. She touched his wrist to stop him from further exploration, but his hand closed over her breast anyway, squeezing gently.

Grace's head went back against the seat, her eyes closing, red-hot desire, agonizing pleasure, the only thing she was cognizant of. His thumbs traced little circles beneath her nipples, now tight and hurting, straining against the cotton of her clothes. She whimpered with need.

"Yes, darlin," he whispered, and his thumbs touched the taut peaks gently.

Grace gasped.

He was suddenly, fluidly and dexterously, unbuttoning the many tiny shel buttons down the front of her bodice. Grace knew she had to protest. But when she opened her mouth, his was there, covering hers, his tongue entering her and flooding her with more wonderful, unbelievable hot sensations.

He parted her dress and pul ed the binding down. "God, Grace," he said, exposing her ful , voluptuous breasts with large, coral nipples. "Why do you hide yourself?" And he lowered his head, inhaling sharply. His tongue flicked out, teasing her. Grace gasped. And when he took a nipple in his mouth and began to suck, she cried out.

She felt his hand sliding over the soft curve of her bel y, beneath her skirt, with just two thin layers of cotton between them. Lower, without pause, with devastating intent, his fingers touching intimately between her thighs, then lower, cupping the swol en, wet flesh there through her undergarments. His grip tightened.

Grace's head came up, her eyes flying wide open. His head was stil bent over her bared breast; he was stil suckling one nipple. His fingers had slid into the wet folds of her flesh, oblivious to the cotton in their way. Rubbing, insinuating. Grace's hands came up and she pressed against his shoulders frantical y. Panic gave her strength. They had to stop!

Rathe's head came up, his hand stil ed. His eyes were blue and bright and bril iant. "Grace," he said thickly.

"Please stop," she pleaded desperately, panting.

He was panting, too. For a moment he did not move, struggling, she could see, with himself, and then he withdrew his hand and pul ed her bodice together. "I'l do it," she cried, turning her back to him. She felt him moving away from her, to the seat on the other side of the carriage.

Her hands were shaking. She could not do up the tiny buttons. She tried again. She was breathless and feverish and panicked and terrified and ashamed and so utterly, unbearably confused! She choked in despair, a sobbing sound, when she realized she'd mismatched al the buttons. "Oh, damn!"

"Let me," he said, his warm hands closing on her shoulders from behind. "Please let me help."

Grace knew she was going to cry, and she fought it. His hands, both sensual and comforting, were going to be her undoing. "It's al right, Grace,"

he said. "Trust me."

"I don't understand," she managed, staring blindly at her lap.

His hold on her tightened. "You're a woman, Grace," he said. "You may have run from it your entire life, but I'm a man, and I can't let you run from it any longer."

That night she tossed restlessly, unable to sleep.

She was reliving every moment of the long day, from her fruitless search for employment, to Rathe's violent protection of her from the two sailors, to the riverboat ride and, final y, the shattering kiss in the coach. And it was on the last memory that her treacherous mind lingered.

His words echoed. "You're a woman, Grace...I'm a man...I can't let you run from it any longer..."

She turned abruptly onto her stomach. Of course she was a woman. And she hadn't been running from that fact, had she? Then why was she so uneasy, and so confused? And why did a part of her want to be back in his arms?

Never in her careful y constructed life had things felt so out of control.

She had to stop this nonsensical brooding over that man. Yes, that was certainly the solution. She very deliberately turned her thoughts to the problems facing Natchez, one of which was Sheriff Ford.

Al en had told her that Ford enforced the law with an iron fist. She was appal ed but not surprised. After al , a man who led the night riders would certainly resort to intimidation and physical coercion. How could a man like that be stopped? She wondered just how many of the townspeople supported Ford, and how many didn't, but were afraid to speak out. Al en had suggested that there were local folks who were against the tactics and goals of the night riders. There must be a way of stirring those people up.

Grace rol ed onto her side, her face on her arm. Both Al en and Rathe would have her turn away, deaf, dumb, and blind to the situation, but that was impossible. Something had to be done to stop Ford from perpetuating his reign of terror. The problem real y was, she supposed, finding someone who could stand up to Ford. Someone who wasn't afraid of him. Someone who could, if need be, get down in the mud and give as good as he got.

Someone like Rathe Bragg.

She sat bolt upright. How ridiculous! He was a Southerner, even if he did meet al the other criteria. She was almost positive that he was a Democrat like most of his class, and the Democrats were responsible for the likes of Ford and the night riders. The political lines were very clearly drawn.