"What are you doing?" she gasped.

She wasn't wearing a corset, just a chemise and the godawful heavy linen she used to bind her breasts. For the moment he ignored it.

"Rathe, what are you doing?"

"What do you think?" He cut her off. "Dammit, Grace, I want to see how badly you are hurt."

Her mouth closed. He pul ed the chemise out from her skirts and lifted it to expose her torso. Ugly red bruises were already turning purple. The sight hurt him unbearably.

"How bad is it?" she asked tremblingly.

He gently slid his hands over her ribs. Her skin was like satin-not a timely observation. "Nothing's broken," he announced, feeling greatly relieved. "Just bruised." His look was dark. "You're lucky."

"Are you sure?"

"Not only have I seen my fair share of bruised, cracked, fractured, and broken ribs, I've had them," he said emphatical y, hoping to get a smile out of her.

She did smile.

He did, too. Then, pul ing down the chemise, he spoke her name. "Gracie." His tone was tight, ful of vexation.

She just looked at him out of wide, pain-fil ed, violet eyes.

That stopped the lecture he so badly wanted to give her. He was close to her, his hand was stil on her back, lost in her hair. She was pale but impossibly gorgeous. Her eyes held his. "Grace," he whispered, about to tel her how she'd scared the life right out of him, about to beg her never to do anything so foolish again.

"Please," she said. "Please make sure Al en's al right."

He stood abruptly, eyes narrowed, mocking. "Of course."

Al en wasn't al right.

Rathe delivered the news a little later. He'd brought him home just after leaving Grace, put him in bed, and summoned a doctor. He was now in a very serious condition, stil unconscious. Grace trembled. "How bad is it?"

Rathe shifted uncomfortably. "He's had several blows to his head. Dr. Lang is worried he might not wake up."

Grace started to cry. "He did it on purpose," she choked. "Rawlins. Because Al en is teaching the Negroes."

"You're right," Rathe said softly. He sat next to her and pul ed her into his arms. "If you believe in the Lord, Gracie, now is the time to pray."

She clung to him, weeping. "It's al my fault."

"It's not your fault." He held her tenderly, so overwhelmed with the warmth of his feelings for this woman that for a moment he couldn't think. He brushed away her tears with a delicate touch.

"If we hadn't marched on the Black Heel, none of this would have happened."

"It would have happened," Rathe said grimly, finding himself holding her face, so smal and delicate, in his two large hands. "If not now, then sooner or later."

"I have to go to him," she cried, pul ing away from Rathe.

"You're not going anywhere, Grace. Not today."

"I have to," she cried with panic. "Please, Rathe, I have to go and see him."

Jealousy rose again and he didn't like it. "There's nothing to be gained by your seeing him. He won't know you're there."

"I don't care," she told him stubbornly. "Please, Rathe, please."

He melted. "Only if you let me help you."

"Al right," she agreed, starting to slide her legs over the side of the bed. Rathe lifted her in his arms. Though his timing was completely inappropriate, he imagined carrying her to his bed, with her warm and wet and eager for him. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

Outside Al en's door, he paused. "Grace, he was beaten up badly. It's not too pleasant to look at. Are you sure you won't wait a few days?"

"I have to see him now," she said. "I have to let him know I'm here."

"He won't know," Rathe tried again. "He's unconscious."

"I don't care."

Did she care for him that much? He opened the door. Harriet rose from where she was sitting beside Al en. "Rathe," she said disapprovingly.

"She insisted," Rathe said quietly. "I was afraid she'd hurt herself if I didn't help her."

"Oh, dear God," Grace cried.

Al en was unconscious, his face battered and swol en, his nose bandaged. The covers hid the rest of his body. Rathe gently deposited her by the bed. Grace reached instantly for his hand, ignoring her own pain in the face of the terrible aching of her heart. "Oh, Al en, it's me, Grace. Al en dear, I'm here, and you are going to get wel !"

Rathe felt like an intruder. Grimly, he turned away.

Rathe sat up late into the night, staring into Harriet's unlit fireplace, bathed in utter darkness. He knew he would never have the heart to chastise Grace as she deserved.

In fact, he thought that he was probably more shaken by her close cal than she was. He couldn't get over it. He would never forget the feeling of sheer horror as he watched her fal on her face in the midst of the brutal y fighting men, watching Rawlins kiss her while he was prevented from reaching her by the violent throng. And later, when he'd seen her kicked, the terror he'd felt was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Right now Al en was lying unconscious in his bed, but it could have been Grace.

Dear God! How was he going to keep her out of harm's way? It was certainly a task he could dedicate his entire life to! And even then, the day he died he'd go to his grave worrying over her.

He shifted uneasily. Grace needed him, that had been abundantly clear from the moment he'd met her. He had no doubt that she would eventual y become his mistress, for not only did he know the power of his own charm, but more importantly, Grace liked him no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, no matter how hard she fought against fal ing under his spel . But how could he protect her until then? Ah, Gracie, he thought, the sooner you stop fighting me the better it wil be for the both of us!

Again, he shifted uneasily. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that he would be as good for Grace as she would be for him, he had to recognize that his pursuit of her was ruthless. He thought of his parents, and knew they would be appal ed at his behavior-at his relentless preying upon a virgin spinster. He would, of course, tel them that he could not help himself. They would tel him that, if he wanted her so badly, he should marry her.

Rathe almost laughed.

His smile died a sudden death, as he realized that, if he had a decent bone in his body, he would marry her.

I'm not ready for marriage, he told himself quickly. And it was true. And I don't love her. That, too, was true. Wasn't it?

Of course it was! Rathe knew he was the last person in the world who would fal in love with a politicking harridan. The woman he had always envisioned as his wife was like his mother-genteel, wel -bred, elegant.

Damn! He wanted Grace, and she wanted him...

He passed a sleepless night. The next day took him to Melrose, his heart light with anticipation, where he found Geoffrey and spirited him away without Louisa's knowledge. Back at Harriet's, Rathe was delighted to surprise Grace with her visitor. And her obvious pleasure increased his. "Oh, Rathe, thank you! I was about to expire from sheer restlessness! How I've missed you," she cried to the child.

He watched her hugging Geoffrey, a beautiful smile on her mouth, her eyes shining. "Don't I get one, too?" He asked, absurdly pleased.

"Are you eight years old?" she returned impishly.

"I guess not," he said, with mock disappointment. "But can't we pretend?"

Her lips twitched. She laughed.

Her laughter fol owed him back to the waterfront. Finding the two sailors who had accosted Grace had become an obsession. As yet, he hadn't determined that they had indeed left town. He knew, in his gut, that Ford was lying. Ford had made no effort to apprehend the two men. Rathe didn't appreciate Grace trying to manipulate him, but he realized he could probably forgive her just about anything, and certainly this. The fact that she wanted him to stand up to Ford meant nothing, not when he was determined to avenge her honor, no matter who stood in his way.

It was late, and he was tired from lack of sleep. But he couldn't afford to lose any more time, because eventual y the sailors would leave town. And there was a principle involved here. It might not be the one Grace adhered to, but it was the one he would gladly fight for. He could not let those men get away with accosting Grace the way they had.

It was a shame the colored vendor had been accosted, too. But nothing he or anyone did was going to stop men like that from treating the Negroes as they saw fit.

Her words echoed, haunting him. "By not trying to stop them, and Ford, and the discrimination, by doing nothing-you support them!"

"Ah, shit," he said aloud. "Gracie, what are you doing to me?" It was then that he saw one of the sailors.

With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he exploded into a run, after the man who had just turned the corner. He was ten steps away when the sailor, alerted by the sound of footsteps, glanced over his shoulder and saw him coming. He took off. Rathe dug his legs into the ground, running as hard as he could, the muscles of his thighs straining, his face a mask of determination. He was only a step away. The sailor suddenly whirled, a knife in hand, and lunged forward.

Rathe was coming dead-on, like a locomotive, but his reflexes were finely honed. He shifted his weight and the knife only grazed his side. With one arm and al the force of his momentum behind his body, he drove the sailor to the ground.

In seconds Rathe had disarmed the man and had him in a headlock. "Don't move."

"What do you want? Sweet Mary, what did I do?"

Rathe laughed, the sound both chil ing and exultant. He got to his feet slowly, transferring his grip, keeping one of the man's arms twisted high behind his back. In this manner he led him to Ford's office.

The door was ajar; Rathe kicked it open. "Look what the tide brought in," he mocked.

Ford rose, glaring. "Just what in hel do you think you're doing, Bragg?"

Rathe smiled. "When I saw this fugitive, Ford, I just knew how glad it would make you to throw him behind bars. I couldn't resist helping you out.

Let's just say I've appointed myself deputy."

"The hel you say," Ford shot back. "I got a deputy an' you damn wel know it."

"Imagine the headlines: Sheriff Ford begins campaign to clean up the waterfront. I imagine the good ladies of Natchez would sure be moved to hear that! Bet they'd tel their husbands to vote for you this fal ."

"Their husbands already vote for me," Ford sneered.

Rathe raised a brow. "Then imagine these headlines: Schoolmarm accosted; sheriff lets assailants go free."

"Just what the hel are you trying to do?"

"I want him thrown in that cel , and I want him standing before the county judge when he comes riding into town next week."

"You're asking for trouble, boy."

"No," Rathe corrected calmly. "You're asking for trouble. Look at it this way. You can either get some good publicity, or some bad. But if I were you I'd keep in mind that it's an election year."

Chapter 14.

A few days later Grace went to the mayor's office and requested an appointment. She introduced herself as a friend of Al en's from New York.

Natchez being a smal town, Mayor Sheinreich had immediately guessed she had been the governess at Melrose who, town gossip held, had been dismissed by Louisa Barclay in a fit of jealousy over Rathe Bragg.

"I would very much like to substitute for Al en Kennedy while he is recovering."

Mayor Sheinreich was surprised, then, to Grace's relief, utterly pleased. "This is wonderful! I was despairing at the thought of finding a temporary replacement. You do know, dear, that there is some, uh, resistance to our new public school system?"

"I'm aware of it," Grace said. "But apparently you support it?"

"I'm Republican," Sheinreich said proudly, then paused. "I assume you've discussed this with Mr. Kennedy, and that he agrees?"

"Why...yes." She'd had to talk the recuperating Al en into it, but he'd final y said yes.

And so she had a job, or at least, a temporary one. The pay was atrocious, three dol ars and fifty cents a week. She would, of course, have to supplement her income, and immediately, before the hospital began harassing her about her mother's bil s. As always, thinking about her mother fil ed her with sadness and dread.

That night Grace was too excited about the upcoming day to eat. She toyed with the roast chicken on her plate, her mind on tomorrow's agenda.

Charles Long, another boarder, who walked with a limp due to the War, asked her, "Are you looking forward to tomorrow, Grace?"

As Grace looked up, smiling and eager to share her feelings, she was aware of Rathe, in his usual seat across from her. He had paused from eating to stare. "Absolutely thril ed, Charles."

Rathe said, slowly, "You found employment?"

"Why, yes, I have," she returned, feeling worry burgeoning now. She cast her eyes down nervously, unable to hold his gaze, certain of his disapproval should he find out exactly what her new position was.

"You'l have to tel us, dear," Harriet said, "al about your first day. Al en wil be so pleased. I know it's a relief to him, what you're doing."

Rathe put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, scorching her with his gaze.

"Yes, of course," Grace said, very apprehensive now. She was desperate to change the topic. Was she crazy to think she could hide her employment from him? Besides, what did she care if he disapproved? "Harriet," she said quickly, "this chicken is delicious. Could you give me the recipe?"

"Certainly."

"What," Rathe drawled, "exactly are you doing?"

She paled, then reached for her coffee. "I've taken Al en's place at the public school for a while," she said.