Read Online Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce - Free Book Online Page B

the two nights they had spent together since his arrival in Natchez. But now, for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t in the mood for Louisa Barclay. He found her attitude mean and petty and conniving—and he hated the way she had just treated Grace.
    Grace. An enticing vision of the redheaded governess came to his mind, spectacles and all. He tried to shrug it away. He remembered how the glasses kept sliding down her little nose, revealing more of her big, violet eyes. Despite the glasses, he had been able to see her anger just now. He had to smile. Grace could bite her tongue with Louisa, but not with him. His smile faded and became afrown. Now this was silly. Grace absolutely had nothing to do with his not wanting to remain at Melrose tonight.
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    He leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree and gave in to the pleasure of watching her.
    It was the next day at noon. Rathe had ridden out to Melrose without questioning the impulse. But he had enough experience with women to know that if he wanted to see Grace, he’d have to avoid Louisa in doing so. The idea of skulking around like a schoolboy amused him somehow, sharpened the adventure. He had found Grace and Geoffrey ensconced in a copse of trees at the center of a little meadow not far from the house. They were sitting on a blanket, both of their heads bent over the slate Geoffrey was working so diligently on. “That is very, very good,” Grace said, her voice rich with pleasure and carrying easily to where he stood not far from them. He liked the sound of her voice. He liked a few other things about her, too.
    She had taken off her glasses, and her tight bun had loosened. Strands of curling hair had escaped to frame her face. Now, when she was relaxed and intent on teaching, without those ridiculous spectacles, she was beautiful. Her full mouth, curving in a smile, did something to him. It sent a surge of hot lust to his groin. He looked at her body again as she bent over the slate, the sunlight making her hair glint with gold, and he wished he could dress her in a well-fitted, expensive gown. Amethysts, he thought. He would deck her out in amethysts, too.
    He wondered how old she was, and what made a woman like this become a crazy radical.
    They were still bent over the slate, Geoffrey practicing his letters as he came forward. Grace leapt up in shock, purple eyes wide. Geoffrey screeched with delight. “It’s Mistah Rathe!”
    As Geoffrey ran forward to greet him, Rathe watched her relaxed, natural poise disappear. He watched her lips thin, her shoulders square, her slender white hand tuckaway the sensual wisps of hair, the glasses reappear on her little freckled nose. He caught Geoffrey in his arms and lifted him high, swinging him around. “Hello,” he said, over the boy’s head, to Grace.
    â€œYou’re spying!”
    He put Geoffrey down. “I saw you coming out here, alone, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity of strolling with a beautiful woman,” he teased.
    She was on her feet, prepared to do battle. “Your charm will not work with me.”
    He cocked a doubtful eyebrow, grinning.
    She folded her arms across her chest, trying to look stern when in truth her heart was banging madly in her breast. “Why are you spying on us, Mr. Bragg?”
    â€œRathe,” he said, softly. “Rathe. I think we know each other well enough for you to call me Rathe.”
    She blushed beautifully. “We most certainly do not!”
    â€œNot for my lack of trying.” He grinned.
    The blush deepened. “You can try till your dying day, Mister Bragg, but it won’t change anything.”
    His smile was broad. “Is that a challenge?”
    She took a breath, suddenly uneasy. “Take it any way you like.”
    â€œIs that an invitation?” He coudn’t help it—he imagined “taking” her a dozen different ways. Grace, he saw, was impervious to the