She was on her feet. "Al en, you're worrying me!"

"Hey, look at this," drawled a blond man. Clad in breeches, a fine linen shirt, and gleaming boots, astride a magnificent thoroughbred, he was every inch a Southern aristocrat. He was flanked by his companions, who were equal y wel -turned out. "If it isn't the schoolteacher!"

"Hel o, Rawlins," Al en said level y.

"What a surprise," drawled Rawlins. "Hey, Johnny, Frankie, ain't this a surprise?"

"Hel o, Johnson," Al en said neutral y to the dark-haired man on Rawlins' left. "Frank."

"Looks like he's courtin'," said Rawlins. "Another Yankee? Hey, Yank, you courtin'?"

Grace clenched her hands, frightened by the man's boisterous lack of courtesy. Al en gave her a warning look. "This is Miss O'Rourke, the new governess at Melrose."

The men looked at her and nodded, Frank even removing his hat. Then the brief moment of politeness was gone. Rawlins spurred his chestnut forward, as if to ride Al en down. Al en didn't move, or even flinch, as the big horse knocked against him. Rawlins moved his gelding behind him. Frank moved his bay to the left, and Johnson came in on the right, encircling Al en with a ton of horseflesh.

"You remember our conversation last week, Al en?" Rawlins drawled.

"I believe so."

"Real y?" Rawlins was incredulous, and looked at the others. "You sure aren't acting like you remember."

"Maybe we should remind him," Frank suggested.

Rawlins laughed. "Let's remind him," he said, and spurred the chestnut into Al en.

Al en stumbled into the bay. He stepped back to avoid getting hurt, right into Johnson's chestnut. The young men laughed, using their horses to push him this way and that, while Al en grew first white and then red, sweat streaking down his face.

"Stop it," Grace cried out.

"Hey, nigger-lover," Rawlins snarled, hatred etched clearly on his handsome face, "you better pack your bags and go on home. Got that, nigger- teacher?"

Al en didn't answer. He was breathing hard.

"We heard," Rawlins spat, "you been talkin' to them niggers about the election this fal , tel in' them to make sure an' vote. You keep out of our business, Yankee. 'Cause if you don't, you're gonna be real sorry." He reached down and shoved Al en hard, so that he stumbled into Frank's bay. Frank laughed, raised his crop and slashed it down on Al en's face. Grace screamed.

"You're gettin' off easy this time," Rawlins shouted. "Remember this-we don't like nigger-teachers down heah. An' you stir them up to vote, we'l break every bone in your body."

Rawlins whirled his mount abruptly around, and the three riders gal oped away, raising a cloud of red dust.

"Al en, oh God!" Grace cried, rushing to him.

He touched his face where it was bleeding. "I'm al right, Grace."

"You're hurt! Who are those men? We have to go to the sheriff." She was dabbing frantical y at his face with a napkin.

Al en caught her hand. "I'm al right," he said calmly.

Grace took a deep breath. "Let me clean that cut."

He al owed her to do so, wincing slightly. "Is it bad?"

"You need one or two stitches," Grace said, furious. "Let's get you to a doctor. Then we're going to the sheriff. I thought that kind of behavior was outlawed with the Ku Klux Klan." She began energetical y gathering up their things.

"Grace, every single man arrested and convicted for Klan activities was given a suspended sentence."

She froze. "What?"

"Here in Mississippi," Al en said, "there were over two hundred of them in '72 alone-al let go."

Grace was stunned. She knew that a few years ago Congress had investigated reported acts of terrorism against the Negroes and the Republicans. Their findings had made headlines, shocking the North. A wave of arrests and prosecutions of Klan members throughout the South had fol owed-which was why Grace could not believe her ears now. More than two hundred Klansmen in Mississippi had been given suspended sentences?

"You mean, they got off scott-free?"

"Scott-free."

"Why? How?"

"Most of the public is behind them. You saw them, Grace, young planters' sons, wel -educated, wel -heeled. Most of Southern society refused to believe that these boys had committed the crimes they were accused of. They chose to believe that their confessions of guilt-and most of the defendants did plead guilty-were lies of convenience. You see, once they pled guilty, a deal could be made, resulting in a suspended sentence. So the defendants went home and resumed their activities. Those who knew that the defendants were actual y guilty, who were against the Klan, were afraid to speak out, Grace."

"What are you tel ing me?"

He shook his head sadly. "They don't even bother to wear masks anymore."

Her eyes were wide. "You mean-they're stil hurting people for exercising their rights?"

"For less, Grace. Not long ago a Negro was whipped for answering a question the wrong way. He was impertinent, not in what he said-it was his tone and the light in his eyes."

"Oh, God."

Al en put their tablecoth and basket in the buggy, then guided her to it. "Come on, get in."

"What about the sheriff?" Grace demanded as Al en turned the buggy down the road.

"Ford's a joke. He's not only a night rider, but proud enough of it to brag about it. He's one of their leaders, one of the worst, Grace."

Grace sat stunned and appal ed. "Wil you be al right? Why were they warning you?"

"I'l be fine," he assured her.

She bit her knuckle. "Wil they come after you again?"

"No," Al en said, too quickly.

Grace did not believe him for a moment.

Rathe moved away from Louisa's hand, staring out of the window at the darkening sky.

"Rathe, darling, what is it?" Louisa asked, gazing at his back. She was a vision in magenta silk. "First you disappear, then when you do appear, you're moody as a cat."

Was Al en kissing her? He stared grimly out at the driveway, obsessed with the same thought that had tortured him al day. It didn't seem likely, did it? Grace was prim and proper and a prude. If she had rejected him, she would certainly reject Al en, wouldn't she? Or would she? Why, of al men, Al en Kennedy? He was nice enough, but-Rathe stopped his thoughts. Actual y, he not only liked Kennedy, he respected him. He was a man of integrity. Was he kissing her right now?

He had a fleeting image of Grace in Al en's arms on the red and white cloth he'd seen tucked under their picnic basket. Would Grace marry him?

Was he proposing right now? He found himself angry with the thought-for it was none of his business. In fact, Grace and Al en would make a perfect couple.

"You are impossible," Louisa cried furiously.

Rathe didn't even turn, although he heard her skirts whipping about as she rushed from the room in a temper. He wasn't being very subtle, he realized, coming back here on the pretext of a visit, staying most of the day, enduring Louisa's company when in truth he was waiting for Grace to return.

He poured himself a bourbon then paced back to the window. His heart went stil for a fraction of a second when he saw the buggy approaching; then it began speeding madly. Rathe stepped closer to the window. The green velvet drapes shielded him from view.

Kennedy stopped the carriage and for a moment they just sat there, looking at each other. Grace was the first to move. She flung herself at him.

Flung herself, madly, passionately, hugging Al en fiercely. Rathe could not believe his eyes. She wouldn't even give him one little kiss.

But she could fling herself at Kennedy.

Kennedy held her, then tenderly touched her face. Rathe wished he could see their expressions more clearly; they were lust-fil ed, no doubt.

Kennedy bent his head forward, blocking Rathe's view. Seething now, Rathe moved into the window so he could see better. Kennedy was kissing her, but al he could see of Grace was her white hands on his shoulders. She didn't, however, seem to be putting up much of a struggle.

"Damn," he exploded, and downed the entire glass of bourbon. When he looked again, they had separated.

Grace sure had fooled him.

No woman had ever fooled him like this before.

He'd known there were fires hidden beneath that prim exterior, but he hadn't expected them to burn so close to the surface. Or was it that Al en's wanting to marry her entitled him to a few kisses? That thought was immensely appealing in one respect, for it soothed his wounded vanity. On the other hand, it carried grave implications. Did this mean she had kissed Al en before? And would she kiss him again? He was furious.

He watched her leave the buggy, saying something loving no doubt, judging from the way Al en clasped her hands. Final y the buggy moved away.

Rathe folded his arms, turned to face the open doorway, and waited.

The front door closed. Her footsteps sounded. She appeared in the doorway as she went down the hal . He cal ed out, stopping her in her tracks.

"Good evening, Miss O'Rourke."

She turned and looked at him.

And the first thing that he noticed was that she was pale, not flushed. He looked more closely-specifical y, at her lips, for signs of a passion-fil ed afternoon. There were no signs there. Maybe Kennedy wasn't the world's best kisser. Maybe he should give her something to compare his kisses to.

"Is there a reason you're staring? So rudely, I might add?"

Rathe smiled, but it was not a particularly pleasant smile. "Do you object also when Allen looks at you?"

She shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

He ignored her. "How was your picnic? Did you and Kennedy have an enjoyable day?" He expected to see a romantic melting in her eyes. Instead, she tensed, her lips narrowed, and her eyes grew suspiciously wet. Instantly, the jealousy was gone. Rathe was at her side. "What's wrong, Grace?"

She looked right into his eyes, and yes, hers were wet, and getting wetter by the second. "Oh, dear, dear Lord," she murmured.

His hands found her shoulders. She was soft and firm, a woman's wonderful constitutional contradiction. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She shook her head, tears fal ing now, unable to speak.

He pul ed her into his embrace. "It's okay," he crooned softly. "Everything's okay now, Grace. Shhh."

She trembled against his shirtfront.

He had intended to comfort her, but was instead assailed by the feel of her breasts against his chest, and her hips against his. Blood fil ed his loins-a slow, delicious thickening.

"I was so afraid," she gasped, and he tried to check his lust. His success was only partial.

"What happened to so frighten you, Gracie?" he murmured into her hair. "Tel me."

"Al en," she said in a strangled note.

Maybe he did hate Kennedy. Rathe moved her away from his body so he could look at her face. She wasn't wearing her glasses. Her eyes were violet and veiled by long, auburn lashes. Tears streaked her cheeks. "Al en's in trouble," she said earnestly, "and I'm so afraid for him."

"Of course."

At the dry note in his voice, she pul ed free. "What am I tel ing you for? You're probably one of them!"

He didn't like her tone, or her overwhelming concern for her fiance. He was sure, by now, that she had accepted Al en's proposal. "One of them?"

"One of those hate-fil ed, bul ying bigots!" she shouted. "You are, aren't you?

It took him a moment to understand what she was talking about. "Are you referring to night riders and such?"

She wiped her eyes. "If you hurt Al en..." she warned.

Rathe was so furious at the slur that he momentarily couldn't speak. Then his tongue loosened. "What happened, Grace?" he commanded.

"They threatened him. They told him to go home-back North. They cut him with a crop."

Rathe was grim. "Kennedy should know better than to be encouraging the Negroes to vote this fal ."

"They have every right to vote," she said, her eyes blazing. "Oh, I'm too tired to fight anymore!" She turned and ran out.

Rathe wasn't sure whom he felt like strangling-her or Kennedy. The latter, he decided, for jeopardizing her. Kennedy was a fool. If he was preaching to the Negroes about their rights and encouraging them to vote Republican, he should at least be discreet about it. As for Grace-she thought he was one of the night riders.

He decided strangling was too good for her.

Chapter 7.